Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

If I were a better writer, I'd track down what iteration of the Saint Patrick's Day post this is.  I am not that person, however, so I'll just roll with it.  Pretend the Germans just bombed Pearl Harbor.

I've discussed in the past how Patricius (the man who would become Patrick) was a Roman citizen of Brittania who was probably a member of some minor noble family.  He was already a Christian when he was kidnapped and taken to Ireland, where he served as a slave for several years before escaping and making his way to mainland Europe.  After a trip to Rome, he returned to Ireland and drove out the snakes (symbolism for the pagans) and converted the Irish to Catholicism.  He then went on a spree of church building through the British Isles and ended up in Northern Indiana where he founded the greatest Catholic University on the Face of the Planet and Possibly the Universe.  That last part might be apocryphal.

Or he might have been a composite mixture of another Irish saint, Palladius, who also made a lot of churches but isn't nearly as tied in with the weak excuse to drink Guinness and behave like an asshole on the 17th of March.

As far as stouts go, Guinness is a pretty weak one.  Thanks to the craft beer revolution here in America, I can think of at least ten stouts that are far better than Guinness.  Stouts are actually a subset of porters, which are dark brown ales that are made with roasted malts, giving them the darker color.  They're typically stronger than their lighter-toned cousins, and the strongest of porters came to be known as "stout porters" and eventually just "stouts."  Nowadays, stouts are typically just the darkest of beers and the word "stout" has little to do with the actual alcohol content (for instance, Guinness, the "best" stout, weighs in at a paltry 4.3% abv, per the wiki entry).  And here's the real kick in the teeth for those who want to link Guinness (certainly a true Irish brewer) and stouts with Ireland:  Porters were first developed and named in London, England.  The dark color, thicker consistency, and affordability of porters made them popular with--sit down for this--porters (men who carried things).  Since the beer was cheap to make and was somewhat undesirable (philistines), it was shipped to Ireland where it quickly grew in popularity.  To lower costs even more (hooray, free market capitalism!), Guinness began brewing porters in the late 1700's and by 1780 was one of the top producers of this kind of beer.

So, not only is Patrick, the Patron Saint of Ireland from the British mainland, so too is the national beer of Ireland an English import.

Best damned leprechaun ever!

Well, the leprechaun has to be a true Irish symbol, right?  Well, yes and no.  The leprechaun, for all its connotations with being Irish, rarely appears in Irish mythology.  When the leprechaun does pop up, it is typically a mischief-maker, but more commonly is associated with being a loner who moves about the countryside repairing shoes.  A leprechaun is more similar to German sprites and gnomes than it is with any of the pantheon of Irish mythology.  In fact, the leprechaun appears so rarely in Irish stories that it's assumed to be a later addition to Irish lore than more traditional Irish spirits, such as the Banshee or the Tuatha de Danaan (which is a whole wide range of Irish spirits).  There is even confusion with what to do with a leprechaun, should you manage to catch one.  He (they are almost invariably male) will either give you his pot of gold (another property of the leprechaun that seems to be a late addition to the story) or he will grant you three wishes.  Most depictions of leprechauns center around the stereotypes of the Irish, especially in America, and many traditional Irish people look at leprechauns as just a prop for tourism.

Well...if Patrick isn't all that Irish and Guinness is a British import and a leprechaun is just a symbol for anti-Irish propaganda, what about the color green?

Green, White and Orange
has never been sexier!

Finally, we've found something that does seem to be a true symbol of Ireland...ish.  Ireland, of course, is known as the "Emerald Isle" because of the lush, verdant fields and the magnificent greenery that can be viewed in the countryside.  It makes sense, then, that the Irish national color would be green and that they would march into battle or rally behind a green banner, right?  Sure...except the green flag of Ireland is actually younger than the flag of the United States.  The "traditional" Irish flag featured a lot more blue than any other color for most of its history (Ireland, of course, being a loose conglomeration of kingdoms until the British conquests).

It wasn't until the late 1700's (Guinness is actually older than the green flag) that green began to be used as a symbol of Ireland.  Inspired by the French Revolution (and probably a little by the American Revolution), the United Irishmen raised a banner of green with a harp emblazoned on the field (the harp actually is a traditional Irish symbol) sometime around 1790.  Part of the choice of the color green was to stand in opposition to the orange color associated with the Orange Order, which was a symbol of King William of Orange and the Glorious Revolution of 1688.  William of Orange, of course, was an "English" king and was thus a symbol of British rule over the Irish.  After the Irish Rebellion of 1798, the modern Irish flag with the green, white and orange was introduced as a hopeful means of bringing a peaceful end to hostilities between the Catholic majority (the green) and the Protestant minority (the orange) of Ireland, with white being the symbol of peace in between the two groups.

Well, fuck.  It seems as though all the things we naturally associate with the Irish and Saint Patrick's day aren't all that Irish.  Unfortunately, leprechauns, the Irish spirits that most Irish want to disassociate with their Irish heritage, are the most Irish of all these symbols.

Next, you're going to tell me that the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, a school in Northern Indiana with a French name by a priest of Romanian heritage isn't all that Irish either!  The nerve!!!

However you decide to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day, just remember to lay off the brogues and drink responsibly.  Maybe enjoy some basketball and don't make an ass of yourself.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. CIX

Salvete, omnes!  How the hell are you this fine day?

In case you were worried, Winter Storm Pax (*eyeroll*) blew through and dumped a lot of snow on us, followed by some sleet, some freezing rain and then more snow.  Since the state was essentially shut down on Thursday, I had to take a sick day because I refused to skate in to work on the ice rink roads; on Wednesday, driving home with my kids, I took a lovely three-hour-tour to make the normal thirty minute drive.  I love living in the South.  Schools and most rational companies were closed or opened late today.

It's Friday now, and the area is still digging out of from the big snowfall.  Myself, I never lost power, but some people did.  I also did not wreck on the way home, but there were times when I got disturbingly close to a guard rail and another time when my car seemed hellbent on diving into a ditch.  Neither happened, for which I am thankful.  It is here that I should add that snow falling and sticking to the pines down here in North By God Carolina?  Fucking.  Beautiful.

Not only is it Friday, but it's Valentine's Day, that day in the liturgical calendar set aside to celebrate the Roman priest who refused to set aside his belief system so that he could continue to marry couples under the Christian Rite of Marriage.  Eventually, Emperor Claudius Gothicus (Claudius Dos) got fed up with Valentine's antics, and Valentine was forced to set aside his head after the executioner's axe fell.

There are other Roman ties to the holiday.  First and foremost among those ties is the use of the pagan god Cupid in association with the holiday.  Cupid's name comes from the Latin verb "cupido," which means "I fall in love."  He was an adopted, re-envisioned version of Eros, the Greek God of erotic love and lust; since Venus/Aphrodite was the goddess of love and desire, Cupid/Eros is often associated as being her son.  Most of the time, there is no mention of a father, though logic would state that Vulcan/Hephaestus was Cupid's father as he was married to Venus.  Venus, however, enjoyed fucking Mars, and so there is an association of Mars as Cupid's father.  Poets like this idea because then it incorporates the "love" and "war" aspect of so many epics; symbolism is everything.,

However, there were actually THREE Cupids recognized in Roman religion:  Love returned (counter-love), impetuous love or infatuation, and the desire and longing feeling associated with missing someone--like parrots pining for the fjords.  These three aspects also appeared in Greek religion and, again, were associated with Aphrodite.

Originally, Cupid was a slender youth, much like the idea of Puck or any other lithe, fairy-like creature that arose in the northern mythologies.  Eventually, all three of the aspects of love morphed into one, and Cupid became a chubby little spanker with a penchant for shooting people in the ass with his love arrows.  Cupid actually carried two kinds of arrows:  those tipped with gold that would cause the recipient to fall madly and wildly in love and ones tipped with lead that would cause a person to want to flee, sort of the opposite of love.  He also sometimes is shown with a blindfold, because love is blind...but lust sure depends on the size of her tits.  Er, something.

Cupid himself never had any dedicated temples, but he often was seen in works of art cavorting with other gods, especially his mother.  He also was used often in shrines erected in the home; Roman families often built little shrines to the gods in their homes in order to gain their blessings and protections over the families, the crops, the guards and all other associated materials and people.

Though Cupid was adopted into the Roman mythology from the Greeks, Saint Valentine was a Roman and Cupid was the Roman representation of all things loving, lusting and sexalicious.  With that in mind, I thought I'd give you all some advice for tonight, Roman style, so that you may best get your sexy on in a proper celebration of Valentine's beheading. Don't forget the candles--just set them far enough away from the bed so that they won't get knocked over!  Sprinkle some rose petals on the sheets to help cover that funky musk you've been emitting during your nocturnal adventures.  It wouldn't be a Roman celebration without wine, so be sure to stock up on an amphora or twelve.

And don't forget to put on a toga--bitches LOVE togas.  Plus, togas allow for all sorts of easy access to the best parts of the human body (the eyes--I'm totally talking about the eyes...big, round, beautiful brown eyes...).  Togas are particularly helpful when your hands go Roman all over your partner's body.

And then, lay this one on your significant other when they come busting into the bedroom:

Romani quidem artem amatoriam invenerunt!

Pronounced:  "Roh-mah-nee kwee-daim ar-taim ah-mah-toh-ree-ahm in-way-nay-roont!"

Translation in the hovertext

That's all, folks.  Have yourselves a safe and happy holiday.  Enjoy the weekend, too.  If you've just been smacked by a great pile of snow, be careful.  More importantly, get out in it and have fun.  I, myself, forget how much fun it is to play in the snow; it's even better if you have kids.  It's even better if you kids can't hit the broadside of a barn with a snowball.  Myself?  I'm the Legolas of snowball fighting--I rarely ever miss!  It's a practice I honed for years in the Midwest.  Indiana's winters ARE good for something.

On Monday, I'll tell you what I've been up to for the past year or so.  

Happy Saint Florian Day!

Today is May the Fourth, which is Star Wars day. It's also the day the Catholic Church has opted to celebrate the life of a man whose name was Florianus, which as far as I can decipher, means "flowery butt".

Florian was alive during the times of the Roman Emperor, Darth Diocletian, who was enemy Numerus Unus as far as the early Christian sects were concerned. Florian served in the Roman imperial army stationed in Noricum (modern day Austria and Hungary, see map above), where he commanded the legion. He was also in charge of training the men as firefighters within the division.

Now, Darth Diocletian is known for a lot of good things, but he was also a real prick when it came to persecuting Christians in the empire. In fact, recent archaeological discoveries point toward Diocletian secretly building a powerful weapon that he could use to wipe out the Christians in a single, all-powerful stoke.

As he couldn't make the trip himself, Diocletian sent one of his apprentices, Darth Aquilinus, to Noricum to help...advise...the soldiery there on how better they could improve themselves. Upon his arrival, Aquilinus told the Roman legion that they better start killing some Christians, or else.

Florian refused. This did not sit well with Aquilinus, and so he commanded the troops to turn on Florian. Florian took the abuse as the Roman soldiers punched, kicked and beat him soundly with staves. Seeing that this wasn't doing enough, they tortured him with fire. And then, to be really efficient, they tied a big ass stone around his neck and tossed him in the Enns river, where he drowned.

Death, however, could not hold Florian. He returned in a vision, telling a young woman to go to the Dagobah system, and that he didn't like having his body left on the bottom of a river. He was eventually dredged up and buried near his childhood home, which is now called Sankt Florian. Sorry, I don't know what it was originally called, but we'll just say it was "Tatooine".

Florian is the patron saint of Upper Austria. More importantly, he is the patron saint of firefighters, chimney sweeps, and soap boilers. He is depicted as a Roman soldier, usually with a pitcher of water, pouring water over a fire. His name is invoked to stave off fire, protect against drowning, and making improbable shots down tiny holes in an enormous megastructure without using your targeting computer.

So, Happy Saint Florian Day, y'all! And vis vobiscum!

To add insult to injury (and to completely break with the underlying theme), the Catholic Church does not recognize any Saint Guilder. So much for love, true love.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day...Again.

Yeah, yeah, I'll get to that soon enough.

But, here, today, right fucking now, it's Saint Patrick's Day! And, in case you missed the other parts of the series, here they are in reverse order? Why? Fuck Clemson, that's why.

Part the Third
Part the Second
Part the First

Patrick kind of got things rolling around here with my modern, tangentally historical interpretations of the hagiography, so at this point it's kind of a let-down if I don't talk about him on Saint Patrick's Day. Right? Right. Let's start drinking.

At this point, though, I've pretty much tired out the legend of Saint Patrick. With that in mind, I'll try and touch on other things linked to Saint Patrick. He was probably the first missionary for the Christian world, bringing the Word of God and Teachings of Christ to the illiterate savages on the edge of the world. That last part is a fancy way of saying "Ireland".

Patrick's work in Ireland was pretty amazing. The Irish went from a people who had very little in the way of what we would think of as civilization: they didn't write many things down, they didn't have vast, sprawling cities, they painted their bodies and were savagely fierce fighters. About the only thing that they did have that we consider "civilized" was an oral language (they were fantastic story tellers) and an organized religion. As luck would have it, three happened to be a rather sacred number in the Celtic religions of the island. A lot of the gods came in threes, or had three aspects or faces. And if this sounds mildly familiar to you, imagine how the Trinity sounded to the Irish.

The Irish are also inexorably linked in with Celtic civilization, and the large numbers of Irish immigrants who showed up in Boston is probably why the Celtics play basketball there. However, the Celts did not originate in Ireland. Their culture came from the middle of Europe, around the areas of southern Germany, Austria, northern Italy and Switzerland. They spread out from there, and they adopted various different names that were somewhat linked. The Greeks called them Keltoi, and had various run-ins with them as they moved down the Balkan peninsula and on into Turkey into an area known as Galatia. Paul's letter to the Galatians is an epistle aimed at the descendants of these Celts.

The Celts also descended into Italy, where they attacked Rome in 353 BC, sacking it and nearly bringing an end to Roman civilization and dominance in the area. However, as I mentioned above, the Celts were a nomadic people by nature and so they didn't stay in Italy long. They eventually moved out and inhabited an area known as Gaul. Of course, Old Blue Eyes, Julius Caesar, exacted revenge for the sacking of Rome when he conquered and subsequently divided Gaul into three parts. Granted, it wasn't revenge that drove JC, but a desire to get some of the better wine-growing lands around the northern Mediterranean.

The Celts also descended into the Iberian peninsula and set up shop in Galicia in Northern Spain and spread out into Lusitania, as well. Lusitania incorporates a lot of central Spain and Portugal. Again, the Romans conquered this area around the time of the Punic Wars and brought them under the umbrella of Republican Rule. This wasn't because of any sort of desire to exact retribution on the people, but more a desire to get their lands and keep out any Carthaginian influence.

Finally, some of the Celts moved on to the islands of Great Britain and Ireland. Once more, Trajan brought the Roman rule to Britannia, chasing the Gauls into Wales and back across the Irish Sea to Ireland. Ireland's position as being at the very edge of the world (in Euro-centric histories) was perfect for the last vestiges of the free Celtic peoples: it was flat, had many navigable rivers, and the weather was pretty mild, as well. The Romans tried, but never could conquer the Emerald Isle, partially because there was no where else for the Celts to flee to so they were forced to savagely defend themselves, and partially because it was so fucking far from Rome.


However, enter in a young slave, a Roman citizen by birth, who was captured from the western coast of Britannia about the time that Rome was exiting the area and who fell in love with these people who captured him. He escaped, made it back to Rome where he converted to Christianity, and then set out to spread the Word of Christ. Being that he loved the Irish people so much, he returned and taught them how to read and write, showed them the three faces of God by allegedly using one of their sacred native plants, and spread Christianity across their island. His name was Patricius.

And, in a way, the Romans finally conquered the last of the Celtic peoples.

Happy St. Valentine's Day!

Today is St. Valentine's Day, who is a saint who may or may not have actually existed, and if he did exist, he could have been one of fourteen different men. We're not even sure if we're celebrating the one guy or everyone named Valentine (a popular name at the time because valens is Latin for "strong, worthy, powerful"). Traditionally, it is said that Valentine was martyred because he would not deny Christ before emperor Claudius II (not to be confused with Cl-cl-claudius, Caligula's uncle and the fourth Roman emperor). Tradition states that Valentine was beheaded on February 14th, 269 AD.

There is a problem here, though. Claudius II (or Claudius Gothica) has no record of being a great persecutor of Christians. In fact, the rulers prior to Claudius Gothica had been rather tolerant of the Christians; it wouldn't be until Diocletian took control of the empire that Christians would be ostracized and summarily persecuted (about twenty years after Claudius Gothica). Now, most people think that the feats of "St. Valentine" were completely invented by Geoffry Chaucer. There are others who cling to the notion that the Catholic church had to create a holiday to offset the Roman Lupercalia, which was a springtime fertility celebration. You know how those Romans liked a good...or bad...holiday. Or at least you should by now.

Speaking of Romans, let's talk about one of their gods! Cupid is inexorably linked with Valentine's Day (which is kind of funny, if you think about it) as being the bearer of bad news love. Cupid, of course, is the Roman God of love, desire, and lust, and he is the son of Venus (the goddess of love) and Mars (the god of war). Never mind that Venus was married to Vulcan. Oh, those saucy immortals!

Cupid is often--and mostly erroneously--associated with Eros, who was an embodiment of the power of love and sprang forth from the primordial ick known as Chaos. Hesiod, the other Greek poet, tried to backtrack and make Eros a son of Ares and Aphrodite, which would line up with the Romans (he did this prior to Roman influence). Cupid's name comes from the Latin cupido, which means "desire" or "lust" whereas Eros simply means "sexual love" in Greek. Eros, however, gives us the words "erotic" and related terms.

Cupid himself did not make it into too many of the ancient epics. He appears briefly in the Aeneid, wherein he causes Dido some added torment before she sets herself on fire (spoiler alert). The most famous myth in which Cupid appears is Cupid and Psyche. He was, however, widely worshiped as a fertility god and a god of sexuality, which sort of lends a certain delicious irony to him being associated with a Christian feast.

The depiction of him carrying a bow and arrow goes back to ancient times. His arrows, at one point, were only used to incite lustful feelings within one or more people. Eventually, he started carrying two quivers: one filled with golden-headed arrows for the love-making; the other was filled with lead-tipped darts and were used to cause war. This could be another reason why Hesiod rewrote Eros' parentage, so that he had both the power to cause love and to cause war, like his immortal parents. Despite this, he was not considered one of the fifteen twelve Olympian gods.

Of course, these days, if something is fun or "too mainstream", some assholes have to come along and try to ruin it for everyone else. Enter AntiCupid, who I can only assume is blue and needs to be trapped away in a special holding field. AntiCupid is the brainchild of all those people who feel spurned or unloved on Valentine's day. All failed relationships and dating problems are AntiCupid's fault, because, you know, it's not you, loser, it's clearly the work of some nefarious godling. AntiCupid's arrows lead to hours of whiny music, cutting and a predilection toward wearing black clothing. His Greek counterpart is "Emos".

Claudius Gothica would be proud.

Happy Saint Faith Day!!!

Well, I had a really good blog post to put together. I thought of it yesterday afternoon, and then...I forgot it. Completely and totally. It was marvelous; it was another story from my college years. And I completely forgot the fucking tale. I apologize.

In its stead, I shall dip my toes into the hagiography once more.

Today is Saint Faith day, or Sancta Fides day (her Roman name). She was born in Aquitania (check the above map) in the southwest of present day France. Apparently a Christian from a very early age, Fides was rounded up in one of several Christian persecutions seen during the latter stages of the Roman Empire. Though she was arrested and tossed in a dank jail cell, Faith refused to offer up any sacrifices or prayers to the pagan gods of the Roman Empire (which would be pretty much any of the gods of the Roman Empire at the time). Despite her dark cell and her captors torturing her--it is said that she was strapped naked to a glowing red brazier and then beaten--Faith would not relent. She died upon the brazier, sizzling all the way to Heaven.

The date of her death is not exactly known. She either died in the year 287 or 290 anno domini, or she died during the large-scale Christian persecutions under Emperor Diocletian around 303. The time of her death really is irrelevant; the fact that she died is the important thing because she died a martyr, which made her uberpopular with the growing enclaves of Christians spread around--and just outside of--the Empire.

A couple of centuries after she headed for that big side of fries in the skies, her name was attached to several legends. It is said that Saint Faith's miracles were more "jokes" or "tricks" that she played on her adherents. One such tale was that a woman, who often venerated Saint Faith, was dying. Being that she loved her husband and Faith, she pulled her wedding ring from her finger and gave it to her husband to take to Faith's church at Conques (in Southern France). Upon her death, the man pocketed the ring and kept it, eventually giving it to his second wife when he remarried.

Apparently, this didn't sit well with Saint Faith. After trying to murder Angel, she caused the woman's ring finger to swell up and become painful. Eventually, the man and his second wife made it to Faith's shrine, where they were praying to the saint. The woman then decided that she needed to blow her nose, and gave such a powerful honk that the ring flew off her ring finger and "landed with a sharp crack on the pavement at a great distance." With her Precious lost to her, she spent the remainder of her days stalking barefoot midgets, often doing battle with the fat ones.

Faith's remains were transferred to the abbey at Conques (which is pronounced "conk", by the way), and some of them are kept in a golden reliquary therein. Apparently, there is some controversy about the reliquary itself, in that the face appears to be a portrait of an unknown Roman political official--either an unidentified emperor or regional prefect. Others have speculated that it's actually the death-mask of Charlemagne. This is largely due to the fact that the face looks like a dude.

Saint Faith's attributes are the sword, the rod and...the gridiron. Awesome. I know who I'm praying to the next time Notre Dame gets the fumblies...which is to say, this weekend.

Because Conques lies along one of the many branches of the Way of Saint James (perhaps better known as The Camino de Santiago), Faith is the Patron Saint of pilgrims. Because she was incarcerated and died upon the brazier, she is also the Patron Saint of prisoners (makes sense), soldiers (uh...?) and Dairy Queen.

Let's all get a footlong and lift a blizzard up in honor of Saint Faith!

Happy Rose of Lima Day!!!

Today we venerate the first Catholic saint in the New World, Rose of Lima. Rose was born in Lima, Peru, under the clever guise of Isabel Flores de Olivia. Her father was a Harquebusier, which is a kind of Spanish cavalryman, and her mother was a native of Lima.

She earned the nickname "Rosa" as a child when her babysitter swore that she had seen little Isabel's face turn into a rose.

*puts thumb in mouth, cups an invisible bottle, takes a few swigs*

As she grew older, she made it a practice to fast three times a week in the manner of Saint Catherine of Siena--because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. It's at this point that we learn that Rose was a bit full of herself. When someone admired her, she cut off all her hair, sang a doleful song about unrequited love, and then tore a picture of the Pope in half. Because she was so beautiful, she disfigured her face with pepper and lye, hoping to help others with her self-imposed ugliness.

...

Really?

Not only was she too beautiful for the rest of us to look upon, but she also was a petulant little snit. In opposition of her parents' wishes to marry, she decided to take a vow of virginity. Way to show them! The "don't hate me because I'm beautiful" attitude and the fucked-up face probably had nothing to do with that whole virginity thing.

Eventually, she also became too good to eat meat. Her daily fasting led to her giving up her carnivorous habits. But, take heart, people, she still did a lot of good. Her embroidery was so beautiful that she was able to help support her household by selling it. She also grew beautiful flowers that she would also sell. In the meantime, she built her own personal grotto, where she could spend the nights praying and contemplating the Blessed Sacrament. Eventually, she would only leave the grotto to come out and take Communion. Finally, she entered a convent, took the lifetime vow of chastity (insert sarcastic "no" here) and then prophesied her own death. On August 24th, 1617, Rose did indeed die as she had promised at the ripe old age of 31.

Her symbols are the rose, the anchor, and the baby Jesus. Rose is the Patron Saint of Embroiderers, Gardeners, and Florists and is invoked--somewhat ironically--against vanity. She is also the Patron Saint of Peru, the Peruvian Police Force, Latin America, native peoples of the Americas, India, California (*stifles laughter*) and those nasty, flat green beans you get in mixed vegetables.

So let's offer a little something up to Rose of Lima today, because even self-righteous ugly chicks need love too.

Happy Saint Dunstan Day!!!

Today, we celebrate England's second most favored saint, Dunstan. As a fetus, he was bound to do great deeds, as his mother was standing in Mass one day when all of the candles blew out at once. As soon as the candles were blown out, Dunstan's mother's candle miraculously relit, and everyone in the church lit their candles from her holy flame. She knew then that the child she carried within her womb was destined for great things.

Born in the Kingdom of Wessex (it means "Western Saxons"), Dunstan began his holy career early on. With the blessing of his father, Heorstan, he took minor orders and began helping out around the church of St. Mary's, where he was devoted to learning and piety. He eventually garnered the attention of his uncle, Athelm, who happened to be the Archbishop of Canterbury. From there, he became an adviser to King Athelstan.

Just to warn you...get ready to read a lot of names that look really fucking similar.

While serving at the English court, good ole King Athelstan took a shine to Dunstan, which meant that everyone else at the court hated him. They hatched a conspiracy to disgrace him, accusing Dunstan of witchcraft and wizardry. Athelstan cared little for these accusations and ordered Dunstan from his sight, and you would think that would have been enough to sate the jealous courtiers, but it wasn't. Upon leaving the palace, his enemies fell upon Dunstan, kicking the shit out of him, and then to add insult to injury, dumped his battered body in a cesspool.

Finding himself, literally, up shit creek without a paddle, Dunstan pulled himself from the cesspool and staggered to a friend's house which happened to be close by. The friend, overjoyed at having Dunstan, covered in shit and reeking of feces, took him in and nursed him back to health--and then burned the house down because he could never get the stench of festering shit out of his couch.

Freshly healed, Dunstan headed over to his uncle's house, Aelfheah, the Bishop of Winchester. Uncle Aelfheah tried to talk Dunstan into becoming a priest, but Dunstan wasn't sure if he was ready to give up the possibility of being able to fuck someone...although the dip in the cesspool probably took care of that. He politely declined his uncle's offer and went to bed.

The next day, enormous, nasty tumors erupted all over his body. Dunstan, thinking that God was punishing him for turning away the priesthood, immediately swore to take up the cowl and celibacy. He recovered from the sickness quickly; the illness itself was most likely a result of being beaten until he was battered and bloody and then dumped into a pile of shit.

So, Dunstan became a priest. He devoted himself to further study and, of all things, metallurgy at Glastonbury. While working late one night, Satan himself came to call and tried to woo Dunstan over to the darkside. Having none of that, Dunstan grabbed a pair of tongs he used for blacksmithing and grabbed the Devil by the nose, instructing him to begone. Old Scratch finally relented and said he would, be he wanted Dunstan to shoe his horse for him before he left. Dunstan, that tricksy little Hobbit, shod Beelzebub instead. As The Lord of the Morning was howling in agony, Dunstan instructed him never to enter a place where a horseshoe was hanging over the door. Lucifer agreed, Dunstan removed the shoe, and Mephistopheles went on his decidedly unmerry way.

And that, my friends, was the birth of the legend of a lucky horseshoe.

Dunstan continued working at Glastonbury, and as he was related to most of the nobility of Wessex, he was a favored adviser for the Kings of England. In fact, he was so beloved of Lady Aethelflaed, the niece to our friend Athelstan, that when she died, she left him a considerable amount of money. Unfortunately, Heostan (Dunstan's pappy) died about the same time, and he left Dunstan a pile o' cash as well.

Dunstan used this money to help reestablish the monastic life across most of England, but the money and his ties with nobility made him a favorite of the King's Court again. And, again, the other courtiers became jealous. However, a near-miss hunting accident for a new king, King Edmund, inspired the young regent to treat Dunstan better, if only God would spare his life. God's mercy touched Edmund (or, more properly, his horse) and Edmund was spared. He immediately returned to the palace, where everyone thought he was going to give Dunstan the Thomas a Becket routine. Instead, he gathered up Dunstan and went to Glastonbury, where he prayed and promised to protect Dunstan from the evils of court.

This began a long, happy association between Dunstan and the Kings of England. He served as a court adviser and minister for years, until Edmund and, his successor Eadred, died. Then came to the throne a mischievous little brat named Eadwig, who ignored his nobles in order to fuck some pretty young thing named Aelfgifu. Pissed that Eadwig had ignored his nobles, Dunstan went and pulled him off Aelfgifu, called her a "strumpet", had Eadwig do the same, and then dragged him to the meeting of his nobles.

As you might suspect, this caused a bit of friction between Dunstan and Aelfgifu, who ended up marrying Eadwig. Dunstan fled to Flanders (in modern day Belgium) and hung out there until Eadwig was driven from the throne and his brother, Edgar, assumed the crown. Edgar immediately called for Dunstan to return, and once more appointed him with favored status. At this point, however, Dunstan was so wildly popular with the Wessex nobility and the Northumbrians, his safety was not a threat.

Two years later, however, Edgar died. He was succeeded by Edward II, known as "The Martyr", who was Edgar's eldest son. However, Edward II's step-mother wanted the fruit of her womb to sit upon the throne; Dunstan had been instrumental in securing Edgar's seat upon the throne of England, which made him unpopular in the other team's camp. This caused a lot of strife within the realm, and the threat of civil war hung over all of England.

Finally, Edward II was assassinated (thus the moniker "The Martyr") and his half-brother was seated upon the throne. His brother? Everyone's favorite medieval English King, Aethelred the Unready. Dunstan oversaw Aethelred's coronation and then quit the role of the king's advisor. It was his last public service. He retired to his abbey where he continued to preach and to work as a silver- and goldsmith.

On May 19th (see how that works out?), 988 AD, Dunstan died at the ripe old age of 79 (or so). While having a career batting average of .269 and 688 career RBI isn't enough to get you enshrined at Cooperstown, it's apparently enough to earn you a sainthood. Dunstan was officially canonized in 1029; the Shawon-o-Meter reportedly went off the chart.

Dunstan is symbolized by the tongs he used to grab the Devil by the nose, often with a dove hovering near him, or with an army of angels before him. He is the patron saint of blacksmiths, locksmiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths and shortstops.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day (Part the Third)

In case you missed the previous two parts in this scintillating series, here is Part the First and Part the Second.

Saints and begorrah! Is it Saint Patrick's Day already? Hard to believe that this is the first time I've dipped into the hagiography this year, but maybe it just means that I'm actually putting thought and foresight into my posts and not just "Let's see what obscure Catholic saint I can poke fun at today". I might as well confess (see what I did there?): The Saints post are to me what Jay and Silent Bob are to Kevin Smith.

However, I would argue that, after Jesus' parents, Saint Patrick is the most famous Saint "recognized" in America. And he's only recognized because he's a convenient excuse to drink, which is silly because Saint Arnold is considered the patron saint of brewers (his patronage is on July 8, just so you know). Saint Martin (feast day November 11) is considered the Patron Saint of "drunks", in that he's the Saint you invoke in an attempt to sober your friends up.

Let's not let facts get in the way of a little celebration! We're here to talk about Patrick!

As I mentioned Monday, Saint Patrick was born in the province of Brittania, some time around A.D. 387. This would make him a Roman citizen. He grew up on the western shores of Great Britain, probably in the modern county of Cumbria. Around sixteen, he was captured by those nefarious raiding neighbors to the west, the Irish (or, the Hibernii, as they would have been called in Roman lands). This started his life as a slave.

One of the major occurrences that happened prior to Patrick being born was Emperor Constantine's edict that Christians were no longer to be lion food in any of the great hippodromes around the empire. This began making Christianity not only tolerable in the empire, but also a bit of a fad. If it's good for the Emperor, it's good for us, too. Constantine himself didn't convert to Christianity until he was lying on his deathbed, which would have been sometime in spring of 337--putting it off, it seems, to maximize that whole "one baptism for the forgiveness of sins" deal.

This is important because the citizenry of the empire were, for the most part, Christian by the time Patricius (his given, Roman name) was born, whereas the dastardly Hibernians still worships the Badb and the Dagda. So, while Patricius was tending his captors' flocks as a shepherd, he prayed, because if you're a slave sitting alone on the hillside with a bunch of sheep, might as well talk to God. Am I right, folks?

After six or seven years as a slave, Patricius decided it was enough of this sterco and ran away. Somehow, he talked his way onto a merchant ship bound for the mainland (some say it was divine intervention) and then went to Rouen (which was known as Rotomagus under Roman rule, or roughly "magic turn"), which had a monastery. Here, Patrick studied the Gospel before returning home to his family in western Britain.

However, when he got home, he didn't feel at home. Bah, kids! So, he decided to go back to Ireland in order to spread the Word of God. As you might have heard, he did just that, making him, possibly, one of the very first Christian missionaries in the world. At the time, there wasn't much call for the people of the church to go out and try and convert the pagans...probably because the pagans were more interested in destroying what was left of the Roman Empire, raping and pillaging along the way.

So, what drove Patrick to return to the island where he was a slave for so many years, where one would think he would not want to be? We might be able to figure out just why he went back to Ireland, if we read his Confession (or Confessio): women.

Saints be praised! Patricius had him a soft spot (or a hard one) for the fine lasses of Ireland. We know this because, in his Confession, Patrick references the beauty of several of the women that he baptizes...which we can also assume was done by means of full immersion. Oh, Patrick, you devil! And while there's no record that Patrick ever took a wife (aside from his writings--saved by the Irish while they were rescuing civilization!--there's really not much record of Patrick at all), there's no reason why he couldn't have been married. From what we can tease out of his writings, Patrick had quite an eye for the ladies.

Now, this cat T.F. O'Rahilly postulated back in the 40s that Patrick was really another saint, Saint Palladius, who was the first bishop of Ireland. Palladius might have been the first bishop of Ireland, but in order for there to be Christians there, someone would have had to have brought the word of Christ to the Irish. As most bishops and priests were more worried about lying upon their horde of gold stashed in the back of their churches, this someone was most likely Patrick.

Eventually, all good things must end, and as such, so did Patrick. He died, reportedly, on March 17th (hey! that's today!) in 460 A.D., though some accounts have him dying as late as 533. This, you might deduce, was probably a different Patrick, or maybe a different saint altogether.

Therefore, while you're out enjoying your green beer today, think of Ireland's most famous Patron Saint, who wasn't Irish at all (unlike Brigid and Comcille, who are both Patron Saints of Ireland and who were actually Irish). This makes complete sense, as most people who celebrate St Patrick's Day aren't Irish, either!

So, let's tip our glasses to St. Patrick today as we don our green, head out to the bars, and wait for that first drunk asshole to stumble up to us and, in his worst, sloppy drunken accent ask "Pardon me, lass, but do you have any Irish in you?" And then, before you can answer, he screams "Would you like some?"

Also...I can't drink beer anymore. So, please, if you're headed out to the bar tonight, drink one down for your old buddy Jenks, who is there with you in spirit. And, if you really want to feel like I'm out drinking with you, grope yourself clumsily and then offer up apologies for the rest of the evening.

Saints and begorrah, indeed.

Oh, Thank God, It's the Irish!

Look over just to the right of the main body of my blog. No, lower. Yeah, right in there, in the section where I've listed the books I've read in 2010. Notice anything?

Yeah, I finally finished reading How the Irish Saved Civilization! And, well...yeah.

I honestly don't know why it took me so long to read this book, other than the fact that it fell behind my bed and I didn't think about it for six months and then it got shuffled down in my pile of stuff to read. Apparently, in my world, Neil Gaiman & Shakespeare > Irish. And, well, probably pretty much every one else's world, too.

Being that it's the Monday before St. Patrick's day, I thought I'd write up a little review of the book right here.

So, I think this book would have been better titled How the Irish Saved Western Civilization's Writings from the Ravages of Bands of Barbarians Hellbent on Sacking and Destroying the Roman Empire Mostly by Being on the Fringes and the Forgotten Edges of Europe. However, that doesn't flow so well, or it would just be really difficult to get onto the cover of a book and still be eye-catching.

Anyway, that alternate title pretty much sums it up.

Thomas Cahill, the author, starts out by painting a picture of the final days of the Roman Empire. Because Rome had been the sterling standard for civilization for eleven centuries, everyone wanted in because, once in Rome, it was easier to become a citizen than it was to be evicted (unless you count death as an eviction). There were lots of other problems cropping up in Rome that led to the ultimate downfall of the empire, but when the Germans began pouring over the Rhine in the early parts of the fifth century, it pretty much spelled the end for Rome's power.

Along about this time, some kid named Patricius, who lived on the western shores of Britannia, found himself kidnapped and forced into slavery by Irish raiders. This was also about the same time that Constantine was having his crisis of faith and made the conversion to Christianity--basically on his deathbed--despite having become a tad more lenient upon the Christians than some of his predecessors--Diocletian, to name one--for a number of decades. And, well, if Christianity was good enough for the Emperor, then, by golly, it was good enough for the rest of the Roman citizenry.

Because, you know, when in Rome, do as the Emperor does in order to curry favor with him and help keep your guts on the inside of your body or your head firmly attached to your shoulders.

So, Christianity spread through the noble classes because they wanted to be like Mike the Emperor and then it began catching on with the slaves because, when you've got nothing else to look forward to than a life of servitude, Christianity's promise of reward in the afterlife looks pretty good.

This is the world that Patricius lives in. And, since he's now a slave, he begins to pray to this Christian God and eventually he makes the big conversion shortly after being captured and living in Ireland. After about seven years, he escapes, hops a ship to the mainland, studies to become a man of God, and returns to the Ireland, wherein he goes about spreading the word to the Irish. Being that the Irish don't have much in the way of a nobility or a social hierarchy, they latch onto Christianity fast. And, as people are being converted, more and more folks are giving themselves over to the ministry and monasteries are being erected right and left.

In a bit of cultural switcheroo, the mainland, which had thrived under Pax Romana for over a thousand years, now was a war-torn mess, with roving bands of barbarians, bandits and even the last vestiges of the Roman legions fighting all over the place. On Ireland, where the Romans refused to go because of the mad, untamed, war-like people inhabiting the island, a widespread peace spread across the land (Pax Hibernia?) as Patricius did his work. So, as shit was going crazy on the continent, people were unassing the joint right-and-left, but where to go? Why, hell, let's go to this lovely little green island with all it's quaint little people, it's monasteries and it's sexy red-headed bitches.

As people continued to show up on Ireland, seeking refuge from the insanity going on on the mainland, they brought with them their possessions, which included books. And, what do monasteries have in spades? Scribes who love copying shit down from one page to the next! As such, once they were finished copying scriptural texts, they began copying some of the writings from the old Roman Empire and from the Golden Age of Greece and lots of other places. Wherever people showed up, they brought with them books, and those books got copied down and thusly the Irish monks saved countless texts that would have otherwise been burnt or destroyed or sacked during the battles on the mainland.

Eventually, there were enough monasteries and monks that they had to start finding new places to live. So, the monks--with all their writings--began moving into Great Britain, and then into France and eventually made their way down through Switzerland and into Italy--a kind of full-circle for the writings of Rome.

Aaaaaaaand...that's it. That's how the Irish "saved" civilization. Even though the whole thing was started off by a Briton who was a citizen of the Roman Empire who eventually considered himself Irish. Don't get me wrong; Cahill does a great job of writing the book, and the text itself is pretty easy to read. One other thing that Cahill does a good job of is linking these things together, one after another, in a way that's reminiscent of one of my favorite human beings, James Burke. While it's easy to read and the text isn't bogged down by being too full of itself or anything, the premise is pretty thin, though I understand what Cahill was trying to say and all. Without the Irish copying all this stuff down, we wouldn't have copies of the Iliad or the Odyssey. And if we didn't have any of those things, what would Hollywood have to ruin?

So, while we're all sloshing down green beer on Wednesday and remembering how much we love Guinness (you have my full permission to falcon punch anyone who says "they brew better stuff over in Ireland"), raise a glass to Patricius, who helped save "civilization" by bringing Christianity--and peace--to Ireland. Oh, and let's not forget to salute Ireland's abundance of redheaded beauties!

And to think...in the entire book, there was no mention of Lou Holtz or any saucy redheads. More's the pity...

Happy Saint Emygdius Day!

Nothing says "Lack of Creativity" like dipping into the hagiography, eh?

Today, among others, is the day set aside on the Catholic Calendar for the veneration and honor of Saint Emygdius (but, apparently, so is August 18th, but that's a Tuesday and we have a date to be blowing some shit up). Born a pagan sometime late in the third century, Emygdius converted to Christianity (obviously) and then, stricken with a wanderlust, he journeyed to Rome. There, he was staying with some cat named Gratianus, who happened to have a really hot yet paralytic daughter. I can only assume that she was hot because Emygdius laid hands on her and--BAM (oh wait, that's Saint Emerildius)--she was healed.

One morning, while walking about the Esquiline Hill in Rome, he came upon a blind man and decided to heal him, as well. Impressed, the Roman people thought certain that Emygdius was the son of Apollo. The citizenry then put Emygdius on their shoulders and carried him off as if he had just sacked the Georgia Tech quarterback on the last play of the game. The crowd then delivered Emygdius to the Temple of Aesculapius, the Roman version of the Greek god Asclepius, who was the god of medicine. In case you need a refresher, Asclepius was the son of Apollo, and his shrine on the Island of Cos is where Hippocrates (he of the Hippocratic Oath fame) started his career.

While at the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber, Emygdius cured many people. Growing tired of constantly being compared to Aesculapius, Emygdius turned his healing hands to those of destruction. In a fit of rage most likely brought on by steroids, he tore down the temple and declared himself a Christian. Impressed with both his healing and his Hulk-like rage--"Emygdius smash!"--many of the witnesses converted to Christianity.

Deciding that he'd prefer Christian Hulk to be on his side, the Pope at the time, Marcellinius (Marcellus I) made him bishop of Ascoli Piceno (a city in Italy whose current mayor is named Guido Castles), despite the fact that he wasn't a priest. Happy to ply his trade elsewhere--and trying to escape the local authorities who were none too pleased that he had been smashing up their gods' temples--Emygdius set off at once for Ascoli, leaving many converts and miracles in his wake. Along the way, he decided that he needed to redirect the flow of water in some random location and thus struck a cliff with his staff, causing a font of water to gush forth.

Once in Ascoli, the local governor, Polymius, decided that he'd try to get Emygdius to worship Jupiter...despite the fact that the man had rent asunder the temple of Aesculapius. Apparently, he didn't think to check the online version of the Catholic Encyclopaedia to get the background story on Emygdius. In part of the wooing of Emygdius to Jupiter's side, Polymius offered up his daughter Polisia to Emygdius to sweeten the pagan-conversion deal. Polymius took her hand, led her to the Tronto River, and baptized her in the name of Christ.

As you might well imagine, Polymius was none-too-pleased with his would-be son-in-law. So, he did what any father would do while protecting his daughter: he decapitated Emygdius. Doing one better, he decided to lop off the heads of several of Emygdius' friends, whose names were Eupolus, Germanus and Valentius (not to be confused with our friend, Saint Valentine of the bird sex). Today the Saint Emidio Red Temple sits on the spot of his execution (Emidio is Italian for Emygdius).

Not to be deterred by a little thing like decapitation, Emygdius picked up his head and marched over to the spot on a nearby mountain where he had constructed an oratory. This particular act is known as "cephalophore", from the Greek for "head carrying". Here, at his oratory, he finally died, and a church--Saint Emidio alla Grotte--was erected on this site. Some 700 years later, his remains and the remains of his friends were found buried in Roman coffins in the crypt beneath the church.

Emygdius is the Patron Saint of Ascoli Piceno, Guardiagrele and a co-patron of Naples. He is also the Patron Saint of Earthquakes. Apparently, in 1703, a violent earthquake ripped across the Marche region of Italy, but the city of Ascoli Piceno was not affected, and it was thought that Emygdius protected the city against the earthquake. This is probably true, because after destroying the temple of Aesculapius and carrying his head to his burial spot after his own decapitation, the earth was afraid to piss off Emygdius. Due to having the good foresight of building missions in a zone prone to earthquakes, the early padres in California often prayed to Saint Emygdius, making him a sort of unofficial saint of California.

He is often depicted supporting the crumbling wall of a building and is sometimes symbolized by the palm--the leafy one, not the fingery one.

Happy Saint Pambo Day!

Today is Saint Pambo's day. Saint Pambo was a member of a group of people known as the Desert Hermits of Egypt. He was a disciple of Saint Anthony, and when he asked Anthony what he should do, Anthony told him "Be not confident of thy own righteousness; grieve not over a thing that is past; and be continent of thy tongue and belly."

Pambo took this to task, especially the last part. He spoke little, and what words he said were usually deep and profound. Many people came to follow him--kind of like Forrest Gump running back and forth across the country, I'm feeling--and they worked to help the poor and spread the Word of God to the Egyptians. He was most famous, however, for the fact that he didn't speak often, but when he did, the words were usually carefully selected and their meaning profound.

On the day he died, he was weaving a basket. He looked up at his followers and said:

"There's a million fine looking women in the world, dude, but, they don't all bring you lasagna at work. Most of 'em just cheat on you." He then bought a pack of smokes and walked out.

His follower, Saint Melania, dressed his body and took the unfinished basket to lay in the ground with the body. Reports say that she had long blond hair, wore a black sock cap, went nowhere without her trademark black trenchcoat, and had a mouth that was constantly running.

So, wish your fellow man a Happy Saint Pambo's Day. But just do it with a knowing nod.

Happy Saint Vitus Day!

June 15th celebrates the patronage of Saint Vitus, a young man who originally was born to a Roman Senator from Sicily, but who fled his father's house along with his tutor, Modestus, and his nanny (who was also Modestus' wife), Crescentia. Modestus and Crescentia are the ones credited with converting Vitus to Christianity at a young age, which pissed off his father Hylas, who worshiped several of the 'pagan' gods venerated throughout the Roman Empire. Fearing Hylas' wrath, they fled somewhere to Lucania, which was a Roman province in the southern part of Italy, between the Tuscan Sea and the Gulf of Taranto. Various reports have him at the age of seven or twelve when he fled.


From there, he was summoned to Rome, because one of Emperor Diocletian's sons had been possessed by a demon, and Vitus was asked to cast it out. Once Vitus was successful in chasing the demon from the young man's body, Diocletian was so overcome with joy and good cheer that he decided to have Vitus, Modestus and Crescentia tortured--all because they wouldn't renounce their Christian faith and revert to the paganism that still was celebrated in Rome. Diocletian--as is common with people born on December 22--had a heart of pure gold. He was very open and accepting toward different cultures and religions...except for Christianity. Diocletian saw the Christians as a threat to undermine the Empire, and so he declared an edict to rid the world of Christianity once and for all. This little act was known as the Diocletianic (or Great, if you can't wrap your tongue around all those syllables) Persecution, and when all was said and done, some 3500 Christians had been slaughtered, several of them going down in the church annals as being martyrs. Diocletian's successor, Constantine, was the first Christian Emperor of the Roman Empire.

In a somewhat ironic twist, while Diocletian disliked the Christians enough to order their wholesale slaughter, he respected the Jews for their ancient and respectful worship of their God. Therefore, the Christians were the ones persecuted and the Jews were left alone to worship as they pleased. Diocletian seemed to have missed the memo when it came to religious persecutions.

Anyway, it's not surprising that Vitus, Modestus and Crescentia were tortured under Diocletian. According to the legend, Vitus was dumped into a kettle of boiling oil, from which he emerged unscathed. Undaunted--and unimpressed with his faith in God--his torturers then dunked Vitus into a kettle of boiling tar, which still didn't get the job done. Once more, he emerged from the kettle with no visible wounds. I imagine that the guys standing around with feathers were mighty disappointed. Finally, his torturers were totally pissed, and they tossed Vitus into a kettle of molten lead. After completing a few laps around the kettle and doing an Esther Williams routine, Vitus climbed out of the kettle, looked up at his torturers, gave them the finger, and asked "Is that all you got?"

Seeing that the kettles of boiling liquids weren't going to get the job done, his captors dragged Vitus, Modestus, and Crescentia out into the countryside and lopped off their heads. Their decapitated bodies were left for the carrion birds to pick over, until Vitus appeared to a wealthy matron named Florentia and told her where their bodies were lying. Curious, Florentia went to investigate and found the three where the ghost of Vitus had told her they would be. She buried the bodies there on the spot.

The story of Saint Vitus doesn't end there. His veneration became extremely popular throughout the southern reaches of the Italian peninsula and over into Sicily. He was so popular, in fact, that children were named for him in these regions, which gave rise to the names Vito and Guido. These were translated into other languages, which then led to the names Guy in France, Wyatt in England, Veit in Germany and Austria, Wit in Poland, Vid in the southern branches of the Slavic languages, and Vit and Vith in Czechoslovakia. St. Vitus also became extremely popular in the Slavic lands, because his name was translated as Sveti Vid, which came to replace the very popular god of light, Svantovid, which is probably why his Saint days are in the summer months (June 15th by our Calendar, June 28th by the Gregorian Calendar used by the Orthodox church). In Croatia alone, there are at least 123 churches dedicated in St. Vitus' name.

St. Vitus is represented by a young man, holding a palm leaf, and standing in a kettle. Sometimes, he is symbolized by a lion (a common symbol used for martyr's from Diocletian's time) and a raven (probably because Florentia found ravens munching on his innards when she happened upon his body). He is also symbolized by a rooster, probably for his cocky demeanor when dumped unharmed from the cauldrons.

In Germany and some of the other eastern European countries--especially in Latvia and the Baltic states--it was a common custom to gather around St. Vitus' statue on his feast day. While this is not uncommon practice, it became custom to dance in a wild, jerky manner. The dance became so popular that it was named "Saint Vitus' Dance". However, the dance was reminiscent of having a seizure, and because of this dance, Saint Vitus became the patron saint of epileptics, especially those suffering from chorea (which derives its name from the Greek word chorea, meaning a type of dance, which gave us our words "chorus" and "choreography").

Because of the "dance" named in his honor, Vitus also became the patron saint of entertainers, which included dancers, comedians/jesters and actors. He's also the patron saint of dogs, snake-bite victims, and storms. He's said to protect against lightning strikes, animal attacks, and oversleeping (though nothing about sleeping with the fishes, eh Vito and Guido?). He's also the patron saint of Bohemia and a shit-ton of other towns throughout southern Italy and Eastern Europe, most notably Prague in the Czech Republic. He is also one of the Fourteen Martyrs that can be invoked during times of trouble, especially when one is sick. The practice arose during the Middle Ages when the continent of Europe was stricken by this little thing called the Bubonic Plague.


Originally, Modestus and Crescentia were venerated alongside Vitus. They have since fallen out of vogue, as there really is no historical proof that they were ever martyred or--for that matter--existed. I guess that's what you get for teaching your boss' son to be Christian--dumped in vats of boiling liquids, beheaded, and forgotten by history.

Happy Saint Bernard de Menthon Day!

Among the many benefactors celebrated on May 28th by the Catholic Church is Bernard of Menthon (or Bernard of Mountjoux, if you so desire, you saucy little minx, you).

Bernard was the son of a rather prosperous nobleman who had set up a sweet deal of a marriage for him. Bernard, however, balked at the proposition, declaring that he did not like her, that the woman he wanted to marry needed to have a special...something. His father was confused, as the girl he had selected to be his daughter-in-law was beautiful, rich, and had huge...tracts of lands. Apparently, they lived in a swamp and needed all the land they could get.

Undaunted, Bernard's father went ahead with the wedding. Bernard, deciding he'd rather live the rich and prosperous life of a monk, jumped out of his bedroom window, was caught by a pack of angels, and delivered safely on the ground below. Did I mention that he did this a mere handful of hours before he was set to walk down the aisle? Bernard of Menthon is the Patron Saint of Cold Feet.

He grew up in Savoy, which is a region down in the southeast of France near the Italian border. Apparently, Bernard was a man much to my own liking for, when faced with the choice of heading toward the beach or the mountains, he chose the latter and fled toward Italy. There, he joined up with the Benedictine monks. His heart remained in the mountains, however, as he heard that the peoples of the Alps were still largely suffering under the blissful ignorance of Paganism, so he dedicated the remainder of his days to preaching the gospel to those crazy Helveticans.

However, Bernard wasn't done there. A pass through the Alps leading from the area of Switzerland called Valais to the Aosta Valley in northern Italy was a frequently used highway for pilgrims from Germany, France and other points north on the pilgrims' way to and from Rome. The pass is, to say the least, a bit treacherous. Allow me to digress for a moment and remind you that Hannibal's armies were dealt more damage by the weather in the Alps than they ever were by the Roman Legions. Hannibal's route through the mountains weakened the forces from Carthage enough that it probably led to the eventual outcome of the Punic Wars, wherein Rome defeated Carthage, and also for that reason why we have a Friday Morning Latin Lesson and not a Friday Morning Carthaginian Watered-Down Phoenician Dialect Lesson.

Seeing that travel through this particular pass has a history of sucking donkey balls, Bernard oversaw the building of a hospice and monastery at the highest point in the pass so that travelers would have somewhere safe to stop over on their ways to and from Rome. Once he received the blessings from the Pope, Bernard populated the monastery with Augustinian monks and...the local herding dogs, which were much accustomed to the snowy climate. The pass, to this day, still bears his name--Great St. Bernard's Pass. If there's a great, then there must be a little, right? Well, in fact, there is. In another pass--cleverly named Little St. Bernard's Pass--St. Bernard established yet another hospice and monastery, and again gave it over to the Augustinians and their dogs, as well.

St. Bernard of Menthon is symbolized by the mountains and by the herding dogs that also bear his name. He is considered the Patron Saint of Mountaineers, the Alps, and Skiers (see, I wasn't really joking when I said he was the Patron Saint of Cold Feet, per se) as well as big, lovable dogs that dig you out of the snow, pour themselves a drink, and then return to the monastery.

Now, before some asshole points out a fallacy in the story here, I'll add that the St. Bernard breed of dog was never used to transport casks of brandy through the mountains, though they have been used as rescue dogs in a region prone to avalanches (and still, they do not carry brandy with them then, either). However, the monasteries keep small flasks of brandy around so that tourists can take pictures of the dogs with the booze fantasy intact.

So, let's all celebrate St. Bernard of Menthon or Mountjoux or Mount-Joux or wherever the fuck. I think it's only appropriate that you drink brandy today, or fuck a girl named Brandy. Or, hell, get Brandy drunk on brandy before bedding her, though you might want to leave the Meriadoc Brandybuck references at home if you're looking to get laid tonight.