'o Aghios Polycarp; or, so maybe your life doesn't suck as hard as you think.

Shortly before he left our office to move to Kansas (Motto: Crack an Oz joke and I’ll impale you with a tire iron), my coworker Charlie gave me a very special gift:

A badger’s severed head preserved in Greek Hymettus honey.

Hahahaha! I wish. No, what Charlie gave me was a set of houseplants which I, of course, proceeded to name. Botanists agree that houseplants have a longer life expectancy if you converse with them, and I would find it unspeakable if I couldn’t address my xylem-possessed friends by their names. After careful consideration, I named all of my houseplants after Christian martyrs. If by “careful” I mean “nearly instantaneous”, then yes.

I can see it now: A bunch of martyrs are getting together in The Beyond for a game of gin rummy and a few cold ones – hey, why not? – and they collectively groan. “Shit, bitch”, Bartholomew whines. “Here I am, holding my flayed skin on my lap and, other than Eternal Reward, what the eff do I get? A plant in some asshole’s kitchen gets named after me. Pass another bottle of suds; I’m not DD tonight and I’ll be damned if I leave sober.”

The best name, though, was reserved for the weird palm-tree-looking plant in my living room. A favorite of Balthazar’s, the plant has endured endless “attention” as of late, which makes his name all the more appropriate. His name is Polycarp.

No, asses, that doesn’t mean “many carp.” *extends middle finger slowly*

Polycarp was a first century martyr who lived in what is now Turkey. Many of Saint Paul’s letters to Asian communities (Ephesus, Smyrna, Galatia) actually were addressed to Polycarp. Anyway, as always happens in these stories, he pisses off the Romans who decide he’s to be put to death. So, they gather a bunch of wood and chain him to a stake and prepare to barbecue him, but just as the executioner approaches with the torch, a mighty wind howls forth from the heavens and snuffs it. Undaunted, he tries again, but this time the sky opens and begins to weep sweet rain on the pyre. Getting more agitated, the executioner waits for the squall to disperse and then lights it again. This time, the fire catches, but Polycarp remains unscathed amidst the flames, praying intensely. The executioner (who “isn’t getting paid enough for this shit, thankyouverymuch”) then runs Polycarp through with a spear. A massive jet of inky-black water pours forth from the wound and extinguishes the fire and then miraculously seals itself. By this time, the amassed Romans weren’t even eating their popcorn anymore; this just wasn’t funny. So, in the ensuing hush they haul him off the pyre and hack his head off.

The lesson of Polycarp’s martyrdom is apparent, yet I am not entirely sure that it’s a positive message. Is it “God will save you only so many times before He gets bored”? Or is it “Tick anyone you can off until someone beheads you”?

Myself? Well, I’m holding out hope that, one day, I too can hose someone down with a jet of liquidy blackness.



Until Wednesday, I remain,

Domonic