Man that cat had it.
He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t pretty. He wasn’t the best singer, or the sharpest crayon in the box.
But he had it. More than anyone else ever has—or ever will.
But what the hell was it, exactly?
From the way he drank his whiskey to how we wore his hat…it was his. Always his. He owned it all.
He had the world on a string, and more than the words he sang, he truly did it his way.
On paper, he was just a man; skinny, scarred—raised in Hoboken…
But he was a whole lot more than that.
He always said, “You’ve gotta love living—because dying’s a pain in the ass.”
And he did. Every moment of his life was lived, for better or for worse.
There will never be another like him.
Happy birthday, Francis Albert.