Patron Saints

Patron Saints. A rather unique and intriguing take on religion that – as a Man of History – I can really get behind.

The concept is an interesting in that it offers Catholics the opportunity to be polytheistic without going to Hell. This concept likely appealed to the Romans and Greeks of the day when they were upset that Poseidon drowned their favorite sheep but weren’t ready to give up control of their lives to a single deity.

It’s also attractive in that, though many apply to professions, you can choose which Patron Saint to whom you can devout your life and drachma. Also worth noting, the majority of the Patrons serve the downtrodden, unlucky, and unfortunate. It’s likely the followers of the Patron Saint of I’m-Better-Than-You would not be thought highly of by The Big Man.

I actually have a Patron, but I decided to do some research for purely historical purposes. The results were surprising, hilarious, and disturbing… Feel free to support one of these saintly beings…

St. Joseph

This guy (like most) covers a multitude of areas, most notably carpenters and engineers. My engineering background and middle-name connection would lead one to think that St Joseph was my patron, but he’s not. His specialty tends toward carpentry and (in the modern era) home sales. Nope… not kidding. Supposedly, burying a statue of this guy in your back yard is good for business. Unfortunately, St. Joseph is also the Patron Saint of Happy Death. So…. good luck with that.

St. Expedite

This is a favorite of mine. His name alone is enough to illicit images of a superhero flying in on a giant cross. He is the Patron of both procrastinators and speedy results, presumably because the procrastinators held off selecting a Patron of their own and just copied off the other guy’s paper. This guy was likely a early frontrunner for “Most Revered Patron” due to his similarities to Mercury/Hermes/The Flash. He’s also associated with African messenger-trickster spirits, which makes him the Loki of the Huxtable family.

St. Cyprian

I find this fascinating. This guy is the Patron of witches, occultists, sorcerers, magicians, and pretty much anything non-Catholic. The only thing I can think is that this was the early Catholic Church’s analogy to the modern method used by police to trap felons by notifying them that they won something and to come pick it up in a dusty warehouse. A decree would be posted around the city. “Cyprian followers - A meeting will be held at the city center at around noon. Near the scaffolding. Hangings are planned there fifteen minutes later. Events are unrelated.”

St. Christopher

And, finally, we get to my Patron Saint. St. Chris is the Patron Saint of travelers and transportation, and I usually wear a St. Christopher necklace when I travel. Ironically, St. Chris is also the Patron Saint of Bachelors (bonus!), so I feel this guy’s pain. He is often depicted as a ferryman carrying the Christ child across a river on his shoulders, which I see as somewhat disrespectful given that the little punk could have just walked across the water himself. St. Christopher is also ideal for me to honor as the guy didn’t actually exist… much like Jesus himself (Bazinga!).

After further inspection, I came to the conclusion that many of these Patron Saints have their roots in Spanish and Mexican religious ceremonies. This offered up a different perspective, and I decided to come up with modern equivalents. And, since Hispanics are light-weight drunkards, I give you the Patrón Saints! …Ya see what I did there?


St. Jose – St Jose is the Patrón Saint of worms, blackouts and misplaced clothing. He is honored during siesta time between 1-4 PM every day. Often, he is depicted identically as St. Christopher, except carrying a TV instead of baby Jesus.


St. Jack – The Patrón Saint of huntin’ and cousin-kissin’, reverence of St. Jack has ebbed considerably in the face of rising NASCAR ratings. In his place, notable upswings have been apparent in offerings to St. Natty Light. Still, St. Jack has loyal followers in remote areas where churches devoted to him share a Walmart aisle with shotguns and various tobacco products.


St. Morgan – St. Morgan is the Patrón Saint of pirates and uncomfortable body poses that make you look like a douche. He has numerous followers in the Caribbean and South America, and the numbers continue to grow as his devotees channel efforts into Super Bowl commercials. Critics point out that he hasn’t been promoted past Captain for 66 years.

And, there you have it, a subset of Patron Saints along with better-known and (most-likely) more closely-followed Patrón Saints. All will humble you and expose your weakness. Yet, all will help you rise up and overcome. Be it to the Gods of Heaven or the Gods of Porcelain, keep those prayers coming folks.

... and then I see the bowling pin.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The Marathoner’s Mantra. Rumor has it, everyone mutters it around mile 20. I said it 3 weeks before. But, it was a lie. This never seemed like a good idea.

Then, the bad omens start. The 2 hr round trip walk to the expo on Saturday for the bib was rough. At 7am on race morning, the mile walk uphill to Dodger Stadium after abandoning our stranded bus on the LA Freeway was worse.

The walk up the 110 Freeway and Chavez Ravine. We are not amused.

But, then the race started. That was worse-erer. I give you: The unedited LA Marathon blog.

Mile 0: It’s 7am, and I’m at Dodger Stadium. Starting outside the centerfield fence at Chavez Ravine is one of the highlights of all my races. I would tear up from the beauty if I wasn’t already crying from hiking up 1000 feet. I breathe in the smell of all the runners going to the bathroom in the bushes. Hmmm… smells like Yankee Stadium.

Heaven

Mile 0.5: A hill? Already? It took me 7 minutes just to get to the starting line after the gun. Fortunately, I’m crowd surfing on 24,999 other poor decision-makers, and I don’t notice the uphill run.

Mile 1: Dodger Stadium. What the hell?! Did we just do a loop around Dodger Stadium? Or, am I already hallucinating? I decide it may very well be the latter and don’t care.

Mile 1.5: This hill looks familiar.

Mile 3: I’ve found my rabbit for the race. She’s moving at the same pace as me, so perhaps I will survive. I do my best to not look creepy. I am not successful.

Mile 5: Um…

Mile 7: …Yeah…

Mile 9: … we were told there would be landmarks….? More people would run if there were landmarks, punch, and pie.

Mile 12: I finally see something I recognize. Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I am dutifully impressed. My back burns like someone has poured liquid fire on it. I ask a passing rabbit if she can put it out. She runs faster.

Mile 14: My back has stopped hurting, but I pour some cold water down it to be sure. I feel nothing. It appears that the reason it feels better is because I’ve lost feeling completely. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

Mile 15: House of Blues. I now can no longer feel my left arm either. In an attempt to ease the growing concern over both it and my back, I run with it down against my side. I look like a geriatric stroke victim… minus the drool. I think.

Mile 20: I’m now doing what I call the Soccer Shuffle. My feet barely leave the pavement. I’m running like David Beckham slide-kicking the ball down the field… minus the drool.

Mile 21: Dmn. [At this point, I seem to have lost the ability to think with all vowels but ‘e.’]

Mile 22: As I slow to a fast walk through the water stop, I glance at my watch. The fast walk pace is the same as my soccer shuffle. This depresses me.

Mile 23: The Veteran’s Administration. Apparently, these buildings are LA “landmarks.” With my soccer shuffle, the VA speed bumps (really, LA marathon planners?) I’m forced to navigate are more likened to LA “dogs on the top step of a stairway at 2am.” I've started hallucinating to the point I think I'm on a Japanese game show. I stumble over them and hurry on in case giant wrecking balls are being swung at me.

Mile 25: I’m content at this point to maintain this less-than-sterling pace for the next mile and go home…. And then I see the bowling pin. A quarter mile in front of me, there is a giant bowling pin running toward the finish line. I assume it’s a person in a costume, but at this point, I may still be seeing things, and the bowling pin is fleeing those Japanese wrecking balls. I see human legs. Touché, sports equipment. He’s hurting. Partly because it’s mile 26 and hot. Mostly because he’s dressed like a bowling pin. The back has some ad for Lucky Strikes bowling alley, but for some reason I see “You’re getting beat by an effing bowling pin” written on it. Well, that’s unacceptable. I speed up… to some minimal extent.

Mile 25.5: I’m actually not tired. My body is done with this maniacal experiment, but I have tons of energy. I decide to hit my second wind and give it a kick. The hurt can survive for a few minutes. I’m going to go out strong.

Mile 25.51: I experience simultaneously charley horses in my left calf and hamstring. For the next 10 feet, I prance like a hotfooted, rookie shortstop. [Ugh… just google it.] The feeling passes, and I speed up… slower.

Mile 26: I pass the bowling pin. Screw you, sports equipment.

Mile 26.2: My second, controlled kick is more successful, and I shoot through the final chute and onto Santa Monica Pier.

I stand on the pier and looked down at my bib. It's hard to believe I've made it 26.2 miles in less than 5 hours. It's equally hard to believe that I've been able to keep putting one foot in front of the other for almost 5 hours. I never assumed it was a certainty that I'd make it the whole way. I don't 'do' much with my days that one would consider life-affirming... but now I can say I have. I look at the back of the bib where I wrote ramblings from the night before...

If I die, tell my friends and family I lived free and happy. John can have my Xbox games. And, tell any children I may have sprinkled throughout the country that Daddy loves them. [Note: Check Florida and Texas. And Hawaii. And, maybe Northern Illinois.] Peace. Love. Baseball.