Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Allow me to be pedantic...
Welcome to the Circus Maximus.
Allow me to be annoyingly pedantic. And, I fear, some of what I'm about to say may be incorrect, so I apologize for any amount of authority in the tone, if, that is, it detectable at all. The truth is, one can never be too sure about these things.
The Circus Maximus is one of, I believe, the more interesting historical sites of Rome. Many of the early scholars on ancient Rome misread certain key historical texts, and erroneously assumed that where these texts said most of the early Christians were killed in the "Arena", what they meant was "Colosseum." Though there is still much scholarly debate about this, from what I gather as an amateur historian is that the argument is tilting more and more towards the Circus Maximus. The Colosseum was for more professional sports; killing Christians was no sport at all. For mass killings they needed larger areas. Using their line of reason, it was probably much more fun to watch a lion chase a man over the large distance offered by the Circus Maximus, than to watch one go round in tight circles at the Colosseum. This is what my professional historian teachers have told me, at least. What is unfortunate about the Circus Maximus is apparant in the picture: there is nothing left. Nothing. Not even a stone. There aren't even any markers indicating the historical importance of the place; if indeed my teachers' arguments can be trusted, this is a travesty. What can be seen in the distance are the ruins of the Palantine hill, the hill upon which Romulus famously (though mythically) established Rome. It is also where we get the word "Palace." Beyond that is the Capitoline hill, where we get another important word, "Capitol."
In 1749, Pope Benedetto XIV ("Benedetto" literally means "well read"; for all intents and purposes, we shall now refer to him as "Pope Wellread the 14th") declared the Colosseum a religious monument. The Colosseum still stands today because of this assumption that Christians were killed in there, maimed, crucified, burned, fed to lions, and all sorts of other generally unpleasant things. There is a fair chance that they were, especially in the middle years of the Roman Empire (ho-hum estimation: 150-250) but the most revered group of these early martyrs, died in the Circus Maximus, which is not standing. The Circus Maximus was about 2000 feet long and about 400 feet wide. It could seat a quarter of a million spectators: 5 times as many as the Colosseum. I imagine it was pretty spectacular.
When (and if) Nero famously burned Rome to the ground, he did not play the violin, since the violin would not be invented for another 1500 years, but he very well may have played the lyre. One way or the other, some believe his intention was to clear out a section of Rome, where he wanted to build his "Domus Aurea," or, "Golden Palace." The area of Rome burned? Mostly right where the Colosseum stands today. The fire started just a little ways behind where I stood when I took this picture to the right. This is no coincidence. Nero succeeded in building his Golden Palace. A few years later, under the emperor Vespasian, the Golden Palace was largely demolished. On top of it, the Colosseum was constructed. But the Golden Palace, in its day, was one of the most decadent buildings of the ancient world, something sure to be costly and sure to generate a fair amount of unrest in a populace whose homes had just been burned. In order to save himself a little bit from an angry mob, he declared quite simple that it was the Christians who set fire to Rome. It was a brilliant political move, almost as brilliant as when, some 200 odd years later, another emperor, Constantine, would declare Christianity the official state religion. At the time, the Christians were a small, growing religious group who operated in secrecy and who were led by two names I'm sure we all know: Peter and Paul. After Nero used them as a scapegoat, the Christians were rounded up. Here is a passage from the Roman historian Tacitus:
Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judaea, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome, where all things hideous and shameful from every part of the world find their centre and become popular. Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind. Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired
The place where much of this happened, it would appear, is in the Circus Maximus. The fire was in 64AD; the Colosseum would not be built for another decade, would not be completed for another 2.
Fleeing the city, Peter had his famous "Quo Vadis" vision in which Jesus appeared to him as he walked along the Appian Way (which is what I drive along when coming into the city in my roommate's car), heading towards Rome. Peter asked him "Where are you going?" to which Jesus replied something along the lines of, "To be crucified again." Peter, ashamed of himself, turned and walked back to Rome, to be crucified upside down.
I believe most of the Christians were killed on the other side of the Tiber, near where St. Peter's stands. But the possibility that much of it happened here, in Rome's first and largest circus, cannot be ruled out. Even if these assumptions are incorrect, there must've been a helluva lot of amazing chariot races.
This is where I go to read books in the afternoon.
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n the chief's office, I light a ceremonial candle and pray for a fellow cop who has been kidnapped, making a mental note to pick up more "Kidnapped Cop" prayer candles along with a few packs of "Someone In The Department Has Been Stealing Supplies" candles while I'm at it. Where do these things go?
As far as the kidnapping case goes, there's not much to work with. All we know is that the suspects are Asian. There's a lot of those guys in China. Hell, I'm one of them. This could get tricky.
A call comes in from one of the punks involved with the kidnapping, instructing us to send one police officer into the farmer's market - alone - to find a "golden rabbit". The chief hangs up the phone and threatens to send an entire SWAT team into the market, but I talk him into letting me go instead. I'm way better than the SWAT team. Those guys are all colorblind, and I can spot a golden rabbit from a foot away.
Entering an alley on the outskirts of the marketplace, I squint my eyes and chew on a matchstick as I wait for the trap that's about to spring. Matchsticks aren't the tastiest things in the world, but I'm trying to kick the nasty habit of walking around with a lollipop in my mouth, which in turn was a surrogate for my original habit of walking around with lollipops in my pockets. When one of those bastards melts, you get a grape-flavored bikini wax with every step you take.
A group of men emerge from the back doors of seedy apartment buildings and restaurants on either side of me. My experience as a hardened cop tells me that they're bad guys. It's all in their wolf-like expressions, the way they carry themselves, and the guns they're using to shoot at me.
Instinct takes over. Before I know it, my trusty guns are out and time seems to slow down. The first thing they teach you in the academy is to shoot an object in the general vicinity of your enemy and hope it falls with enough force and precision to kill or incapacitate him. Thankfully, each one of the thugs I'm facing is standing directly below a heavy neon sign that hasn't been properly bolted in place. The fight's over before the first scumbag's lifeless body hits the ground.
I descend and ascend a few flights of stairs by running on inch-wide handrails (it's way easier to shoot while doing this than to simply walk on the stairs themselves), taking out a few more rounds of baddies with the help of gravity and conveniently placed neon signs. Thank goodness the businesses in this neighborhood blew their advertising budgets on the garbage-strewn back alleys behind their stores.
Finally I reach the market, a large alley bustling with activity and watermelons. Everywhere I look there are watermelons being bought, sold, and forced to brutalize each other in watermelon fighting pits. An elderly woman selling lemons is escorted from the market amidst a roar of boos. I can barely contain my excitement in the presence of so much watermelon.
Something catches my eye. A smug doofus in a chauffeur cap is leaning against a corkboard beneath a golden sign with a picture of a rabbit on it. Can that be the "golden rabbit" I'm looking for? It's a longshot, but I approach the man, pushing my way through the crowd and resisting the urge to shoot the sign.
Chauffeur Cap Guy vanishes just as I approach, leaving behind a manila envelope on the corkboard. My stomach turns as I turn the envelope over and the missing cop's badge falls out. There's a bullet hole in it, confirming my worst fear: These guys have no respect for private property. God only knows what they did to the poor guy's wallet.
A new team of bad guys swarm the market with guns drawn. There are hardly any signs overhead, so it looks like I'll have to do this the old fashioned way. I slide on my ass for about thirty feet on a tract of watermelon goop and come to rest against a watermelon cart, kicking the owner in the chest to get him out of the line of fire and to avenge my pants, which have now been completely ruined.
The firefight that ensues is long and intense. Bad guys keep coming from every doorway imaginable, but I manage to stay alive by thinking quick, scooting my ass back and forth on a counter like an idiot the entire time. I do this primarily to make myself a moving (and therefore harder to hit) target, but the tactic has the added benefit of amusing me. Long after I've dispensed of the last enemy, I continue this stationary slalom and clap excitedly.
When I've had my share of fun, I get up and head into the nearby (what else?) alley, where Chauffeur Cap Guy and three of his buddies are waiting for me with guns drawn. Looks like I'm in the middle of an old-fashioned standoff.
I demand to be told who's behind the kidnapping, and Chauffeur Cap Guy is so confident in my imminent demise that he spills the names Gold and King. He even goes so far as to tell me they can be found at a nearby tea house.
"It's a good thing that's just down the block", I say as my index fingers tighten on the triggers. "I don't have a driver's license."
All hell breaks loose. Thankfully, everyone takes turns shooting at me and I escape with a few minor gutshots and two rounds to my face.
As I walk through a doorway that opens up to another alley, my cell goes off. It's the captain, telling me there's something big going down at the tea house.
A man in a golden suit pops out of nowhere and takes a few shots at me.
"Hey!" I yell after him, "I'm on the phone you asshole!"
Wait a second. Didn't Chauffeur Cap Guy tell me about two guys named Gold and King? That guy in the golden suit... could it be King? I chase after him for a few blocks until I find myself at the tea house.
Time to play it cool. I stroll in, sit at the bar, and order my favorite drink: a tequila with Sprite, no pepperoni. I knock back the contents of the glass before me in one gulp, then regret my decision immediately. Damn these tip jars. The bartender returns with the drink I ordered, and I nurse it while keeping tabs on my surroundings.
On the second floor balcony, the man in the golden suit and some tattooed musclehead are planning my demise. I smile to myself. Go ahead, drive a tank through the door. I'll still have the tactical advantage thanks to the polished surface of this bar. I could slide back and forth on this baby for days.
Torture, plagiarism, and homoeroticism - it's a triple threat!
It's understandable- if not excusable- that kids of my era, mid-twenties kids reared on MTV, still look back on the first two Weezer albums with misty eyes. Weezer was easy music in a difficult era, a perfect starting point for a twelve-year-old just starting to notice music. Amid the turbulence and suicide, Weezer was a calculated effort to rehash and modernize the simpler pleasures of The Cars and Cheap Trick. They had quirky lyrics, silly videos, and an indie façade tacked to a major-label budget.
It's easy to see, in retrospect, that Weezer was a money-grub from day one: fake-indie, custom-stitched by Geffen to attract those youngsters who weren't quite canny enough to recognize authenticity. It only takes one glance at a video like Buddy Holly or one spin of a track like El Scorcho to recognize that Weezer was merely Pavement with training wheels. They had the ironic arena-rock pretensions of Dinosaur Jr. without the drilling fuzz (although, as we've seen in recent years, Weezer's arena aspirations weren't so "ironic" after all), the nerdy girl-trouble lyrics of Sebadoh without the tape hiss, and, most obviously, the referential slacker-chic of Pavement without the brains. It was phony. It was Kidz Bop: Indie Rock Edition.
Of course, it takes a miserable cynic to assert that there's anything wrong with callously assimilating "hip" influences and recycling them as mass-market, double-platinum pabulum; it's been the bread and butter of the music industry since there's been a music industry. However, as you all certainly know by now, I am a miserable cynic. If the abysmal "Green Album," "Maladroit" and "Make Believe" didn't already cause you to reevaluate your opinion of Weezer, now is the time to start.
Many of you, despite having grown up, still revere the "Blue Album." Look back over it with a critical eye, and lay your fond associations with puberty aside: you loved the album when you were twelve because it's written for twelve-year-olds. It was a non-threatening invitation to the big-kid clubhouse. That's not a metaphor, that's specific: listen to "In The Garage" (pronounced "grodge") if you don't believe me. The cool big brother vibe of the album is meticulously constructed and impossible to deny, albeit by means of some of the worst lyrics ever commercially released:
In the grodge
I feel safe
No one cares about my ways
In the grodge
Where I belong
No one hears me sing this song
In the grudge
And more troubling still:
You take your car to work
I'll take my board
And when you're out of fuel
I'm still afloat
Rivers Cuomo: The Emo Woody Allen
Pinkerton, now retroactively canonized as a rock classic by lazy critics, was little more than a slapped-together sophomore slump given longevity by the mere fact that it appealed to the lowest common denominator of pubescent male emotion. In fact, Pinkerton represents a landmark in the current mass-media perception of "emo": while bearing little resemblance to actual emo music, Pinkerton was so acutely pathetic that it managed to practically redefine the term, helping to usher in the era of emo as "pop-punk + whining" that we enjoy so well today. The indelible image of a shy, cardigan-clad and thick-rimmed Cuomo is the template for a million Myspace photos.
Rivers Cuomo, in effect, is one of the main reasons your little brother is such a queer.
Rolling Stone's original two-and-a-half-star review of Pinkerton had it pegged: some catchy tunes, boundless clichéd "why doesn't she like me" lyrics, and not a lot of substance. The fact that this review was later amended to five stars speaks more of Rolling Stone's total lack of critical integrity than for any meaningful reevaluation of Weezer's work; at the merest hint that the winds of public opinion blew in a more Pinkerton-friendly direction, Rolling Stone caved in to popular consensus (as they so often do). Pinkerton is, just as it always has been, a shabby, juvenile, two-dimensional record. The naked emotional honesty of a grown man with the stunted emotions of a sadsack teenager is about as compelling as that picture Calvin drew of a polar bear blinking in a snowstorm.
And shoddy as these albums were, they're Revolver and Sergeant Pepper's compared to what would follow.
Disappointed by the relative commercial failure of Pinkerton and admittedly embarrassed by its lyrics, Cuomo nudged the band into a half-decade hiatus, during which Rivers Cuomo went to Harvard and bassist Matt Sharp quit the band to form the obnoxiously tongue-in-cheek Rentals. After years of internet fan-clamoring, Weezer returned in 2001 with the undeniably reprehensible Green Album, a plodding half-hour of dimestore tunes and audacious musical laziness.
Did you just fall out of a New Radicals video?
Every single song on the Green Album follows the same structure; most appallingly, each and every song features an interlude during which the vocal melody is played, unembellished, on an electric guitar. Perhaps these interludes were merely placeholders where guitar solos were supposed to go, but Rivers forgot to go back in and redo them. Perhaps he was simply too lazy to expend even the most modest additional energy on his already sparse songwriting. As it stands, however, they make the record sound like little more than an insult to any fan foolish enough to expect Weezer to put any effort whatsoever into their comeback.
Having left behind the hypersensitive lyrics of Pinkerton and the quirks of their debut, the Green Album marked Weezer's abandonment of any vestige of "alternative" image; though they rankled MTV censors with a song called "Hash Pipe" about a transsexual prostitute, they miraculously managed to refit themselves as a cutesy teenybopper band, partially on the strength of the "Island in the Sun" single, a massive international hit that featured prominently in Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen's cinematic masterpiece "Holiday in the Sun."
Although their next album, Maladroit, fared slightly better on the musical side, its complete lack of compelling material- or even decent singles- confirmed that the dismal Green Album wasn't merely a fluke. Weezer had lost it, if indeed they ever had it, and it wasn't coming back. The slight, empty "Dope Nose" managed strong radio airplay but was so scant on hooks that it barely registered in the brain. After hearing it once or twice, it could slip by completely undetected; I'm sure reports of UFO activity skyrocketed following its release, with radio listeners experiencing "lost time" during their drives. "I don't know what happened," they might say. "One minute the DJ was announcing the new Weezer single, and next thing I knew, it was three minutes later and I had no recollection of anything happening."
Weezer's arena-rock pretensions catch up to them.
"Keep Fishin'," with its adorable Muppet video, was Maladroit's stab at an "Island in the Sun," a cute throwaway for the "tween" market (doesn't that word sound dirty? It always makes me think of "t'aint"). Full of awkward transitions and sloppy wordplay, it was perhaps the most unmitigated artistic failure yet in Weezer's catalogue of singles. But lackluster as it was, nothing could prepare the world for how patently offensive Weezer could still become.
News of Weezer's breakup didn't surprise me much. It was between the lines as soon as "Beverly Hills" hit the radio, and it was writ large on the wall at the moment "We Are All on Drugs," one of the worst rock singles of all time, limped sheepishly onto the airwaves. With their (hopefully) final album, Make Believe, Weezer finally managed to embarrass themselves clean out of existence. Make Believe, produced by contemptible schlocksmith Rick Rubin, is a shameful, detestable affair. The singles were prodigiously bad. "Beverly Hills," even by the standards of the most ruthlessly commercial band, would be a sell-out. "Beverly Hills" would be a sell-out if the goddamn Pussycat Dolls released it. It's a piece of merchandise. It's a fucking Tickle Me Elmo. "Perfect Situation" sounds like the sort of song the All-American Rejects would have written circa 1992. "But Dave," you might object, "the All-American Rejects would have been like eight years old in 1992." Exactly.
Though I faulted the guitar interludes on the Green Album for being overly simplistic to the point of absurdity, the guitar solos on Make Believe are needlessly ornate and corny beyond belief; the vocoded Frampton antics on "Beverly Hills" sound like Donald Duck imitating Hendrix with a kazoo, and the solo in "Perfect Situation" sounds like it's ripped clean from a Skid Row monster ballad. Worse yet is "This is Such a Pity," which sounds for all the world like a Don Henley b-side, with a high-octane dual guitar blowout that could have trickled straight out of Glenn Frey's urethra.
A musical and lyrical abomination, "Make Believe" has placed Weezer high among the ranks of the most irrelevant corporate rock machines in existence. Hopefully it was some sense of human decency, maybe even some remaining shred of pride, that caused Rivers Cuomo to dissolve the band at both the height of their commercial success and the terminal abyss of their artistic achievement. Perhaps he'll go the route of former bassist Matt Sharp, who released a low-profile, sad-bastard album in 2004. Perhaps he'll continue his bizarre quest for new-age quasi-spiritual bullshit self-betterment and release Moonie motivational albums. Maybe, just maybe- maybe if we're all good little boys and girls and wish really, really hard- he'll just fade politely away.
- Dr. David Thorpe
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