But Deano was a classy operator...........

Hey pallies, likes it takes one Renaissance man to knows 'nother. Today's Dino-post was scribed by Aussie Renaissance man Chris Nyst for the opinion page of "goldcoast.com."

Mr. Nyst is one of those dudes who likes does it all. He is a renowned Australian solicitor and crime fiction writer, as well as an award winnin' writer, producer and director of films. It would appear that whatever likes Nyst puts his hands to becomes likes hugely successful......likes someone whose opinion is truly, truly valued.

Thus, I am deeply moved by and extemely grateful to Mr. Nyst for his editorial "Stars Forfeit Dying Dignity" that speaks so favorably 'bout our Dino and his amazin' career, shows such compassion for our Dino's distressful last days, and talks so so sharply 'bout a member of the paparazzi who did not treat our great man with the dignity he so deserves.

Mr. Chris Nyst is a Renaissance man who deeply respects our Renaissance man, our Dino, and desires others to know, love, and honor our Dino as well. ilovedinomartin is greatly touched by the kindness shown to our Dino by Nyst's movin' words of true Dino-devotion. We sez our grateful appreciation to him for honorin' our beloved Dino in this way. To read this in it's original format, please clicks on the tagg of this Dino-sharin'. In Deep Dino-appreciato, DMP




Stars forfeit dying dignity
Chris Nyst | August 21st, 2010

WHEN I was in high school one of my favourite television programs was the Dean Martin Show.

Martin was a post-war Italian-American crooner born of my parents' generation and he sang the kind of songs and wore the kind of clothes kids of my age were trying hard to leave behind.

But Deano was a classy operator and when he slid down a stairwell railing on to the television set each week at the start of his variety show, flashing his pearly whites and turning on the old Italian charm, there was simply no denying he was the undisputed king of cool.

Playing up his classic 1960s Rat Pack image as the lazy, carefree boozer, Martin would swagger across the stage, resplendent in his crisp tuxedo, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, fire off a couple of cheeky wisecracks to the audience, then break into a silky smooth rendition of his signature song Everybody Loves Somebody which brought down the house every time.

The highly successful show had its final season in 1974, but Martin continued his career on stage and screen until the late 1980s when, following the tragic death of his eldest son Dean junior in a plane crash, he largely withdrew from public life.

In addition to never completely recovering from losing his son, he suffered from emphysema and in 1993 he was diagnosed with lung cancer, which ultimately led to his death in 1995, at the age of 78.

Not long before his death, a member of the paparazzi had the fine fortune to catch off-guard a somewhat unkempt, decidedly un-glamorous looking Martin, by then an old and sickly man, walking to a local shop without his dentures in.

The sad photographs of the one-time carefree playboy had a kind of morbid curiosity value, but felt like an obscene betrayal, a cruel and unwarranted defilement not only of an old man's privacy and dignity, but of our own cherished memories.

No doubt the editors who agreed to publish the pictures would tell you that is just the price of fame.

He who seeks the spotlight must suffer its glare. But when is the piper finally paid? When do we permit the curtain to fall on their celebrity?


They were questions that came to mind this week when I saw some of the reporting of the hospitalisation of 93-year-old actress Zsa Zsa Gabor.

The once irrepressibly vivacious Hungarian-born former actress and beauty queen underwent blood clot surgery last weekend -- two days after being released from hospital following complications from a bad fall in which she broke a hip.

No doubt the story was of great interest to the many fans of the flamboyant Zsa Zsa, remembered as much for her nine marriages and her propensity for calling everybody 'darling' as she was for her mediocre film career.

But the photographs that showed the 93-year-old lying in a hospital bed looking gaunt and gravely ill seemed profoundly cruel.

OK, we get it. Even the beautiful people eventually get old and frail. But just because they once courted the warm glow of the spotlight, does that mean they forfeit any right to privacy and dignity?