Wednesday, February 11, 2015


Steel drums pling all through the atmosphere. I am wearing a straw hat and strolling languidly down a dusty road. My head is full of rum and coconut juice. A toucan lands on my shoulder and starts to tell me about a special kind of breakfast cereal. I shoo him off with a flick of my hands. I have no time for advertising now, I've got to try and find this steel drum band. Perhaps Wilmouth Houdini will be singing with them, or at least maybe they will know where I can find him. He has made a proclamation that I, Frank Sinatra, have the perfect voice to sing calypso, and I intend to smack him in the mouth. Nobody tells Frank what he has the perfect voice for. Frank tells you.

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