Ole Blue Eyes, the Flu and the back of the Rolls

Getting ready to go to Las Vegas for the Tuskegee Airman convention this week let loose a stream of thoughts about back in the day when I went there every single weekend....and what a different town it is now. One particular tale is worth telling here. The marquee simply said, "He's Back" and that meant Sinatra was at Caesars. For some reason I don't remember I didn't stay at Caesars this trip. I was at the Tropicana. I had gone to see Frank and while sitting in the dressing room at the end of the evening, I started feeling feverish. I got really sick, really quick. So Lee Solters said he'd take me back to my hotel. Because I was sweating, I took off my prized diamond and opal ring and put it in my purse which, then and now, holds my entire life-- airline tickets for Paris, several thousand dollars, passport, etc, since I was leaving the country in a few days. Somehow, I got out of the taxi without my purse and didn't even know it until I got deep in the lobby. I turned to Lee and he said "Just Sit." He went to the phone and called Frank's man Jilly Rizzo and within fifteen minutes my purse was delivered to me--with everything in it! I had the flu and couldn't fly back, so I rode to L.A. sleeping in the back seat of Norman Winters white Rolls. I got home, wrote a review of Frank sent it in and left town. When I returned two weeks later I had mail. I think I was one of the few newspaper people Frank liked, he sent me notes from time to time. This one said, "Forgive the delay in getting this to you, but I had the goddamn flu. Your review was so lovely, please consider this my love letter to you." it was signed Francis Albert. Nobody ever knew until now that I always felt guilty about hugging and kissing on Sinatra and giving him the 'goddamn flu.' --I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

Sinatra in the Jungle

When Lee Solters died this week, I started remembering all the amazing stories he used to tell. I jumped in the way-back machine and it swept me back to Santo Domingo at the end of the '80s and the sweltering heat of a weeklong party for the opening of the Altos de Chavon Theatre. Lee had taken a contingent of press for the taping of a show for Paramount called "Concert for the Americas." The open air theatre was literally carved out of stone, tropical jungle and time. As I stood on the edge of the balcony, it seemed that if I stepped a few inches into the trees, the jungle would simply close up behind me and that would be the end of the music editor of The Hollywood Reporter and my big journalistic career would be over before it ever started. I was trying to find the coolest thing I had brought with me to the luxury of the Casa de Campo Polo retreat when Lee started pounding on my door with the instructions to "C'mon, Frank is going up to rehearsal." Yep, Frank Sinatra was the headliner, the next night was Carlos Santana and Heart. This afternoon, though, it was time to stand next to Frank and have a conversation. He talked, I sweated and listened to his views on the future and wrote the piece in my head. Night soon came , torches lit up the sky, Sinatra shared favorite songs and songwriters with an adoring crowd. Later my feature ended up as a banner in the Reporter, the headline read "Blue Eyes Sees Blue Skies for Cable Programming," and it was a side of Sinatra the public hadn't seen-a man up to date on technologies, consumer buying habits and history. He signed his letter thanking me for the story, "Love, Francis Albert." It was the first of many trips with him, Spider, Beans, Jilly and the guys. Francis Albert Sinatra was a good man with a song and his publicist Lee Solters was a good man with a story.