July 23: Diet Mountain Dew Morning, Long Day, "Carol" Dip

It is definitely a Diet Mountain Dew morning.  My mind is about five steps behind the rest of my body, and it's losing ground.  By the end of the day, my mind will be back in Sunday while my body will be getting ready for Tuesday.  Therefore, I have a 52 ounce cup of the yellow nectar to jumpstart my week.  I hope it works, or it is going to be one very long day.

You know, when I started this blog about a year and a half ago (under the name Feasts & Famines), I thought it would only be a matter of time before some big agent or publisher discovered how witty and talented I was.  A book deal was supposed to follow.  Then a film adaptation of my book, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by Martin Scorsese (I'd settle for Steven Spielberg).  Well, here I am, almost two years later, no book or movie deal on the horizon.  I'm still holding out hope that these things will come to pass, but I'm trying to be a little more realistic.  I'm setting my sights on the Nobel Prize in Blogging (which the members of the Swedish Academy will create just so they can honor my brilliant writing).  Hey, a guy's gotta dream.

My point is that sometimes it feels like I'm writing in this little vacuum.  Aside from a few very supportive and kind disciples who leave comments, I don't know if what I'm writing is having any kind of impact.  I mean, I sound whiny and annoying to myself sometimes.  I'm sure I turn off more readers than I turn on (not in any kind of sexual or pornographic sense--the name of the blog is Saint Marty, not The Penis Blog or Adventures With My Other Head).  I guess the best I can hope is that my posts make a few people smile or laugh, maybe think a little about issues of mental illness, writing, poetry, and sexual addiction.  If I can accomplish that every day, then I'm doing something worthwhile.  I'm making a small difference in the world.

Well, it's Carol Dip Monday.  I already have my question picked out.  It has to do with something that's happening later this afternoon:

Will I have any cavities at my dentist appointment today?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

...It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.

That doesn't really answer the question.  Either I'm not going to have a cavity and will change my oral hygiene habits to insure I don't develop any issues, or I will have a ton of cavities and gum disease and will change my oral hygiene habits to correct these problems.

Either way, Saint Marty is going to have to brush and floss more often.

Not in this blog!

March 5, 6, 7: Saints Among Us

Let me apologize for not posting anything for the last few days. I worked at a local soup kitchen for the homeless. I went door-to-door collecting donations for Haitian earthquake relief. I spent three hours every night in contemplation and prayer. Okay, not really. I actually took Friday off work, went grocery shopping, and took in the newest Martin Scorsese flick with a friend at which I consumed an obscene amount of buttered popcorn and a box of Buncha Crunch, washing it down with two gallons of Diet Pepsi. I can honestly say that I did nothing that even came close to self-sacrificing, holy, or saint-like for the last three days.

I often wonder if being around a saint is any fun. I mean, all it would be is "God this" and "God that," "Jesus this" and "Jesus that." I don't think saints can really just chill. I doubt Mother Teresa ever ate a Cheeto in her life. (I know she's not a saint yet, but, let's face it, it's just a matter of time.) Of course, for the price of a bag of Cheetos, she could probably have bought enough rice to feed a small, African village. That's the reality of being a saint. It's not just a 40 hour per week job. There's no down time. If I'd taken Francis of Assisi to see Shutter Island on Friday, I bet he would have slipped behind the theater with my bag of popcorn and fed some hungry sparrows and squirrels. (I always picture Saint Francis sort of like Disney's Snow White, the animals flocking to him as he steps outdoors, a chubby cartoon bluebird sitting on his shoulder and singing in his ear.) Inviting a saint to your house for dinner would be like asking Julia Child over for pork rinds and a bottle of Pabst. There'd always be an element of not measuring up, no matter what the social situation.

Think of the job description for a saint:

WANTED: Man or woman willing to become monk, nun, bishop, priest, social activist, missionary, teacher, or hermit. Must be available at all times to answer calls. Must work weekends and holidays. No overtime. Life of poverty and deprivation a definite possibility. Working conditions may be hazardous, even fatal. Martyrdom or lengthy,painful, lingering illness (tuberculosis, stomach cancer, stroke, etc.) almost assured. If interested, apply in prayer and wait. Interviews may be immediate (if a visionary) or after death.

Doesn't sound like a position that would get many applicants, does it? The whole martyrdom thing turns off my sixteen-year-old nephew. After reading some of the Lives of the Saints, he has determined that sainthood too often involves being burned at the stake, drowned, dismembered, or torn to shreds by wild bears. He'd much rather just play Halo.

I'm sure saints have senses of humor. I'm sure they have favorite foods (unless they survive on communion bread and wine, in which case they cross over into Olsen twin territory). Saints are human beings, just like me, just like you, just like Jesus. We all have to eat. We all have to sleep. We all have to shit. (That's right, people. Jesus wept, but Jesus also crapped. It just didn't make the top ten Gospel moments.)

I'm sure you're wondering where I'm headed with this little meditation. I started this entire blog because I want the calm and joy that comes with having the faith of a saint. If I wake up tomorrow morning and find out I have stage four lymphoma, I want to be able to smile and say, "It's God's will." (For the record, if I find myself in that situation, I'd prefer to be one of those saint who experiences a miraculous healing and goes on to live to the age of 103.) But I know that I'm not made of that kind of mettle. I'm more of the roll-into-a-fetal-position-and-cry in-the-corner mettle.

For the most part, what you read about saints is all miracles and halos. They pray, and famines end. The preach, and pagans convert. That's all fine and dandy, but it doesn't give me any hope that I stand a chance of being Saint Martin of the Snuggie (yes, I own one and use it nightly). Perfection is not an easy standard to live up to. I need saints who are messy, who fuck up some. I need saints who make me laugh, who might have told a dirty joke once in a while. I need saints who walk among us, not above us.

Basically, I need saints who shit.