I Still Love You, Dean

Hey pallies, likes today's Dino-discovery is the kind that simply simply warms the heart of each and every Dino-holic 'round the Dino-universe.  From the blog, "The Write Side of 50 ~ This is What Happens When You Hit the Right Side of Middle Age,"  blogger Miss Lois  Desocio has penned one of the sweetest of the sweet Dino-hearted posts ever shared here at ilovedinomartin!

Miss Desocio,  "59, is a journalist with 25 years of experience writing and reporting for newspapers, magazines and Web sites" includin' the New York Times.  Her beatifully scribed amore to our Dino, "I Still Love You, Dino," speaks of her timeless and everlastin' devotion to our Dino.  Likes many of us, Lois' passion for our great great man goes back to before she even qualified as a Deanager, and it simply has increased with the years!

We loves, loves, loves each and every syllable of her Dino-reflection, but particularly these words of deepest and purest devotion to Dino....."Everything about him moves me. Like some sort of swirly, swooning chemical substance, his voice – that heartfelt tremolo, mixed with a suggestive cadence – is the kind that closes eyes, quivers lips, sways heads. And weakens knees. I wish I could drink wine and eat meat with Dean."

ilovedinomartin fondly salutes Miss Desocio for so openly and passionately sharin' here amore of our Dino to the greater  Dino-world.  To checks this out in it's original format, simply clicks on the tag of this Dino-report.   Dino-always, ever, and only, DMP


I Still Love You, Dean

 

No shortness on seduction.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I just found out that Dean Martin was only 5’10″ tall. I had pegged him as at least 6’2″. No matter – he still measures up.

I’ve had a lifetime love affair with Dean Martin. Ever since I first liked a boy (12 years old?), I had hoped that all boys would grow up and turn into Dean Martin.

Everything about him moves me. Like some sort of swirly, swooning chemical substance, his voice – that heartfelt tremolo, mixed with a suggestive cadence – is the kind that closes eyes, quivers lips, sways heads. And weakens knees. I wish I could drink wine and eat meat with Dean.

But beyond all the obvious – his swagger, his cool (the bedroom eyes, the Colgate smile, those hands!) – what is just as striking is the nuance of Dean. He didn’t seem to sweat the small stuff. He didn’t try too hard. His confidence was as innate as that square jaw. Put all of Dean together – his manliness, his poise, his mystique, his talent, his flair – and he is downright poetic.

Dean died on Christmas Day in 1995. I was 40. And a hard-core rock and roller. But I remember buying a bunch of his Christmas albums when he died, and I still put them on every December 25. He’s my go-to Pandora guy, and I have the “Best of the Dean Martin Variety Show” on my iPad.

So, I still love you, Dean. You remain my touchstone, my dreamboat. And I love that you can still surprise me with stuff that I didn’t know. Like your height.