Awesome Sauce

I wrote some time ago about my quest for awesomeness. The plan got put on the back burner for a while and I'm slightly ashamed about my lack of action on the awesome front. I must admit my attempts to learn Russian have been middling at best. While I can tell you I'm American and want to know where Red Square is, I'd probably not do fantastically well under the Moscow secret spy conditions I really hope to attain proficiency at. I haven't totally conquered the impulse to drink girly drinks at bars, for example last week I ordered a cocktail with pomegranate juice in it. But, after a semi-hectic past couple of months I have finally settled enough to begin learning my "awesome skilz." What you may ask are "awesome skills"? Well, first they aren't "skills", they're "skilz," an important distinction beyond just the spelling. Really what it boils down to is that I need to learn how to do something that no one would expect me to be able to do if taking me in at face value. And with that I present to you my brand new and shiny babies:



Aren't they precious?

Yes, what you see before you is a photograph of my Hibben Thrower Triple Knife Set. They are beautiful. They are a thing of power. And I must admit, they are now officially the coolest thing I own.

Before I progress in my discussion of my new hobby we have to take a moment to thank Brad. Brad and I developed my awesome theory together, we decided mutually as I explained before, that I needed a cool skill and what better skill to acquire than knife throwing. It's handy, useful in combat and defense situations and has the added bonus of awesome accessory power. But most importantly he is the one who got me my new knives. A friend who buys you a three pack of deadly weapons is a trust-worthy friend indeed.

So, dear readers, let us take a moment and sing the glory of the Wrennegade.

As far as I've looked up about knife throwing it seems like there is no real way to learn other than practice, practice, practice. I've studied some web pages on how to throw but it would seem there are different opinions on the subject. Some people say hold the knife by the blade. Others would have you hold the handle. Some prefer a 45 degree angle, others slightly more acute. Weight placement is arguably on the front, back or balanced between both feet. It would seem everyone has a different method for throwing their knives.

Well, I decided to blaze my own trail. I opened up a closet in the living room and decided to just try them out. I found that if I stand three feet away from the door, I hit every single time. So if you come within three feet of me, I have deadly accuracy. Beyond that however, I can't really control the amount of spin on the knife so it's more a matter of chance whether the correct rotation angle will result thus allowing me to actually be able to land the right end of the knife in my target. My roommate by the way, has yet to see the mangled inside of the closet door. Although after she reads this, it probably won't be long until we have a talk about where I'm allowed to practice.

I have managed thus far to get three hits in a row, which, let me tell you, is one of the most satisfying things I have ever done. The feeling one gets when throwing a knife and having it land in a door is an almost religious experience. Once I master the ability to do it with any sort of proficiency, I can't even imagine every being able to stop.

I have yet to create an amusing target for the back of the closet door. Suggestions are welcome, I promise to post a picture once I put it up.

Now I've done it...

"I've organized my useless life in a way I've never done before."
- Yousaf Islam (aka Cat Stevens)

Ok, so I should have figured this out a while ago.

But my old computer really just couldn't handle it. It barely was able to deal with word processing let alone graphics. But now that I am new fangled with my lap top I have gotten around to doing what should have been done before. In short, I've managed to download the capabilites to post pictures on my website. Will this launch me into a whole new era of narcissism? Will the knife's edge of self-indulgence finally come crashing down around me?

Who can say...

But in any event, there's nothing left to do but wait. And while we're waiting we can look at some pretty pictures. Have I ever mentioned that this one time I directed a play? Yeah. It was pretty. See for yourself:



The girl in the middle, if you can't tell, is a tree. Seriously, a tree. A very sad tree. The one in red is my roomate (though she was playing a Greek goddess at the time, not my roomate) turning her into a tree. And the guy on the right? Well, I guess he's just looking confused.

Want to see something else?




Nice, huh? I think if the theater thing doesn't pan out I'll become a photographer for a food magazine. It's actually a job you need to be multi-talented for because you both make the food and then take its picture. So my abilities at both arranging the little shrimps and then making them act sultry for the camera will come into good use.

Anyway, I know this was a crap post, all filler and no content, but soon we'll get back to the real stuff. For the moment however I have to go buy 40 green stools. Don't ask. Unless you want to hear about becoming a tree.

Con Sorpresa!!!

Maybe God was angry at me because of my last post.

In any event, I have been struck down with intestinal disease. Or stomach disease. I don't really know the specifics. I'd research but every 15 minutes I have to go empty the contents of my insides out so I can't really concentrate all that well. As such this post probably won't be very long. And if there are more errors than usual, well, I think you readers can be a little more understanding with me today because basically, I am so sick it isn't even funny.

I'm not sure where it came from. At this point I'm on the mend so it doesn't really matter as long as it goes away. Those who know me should be glad I've been so busy that I've become a bit of a recluse as of late given that I've saved them from potentially being exposed to the demon virus which has bequeathed the extreme evils of nausea that I have been wracked with. I made the mistake of trying to do "breakfast", aka a piece of plain toast and watery tea, this morning and have been paying for my sins ever since. Suffice to say it is seriously impressive that I have managed to sit upright for the past 15 minutes to try and write things.

I don't like being forced into the state of invalid. Have you ever noticed invalid is literally in-valid. Not valid. Sickness has caused me to become a human who is invalid to the world. I can't do anything. I simply just have to sit in my room with myself and work on keeping down my meager rations. It isn't exactly what I'd call fufilling my life ambitions. But, having been afforded (forced into) the luxury of confinement to my bed, where my inner ear has decided that even reading for any stretch of time is not allowed, I have had a lot of time to listen to music, and watch movies, and think about myself. In short activities I don't tend to allow myself to do often.

It's true I put music or the TV on in the background often. I like the noise in an empty room, somehow unless I really have to get nose to the grindstone the ambient sound strangely focuses my brain, as if the effort of keeping it out rallys together the rest of the troops. There are songs I like and know so well that the actual listening has sort of become unnecessary, the music and lyrics play out in my head before the literal song gets there. And stopping to think about where I am and what I'm doing is not usually an all day activity. I might do so here at the computer, but then it's confined to trying to fit my thoughts into a complete essay format. And as you fair readers might have noticed, now that the speed of life has picked up a bit, we seem to post on a weekly rather than daily basis.

Today however was a different story. For short stretches I could email, but again, it's monday and real people have jobs and stuff. The naseau kicked in a headache so loud noises were out, meaning phones were a necessity-only activity as well. So basically between trips to the porceline throne to purge my insides I really just had to sit and think. And heaving one's guts out on a semi-regular basis certainly puts a person in a peculiar state of mind. At first I had the standard "woe is me, why is the world out to get me" kind of feeling which sort of spiraled into a "re-examination of my current state of things is depressing" pity party. My soundtrack of the moment was fittingly a series of morose music by angsty women about my age. I know it was on shuffle so the coincidence that itunes stubbornly refused to seque into a lighter key is more than a little alarming.

I came in and out of sleep for most of the day and managed to shake the depress-fest feeling in the afternoon. At that point my inability to sit still had reached a fervor so I started imagining things that I wanted to do, both short term and long term, in life. And I have to say that it's a game I ought to play more often. I realize that rarely do people take the time to sit down and visualize what they want or where they want to go. It is indeed a little scary, as the morning's activities show, to be alone with one's own brain. Probably why I keep the low level noise on all the time. Or why I can fall into a spider solitare trance if I sit down at the computer without a specified purpose. But on the same token, as I sat and thought I realized there was a lot of brush and clutter floating around in my head.

There were all these ideas and dreams that were getting dusty, all these values and plans that I had made that were getting shoved to the side so that "Carton of eggs, call the painter, Power Flex class at 5:30 wednesday" could take prominant view. And today I took the time to dust them all off and check to see if they were still in working order. It was nice to clean up the ones that I intended to keep and put them back on the shelf shiny and clean. It was also a little tough to realize that others I'd been vaguely holding onto like that pair of jeans I fit in that one year in high school I got really thin weren't terribly useful any more. I've changed too much to really use those ideas any more even if they did comprise part of my self identification at one point.

Which is not to say that I've now 100 percent revamped my plans, they are pretty much the same to be honest, but I think that what I've done is checked the foundations for the house I'm trying to build and cut down some of the tangle weeds I'd been meaning to get to. Perhaps the unexamined life is indeed not worth living. And while I have no plans to get sick again any time soon and now feeling ok, I'm mildly thankful that someone or something made me slow down for a little bit to do so. Which I guess means that maybe God wasn't mad at me after all.

Still, I think I'll stay away from the blasphemy for a while...

Divine Physician

The most serious medical problem facing our nation is that presented by nervous and mental diseases. About eight million persons are thus afflicted. More than half the patients who visit their family doctor for some physical ailment are really suffering from some type of emotional disorder. Nervous and mental disease takes a larger toll than do cancer, infantile paralysis, and tuberculosis combined. More than half of all the hospital beds in this country are occupied by mental patients.

- Father Lawrence G Lovasik

Forward to St. Dymphna: Patron of the Nervous and Emotionally Disturbed

The startling facts presented above would upset and disturb anyone who might read them. Though around 555,000 Americans will die from cancer (1) and with the advent of AIDS tuberculosis rates are on the rise to 776 (2), mental illness is sweeping our nation in greater vim and vigor. [Ed. Note: No one, it turns out, is dying from infantile paralysis (aka polio) any more, but there were 2 reported cases in the Dominican Republic and 7 in Haiti (3). So I figure you could add at least 10 more people to your theoretical "crazy" count.] Given these upsetting statistics, it is hard to believe that few people have realized how serious and far reaching the problem of mental illness is. It's almost as hard to believe as the amazing statistical coincidence that both half the number of people visiting doctors and half the patients occupying beds in hospitals are actually just mentally ill. Unlike Tom Cruise, Father Lovasik does not think this problem can just be solved with vitamins and exercise. No, what the nervous and disturbed really need is someone they can pray to.

Which is where Saint Dymphna comes in. Patron Saint Dymphna (pronounced dimf-na) is one of the lesser known saints. So much so that many people in the United States have not even heard of her. The handy pamphlet detailing her life and works that I bought a few months back in a Catholic memorabilia store on east Passyunk aims however, to remedy that situation. When buying it I resisted the "do it yourself" rhythm method book, complete with red stickers with tiny babies embossed on them to put on the calendar for "off limits" days. I figured if I bought both the store owner would just know I was going to use them for the purposes of mockery. This way I figured he'd just assume I needed mental help. That or one reading at a time, provide solace to those suffering from nervous prostration.

The details of Dymphna's life are spotty at best. Little is known about her short, though pious life. Born in the 7th century in Ireland, Dymphna was brought up by a reasonably well-landed pagan despite the country's almost universal devotion to Catholicism. Though it is said her mother was of noble descent, exceptionally beautiful and a pious and devout Christian, believing in Catholicism and the teachings of Cathol, it is also said her mother died while the girl was still in early adolescence, leaving her in the care of her lusty, power hungry, not mention ugly, father. Why a devout and chaste 7th century Catholic noble would marry said pagan in the first place doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but I suppose it's best not to dwell on such matters.

In any event, Dymphna was left at 14 in the wake of her mother's death. Her father, struck by grief, apparently went mad and the girl was entrusted to the care of a local priest who taught her to read and write and consecrate her virginity to God. So things it seemed were all well and good until the depression and nervous anxiety brought on by his wife's death forced Dymphna's father to try and fill his void of longing. Which apparently entails trying to sleep with his daughter since she looked reasonably like her mother.

It's important to note her that the text specifies that it was only "under the stress of mental illness and passion" that the pagan king was willing to follow this scandalous proposal. That and his refusal to believe in the Catholic deity. Dymphna, resistant to the grip of mental disease and nervous prostration, due to her pious nature and upbringing seemed not to be persuaded by her father's proposal. And despite her disgust at his advances, would not have engaged with a man towards marriage as she'd already had set on becoming a nun anyway.

Conundrum indeed.

So Dymphna poses the matter to Father Gerebran and the two decide they will run away together along with two family friends, the court jester and the jester's wife. Naturally. The rag tag crew rows their way from Ireland to Belgium (well done indeed!) and settled in what is now modern day Gheel where Dymphna began to pass her days caring for the sick and nervously afflicted.

And so things went until the father, sick with desire, finds the company and cuts off Father Gerebran's head. Apparently, he didn't like the middle aged priest shacking up with his now 15 year old daughter as that was his job. Dymphna had the nerve to tell him as much. A poor choice given that once the resemblance to his wife stopped calming the ills of his disease ravaged mind since she didn't want to take on the role directly, he just called it a day and cut off her head as well. Though minus a head, the whole bloody scenario did land Dymphna the official title of martyr. Reward I suppose for saving her virginity from her "violently insane" father.

The villagers of Gheel noting her divine love for her parent, despite his illness and nervous prostration, (and cutting off her head) erected a shrine to Dymphna. Shortly thereafter the townsfolk began to bring their mentally ill there as a last resort before being sent away to asylums. Amazingly, more than one vehemently disturbed person was "instantly cured" upon praying to Dymphna's relics. Dymphna was declared an official saint in 1431 and to this day it is said that the town of Gheel (pop. 18,000 people) is a haven for treatment of such persons. This means that of the 18K that reside in Gheel, three thousand are currently considered "mentally unstable." This is due in part to the fashionable nature of housing the afflicted in one's personal home. Wanderers from areas remote can come to Gheel and ask to be "treated" by families looking to take in a few extra people. In fact since the Middle Ages it was taken as a sign of good family standing to have at least two or three nervous or emotionally disturbed persons residing in one's home.

So there you have it. If you are mentally deranged you now know where to head. Gheel may be a long way off, but think of it this way, at least you don't have to row there.

Also, In case you were wondering, you can receive a catalog of Father Lovasik's publications by writing to the following address:

Father Lawrence G Lovasik
211 W 7th Ave
Tarentum PA, 15084

I don't really know who will answer your letter given that according to the back panel, Father Lovasik himself shuffled off this mortal coil some twenty years ago, but I'm sure whoever is in charge of his estate would be happy to send you some more "enlightening" information. The back of my booklet also says that you can order meditations both written and read by the late padre on either vinyl or cassette tape.

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(1) Cancer Stats from American Cancer Society
(2) TB and AIDS from about.com
(3) Polio Stats from NCHS