Sunday, June 24, 2012

Suddenly, The Questions Pour In.

A Work Of Deluded Fiction

As a paragon of wisdom, wit, and style, I'm often asked how I do such and such, or how I've achieved esteemed levels of prominence in my myriad fields of expertise. Because so many people have helped me become ridiculously successful in every arena of human endeavor, I wanted to magnanimously share the give and take of the conversations with my fans. Here, in as modestly brief a format as I can create, are some of those interactions, with my responses to queries being as completely disingenuous and full of crap as I can manage.

From a Famous Dude in a Robe:

His Holiness, The Dalai Lama: Venerable Marshmallow, how do you manage to balance the demands of fatherhood with your work as a photographer for Playbuoy?

DM: First, let me say I totally dig your glasses, Dal. Very understated yet current. As for my photographic pre-eminence in the field of Oceanic Markers, I just have to say that I feel I am just very fortunate to have stood on the shoulders of giants. Literally. Because without them, I would have had to rent boats to get those shots. Plus, my wife and children are behind me 100%.

This,  from a former United States President (sans robe):

Ronald Reagan's Ghost: DM, you mention in your autobiography that you had a chance to stop John W. Hinckley the day he attempted to assassinate me, but that you didn't do so. Why is that?

DM: Dutch, come on, we've been over this a million times. I said that I could have stopped him from trying to impress Jodie Foster by shooting you. And what I meant by that is that I could have accepted her repeated (and quite frankly, annoying) attempts to date me. If I had given in to temptation and said yes to her incessant come-ons, I most likely would have turned his attention away from you and onto myself. Dude, you were the POTUS. I was a college student. You had Secret Service protection. I had zip. Stop whining and get over it. You survived that attack anyway, and it only served to make you more popular.

From, the Big Guy (also wearing a robe):

Jesus (the Christ): DM, I wish you'd stop using my name in conjunction with the phrase, "On a Popsicle Stick.". It's pretty blasphemous by most standards. And my Dad is sort of pissed. He's been talking smiting lately.

DM: Yeah, about that. First, that's not a question. Second, I don't mean anything personal by it. I would say the same thing using anybody's name who was crucified on a tree or big piece of wood. If you want, I'll use Spartacus' name instead. I'm good either way.

Jesus (the Christ): DM, that would be great, thanks. He's here with me now and says it's cool with him. Oh, by the way, St. Peter says hi. He also asks if you'd stop with the jokes about his life (and death) being turned upside down. He's super sensitive about that.

DM: Man, you're killing me with these requests! First he asks me to stop the "rock and roll" jokes, and now this. But I have a soft spot for Pete. As long as I get can a RapidPass®, he's got a deal.

From the Big, Big Guy (non-corporeal, but always pictured with a robe):

The Lord On High Himself: DM, how do you consistently hit such a smooth draw off the tee?

DM: Well, actually, I just attribute it all to you. Pretty freaking clever, huh? But the real trick is keeping my right foot forward of my left and bringing my swing plane a little out of horizontal. I close down the club face just a touch too.

The Lord On High Himself: I knew it! You sneaky bastard! Lol!

That's it for this week. If you have any questions you'd like to ask the Defiant Marshmallow, please write in. I do my best to answer every letter personally, but due to the high volume of mail and requests, I can't guarantee it. Thanks and have a groovy day!


Saturday, June 16, 2012

Lazarus Was a Pantywaist

You wanna read something cool? Sure you do. Read on!

Remember my friend, Rob? The one who was essentially dead (see my last two posts)? Yeah, well he's not dead now. No kidding. I'll preface this (and end it for powerful dramatic effect) with a summation from the head of the Cardiac ICU at a certain world-renowned medical center where Rob was a guest:

In 16 years his is the most remarkable case I've ever had. He is the most ill patient I have ever seen recover.
Lazarus was a pantywaist in comparison.

I'm lying about that last sentence, but I swear he was about to say it. It was right on the tip of his tongue.

I've waited a few weeks to post this, as I didn't know it would turn out so great. On May 22, my buddy woke from a one month coma. He is at home at this very moment, surrounded by his dysfunctional family*, enjoying Father's Day weekend! 

That warrants a highly charged gif.

Briefly, since we last met, here is what transpired. 

"Murmur, murmur, hospice, rutabaga, last will and testament, murmur, it would take a miracle, murmur..."

"I need a few days to decide..."


Yeah, basically, he just got better and woke up. After they told us he would die, no matter what. It was "pull the plug" time. With all the procrastination-of-the-week she could muster, Rob's wife decided to wait a couple of days to figure out what to do and how to do it.

Now who says procrastination isn't a good thing? 

The meaningful stats, in Lay-terms:
  • Cardiac Function - 15% ejection fraction, irreparable damage to heart muscle, CHF, atrial fibrillation. In other words, he needed a heart transplant. His heart was shit.
  • Liver - fuggedaboudit. Shot to hell. 
  • Kidneys - Even the underground black market kidney thieves stayed away.
  • Diabetes - enough to share.
  • Brain - Total question mark (of course, I would argue that this was not much of a change from his pre-hospital condition).
One month of multiple organ failure, not a single positive prognosis, death just moments away (Up yours, Death!) And then, in a feat worthy of medical journals and Guideposts magazines everywhere, all functions began to improve. Slowly at first. But in one day, his liver and kidneys went from "offline" to "bring it, bitches!" 

And as I wrote before, he just woke up.

Since that day, Rob has continued to defy prognoses, Death (I said, "Up yours!" already!), the doctors, the nurses, his wife, me, and Timmy, down the street. But he never liked Timmy anyway. 

The day after he woke up, the experts gathered in his room and told us and him that even if he continued to get better, he'd probably be bedridden for life. I kid you not. What did Rob say to that? Nothing, actually. He still had the tracheostomy and was still on a ventilator, so he couldn't speak. Rather than fight that battle, he decided to just get up out of bed and walk over to a chair in the room and sit down. Death? You listening, you big pussy?

So the docs revamped their estimates and said Rob would spend "months and months" in acute rehab, probably on a ventilator, and sent the social workers scurrying off to find a suitable rehab facility that offered vent support, speech therapy, cognitive therapy, and physical therapy. What did Rob say to that?

I'm not making this next part up - I swear to you. By the time the social workers, working in conjunction with the insurance company, found a rehab facility, Rob was too well to go there. In fact, they had to kick him out of the ICU because he was too well.

Then, by the time the social workers and the insurance company got re-organized and found  a new rehab facility that suited Rob's improving condition, he screwed with them again by coming off of the ventilator and having the tracheostomy removed! He became too well to go to every acute rehab facility! He did all this recovery in less than two weeks! Not only that, he was too well to be transported anywhere by ambulance! 

So, before Rob could totally hose these poor social workers, they threw him out of the hospital and into a nursing home near his house, where he would "spend the next several weeks". He would receive all his therapy there. 

But you know where this is going, don't you? Death, you still in the room? Give up, asshole. Rob spent five days in the nursing facility. After too many visitors confused him for one of the staff, the people at the facility decided he had to leave.

So today, and with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, Rob came home. He is now at the mercy of his wife and kids again. And he is already pestering me to drive to Atlantic City with him to go shoot photos at the air show there in August. He had the temerity to ask me if I thought he would be well enough to go by then. I told him that no one was ever betting against him again. Not even Death. 

Why not?

 In 16 years his is the most remarkable case I've ever had. He is the most ill patient I have ever seen recover.
Lazarus was a pantywaist in comparison.

*Whole 'nother story.

Edited to add: OMFG! As I was finishing up this post, I got a text from Rob. It reads: "Going to Polo tomorrow with family".

I swear, if he dies at that Polo match, I'm going to kill him!

Friday, June 1, 2012

This Is Other Times.

There are times you want to write. You want people to read you.
You talk, jump, wave your arms and whistle. You want people to hear you.

Then there are other times.
You want to be quiet. You need to be quiet.

Refill yourself and wait.



Ride the spinning blue ball in silence from light to dark. As many times as necessary. When you're ready, stand up and greet everyone again.