A funny Dean Martin moment. I was sitting in my chair watching the news a few days ago. As fate would have it, I lifted my right bottom and yes I "broke wind." Yes you read that right. It immediately reminded me of Dino story. It was a busy Sunday on the Dean Martin set during an afternoon taping in the late 60's. Dean did a short monologue then finished singing "You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You," then we went to a commercial. I was standing within a few feet of Dean with the cue card and makeup guy, Dean scooted up on his bar stool, we heard "squeak," Dino "cut one." I looked at the cue card guy, and the makeup guy, they looked at me, then I looked at Dean, and he winked. "The King of Cool" and the three of us "burst in laughter." "Let's have a Vino for Dino!"

Dean Martin Bio

Playboy called him “the coolest man who ever lived.” Elvis Presley worshipped him. “He was the coolest dude I’d ever seen, period,” recalled Stevie Van Zandt, adding, “He wasn’t just great at everything he did. To me, he was perfect.” That man is Dean Martin. Simply put, he was a great singer. The warm sensuality of his voice continues to beguile generations of music fans with a winning style and a touch of mystery. Born Dino Crocetti in Steubenville, Ohio, his early autobiography is as gritty as that of any hip-hop star. He delivered bootleg liquor, served as a speakeasy croupier and blackjack dealer, worked in a steel mill and briefly ruled the ring as boxing phenom Kid Crochet. Winning his share of bouts earned him little apart from a broken nose, but Dino’s speakeasy experience put him in contact with club owners, resulting in his first singing gigs. With a fixed nose and a boost from his pals in the nightclub underworld, he became Dean Martin, styling himself after the top male vocalist of the time, Bing Crosby, and met Frank Sinatra in New York. Martin released his first single, “Which Way Did My Heart Go?” and was first paired with comic Jerry Lewis. The two shared a bill at the 500 Club in Atlantic City, but the night they combined their acts into a combo of manic comedy and debonair music saw the birth of a phenomenon. They were the hottest ticket around and parlayed their onstage success into a string of hit movies and television appearances. During Martin and Lewis’ decade-long partnership, Dean had such hits as “Memories Are Made of This,” “That’s Amore,” “Powder Your Face With Sunshine,” and “You Belong to Me,” among others, all for the Capitol label. Yet when their partnership dissolved, showbiz pundits predicted Lewis’ star would continue to rise and Martin’s would fizzle. The singer confounded the skeptics. As a solo act he was wowing crowds in Vegas, impressing critics and audiences in a series of dramatic film roles, scoring on TV with Dean Martin Show specials for NBC, and hitting the charts again with “Return to Me” and “Volare.” Not soon after, Martin’s affiliation with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr. and the rest of the fabled Rat Pack supplanted his earlier rep. He fueled his image as a boozing playboy in onstage antics with his pals and ring-a-ding ensemble films like Ocean’s Eleven, yet Martin later claimed his cocktail-swilling persona was largely a pose. Though he left Capitol to sign with Sinatra’s fledgling Reprise label, Martin capped his tenure there with a bang, releasing two classic singles, “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” and “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You,” showcasing him at the height of his powers. Even at the height of Beatlemania with the group topping the charts, Martin reasserted himself with typical aplomb knocking the Fab Four from their perch with the buttery anthem “Everybody Loves Somebody.” Several other hits, including “The Door Is Still Open to My Heart,” “I Will,” “Houston” and “Send Me the Pillow You Dream On,” followed during his years at Reprise. Though he continued to perform, Martin’s visibility was greatest in films and on TV, where he nursed his lush-in-a-tux image with the long-running Dean Martin Variety Show and the hugely successful Dean Martin’s Celebrity Roast. His effortless vocalizing has become a modern shorthand for cool, as evidenced by the use of his songs in films, television, and ad campaigns. Dino: The Essential Dean Martin, a recent collection of both the Capitol and Reprise eras, sold more briskly than any previous Martin recording, going gold within months and platinum within a year. Biographer Nick Tosches (Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams) described Martin as a classic menefreghista, Italian for “one who does not give a f—.” The term, in Dean Martin’s case, conveys not indifference but a refusal to be beaten down by the world and a determination to greet life with an easy smile, a graceful melody and an aura of unflappable cool.

Barbara Eden still beautiful after all these years.

How do I remember Barbara Eden? Standing next to her waiting to appear with Dean was somewhat breathtaking. Watched her on "I Dream of Jeannie," and now she's standing next to me ready to join Dean doing a "song and dance," I recall she was beautiful as ever. Not that tall, but oozed with charisma. Lot's of talent. Dean was a lucky man, it seemed every female guest on his show had a "crush" on "The King of Cool." One of my favorite guests and a great memory working on the Dean Martin Show.

A Short Dean Martin Story

A DREAM, AN APPARITION, AND FATE (or How And Why I Found Dean Martin)D.J. Starling (djstarling.com) On March 23, 1987, I heard the horrible news. A fighter jet and its pilot, thirty-five-year-old United States Air Force Captain Dean Paul Martin, had disappeared from radar screens during a routine training mission two days earlier. My heart stopped. Not my Dino. It couldn’t be. From that moment on, I listened to all news reports, praying for his safety, feeling his family’s pain. *I’ve been a Dean Martin fan since I was a child in the early ‘60s. Handsome and sophisticated, he lived a swinging show biz life that fascinated me. By the age of 10 in 1965, my attention had turned to the world of teen idols. Paul McCartney was my favorite, but his allure faded when I discovered a new face in the teen fan magazines I read religiously. One look at one grainy photograph and I was in love with the blond, blue-eyed boy who played bass guitar for a trio new to the music world. They called themselves Dino, Desi, and Billy. It was quite a surprise when I learned that the boy I was dreaming about, thirteen-year-old Dino, was the son of my earlier hero, Dean. Their unexpected family ties excited me, adding to the mystique of both father and son. Little girl fantasies filled my mind, evolving into the private, personalized fairytales that helped me get through a troubled adolescence. Unlike reality, life was perfect in my imaginary world. Dean was king, Dino, my very own Prince Charming, and I was everything he wanted me to be in every scenario I created, each one ending with happily ever after. Even after I married and started a family of my own, I found myself thinking about Dino every now and then, and he always made me smile. I had kept up with him over the years through magazine articles, and watched closely when he began an acting career. By then, he had dropped the nickname, Dino, in favor of his given name, Dean Paul. He’d always be Dino to me, though, and I clung to a lingering secret desire—the chance to meet him one day, if only to say thank you for some of my fondest childhood memories. Then I lost him before I found him. Dino was killed when his jet crashed. A piece of my heart, a part of my youth died too. The shock of losing my fantasy prince hit hard. I mourned him and missed him as I would an old friend, while time, a husband, and two young daughters keeping me busy softened my grief. I would never forget Dino and hoped for a chance to somehow say a proper goodbye to him. In 1989, my husband, Mark, and I decided to visit Los Angeles during our family’s summer vacation. We wanted to see the sights, and I would finally have the opportunity to pay my respects to Dino, two years after he died. I never could have imagined the events about to unfold. When I called a travel agent in early May to arrange our trip, I learned that the hotel where we hoped to stay was full during the week we wanted to travel, so we agreed to go the following week. A few days later, while reading a jeweler’s trade magazine, Mark learned of a trade show to be held at our hotel, a week after our rescheduled visit. Once again, I called our travel agent, eager to take advantage of the chance to incorporate a little business into our plans. “Changing your reservations would normally be no problem,” he told me, “but our airline computers are down at the moment.” It was a Saturday, and the agent was apologetic for the inconvenience as he reminded me that by 9am Monday, our flight schedule would be locked in, as per airline policy. The agent sounded much more hopeful when he added, “If we do get back on line before close of business today, I’ll make sure to take care of it for you.” “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “And don’t worry about letting me know. I’ll call you Monday to find out.” Hanging up the phone, I wondered which week we’d be traveling, glad it really didn’t matter. That night, I had a cryptic dream. Dino was there and I was telling him of my plans, and all the other things I wanted him to hear—how much he meant to me, how much I missed him. “I know,” he assured me, flashing the smile I so lovingly remembered. “But you have to tell him.” “Tell who? Tell him what?” “My dad needs to know how you feel. It’ll help.” “Your father?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. “What are you talking about? How can I tell Dean Martin anything? Where? When?” Even in a dream, I knew the idea was ridiculous. But Dino gave me an answer. “August twelfth,” he said. “At eight o’clock.” Then he faded away. Seemingly so real, the image remained clear in my mind when I woke up the next morning, and I immediately checked the calendar. If my family and I went to Los Angeles for the jewelry show, I’d be home in Fort Lauderdale on August twelfth. But if a computer breakdown forced us into going the week that was now our third choice, I’d be in L.A. on that date. Suddenly recognizing the hands of fate at work, dictating the dates of our vacation, I was now certain I’d meet Dean Martin. Somehow. Somewhere. When I told my husband about my dream, and my seemingly impossible expectations, he laughed. But I knew I was right. I felt it. As expected, we were in L.A. on August twelfth. That morning, at quarter to eight, I left my sleeping family in our hotel room and drove off to visit Dino’s grave. Having learned the location of the cemetery through news reports, I stood alone at his graveside for more than twenty minutes, hoping for further instructions while thinking back to the endless, wondrous hours Dino and I had happily shared in my childhood fantasies and dreams. When I returned to the hotel, I called my family in our room from the lobby. Ready to get started on another day, they promised to come right down. While I waited, I checked the hotel bulletin board. I read about a wedding to be held there that night, and a fund-raising dinner at eight o’clock to benefit St. Jude’s Hospital. The announcements meant little to me, and as we were driving back to the hotel after another day of sightseeing, my husband had some questions for me. “What are we doing tonight?” Mark asked. “Where are we supposed to be at eight o’clock?” His tone was sarcastic and I didn’t have an answer. If my dream had really meant something, as I firmly believed it had, I was certain I’d be led to the right place. That’s when it hit me. The information I’d read earlier finally registered in my brain. The fund-raising dinner at our hotel . . . would it be a star-studded affair? I was absentmindedly thinking out loud and my daughters jumped on my words. “What celebrities? Where? When? Will we see them?” When we arrived back at our hotel, my nine-year-old daughter, Lori, flew from the car and raced to the concierge desk, asking questions. “Several celebrities are expected,” she was told. “They should start arriving in about two hours.” The four of us rushed to our room, showered and changed, and hurried back downstairs to the entrance with our camera and my daughters’ autograph books in hand. Once the guests began arriving around seven o’clock, my daughters kept busy collecting signatures while their dad snapped pictures at a furious pace. We were surrounded by major celebrities, the dreams of a starstruck tourist in Los Angeles fulfilled. After a half hour or so, I began trembling and glanced at Mark. “If Dean Martin gets out of a car at eight o’clock,” I said breathlessly, “I think you’ll need to take me home in a straitjacket.” My premonition was suddenly frightening me. At the same time, Lori had started a conversation with a friendly young girl named Susan, a professional photographer who made a living tracking celebrities around town. My daughter was asking her if she knew which celebrities were expected that night, mentioning several she hoped to see. When Lori brought up Dean Martin’s name, Susan couldn’t hide her surprise. “You’re interested in Dean Martin?” she asked, her wide eyes staring at the nine-year-old in front of her. “Sure,” Lori answered. “My mom’s always been a big fan and I love Martin and Lewis movies!” Standing nearby watching them, I walked closer. “You want to meet Dean Martin?” Susan asked. “I’d love to,” I responded quickly, intrigued by her tone that implied she had reliable information. “Do you know how I could?” That’s when Susan told me about La Famiglia, an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills that Mr. Martin frequented, adding he usually arrived there about 7:30. When I checked my watch, my pulses raced. This bit of crucial information had come to me at exactly 8pm, on August twelfth. As soon as that shock subsided, I called the restaurant for reservations. Because the establishment was closed the next day, I chose the night after that, which would be our last night in L.A. We arrived on schedule and, as Susan had suggested, we asked the parking valet if Mr. Martin was expected that night. He was, and at any moment. I knew he would be, and I could feel Dino with me as the tuxedoed maître d led us to our table. And I trembled when Lori questioned him about the possibility of our meeting Mr. Martin while we were there. “I’ll ask him,” the maître d replied. “He usually doesn’t mind, but sometimes, he’s just not in the mood.” When I glanced at the large front window of the restaurant, I spied Mr. Martin getting out of his car. My knees knocked together as he entered the room, and my heart skipped a beat when he sat alone at a booth, steps from our table. My confidence strong, I anxiously awaited the okay to fulfill my mission. It came within minutes. My husband, daughters, and I apprehensively approached Mr. Martin and introduced ourselves. Happily for all of us, he was most affable, engaging the girls in friendly conversation while my husband and I began our own conversation in glances over our daughters’ heads. His eyes pleaded with me not to mention Dino as he knew I wanted. My eyes told him I had to. Dino had told me to come, and in a sense, had led me to the opportunity. I only wished he told me what to say as my husband took the girls back to our table, leaving me alone with Dean. I didn’t know how to go further, and I felt shaky as I stared into his sad brown eyes. Finally, I stammered, “I wanted to tell you, Mr. Martin, that I was a big fan of Dino’s.” He returned my stare as I went on, trying to explain how much Dino had meant to me during the twenty-four years since I first saw him. When I noticed tears in Dean’s eyes, my heart broke for him, and I was overcome by guilt, feeling totally insensitive. I had hoped to comfort him somehow, but it wasn’t working out that way. Quivering, I searched for the proper words to end this meeting. “I just wanted you to know,” I said, “that there are people who still think about Dino, and miss him, and will always remember him. He was special and I just wanted to tell you that. Thank you for your time.” Silently, I added: Thank you, and Dino, for a lot of great memories. You’re both wonderful. Rejoining my family, I gave them a condensed version of the mostly one-sided conversation. My husband quietly berated my intrusion into the Martin family’s personal tragedy, and I began to wonder if he was right as we finished our meal. Filing passed Dean’s table on our way out, we said goodbye as we moved along. He nodded and waved, and wished us a safe trip home the next day. At my daughters’ request, we took a walk before we got our car, browsing the store windows lining the street. And then, as we were nearing the restaurant entrance on our way back, the parking valet we had questioned earlier called to us. “Mr. Martin is getting ready to leave,” he said. “He should be right out if you’d like to see him again.” We didn’t even have time to answer. Dean was suddenly standing by Lori, and she asked if I could take a picture of them together. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied with a warm smile as he reached down and wrapped his arm around her. When my husband noticed what was happening, he took the camera and pushed me and our younger daughter, Lindsay, into the picture. Overwhelmed by all that happened, I somehow found the courage to ask Mr. Martin if I could give him a kiss after the photo had been snapped. With the same roguish smile I had seen so often on TV and in movies, he bent down and offered his cheek. I didn’t tell him part of that kiss was from Dino, but there was a true warmth in his embrace as his arm encircled me, as if he had sensed it. I wanted to believe he had. I wanted to believe he felt Dino’s presence between us as much as I did. “Thank you,” I said to him. “We really appreciate your kindness. It was a special pleasure to meet you.” “No,” he muttered softly. “Thank you.” I was shaking as I watched Dean get into his car and drive away. “Maybe you did do the right thing,” my husband admitted as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “The tone of that Thank You certainly sounded like he really appreciated what you said.” I can only hope Mark was right this time. Still, for the rest of my life, I will fondly remember the evening, as well as both father and son, the king and my childhood prince. The only thing that could have made the night any more memorable or thrilling for me would have been having Dino there with us—healthy and alive . . . not just in our hearts.

Frank Montiforte

Frank Montiforte is a very funny man. After Sunday afternoons, working the Dean Martin Show, and weekdays on Hollywood Squares, Hope and Benny Specials, my fellow NBC Pages and I would drive off to Hollywood "Hot Spots" like PJ's and Whiskey A-Go-Go for an "adult beverage" before trekking home. Those were the Frankie Randall, Eddie Cano, Trini Lopez days. Little did I know Montiforte tended bar at Whiskey's. After the Hollywood bar scene, Frank opened a "swanky" dress shop in Beverly Hills. His clients included Sophia Loren, and the infamous Linda Lovelace to name a few. Years later, when I moved to Palm Springs, I bumped into Frank at weekly "lunch bunch" group of retired agents, screenwriters, and old movie legends. The room is always buzzing with stories about the "Golden Age of Hollywood." You'd love to be a fly on the wall! Now Frank is one of the stars on our Wise Guys Cooking Show here in Palm Springs on NBC. Check it out on WiseGuysCooking.com