WOULD YOU RATHER... ... a game of sorts

[oettinger]

Sinatra, all the way. Knew the people, somehow I might score Monroe, his friends scream of party. Might be the spotlight though. The drugs the sex the debauchery - Frank. Kennedys and drinking? Sinatra!

[Lush City]

Drinking with Sinatra - One night at the Beverly Hills Hotel (from Gay Telese's 1966 Esquire article, Frank Sinatra Has a Cold http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a6 ... natra-rev/)

It was obvious from the way Sinatra looked at these people in the poolroom that they were not his style, but he leaned back against a high stool that was against the wall, holding his drink in his right hand, and said nothing, just watched Durocher slam the billiard balls back and forth. The younger men in the room, accustomed to seeing Sinatra at this club, treated him without deference, although they said nothing offensive. They were a cool young group, very California-cool and casual, and one of the coolest seemed to be a little guy, very quick of movement, who had a sharp profile, pale blue eyes, blondish hair, and squared eyeglasses. He wore a pair of brown corduroy slacks, a green shaggy-dog Shetland sweater, a tan suede jacket, and Game Warden boots, for which he had recently paid $60.

Frank Sinatra, leaning against the stool, sniffling a bit from his cold, could not take his eyes off the Game Warden boots. Once, after gazing at them for a few moments, he turned away; but now he was focused on them again. The owner of the boots, who was just standing in them watching the pool game, was named Harlan Ellison, a writer who had just completed work on a screenplay, The Oscar.

Finally Sinatra could not contain himself.

"Hey," he yelled in his slightly harsh voice that still had a soft, sharp edge. "Those Italian boots?"

"No," Ellison said.

"Spanish?"

"No."

"Are they English boots?"

"Look, I donno, man," Ellison shot back, frowning at Sinatra, then turning away again.

Now the poolroom was suddenly silent. Leo Durocher who had been poised behind his cue stick and was bent low just froze in that position for a second. Nobody moved. Then Sinatra moved away from the stool and walked with that slow, arrogant swagger of his toward Ellison, the hard tap of Sinatra's shoes the only sound in the room. Then, looking down at Ellison with a slightly raised eyebrow and a tricky little smile, Sinatra asked: "You expecting a storm?"

Harlan Ellison moved a step to the side. "Look, is there any reason why you're talking to me?"

"I don't like the way you're dressed," Sinatra said.

"Hate to shake you up," Ellison said, "but I dress to suit myself."

Now there was some rumbling in the room, and somebody said, "Com'on, Harlan, let's get out of here," and Leo Durocher made his pool shot and said, "Yeah, com'on."

But Ellison stood his ground.

Sinatra said, "What do you do?"

"I'm a plumber," Ellison said.

"No, no, he's not," another young man quickly yelled from across the table. "He wrote The Oscar."

"Oh, yeah," Sinatra said, "well I've seen it, and it's a piece of crap."

"That's strange," Ellison said, "because they haven't even released it yet."

"Well, I've seen it," Sinatra repeated, "and it's a piece of crap."

Now Brad Dexter, very anxious, very big opposite the small figure of Ellison, said, "Com'on, kid, I don't want you in this room."

"Hey," Sinatra interrupted Dexter, "can't you see I'm talking to this guy?"

Dexter was confused. Then his whole attitude changed, and his voice went soft and he said to Ellison, almost with a plea, "Why do you persist in tormenting me?"

The whole scene was becoming ridiculous, and it seemed that Sinatra was only half-serious, perhaps just reacting out of sheer boredom or inner despair; at any rate, after a few more exchanges Harlan Ellison left the room. By this time the word had gotten out to those on the dance floor about the Sinatra-Ellison exchange, and somebody went to look for the manager of the club. But somebody else said that the manager had already heard about it -- and had quickly gone out the door, hopped in his car and drove home. So the assistant manager went into the poolroom.

"I don't want anybody in here without coats and ties," Sinatra snapped.

The assistant manager nodded, and walked back to his office.

[Oggar]

Get drunk with Bon Scott or Phil Lynott? And (of course) why?

[oettinger]

Tough one!
Lynott got the cold sweat going as am I on mondays.
Bon seemed to be more crazy.
Cocaine n bourbonm, Bon.

[Fast Cast]

Bon Scott, just seems like it would be a totally fucking wild, whiskey-fueled blowout.

[mistah willies]

Bon Scott. Yup.

Damn.

[Savage]

I choose option C. Dean Martin. Because, he liked to be by himself. He had nothing to prove; no chip on his shoulder. He was chivalrous, and could hold his liquor like the gentleman he was. He had a quiet wit. And damn. He was one handsome dawg.

[Palinka (RIP)]

I choose option C. Dean Martin...

Not to mention that he was only man that got away with telling The Mob to go fuck themselves!

[Savage]

Oh, and I have my Harlan Ellison story, but you'll have to pull out my fingernails, or take away my bourbon to hear it.

[Patchez]

Bon would be the wilder less predictable ride.

[whiskeyprick]

While partying with Bon Scott would be badass as all hell, I would choose Lynott if you could hang with all his buddies in the late seventies. Bob Geldorf and Steve Jones (before he went straightedge) were some cool cats. They both had amazing stage presence and wrote some legendary songs.

[oettinger]

I choose option C. Dean Martin...

Not to mention that he was only man that got away with telling The Mob to go fuck themselves!

cool. quote?
Also: Dean and Sammy Davis Jr drunk in the cannonball run

[Bur]

I am surprisingly under-educated in these matters anything for reading recommendations?

[waahoohah]

I vote yes.

[Lush City]

Bing Crosby & Frank Sinatra - Well, Did You Evah (High Society)
https://youtu.be/7kq1JQUhwVQ