Is Frankie Borrelli The New Ringo Starr?

Last night, we saw Frankie Borrelli take over the percussion section of Pup Punk. It was a ferocious, groundbreaking debut that left no doubt as to who owns the drum stool in Barstool’s hottest band. Smitty’s recent shoulder surgery could not have come at a worse time for a guy who has been in the twilight of his career since his interview. The writing, and rhythm, were on the wall when Frankie was called upon to sub in for the injured Smitty, and the young Borrelli cemented his place in the angst-grunge hall of fame with a performance for the ages.

Setting aside my romantic interests in Frankie, this performance was jaw, panty, and boxer-brief dropping. Frankie beat that bongo like he knew Smitty was watching, though he probably wasn’t because, medically speaking, engaging in work-related events with your arm in a sling is incredibly risky. My friend’s father is an orthopedic surgery and I called him to verify this. He said, “following a shoulder surgery, the patient must abstain from professional duties for at least 6 weeks. These duties may include playing video games and… and… and…”

But to focus on Smitty’s lack of attendance, effort, and his general indifference to his professional standing as the contributing factors behind Frankie’s occupation of Pup Punk’s drum set would be to misattribute what led to the band’s reshuffling. The real reason that Frankie has taken over for Smitty is because Frankie is a far more talented drummer. According to sources within the band, Frankie practiced with Pup Punk for the first time this week. Prior to that jam session, the band had struggled to make it through 1 song before Smitty would inevitably spike his sticks and scream at Robbie for not keeping up on the bass, or at PFT for not tuning his guitar properly, or at Rone for not acknowledging that Smitty had brought him in to Barstool. Now, with Frankie keeping time, the band not only had their best practice ever, they also wrote a couple new songs and went out for cream sodas afterwards. It was a new day for Pup Punk.

Being the sports company that we are, Barstool throws around the term “Wally Pipp’d” whenever someone loses their seat to a better, fresher, more reliable, harder-working, less delusional, steadier-eddier, younger, gentler, softer, sweeter, sexier, more willing to experiment, more limber, more penetrable member of the team. This term refers to Wally Pipp of the New York Yankees who, as legend has it, asked to sit out a game due to a headache. In his place, Lou Gehrig stepped up and went on to become one of the greatest players of all time. Wally Pipp became a footnote, a cautionary verb synonymous with losing one’s job to a superior replacement. And while that example serves nicely to encapsulate the Smitty-Frankie switcheroonie, history has a far better parallel in the story of Ringo Starr.

We all know Ringo as the drummer for the greatest band of all time, the Beatles. But what you may not know is that Ringo was a late addition to the group. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison had been playing with drummer Pete Best from 1960-1962 before Ringo was brought in as a replacement. With Ringo on the drums, the band went on to become the most influential music group of all time. In Best’s defense, he never asked to sit out, never had a shoulder surgery, and never gave the Beatles’ detractors fuel for takedown pieces by highlighting the time the group filmed him showering through a completely-censoring, fully-obscuring screen. Regardless, Pete Best is often referred to as the “fifth Beatle,” a moniker that sighs under the weight of lost opportunity.

As I watched Frankie nestle his bongo between his milky thighs, knowing just how slippery they can get when he’s having fun, I worried the drum might slip, clatter across the floor, and end Frankie’s tenure before the song’s final refrain. But he clenched those thighs tighter than he does on Taco Tuesdays, when he says it’s simply too dangerous for me to get in there until he’s eaten something solid. His hands slapped, caressed, and danced across the goatskin of his drum; his eyes closed and his body rocked in rhythmic ecstasy. The rest of the band melted away and a single spotlight centered upon my gleaming lolita. His nonexistent shoulders and inverted nipples framed his perfectly-tailored baht mitzvah suit with an elegance reserved for royalty. It was as though the snake and its charmer had become one, as though he were summoning the rains upon the cracked and parched fields, as if he were crying out for a measure of order in this shapeless, heartless world. Every inch of him lived within the music. Every inch of me wanted to live within him. I inched to the edge of my seat to hide my lap under the table because Erika was nearby.

Eventually, the song came to an end. The band was met with a raucous ovation. Everyone in attendance had perceived the undeniable improvement in their sound, thanks to Frankie’s consistency and passion. For my part, it was all I could do to lower the table back to the ground without being noticed.

We witnessed something great last night. Back home, as I tucked my little drummer boy in for the night, placing a pacifier in his mouth and swirling the mobile over his head, I turned off the light knowing a star had been born.

And then I came all over his face. Don’t sleep on me, bitch!

PS- this will probably be the last Frankie blog I write. It’s getting really gay.