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.