This Is Where It All Begins...

My god i just love Frank Sinatra.

Finding a place in Nottingham University is, for one, the fucking weirdest thing that could possibly happen to this eighteen year old, single (hey, i'm easy) and long-streak-of-overweight-piss. However - if the Dr. has taught us - out of weirdness comes beauty. Wandering around in my new city i stumbled 'pon a fayre charity shope of the delicate kind. Books, old people and that smell that only charity shops can produce, lured me in (not that old people are my greatest turn on but they - i'm easy) and into the great depths of gloryfull heaven and the sweet nectar within.

The upstairs of this shop is now confirmed to be the second sighting of heaven by yours truly in the last year (i'll let you guess the first). Needless to say it was stacked with plastic wax happiness and the delightful girl (if you read this, contact me because i think i had a semi) that served me, added to the pleasure.

Here is where i found it.

Frank Sinatra, the greatest voice outside of Gord Downie, Tom Waits and Jello Biafra (www.google.com should help), has blessed this earth with the seminal album for all those angsty, lonely, embattled, crushed, scared, hurt, wounded, emancipated, disconnected and disillusioned lovers out there. 'In The Wee Small Hours' is perhaps the greatest album for said types, going. From the opening note the album just breathes loss. Not this shitty radio cultured, NME fed, Radio One hyped shit you hear these days - but pure loss.

Either way, i don't have to explain to you pissants how good Sinatra is - just fucking listen.