I'll admit to being an overachiever. I'm about to embark in some heavy duty class work in order to get a master's and another bachelor's degree within the next few years. Crazy, yes, but it'll be worth it.
So before I hit the books again in the fall, I'm... hitting the books. I've gone ahead and requested the book list for my classes from the bookstore and have borrowed most of them from the library to read over the summer. The plan is to have them all read so all I have to do during the semester is review. Considering I have some twelve books for two classes alone, this isn't a bad idea as far as I can tell.
Right now I'm reading Livy's "Rome and Italy", and is he ever the comedian. Alright, so Livy isn't actually funny intentionally, but some of his stories are downright hilarious. Of course, most people probably wouldn't see the humor for what it was, considering the fact that history is all boring windbag chum stuff. This isn't true of course, and I think what I most want out of teaching history is the chance to get a smile out of the boring same old same old.
Take for instance this story that got me in a fit on the bus. While you have to take Livy with a grain of salt for his tendencies for make believe, his artistic liberties are still too dry for today's standard, so this is my own telling.
The year was 311 BCE, or BC if you like. Rome was facing war. Woo. Who cares about stupid old wars, aye? And trust me, there were a few to read about. Now see, I personally like war stories, but it seems that war is the number one complaint I hear from people. It's not interesting. It's just a bunch of battles. They're all the same. These are the common excuses. How many war stories have you read though where they include all the minor details? I once read a fictionalized account of the siege of Malta where the author included the instances of defecation in the middle of battle.
Example (my own): Cesar felled the Turk in one blow across the face. His bowels moved in response to the burst of energy, and he squat down to relieve himself. As he sat vulnerable another heathen raised his sword to strike, and Cesar reacted by scooping up his waste and flung it in his enemy's eyes. This bought Cesar the time he needed to release the remainder of his rations and thrust his sword up under the bearded fiend's armor.
Yes, I'm serious. That was how every battle was played out in this book, which gave me a whole new appreciation for war and how funny it might actually be. So the next time you have to read yet another account of Gettysburg, just think of all the awkward farts you could insert with the screaming and cannon fire.
Anyway, back to Livy. As I said, it was 311 BCE and Rome was at war. For some reason the censors thought that the most pressing matter to deal with was the fact that those pesky pipe-players were eating in the temple of Jupiter like they always had. Instead of counting things like people because, you know, people get lost all the time and need to be counted, some stupid musicians were doing what Romans do best which is doing what they'd been doing for years and had to be stopped. The nerve!
So the pipe-players (whom I imagine sound much like Noel Fielding does as Richmond in The IT Crowd) say, "Well that's right uncouth of you. We'll just leave then, shall we? Rome is cramping our style anyway, we need to find a new muse. Cheers." They turn tail and walk out the city, leaving the Romans behind to feel the breeze blow through their skulls. After talking to Darkness once again and again and not quite being inspired like Simon and Garfunkel, the Romans started wailing and gnashing their teeth.
"Where are our musicians?" they cried, their fingers tugging at their horribly bleached hair that no doubt was full of fecal shampoo matter (see my blog on cosmetics), "How can we have music without players? I've had 'Friday' stuck in my head since last Thursday, the day before last Friday, and if only someone would play it I might be free of it!" Alas, there was no one left in the city to play the tune, and the citizens were left frantically trying to pick a seat to sit in at the Circus Maximus. Women were suddenly sitting with their husbands, and slaves were sitting in the front seats... it was a mess.
Meanwhile, in the town of Tibur, the pipe-players were finding the inspiration to write new music. Suddenly free of censorship (haha), they were indulging in new harmonies and writing racy lyrics. Too racy even for their Roman patrons who were notorious for their erotic cakes and... other things of that nature. Oh yes, those pipe-players were having a grant old time until news came to the Tiburtines that Rome wanted their pipers to come back. The Tiburtines, not wanting to anger the Romans who were... well... THE FREAKING ROMANS, promised that they'd do their best.
Flavus Venterus, the chief of the Tiburtines, dared to approach the pipe-players who had been so long removed from Rome that they had abandoned Roman modes of grooming and were now braiding each other's hair as though they were barbarians.
"Um, hello, lovely hair you have there. The flowers are a nice touch," he said, shaking in his sandals appropriately. These were still Romans, and his name was Flavus Venterus, "We, um, just wanted to know how long you'd be staying? In Tibur?"
Spurius Leninus, an ancestor of the number one D-bag of music John Lennon, was the leader of these first hippies. He showed no sign of having heard Flavus for a few moments before he finally responded, "When winter comes in summer, when there's no love forever, when lies become the truth..." His eyes focused now on Flavus. "Oh no, those are crap lyrics, aren't they? Yeah. Well... we don't plan on leaving. You've got some nice grass here. Smooth doobie."
"So no chance of leaving then?" Flavus Venterus felt a warm liquid running down his shins as his muscles relaxed in disappointment (hey, this is a battle of a kind, and every detail counts).
"Yeah, sorry, mate," Spurius strummed defiantly at the strings of his instrument, and added a new retort, "Peace out." With that the conversation was over, and Flavus Venterus had a growing pest control problem on his hands.
Now the best way to make friends, they say, is to have booze. Lots and lots of it, because people like to be inebriated and vulnerable for the selection of nature to come around and deny them another day. Why more drunks don't die off because of the mere stupidity of their actions under the influence of alcohol is beyond me, but it's a tried and tested fact that people with booze have friends. As it turns out, it's also a great way to use and abuse people. Which is what Flavus planned to do.
So of course the Tiburtines have a lot of wine, just in case they need to make nice with the Romans, aye? Why not throw a bash for the pipe-players as though to make nice, but actually make prank instead? Musicians love getting pissed, and didn't these guys know it. They were smoking the park lawn like there was something to be had in burning plant matter next to your face. So they threw a big party, just for Spurius and Co, and had all the wine these guys could drink. Drink they did, and drunk they got. Perfect. For good measure the Tiburtines kicked the pipers in their heads to make sure they were really good and pissed.
The next step was to get these drunks out, but how? Well, all that healthy vegan diet crap had made the pipers little more that skin and bones, so they were easy to lift. Flavus had his men carry the sleeping musicians to carts, where they were flung into piles like dead bodies. The carts were driven directly to Rome, which couldn't have been all that far away then, considering that the next morning in the middle of the Forum Spurius and his buddies woke feeling groggy and in want of some Advil. Taking a look around them, the musicians noted that in the crowd surrounding the carts, creepily watching the snoozers, several of the best hair dressers in all of Rome were grinning with shiny shears in their hands.
The censor who had banished them, Appius Claudius (who happens to be the only person not made up in this story), raised his hand in accusation, and spoke in proper ye olde fashion, "These men do wreak of filth and are thus to be cleansed and reinstated as the official flutists of Rome and are never to leave here again. So let it be written... by Livy... in three hundred years time, so let it be done." Everybody was in a Cecil B DeMille picture in those days.
The Romans were so happy to have music again, that they revoked the ban on picnicking in the temple of Jupiter, and allowed the pipers to play whatever they wanted. Suddenly cakes were more erotic and teenagers more foul mouthed. Parents blamed it on the music, but secretly liked it themselves. The pipers were allowed to wear whatever they wanted and promptly experimented with sequins and platform sandals. The censors, though, thought that the leather body suits were a bit too much and reduced their dress privileges to fancy togas three days out of the year. The crisis was over.
Then suddenly Rome was at war again. Men from all over lined up and took turns poking at each other with pointy bits of metal, as they often do in war. Nobody pooped or peed or flung poo, as you wouldn't expect in any old boring war, and things ended rather uneventfully. Soldiers told their stories and improved their wounds and bored children to death talking about how they'd lost their heads but were miraculously able to recount the tale today because they didn't really. Yep. That's war for you; boring old war.
Spurius, by the way, inspired anew by these sluggish endeavors, wrote several anti-war ballads and won an Orpheus for best performing artist. This got to his head, and he started to preach his word, demanding praise and tribute. His life ended quickly when he was stabbed to death by an adoring fan who took the whole idol worship thing too seriously and went crazy. They say his killer had a copy of "The Dogs Say Goodnight" by Judius Salinjius, and the publication was banned forever. The End.
No comments:
Post a Comment