Dino Letter

Hey pallies, likes when I opened my email, I discovered a comment to a recent Dino-post made by our most Dino-devoted Spanish pallie Kinezoe who hangs his hat at the coolest of cool blogs "No todo es kippel."  Likes the reason that Dino-addict Kinezoe wrote is 'cause he wanted to share with us a very very special Dino-homagin  post by his pallie, Mr. Francisco Machuca who, as he puts it, lives in "An imaginary place, Singapore."

Likes this most most magical Dino-honorin' prose is simply tagged in English, "Dino Letter" and is the most wonderful of wonderfully wisely words  in deepest of deep devotion to our most beloved Dino.  Francisco begins, "My dear Dino:" and simply offers his awesome appreciato for what we have recently here at ilovedinomartin referred to as the amazin' role model that our Dino offers his pallies.

As Mr. Machuca superbly states it, "It assumes that people crave happiness above anything else. But missing models, my dear friend. The question is, can a man be happy with a drink in hand, a joke on his lips, a lot of women around and a mountain of dollars in the bank?   My opinion is yes. Absolutely, yes. I put to you as proof, my dear Dino. No doubt you were the man cool twentieth century. I contend that you were also the happiest."

Likes how coulda any true Dino-phile ever thinks of disagreein' with Francisco's incredible insights into the life and times of our Dino....and we dare say would say that our Dino is not only the "man cool twentieth century," but likes the coolest one ever!

We coulda goes on and on praisin' this powerfully precious prose scribed by an obviously deep devotee of our King of Cool....and ruminate on the grand and glorious Dino-poses that he has included in his deeply devoted Dino-essay, but likes we wants all youse dudes to soak in this Dino-magic yourself, so have ats it  pallies!

First of all, ilovedinomartin salutes one of our most favorite pallies in Dino, Kinezoe, and thanks his profusely for puttin' us on to this huge huge homagin' of our most beloved Dino.  And, we sends our our deepest of deep thanks to our new pallie Mr. Francisco Machuca for sharin' his amazin'ly awesome devotion to our Dino in his beautiful blog post....sure to bring many of his readership into the Dino-know.  Likes to checks this out in it's original format, simply clicks on the tag of this  Dino-message.  Dino-always, ever, and only, DMP

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Dino Letter

My dear Dino:



I write because I need to tell you that I am so much vulgarity hartísimo, tango tackiness of both mundanity. Bad taste is what is officially considered tasteful. It is bad taste almost everything in this life, because culture tacky bourgeois culture, which is its continuation, has flooded ugly things. Another revolution urgent the aesthetic revolution. Yes, I know you'll tell me that you can not avoid the vulgarity, the essential dimension of existence, but in front there transfiguring eyes look lame. The discouragement, sadness, boredom, despair only let you see a desolate and impassable. It assumes that people crave happiness above anything else. But missing models, my dear friend. The question is, can a man be happy with a drink in hand, a joke on his lips, a lot of women around and a mountain of dollars in the bank?





My opinion is yes. Absolutely, yes. I put to you as proof, my dear Dino. No doubt you were the man cool twentieth century. I contend that you were also the happiest. Do not laugh I know, Dino Paul Crocetti, and known as Dean Martin. You were born in a village in Ohio and worked as a bootlegger, dealer, metal worker, writer of jokes, boxer, singer (and big), artistic partner Jerry Lewis, actor and television presenter. You will be best remembered as a founding member of the Rat Pack of Frank Sinatra, as a character associated with the Mafia and as crooner drunkard. But, friend, you were never vulgar. That's my point. If you saw my time ...



That public image was forged to hide you, not to offend with your elegance and have scope to develop your individual ataraxia. Actually, it was Sinatra who was to you a curious psychological dependence, and it was Sinatra who kept mafia relations. As for the glass, Shirley MacLaine, who also belonged to the rat pack , revealed in his autobiography that used to be full of apple juice. You liked the J & B and consumías in large quantities, but you also liked working sober and early night.



I know you seemed to have no passions or opinions or ideologies. Do not look, boy, how is the thing here in that regard. We were showing indifferent to everything. Jeanne Biegger, yeah man, that was married to you for twenty-four years, said that neither she nor anyone else knew who was hiding inside such joker, smiling, that fascinated both men and women. Never discussed it. If something you liked, you were telling a joke and going.



Since you gave no importance to your success, nor others I took. You tend to forget that Elvis Presley copied your phrasing acknowledged to be a performing songs like Love Me Tender and Are I lonesome tonight ?, and it's almost in your latter desbancaste the number one sales of Beatles Everybody loves somebody sometime , you got no one but three stars (as a singer, as an actor and showman ) on the Walk of Fame in Hollywood, you had one of the most successful television programs and enduring American television. Now there are fifty thousand channels that say nothing.



I know that you lacked vanity (do not see how they smoke around here), and do not mind working in lousy movies as long as the atmosphere was fun, you dive for years in orgiastic nonsense Sinatra organized in Las Vegas, without stop behaved like a gentleman were, perhaps, the only friend of Marilyn Monroe that you abused her.



Were suffering from claustrophobia, and knew heal: you locked in a small elevator and you remained in it, up and down a New York skyscraper, sweating and desmayándote, until no anxiety. All this he did in life quiet, smiling, with a glass in hand, a joke on his lips and many wonderful women around you. You left this world without enemies dog. You were happy, I'm sure.

Well, my dear Dino, thanks for all that time, you know that one returns to his old desolate nihilism, and think of the little sense you have to walk around, put today in social pantomime, hiding the dark face of the things. The only intolerable vulgarity is not recognized itself. Do not know why now, suddenly, I am indifferent not be modern.

A big hug.

PS: You know how much I love you You `re Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You. I wear it every morning before facing what you already know.

Carta a Dino

Mi querido Dino:

Te escribo porque necesito decirte que estoy hartísimo de tanta vulgaridad, de tango horterismo, de tanto cutrerío. Es el mal gusto lo que se considera oficialmente de buen gusto. Es de mal gusto casi todo, en esta vida, porque la cultura burguesa y la cultura hortera, que es su continuación, nos ha inundado de cosas feas. Otra revolución urgente es la revolución estética. Sí, ya sé que me dirás que no se puede evitar la vulgaridad, esa indispensable dimensión de la existencia, pero frente a la mirada transfiguradora existe la mirada claudicante. El desánimo, la tristeza, el aburrimiento, la desesperanza solo permiten ver un paisaje desolado e intransitable. Se supone que las personas ansiamos la felicidad por encima de cualquier otra cosa. Pero faltan modelos, mi querido amigo. La pregunta es: ¿puede ser feliz un hombre con una copa en la mano, un chiste en los labios, un montón de mujeres alrededor y una montaña de dólares en el banco?

Mi opinión es que sí. Absolutamente, sí. Te pongo a ti como prueba, mi querido Dino. No cabe duda de que fuiste el hombre más cool del siglo XX. Yo sostengo que fuiste también el más feliz. No te rías que lo sé; Dino Paul Crocetti, y conocido como Dean Martin. Naciste en una aldea de Ohio y trabajaste como contrabandista de alcohol, crupier, obrero metalúrgico, escritor de chistes, boxeador, cantante (y de los grandes), pareja artística de Jerry Lewis, actor y presentador de televisión. Se te recuerda sobre todo como miembro fundador del rat pack de Frank Sinatra, como personaje relacionado con la mafia y como crooner borrachuzo. Pero, amigo, jamás fuiste vulgar. A eso voy. Si vieras mi época...

Ésa fue la imagen pública que te forjó para ocultarte, para no ofender con tu elegancia y disponer de margen para desarrollar tu particular ataraxia. En realidad, era Sinatra quien sentía hacia ti una curiosa dependencia psicológica, y era Sinatra quien mantenía las relaciones mafiosas. En cuanto al vaso, Shirley MacLaine, que también perteneció al rat pack, reveló en su autobiografía que solía estar lleno de zumo de manzana. Te gustaba el J&B y consumías en grandes cantidades, pero también te gustaba trabajar sobrio y acostarte temprano.

Sé que parecías no tener pasiones, ni opiniones, ni ideologías. No veas, chico, cómo está la cosa aquí en ese aspecto. Te mostrabas indiferente a todo. Jeanne Biegger, sí hombre, la que estuvo casada contigo durante veinticuatro años, afirmó que ni ella ni nadie sabían quién se escondía en el interior de ese tipo bromista, sonriente, que fascinaba por igual a hombres y mujeres. Jamás discutiste. Si algo no te gustaba, contabas un chiste y te ibas.

Como no le dabas importancia a tu éxito, los demás tampoco te lo daban. Tiende a olvidarse que Elvis Presley reconoció haberte copiado tu fraseo para interpretar canciones como Love me tender o Are yo lonesome tonight?; y que ya casi en tu vejez desbancaste del número uno la ventas de los Beatles con Everybody loves somebody sometime; que obtuviste no una, sino tres estrellas (como cantante, como actor y como showman) en el Paseo de la Fama de Hollywood; que tuviste uno de los programas televisivos más exitosos y duraderos de la televisión estadounidense. Ahora hay cincuenta mil canales que no dicen nada.

Sé que carecías de vanidad (no veas cómo están los humos por aquí), y que no te importaba trabajar en películas malísimas con tal de que el ambiente fuera divertido; te zambulliste durante años en los disparates orgiásticos que Sinatra organizaba en Las Vegas, sin dejar de comportaste como un caballero; fuiste, tal vez, el único amigo de Marilyn Monroe que no abusaste de ella.

Sufrías de claustrofobia, y supiste curarte: te encerraste en un pequeño ascensor y permaneciste en él, subiendo y bajando un rascacielos neoyorquino, sudando y desmayándote, hasta que desapareció la ansiedad. Todo esto lo hiciste tranquilo en la vida, sonriente, con un vaso en la mano, un chiste en los labios y muchas mujeres estupendas a tu alrededor. Te fuiste de este perro mundo sin enemigos. Fuiste feliz, estoy seguro. 

Bueno, mi querido Dino, gracias por todos esos momentos; ya sabes que uno retorna a su viejo desolado nihilismo, y piensa en el escaso sentido que tiene andar por ahí, metido, hoy, en la pantomima social, disimulando la faz tenebrosa de las cosas. La única vulgaridad intolerable es la que no se reconoce a sí misma. No sé por qué hoy, de pronto, me es indiferente no ser moderno.

Un fuerte abrazo.

PD: Ya sabes lo mucho que me gusta tu You`re Nobody `Til somebody Loves You. Me la pongo cada mañana antes de enfrentarme a lo que tú ya sabes.