From Frank Sinatra

When I saw your story today about George Michael, "the reluctant pop star, " my first reaction was that every morning when he wakes up he should thank the good Lord for having all that he has.

I don't understand a guy who lives "in hopes of reducing the strain of his celebrity status." Now that he's a smash performer and songwriter at twenty-seven, he wants to quit doing what tons of gifted youngsters all over the world would shoot grandma for -- just one crack at what he's complaining about.

Come on, George. Loosen up. Swing, man. Dust off those gossamer wings and fly yourself to the moon of your choice and be grateful to carry the baggage we've all had to carry since those lean nights of sleeping on buses and helping the driver unload the instruments.

And no more of that talk about the "tragedy of fame." The ragedy of fame is when no one shows up and you're singing to the cleaning lady in some empty joint that hasn't seen a paying customer since Saint Swithin's Day. And you're nowhere near that; you're top dog on the top rung of a tall ladder called Stardom, which in Latin means "thanks to the fans who were there when it was lonely."

Talent must not be wasted. Those who have it -- and you obviously do, or toady's article would have been about Rudy Vallee -- those who have talent must hug it, embrace it, nurture it, and share it, lest it be taken away as fast as it was loaned to them. Trust me. I've been there.

Frank Sinatra