And, as we are very very early into our month long celebration of our deepest of deep devotion, our purest of pure passion, and our awesomest of awesome adulation of our one and only Dino, likes we couldn't ask for a more cooler then cool contribution accentin', as our Dino woulda say, one of "de common folk" whose life has been deeply deeply devoted to sharin' their perfectly powerful passion for our one, our only Dino.
From the new-to-ilovedinomartin blog, "myteenytown" scribed by a lovely lady tagged Miss Roberta Levine comes a post that has melted our Dino-heart, "The Dean Martin Museum & Shoe Store." Miss Levine delightfully describes her blog with these touchin' thoughts..."Hi there. Here’s life in a small town at the tip of Appalachia in northwestern Pennsylvania. The people, the beauty of the setting as well as the taxing parts. The good, the bad, the ugly. So glad you’re here."
We were indeed deeply delighted to have been drawn to Miss Roberta's blog via our new blog searchin' source, "TWINGLY" Her well written words, beginnin' with a couple of delightful descriptions of our Dino tell us 'bout "a shoe store run by a man who loved Dean Martin. He loved him so much he’d turned his shop into a museum dedicated to the singer." Miss Levine shares her first hand experience of shoppin' in the shoe store and experiencin' the massive 'mounts of Dino-treasure on display.
Likes as we read this post, we thought that we had indeed heard earlier 'bout this shoe man's shop and his undyin' devotion to our one and only Dino. We checked back in our Dino-annals and discovered a post 'bout the auction held to liquidate the store and all the Dino-memorabilia. That April 18, 2011 post can be read HERE. This post gives us the name and location of the store as well as the name of this magnificant pallie of our Dino's. Today's post shares a more personal look at the great man behind our great man.
We sez our thanks to Miss Roberta Levine for this most informative post and we gotta sez that the timin' couldn't be more Dino-perfect. We are deeply deeply delighted to share this Dino-tribute as we begin our month long celebration of the birth of our Dino, "The Day That Coolness Came To Earth.
To view this in it's original source, simply clicks on the tag of this here Dino-message. Dino-enthralled and enraptured , DMP
DEAN MARTIN, SHOE STORES, SMALL TOWNS
To] his skillfully used musical and comedy talents, he adds an ebullience that pervades everything he does. . . . Uninhibited, spry of mind and muscle, he maintains a state of relaxation that “makes Perry Como look like a nervous wreck.”
Across from the PNC bank drive-through there used to be a shoe store run by a man who loved Dean Martin. He loved him so much he’d turned his shop into a museum dedicated to the singer.
The first time I went into the shop I didn’t know about the guy’s feelings for Dean. But as soon as I walked in, it was undeniable. There was the wall of celebrity photos of Dean wearing a hat, holding a cocktail glass, smiling, looking away from the camera, holding a microphone, with Sammy Davis, Jr., with Frank Sinatra, sitting on a sofa his tux shirt unbuttoned, his head thrown back.
An old fashioned turn table in a case played an LP. Dean’s baritone filled the room.. Televisions sets placed around the store showed re-runs from The Dean Martin Show. He was wore a dark jacket and chatted with a guest, cigarette in hand—the show had aired decades earlier when cigarettes were still allowed on TV—or singing, his arms spreading wider as he reached the emotional climax of the song. He was one hell of a singer, and he had a handsome array of shiny, black curls.
The shop owner, in contrast, sported an elaborate comb over. Everyone knew what was underneath those strands of dark hair. Plus, I’d seen him fold himself into a Toyota Tercel. There was a million miles between Dean Martin and that little car. The guy seemed so vulnerable I wanted to buy everything in his shop. But the shoes he sold looked like boxes with string attached. These were geriatric shoes for people with a precarious sense of balance. The store owner offered various styles of these uni-sex shoes including one with overlapping flaps that secured with Velcro for arthritic fingers that couldn’t tie a bow any longer. The combination of the shop owner, the smell of leather and shoe repair, Dean Martin crooning and the old people’s shoes made my heart hurt.
I bought a jar of shoe polish from the guy even though I knew it was past its sell by date.