John and I had just started working at Jimmy’s, a famous restaurant and watering hole back in the 80s in Beverly Hills, known for its megawatt star clientele and patrons with net worths easily exceeding most Third World nations’.
So here it was, a busy Friday night, tandem bartenders behind a packed bar, barely able to steal an occasional wide-eyed glance at the splashy décor and the occasional A-list celeb traipsing past on the way to his or her table, both of us truly in awe of our new surroundings.
As if on cue, John and I catch each other’s eye: here’s frickin’ Dean Martin taking a seat in the middle of our bar. John gives me a look. He takes Dean’s order, cocks an eyebrow, and now at the well, his back to Dean, I watch him pour about a 4 oz. shot of J&B scotch into a tall tumbler and fill it with soda, and return the drink to Mr. Martin. We are slammed, and no sooner do we get back to work, when out of nowhere comes this rich baritone voice, bellowing across the bar. It’s Martin.
“Whoa! Who’s the new drummer?!”
John and I swivel. Dean’s got this sour look on his face, his lips puckered, as he gingerly pushes his drink away from him.
Turns out that despite his reputation as a heavy drinker, Dean preferred just a drop of scotch in his soda. On his first night serving Dean Martin, John had presumed otherwise, and the most famous lush in the world at that time let him know about it.
Beejorama 
Writer… More.
Your words transformed me into him. For a brief moment I was “The Great Muhammad Ali” at the saddest time in his life. My heartached not for him but as him.