Monday, September 30, 2013

Dean Martin probably never had a sleeping bag

Hey pallies, his name is Joe Hudson and he scribes a column for the Statesville (North Carolina) Record And Landmark newspaper.  And, likes as all you Dino-philes can suspect, Mr. Hudson's most recent prose published September 22 is absolutely fabulously Dino-focused.

Hudson, on a recent hot and humid day was feelin' "the familiar stirring of restlessness"  and went drivin' on the Blue Ridge Parkway in his truck, 'though he woulda preferred to be makin' the scene in "a black 1964 Lincoln convertible."  As he was cruisin', it just so happened that Joe heard our most beloved Dino on the car radio croonin' his classic country hit, "Gentle On Mind."

And, upon hearin' our great man sing this great song, Mr. Hudson launches into some huge homagin' of our Dino.  You simply must take the time to read Hudson's tribute to our King of is likes totally totally  thrillin' to read such purely passion ate honorin' of our most beloved Dino.

ilovedinomartin salutes Mr. Joe Hudson of the Statesville Record and Landmark for sharin' his obvious appreciato for our great great man.  To read this in it's original format, simply clicks on the tag of this here Dino-message.  Dino-delightedly, DMP  btw pallies, likes decided to add a little bonus to this post by sharin' a youtube clip of our most beloved Dino croonin' 'bout gentleness from the Dino-show.... likes, enjoys pallies!

COLUMN: Dean Martin probably never had a sleeping bag

 By Joe Hudson

It was a Thursday, the sort of hot and humid day the chamber of commerce tries to keep a secret. Bushes and trees droop, sun-baked cars line the streets, making the air around them appear wavy, and you fantasized about being airlifted to the Atlantic Ocean.

I was walking down Center Street and saw an advertisement in a shop window showing a beautiful woman applying lotion to her legs, and in the background was a white chalet overlooking a blue ocean. I saw myself in the chalet wearing my black swim trunks, sitting on a veranda overlooking the ocean, sipping a frosty drink. Then I imagined a sea breeze against my face and felt the familiar stirring of restlessness.

But the chalet isn’t the cure for this restlessness any more than the skin lotion would be. This is the restlessness from school days when you sat captured in history class while a summer day tempted you with outside wonders. This distracted you as you attempted to write a test essay about the Magna Carta and its later influence on the formation of the American colonies, their government and subsequent laws, and you felt like simply writing: “It just did, that’s all.”

The restlessness made me think about a black 1964 Lincoln convertible which I don’t have, and driving with the top down to the Blue Ridge Parkway. So I jumped into my truck, which I do have, rolled down the windows and headed west listening to the radio with the wind blowing in my hair. I finally reached the parkway with its gentle serpentine curves and small dips, built in a time when driving was considered romantic and 45 mph was a reasonable speed for viewing natural beauty.

I was taking all this in when on the radio I heard Dean Martin singing (of all songs) the old country music hit “Gentle on My Mind.” With that casual crooning voice and Vegas night club style, he sang “It’s knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk, that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch.”

In my mind I saw him in his trademark tuxedo, seated by a microphone with a cigarette in one hand, every hair in place, a casual smile on his handsome face and a 20-piece orchestra backing him up. So I had trouble believing Mr. Martin ever owned a sleeping bag, let alone would stash it behind anybody’s couch. It was like Champagne trying to pass itself off as beer.

Martin’s life appeared sedentary, entirely devoted to sitting and singing around a microphone for our entertainment. He never destroyed equipment in a pyrotechnic apocalypse. He never ranted about the complexities of fame or discussed chronic depression. He never trashed a hotel room or blamed society for anything. He was the last of a group of well-mannered gentlemen entertainers.

So it was revealing to hear him sing a song about restlessness and living the life of a hobo. Hunched down in a train yard clutching a tin can was not part of the mystery of life for Dean Martin. Maybe he recorded that song to stretch himself a little, to explore something new, then he returned to the comfort of familiar songs such as “That’s Amore” and “Everybody Loves Somebody.” Suddenly my restlessness was gone.

I like to explore and have new experiences. Then I usually turn the car around and return to my beautiful city, Statesville, it’s my home, it’s familiar, and that’s where my sleeping bag stays.

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