Dry Martino

Awake Again

pressguy660 — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 06:02:31 +0000

really?

Hiding Diamonds

pressguy660 — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 11:51:08 +0000

He’s restless. It’s been this way for a couple of weeks, worsening every day. His eyes will dart around the room, occasionally catching on an image that will jar his mind. More frequently, they come to rest on the television, mounted on a wall across the room only a few inches from the ceiling.

He’s not really watching whatever show is on. It’s just a focal point. His thoughts seem to keep him preoccupied.

He turns to me.

“Mikey, hide the diamonds over here,” he says. “Next to my arm.”

“What diamonds, pop,” I ask. Maybe the old man has a bag of diamonds somewhere in the house? That would be cool. But I doubt it.

“The diamonds. Put them right here.”

“OK.”

He turns back to the television. The Giants are looking pitiful. One year ago he would have been cursing with me, waving his hand in disgust in a manner that he could patent. Nobody can wave in disgust like he can. Today, though he does not really sound off on the game.

It is the third week of the season. On opening day we watched the game together at home. He slept most of the day. My sister and I watched his breathing as he slumped over in his recliner. They were labored, deep breaths. His chest rose high then crashed down. We knew.

That’s when we knew.

The next day, he went back into hospital. he is not going to make it home. For six months, he has fought a losing battle with lung cancer-the small cell carcinoma kind-and he hasn’t caught a break since the day we found out.

During my life, I have watched other people live the cancer nightmare. I have been blessed and never had to directly face the onslaught this disease brings to its victims. We have lost family and friends to cancer, but within my tight circle, in my immediate family, we’ve been lucky.

And now the luck has run out. We are losing him, and it won’t be long.

My personality is such that I talk a lot, but if I were to dissect all of those conversations and ridiculous preachings, I don’t say a whole lot. I seem to have more luck when I write it. I have grown weary of hearing myself talk.

Seven months ago, Dad’s mind was sharp. He always had great wit and a great sense of humor, with great timing for long-form jokes and one-liners. Today, he is telling me to hide the diamonds next to his arm, on the hospital bed. The cancer has moved from his left lung to his brain. Small cell is like a frag grenade: it explodes all over the body and moves fast.

The day he was diagnosed, my mother and I googled small cell carcinoma. There was no good news to be found. None. The web sites said that victims of the disease generally die six months after diagnoses. It is coming up on six months, and he is right on schedule.

I don’t know if he really means diamonds. Maybe he is hiding something else, and they are his diamonds. In this state, something else could be a diamond to him. Maybe my mother, who has taken care of him beginning LBJ and Lady Bird to Obama and Michelle. My sister, his only girl, the youngest. She is most like him. My brother, who has been a constant thought in my father’s head since he was born?

Maybe his memories are his diamonds, and he struggles to save them from being destroyed by the insidious disease he knows is taking him over. Maybe that’s it.

He needs to protect his memories. They are all someone has when they are dying. And if your life really does flash before your eyes in an instant when a car almost hits you in a cross walk or before you get broadsided in an intersection, perhaps it is an exhaustive Ken Burns-like documentary if you are lying in a bed for weeks or months. When Dad does not have his memories, his diamonds, then all will be gone.

He will be gone.

I know there is no hiding spot that is safe enough to stop that reality. But I will try to find one, starting with the place he suggested, right next to him, where we all stand: his wife, kids and brother. We’ll find a place.

Need Some Jerry Today…..

pressguy660 — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 16:47:50 +0000

Thanks, Jerry…

3 February, 2010 02:10

pressguy660 — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 02:10:50 +0000

Things continue to blow strange in the land of Dry

Tiger’s Voicemail

pressguy660 — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 16:59:35 +0000

“Hey, it’s, uh, it’s Tiger. I need you to do me a huge favor. Um, can you please, uh, take your name off your phone. My wife went through my phone. And, uh, may be calling you. If you can, please take your name off that and, um, and what do you call it just have it as a number on the voicemail, just have it as your telephone number. That’s it, OK. You gotta do this for me. Huge. Quickly. All right. Bye.”

‘NUFF SAID, PEOPLE.

A New Simpsons That Is Funny!

pressguy660 — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 18:22:09 +0000

Have you seen this episode yet?

Catholic Kiss Off

pressguy660 — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 20:49:04 +0000

My daughter is starting earlier than I did.

Instead of going through her entire elementary school career in Catholic school, she will enter a public elementary this fall. And it feels strange.

I will miss the uniform. There is something about it that gave me comfort about seeing her among the masses in a non-distinguishable outfit. The jumper was infinitely adorable, too. I did not attend public school until I was a senior in high school, having gone to Catholic school for 11 straight years.

Should be an interesting switch.

Latest Dry Martino: Two Wheeler

pressguy660 — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:38:46 +0000

This is reprinted from the Long Island Press.

Two-Wheeler
By Michael M. Martino Jr.

It is the coolest bicycle I have ever seen. Everyone loves the way it looks. And truthfully, it is one of those images I had conjured up when I thought about my daughter’s first two-wheeled bicycle. The frame is solid and sturdy, painted a sparkled pink color. It has fat, white wall tires covered by stylish fenders that wrap far over the edge of the wheels. Its seat is wide. The handlebars are widely spaced and provide a comfortable spread for her arms, which are still little next to mine but are as long as her whole body was about six years ago. Her hands clutch the thick rubber grips that are adorned at the end with streamers that match the color of the bike. Of course, there is a white basket on the front which has already held pinecones, grass, flowers, her security rag she calls Beary and her helmet when the bike is parked.

She got it for Christmas. It was way too early for Santa to come, she said, but I put some spin on the story and I told her that Santa came to her early because he was going to visit her at Mommy’s house that night, as expected. Her reaction was strong, but not as overwhelming and Norman Rockwell-ish at first. The smile was huge and unbreakable. I helped her on to the seat. Her excitement grew though, and a little while later I saw that she had somehow wheeled it into her room, next to her bed, and she was rubbing it as she laid down watching television. I told her that by summer, she would be riding it.

It looks like we are going to meet that deadline, too, because in the last couple of weeks it has all started to come together. My little girl is riding a two-wheeled bike.

She has taken a few decent spills, hurt the arm once and has cried about half a dozen times. We have ridden on my sleepy little street and in the parking lot of a nearby middle school. While I’m aware she has her father’s ADD tendencies, I was alarmed at how she would not look ahead at all. I guess seeing the world whiz by that way was too much to pass up, but the novelty seems to be gone. Now she wants to see where she is going.

So last weekend, we really made progress. By progress I mean I found out how hideously un-aerobic I am because she is now riding very fast. Stopping is not a craft she has mastered, but she did figure out how to coast to a stop and put her feet on the ground to keep from slowly tilting over. Until that happened, I was the brakes.

Memo to self: Don’t run in flip flops anymore.

I sprinted like I haven’t since football camp in Pennsylvania, too many years ago to admit. She would get going, and in some places a small downhill trajectory would propel her to new speeds. Every time that would happen, I would pump and chug to her side, just in case. But I knew I couldn’t keep doing that. She is going to fall. It’s unavoidable. Everyone has to get some bruises.

By the end of the day, she was really moving. I had stopped running after her so much. I was feeling the burn. Plus, she didn’t need me to anymore. And as God is my witness, when she took off on one of the last runs of the day, she yelled to me, “I’m riding a two-wheeler, Daddy! I’m growing up!”

She was reading my mind.

Visit the Dry Martino column, or follow me on Twitter at drymartino.

I Can’t Work Facebook!

pressguy660 — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:22:32 +0000

I tried to post a photo. Suddenly I can’t figure anything out. So, I post this photo here, on drymartino.com.

With Jodi Applegate at the 2008 FOLIO Awards…..

Too Much Government!

pressguy660 — Wed, 27 May 2009 10:47:32 +0000

Here on Long Island, there is so much redundancy in government it is astounding. We have feds, county, townships, villages, school districts—and it has gotten insulting.

They are all taxing us all the time. But some towns across the U.S. are feeling the pinch. Here is a great story about what some are doing…and why we could probably use some of this here on the Island.