Today we fantastically feature extremely excitin' excerpts from Tom's powerfully potent prose that, of course, awesomely accent his father Leo's encounters with our most most beloved Dino. We are totally totally thrilled to fabulously feast on Tom sharin' of a noteworthy number of his daddy-o's first person experiences with our King of Cool...at the Copa where Dino and Jerry were makin' funnyand at our Dino's playground 'Vegas baby 'Vegas...both in a coffee shop and at a casino's blackjack table.
We here at ilovedinomartin lives to be able to impart such beautiful bits of Dino-lore to Dino-philes who gather 'round our little Dino-waterin' hole day by day and today's Dino-devotion is some stunnin'ly stellar Dino-remembrances that bring the biggest of big Dino-buddha grins to our faces, and so so much deep deep Dino-happiness as well. We can't thank Mr. Tom Junod and all the pallies at GQ for these remarkable reflections on our Dino's encounters with Junod's father. To checks this out in it's original source, likes simple clicks on the tag of this Dino-message.
Yours In Dino,
Dino Martin Peters
My Father's Fashion Tips
As we celebrate fifty years of GQ, we look back at some of the greatest writing the magazine has published. In 1996, in a piece that was nominated for a National Magazine Award, Tom Junod wrote not only of his dad’s impeccable style but also of the secrets—and underwear rules—of a lost generation.
BY TOM JUNOD
June 7, 2007
As far as I know, my father never made a dime from his voice—but to put himself across. And when he went to see Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis one night at the Copa and Dino passed the microphone around to patrons and asked them to sing a verse, my father was prepared: He took the microphone in hand and sang to such effect that Dean Martin had to take it back. “Hey,“ Dino said, his voice whittled down to a point of low warning. “Hey,“ he said, glaring at my father over his shoulder, with a squint, with a glance of sudden, alarmed appraisal, sparked by his knowledge that there was now another man in the room, and to this man attention must be paid.
“ 1957: My father goes to Vegas for the first time, in the year before my birth. He rents a convertible and drives across the Arizona desert with the top down, and by the time he gets there he is, well, black, and of course, and vibrant with the pulse of the elements themselves. He goes to a coffee shop, and Dean is there, and Dean recognizes him—a nod. And then the next day, my father goes down to the casino, to play at the blackjack table, and Dean walks over, tan like my father, but not of course as tan as my father, and asks the dealer to step aside. “Let me deal to him,“ Dean says (or maybe, preferably, “Let me deal to him“), and for the next twenty minutes that’s what he does—Dean Martin deals cards to Lou Junod. It’s just the two of them, two men wearing suits and shirts with French cuffs at twelve o’clock noon, in the middle of the freaking desert, and somewhere along the line it must occur to them—well, at the very least, it occurs to my dad—that they are men who very easily could have lived each other’s lives…which is why my father always told me never to ask for autographs (“They should be asking for your autograph“)