2026-08-31
35 分钟This is The Guardian.
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Frank Sinatra, palming a can of Sprite in one hand and the fist of his beautiful,
red-headed wife in the other, sat in a dark corner across from Jeff Bezos,
who looked like he was waiting for him to say something.
But Sinatra said nothing.
He'd been mostly quiet all evening, and now, in this cabaret, he seemed even more distant.
Staring out past fog and strobe and Bezos' strong, bald head, and into the large room,
where at least half a dozen men had basically shattered a bistro table trying to get a better look at Marilyn Monroe.
Sinatra's wife knew, as did Roy Orbison and Austin Powers, who stood nearby,
that it was only minutes before he was supposed to go on stage,
and that forcing any sort of conversation on him in this mood of focus would be extremely stupid.
The fact was, Sinatra had already been waiting for more than an hour for his moment at the mic,
and at this point would have been more than fine with just heading back to his cabin.
He was tired of the constant low-grade pitch and gravity under his feet.
He was still annoyed that he'd nearly lost his luggage on the first day here,
a fact his wife was not letting him forget, was humiliated
that he never really got his onboard Wi-Fi, Wi-Fi he paid for, to work all week.