October, 1992, I went to see Frank Sinatra at Radio City Music Hall with two friends, and my boss at the time, a miserable human being who was also a somewhat legendary record store owner. By this time, I had seen Sinatra over a dozen or so times, in small venues and large, casinos and arenas, with the first time being The Main Event at Madison Square Garden in 1974, courtesy of my Uncle. He's often been outstanding, but there have been bad nights, where he was either lost, drunk or a little of both and simply did not bring it. (Sinatra, not my Uncle.) And while my boss could be hilarious at times, he was mostly a terrible person. He disliked most things, thought the greatest band in the world were The Chambers Brothers, who til' this day, "never got a boxed set," and truly hated himself, and he took it all out on anyone who got in his way, anyone who didn't like The Chambers Brothers, and especially, mostly, his employees. Sinatra, by the way, was incredible that October night in 1992, and delivered a Hall Of Fame set list---look it up---as well as a classic monologue to rival The Sands, 1966. Not bad for a guy who lived hard for sixty years and would die less than five years later. After the encore and one final standing ovation, we exited to 5th Avenue, three out of four of us, ecstatic. But not my boss. He was sporting a Scrooge-like puss, and was stamping the pavement like a scolded child. "What? You didn't like it?," I asked. "No. He didn't do High Hopes."