I call her the parrot on my shoulder, always helping me by whispering in my ear and leading me in an alternative—usually better—direction I might never have considered without her. She puts everyone else before herself; her first focus is on me and our kids. She always says that our family is her career first, and her loyal trust and dedication to us keeps other distractions and men away from her. They just don’t exist for Charli.
Charli’s presence allows me to slow down and think before I react. It’s a proven scientific fact that your feelings react faster than your thoughts. They are an alert system, a defense mechanism built in to protect us from danger. My reaction time is faster than instantaneous. This has both helped me and worked against me; it is the Brooklyn in me that tests and helps me evaluate the situation or judge people for who and what they are. In that immeasurably small moment I can read people 95 percent of the time. I am almost never wrong.
I have learned to find trouble before it happens, with my built-in antenna that signals my air raid siren to go off. I make calculated decisions in the blink of an eye, and then make my final decision during the blink. When I find myself in the middle of an imminent conflict my radar alerts me and my instinctual reactions to my feelings and self-preservation take over. I begin flying on automatic pilot and I react with quick, strong conviction. This can be a problem, and in some cases gets me into a battle. Once my trigger is cocked and my hot feelings take charge I don’t have a nice switch. I enter the fight or war with everyone and everything as fair game, and you become the enemy; the ball I grab is grabbed to win at any cost.
That’s where Charli comes to the rescue. She is the opposite; her natural instinct is to be nice when interacting with others. Even if they are aggressive, she defuses them. She is wonderful when considering other people, especially, of course, with her family. Our relationship remains strong because she knows that I want her by my side so I will always include her. Whoever I meet and wherever I go, she doesn’t feel left out. I always say, “Let me introduce my wife, Charli.” There are no boundaries between our personal and my business life. She gives me great courage.
I’m thankful that Dali taught me his secret when I asked how he and Gala get along so well. “Gala knows she comes first,” he answered. “Always invite and include her, then she will pick and choose when and where to go, knowing she doesn’t have to go to protect her position.” Charli and I have both put in a lot of work to make our relationship as strong as it is. We reap the benefits of our hard work when people feel our vibe and togetherness, and people know not to mess with the unbreakable bond of “Frank and Charli.” We trust and love each other, like Dali and Gala.
On one occasion, I faltered. Not too long ago, I stepped over the line. Tension and apprehension were building in Charli’s mind, new anxieties that I wasn’t paying enough attention to were combining with old feelings and thoughts of my escapades in Paris, India, and Russia that had been stifled but remained unresolved, and had been lying dormant for too long. Her uneasiness collided with my irritability from the boredom and pressure of a lull in my work and not having much income. My self-esteem and sense of worth were low and I felt like I wasn’t contributing to my family’s well-being. A simple disagreement over some trifle escalated to a major argument. I overreacted, ranting and raving and threatening her. She was shocked that I would or even could go there. I was equally surprised. It came out of nowhere. She really got scared and called the cops and then threw me out. I slept in my car, and the next day I begged to come back. I wrote her a letter explaining why she should reconsider. I explained how Dali, too, had had a rough road, how he had several other women and a gay lover boyfriend, Federico García Lorca. In that regard we are not totally similar, however in many ways we are. Sometimes things get turbulent and off track but no matter what it was Dali was able to make it work with Gala. Nothing could change his love for her, nor hers for him. He continued to include her in many of his paintings and you could always see her standing in the background or next to him no matter where he went. To my surprise, I recently learned that from his deathbed, Dali died listening to his favorite opera—Tristan and Isalda.
I promised Charli to never go there again, and thankfully her belief and faith in God and love for me helped us return to the Gala-Dali relationship, but with the major addition that I never betray my respect for her and threaten to damage the beautiful thing we’ve created together. She accepted, but it took a while to get back to normal. I had to be super cautious and still am. She believes in Gala’s cashew bird theory. It helps her stay grounded, and to this day she lets me fly free, knowing that I will always come back. Still, I know I don’t tell Charli I love her enough.
When I see old pictures of myself, I know I don’t look the same but I also know nothing has changed inside. I still think and feel like I’m twenty-five, especially when I’m with Charli and my kids. We do everything together, especially cook. My kids learned how to cook from me, and I from my mother, and she from her mother, and on and on. As a matter of fact, when I met Charli she couldn’t boil water. My aunts took her to their houses where she spent days learning how to cook our family’s traditional meals. Jaime and Frankie always call me to say, “Hi, Dad. Are you okay?” I have the greatest kids.
CHAPTER 26
Conclusion and Reflections
Telling stories dates back to the beginning of man. The storyteller was and still is the most important link in civilization and his community. He documents the past and present, and then passes the torch to the next storyteller. From cave drawings to the Bible and Koran, then printed books, pictures, and movies, the storyteller has captured the moments and events of time. Stories are time capsules, preserving our history for others to learn, providing a guide to the past and a map to the future. And now social networking is a new form of storytelling, instantly reaching millions of people who can then share their own thoughts and comments instantly.
It was in the early sixties when I first began to write down my little stories and events, wondering back then and still today, why am I compelled to document my life experiences? What’s the purpose? Who would care about me or what I have to say? Looking back and reflecting over forty years of my notes and stories, people and events, I decided to do it, to put it all together once and for all. Jarred Weisfeld, my agent, said, “Why not? You are somebody. People would be interested in your story.’’ I, on the other hand, still believe you have to do something like blow up a building, have eight babies, or kill your agent to be famous enough for people to read your book. We will see.
I don’t particularly care how many people actually buy this book in terms of making money. I am more interested that it inspires you, the reader, to live your life as what you are and who you can become, not what you or others think you should be, and most importantly that you “Do it now!” Grab the ball and run.
Writing this book is like emptying and freeing space on my mind’s hard drive, leaving room to add more. Writing for me is like an addiction, a drug you use in order to secretly feed your ego, hoping someone will read your story, learn something, acknowledge your existence, and thus make you feel rewarded and important enough to keep going unless you’re dead.
This book documents a true historical time capsule, a slice of life. I want it to be humorous, educational, and inspirational, with useful philosophies and tools. If it delivers these values for, say, $25, then you, the reader, are getting something for your money. You’re happy you’ve read something of value, and I’m happy I’m getting paid for my work; everyone should be happy! If you’re not, you can always, as I have said before, stick your fish in it.
I continue to share my life experiences with my partner, Charli, who in turn continues to let this bird fly. And I dedicate this to Frank W. Abagnale Jr., who thirty years ago walked into my office at Bert Padell’s wanting to make a movie of his life. He began to unfold an unbelievable story, so unbelievable, in fact, that I couldn’t imagine who would believe it. Who was this g
uy, anyway? How could he have done all these unbelievable things? Boy, was I wrong. It took him over thirty years to get his movie made. Catch Me If You Can had Hollywood’s biggest stars and was nominated for two Oscars. History, however, as I’ve seen time and again, has a habit of repeating itself. A few months ago, I was sitting in my agent Jarred’s office discussing the progress of this book. I revisited my experience with Frank Abagnale Jr. when Jarred jumped up and said, “Wait here. I want you to meet someone.” He returned with a woman and he introduced me to her. “Frank, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, a Broadway producer. Tell her the story about Frank Abagnale.”
I did and she was surprised at what I told her, but not as surprised as I was when she said I must come to the Broadway opening of the musical she had produced—Catch Me If You Can. You can meet Frank, she said. A Broadway musical, I thought. I was speechless. Years ago I couldn’t imagine they would make a movie based on his outrageous story, and now a musical. I was convinced if he could do it, so could I.
My story is not just about my life, my business, or my art. It’s about setting yourself free by grabbing the ball. It’s about living the life of who you are, and working hard. It’s also about how to deal with insecurities, which in my case largely dealt with my learning disability. All my life I’ve driven myself to overcome my dyslexia as best I could, or at least be able to work through it. Fears and self-doubts became my lightning rod; I looked them in the eye, grabbed the ball, and ran on by, past my fears of failing. I make sure I don’t. You can do it, too.
I have come to believe we humans are the byproducts of manipulated energy, and that our ultimate goal is to cross over from the physical world to the spiritual, or perhaps the other way around. Either way, in order to be free and happy, you must lead a life of who you truly are, not what you have to be. I am amused by those who post photos and send messages to me on Facebook. Facebook is a place that narcissists use to post how they want to be seen. An investment banker I know, for example, constantly posts what new bands are in town, or which new albums or TV shows or movies he likes. But this “person” who is posting this material is not the investment banker I know.
Moving up the ladder of life, I have learned that you cannot be like or apply the Machiavellian theory, and surround yourself with people you keep under your thumb. Men get jealous, envious, and they resent it. Most Machiavellian men don’t like to share their perceived throne, especially when others rise to become their equal or pass them by. They feel threatened.
Guccione, for example, resented my creativity and popularity. Eddie Gilbert was troubled that I was more well-known than him. Paul Parino couldn’t share his perceived power. Michael Lang was unable to share. Artie Kornfeld had to be sole king and get all the recognition. Joe Franklin was never satisfied and greedy. Bert Padell sat at his throne alone until he got Parkinson’s. Gunner Larson liked taking all the credit. My answer to all of this nonsense is: You can be king or president as long as you pay me.
I now know from personal experience and observations that artists of all kinds are resented and sometimes persecuted because of their freedom to grab the ball, make the first stroke and be successful without anyone else’s help. It’s that freedom that enables them to do and be who and what they truly are, living the life they want, not one that’s dictated by others. But there is freedom to live the life you are, artist or not.
I am the opposite of whom I started out as; now I exude confidence and self-esteem and feel there is nothing I can’t do. Through my evolution from shy kid to partner of the seas, I’ve learned that you must listen to your instincts and the voice inside your head. Go with your gut feeling. Trust yourself only, then you will have only yourself to hold accountable. Learn from your past experience and decisions—good or bad, right or wrong—without blaming anyone else. Don’t second-guess, and realize this: Always do your best and you won’t be disappointed. Determination is the key. Keep moving up, not down, don’t give in to your fears or stop dreaming, never quit, take risks, teach yourself to excel, and always be driven to the point of exhaustion. Then get up and do it again.
Reflecting on events in my life, no matter where or when, I see that each of my encounters were all just part of the journey—necessary links in the chain of experiences that made me who I am; no encounter more important than the others. As I look back on my work now, I see things written over the years, the events and the people I’ve met along the way, one after another, all as parts of a painting, whose image and message became clearer as I put them down, one brush stroke at a time. Some strokes overlap others years later, and I often had no idea what was going to happen next or what the finished painting would become. But I never put my brush down.
I’ve taken advantage of opportunities, and I know that if I hadn’t, life could have bounced right by me. Life is my ball, and many times it’s allowed me to turn nothing into something. I have become very good at recognizing that the ball is in the air. You can, too. Find out who you are and what your yellow brick road is. To be who you are, you need more than financial success. You need freedom to do what you want, or as close to it as you can. Take control over the ball of life.
And when you take control, do it right. Just grabbing the ball without doing something with it is sacrilegious. You must always do something, even if you are juggling several balls at the same time. Otherwise the balls you’ve grabbed will disappear or grow old and life will bounce by.
I see now that my life’s message is clear. The yellow brick road, the threads that weave through it all, holding each story together, all have the same thing in common: I grab the ball and run, knowing it’s now my ball, reacting without hesitation and, as some have said, with a fine disregard for the rules. Every episode has been a risk. To risk or not to risk, that is not only the question but the true challenge in life, to go beyond what you perceive as your limits, regardless of doubt, fear, and uncertainty, and change those thoughts by simply looking at them as part of the process of evolution. “Anybody can do it, just do it now.”
Grab the ball and run like hell.
That is my yellow brick road, the message, and moral of my story.
“I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.” (Popeye the Sailor Man)
I am the ball.
CHAPTER 27
Postscripts
Junior
Brooklyn 19 New York
There is something to be said about my belief: If you didn’t grow up in Brooklyn, you didn’t go through Basic Training.
The early years of my youth growing up in Brooklyn definitely shaped my persona and character. They influenced how I think and react. Those experiences taught me, above all, that if you snooze you lose.
The following stories reflect the events that developed and formed the early foundation of my life. Now, decades later, I can see in these stories the man, the artist, the ball grabber that I’ve become. I hope reading this book and its stories have been as enjoyable as it was for me experiencing them.
My First Job
I learned the art of trading and bartering at what I consider to be my first job. I was seven years old, standing at the top of a ten-step red-and-green painted concrete stoop, with four other young boys playing one strike two strike, scissor-paper-rock, and flipping baseball cards, all in order to win comic books from each other. I was learning plenty of applicable skills through buying, selling, trading, and winning as many comics, baseball cards, and marbles as I could. It’s an obsession, and demands respect and power from the kids on your block.
The rules dictate that the winner of the previous round gets to pick what game to play next. Each round’s winner gets the four comics put up as ante for each game. Little Michael Scarsella chose one strike two strike, and eliminated everyone else but me. Now it was just the two of us for the whole pile, all the comic books. The other kids had lost Spiderman, Batman, Dick Tracy, Archie, and Veronica (I never read that one)—about twenty comics in all. (As I’m writing this, my first girlfrie
nd, Maryanne Piccorelli, just popped into my mind. I wonder what she is doing. Hey, Maryanne. Call me. Let’s catch up.)
I’d picked odd, little Michael got even. He’s looking at me with determination. “Ready,” he says, and with a weak stare he starts the count. “One strike …” In perfect rhythm with the counting we pump our closed fists toward each other’s face with a vengeance. “… two strike … three strike … shoot.” I knew I had him. His weak stare was no match for my squinted-eye smirking smile. I throw out two fingers, he throws out one finger—it’s odds. I’ve won. I knew it all along. I felt it. I could psyche him out. He hates me. He thought since I picked odds I would throw out one finger and so he would win with evens. Ha ha ha, “I win!” As I jump up, so does he, and the next thing I remember is falling over the stoop banister rail all the way down, one-and-a-half stories, hitting my head on the concrete landing of the basement floor. My aching head not only felt but had actually grown to twice its size and was spinning in circles like Linda Blaire’s in The Exorcist.
On the X-ray table my mother asked me a hundred questions. “What happened? Oh my God, Junior, how did this happen?” Not able to see, eyes black, blue, and purple, swollen almost shut, sitting up holding my twenty-pound swollen head, convinced I was pushed, “Where … are … my comic books?!”
“There are no comics.”
“But I won!”
That was when I got my first lesson: You don’t always win when you win.
From that day on I made sure to stay in position, to never get pushed, and most importantly to not let anyone ever take my comic books again.
As we say, I became “Brooklyn like a motherfucker.”
Frank & Charli Page 32