That’s life, that’s what people say..
You're riding high in April,
Shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune,
When I'm back on top, back on top in June.
OK, now try to replace your mental picture of The Chairman of the Board, standing on stage, arm outstretched, smiling at the audience with a little girl, in a short blonde dutch-boy hair cut, uneven bangs, a smudged face and super short mini dress in her circa 1970 bedroom.
That’s right. That kid is me (OK, it's really a kind of freaky drawing I found online, but it does look like I did) and I’m belting out “That’s Life” at the top of my lungs. I’m standing in my bedroom in Phoenix. The floor is covered in blue shag. The room contains a rough hewn homemade bunk bed that I share with my little sister and a bunch of Johnny Quest cowboy dolls and toy horses litter the floor. Strewn among them are Barbie dolls with whacked off hair and missing clothing. My favorite song, “That’s Life” is playing on what I remember to be a 4-track - not an 8-track - tape player. The tape and player were given to me by my dad's friend Mickey McDermott. There was only one tape for the player. It was a Sinatra’s Greatest Hits recording, but I'm not sure which one. God I loved it with all my heart.
I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down,
'Cause this fine ol' world it keeps spinning around
My 4-track player, with its one and only Sinatra tape, came from my dad’s bar buddy, Mickey McDermott. I called him Mickey, he called me kid. He was an ex-baseball player and an ex-coach or some such thing. His career had been in baseball, which I found extremely impressive. When I was little, I liked him because I thought he was a famous celebrity and more importantly, because he gave me stuff. He gave me a Yankees baseball cap, which I later lost or traded away. And he gave me the crazy 4-track player and tape, my first in a line of many personal music players. As I remember, the player was big with built-in speakers (or speaker) and it was already completely obsolete in 1972 when I received it.
I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.
Maybe Mikey had given me the tape and player because he hadn’t exactly picked himself up and gotten back in the race. Mickey had been some kind of baseball wunderkind. As a player he had been part of the Boston Red Sox, the Washington Senators, the New York Yankees, the Kansas City Athletics, the Detroit Tigers and the St. Louis Cardinals. Shortly before I met him his career had been in scouting and coaching and he had been with the Anaheim Angels, as they were then known. My dad told me that whenever the Angels won a game, or did something special they all received presents from the team’s owner. One of these presents was the 4-track player and the Sinatra tape. I guess a grown man can only listen to the same tape so many times and then he gets tired of it, but not a 6-year old kid. A 6-year old can listen over and over and over and over.
That's life
I tell ya, I can't deny it,
I thought of quitting baby,
But my heart just ain't gonna buy it.
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try,
I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly
The Mickey McDermott that introduced me to Sinatra did not look like the young eager ball player featured in a Norman Rockwell painting “The Rookie”, which was based on Mickey making the Red Sox team, even though Rockwell used a model. My Mickey looked and acted more like Walter Matthau from the 1976 movie The Bad News Bears. Like Coach Buttermaker, my guys face was lined, he was a bit stooped and he usually had a can of beer in his hand, Schlitz or Bud if I remember correctly. And like Buttermaker, I also don’t associate any kind of gainful employment with the man. And like the broken-down Matthau to the fresh faced Tatum O’Neal, I was referred to as kid, maybe he didn’t even know my name.
Although I grew up mostly in Southern California, my family took a detour for a few years to Arizona. We arrived in Phoenix on my 6th birthday, which was May 20, 1971. The Phoenix I remember was sparse, open and full of tumbleweeds, big pickup trucks with gun racks, men wearing cowboy hats and bolo ties, Indians selling turquoise jewelry at roadside stops, U-Totem convenience stores and scorpions that my mom would kill by whacking with a broom. There was always a bunch of dead scorpions which lined the outside of our properties’ fence, near my playhouse, a constant reminder to keep my shoes on and not piss of my mom.
Even though mom kicked scorpion ass on a regular basis, she didn’t quite know how to dress me, or rather she lacked the will and energy to not allow me to dress myself. Maybe it was all the scorpionocide, maybe it’s because she’s not a morning person. Maybe dealing with two kids, a husband that liked to hang out in bars and collect "bar buddies" and general low level depression made her a bit inattentive. Beside Mickey and Sinatra I also associate teacher animosity with Phoenix. My first day school there featured me throwing up all over my teacher as she was running me to the bathroom after lunch. I very clearly recall my poor mom receiving a lecture from the school nurse regarding my wardrobe choice. It seems that a wool turtleneck, a wool jumper and wool knee socks were not what a child should wear in 115 degrees desert heat. “This is not San Diego Mrs. Brooks”, the nurse scolded. Boy was she right.
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself laying flat on my face,
I just pick myself up and get back in the race
I think my fascination with Sinatra, ushered in by a broken-down McDermott, is emblematic of my childhood. I spent a lot of time in my room with my music, both with my sister and without her. My family was always moving; Phoenix was just one in many stops. I never had homes, or rooms, or friends for very long. There was always something better coming up, some new opportunity, some way to fall down (puking on Miss Whats-Her-Name) and then picking myself up (belting out a tune on my own, remembering the lyrics, giving it all my heart) and then moving on. Both Mickey and the 4-track had seen better days, that’s for sure, but I really did love them, even if I left them both behind later on. That’s life I guess, that’s what people say.
That's life
That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here july
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
My, My
My, My
