Even in a fairer, better world there would be days, weeks and even years during which our work seemed like a heavy burden.
For such moments of long defeat, the gods gave us diversions and the skill to amuse ourselves, even in physically or emotionally draining circumstances.
For some mysterious reason (perhaps the sudden and welcome chill in the air here in the northeastern US or the recent mention of Milton) I found myself remembering a long-ago job which consisted almost entirely of diversions, lovingly crafted by my friend, Zardoya.
It was a marketing gig. Unlike most marketing jobs which are aimed at the general populace, the target group was the senior management of Fortune 500 and 1000 corporations. We had what you might call the dark majesty of UPenn's Wharton biz school acting as our door opener (Wharton maintains a facility called the Aresty Institute of Executive Education...an interesting place). Executive secretaries would take our calls and executives would return them because we offered owners and ruling managers a chance to get away from it all -- in quaint old Bruges or otaku rich Tokyo or on the Penn campus amidst the majestic ruins of ancient Philly -- meeting and greeting like-minded titans, discussing the world's fate while inserting the words 'synergy' and 'globalization' into nearly every sentence. This is how I got a chance to argue MITI policy with a high-placed Sony exec. I'd just finished reading Karel von Wolferen's _The Enigma of Japanese Power_ and was full of youthful opinions which poured out like toothpaste from a tube.
Well, for all the corporate glitz and glitter the job was dull. Deadly dull. As epically dull as all the dullness of past, present and future gathered together and shaped into a sky scraping ziggurat of dull.
Happily, Zardoya was there to help.
Zardoya had four passions:
* Richard III (the play)
* Women of all shapes, sizes and colors
* Kicking the ass of white guys who had a problem with non-whites
* Paradise Lost
At any given moment, he might break the thick silence of a slowly moving Summer afternoon with a passage from the play:
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them - Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
[...]
It's funny that Richard's declaration of war on the world -- partially inspired by his un-beauty and consequent zero luck with the ladies -- was one of Zardoya's favorite passages. Funny, because Zardoya was the antimatter opposite of Richard's self-description. Today, we might say Zardoya enjoyed a Tiger Woods level of activity (without the adultery, WTF? and personal Ragnarok aspects). One of our friends remarked: "Damn! Panties seem to fly off into oblivion whenever you walk into a room."
Yeah, he did well for himself romantically. I enjoyed the relaxed, self-assured company while club hopping.
Oh yes, the fights. The bar fights.
There were quite a few. For example...
One night, a local bar -- a popular hangout with grad students -- offered an evening's worth of free drinks to anyone who could answer a series of history questions. I competed against some Pillsbury Dough boyish character. I was ahead by one. The answer to the final question was Dien Bien Phu. I got it right, Dough boy got it wrong. Apparently, losing brought out the KKK in him because his half-drunken response to this very minor setback was to mutter "n-word" under his breath.
I was going to let it go. Aside from winning free drinks my goal for the night involved getting to know a certain redhead much, much better. Zardoya however, had other, more martial ideas. He slowly swiveled his chair towards me and smiled. I imagined it to be the sort of smile Achilles might have flashed as he pulled Hector's mangled body behind his chariot. "Yes," I said, I guess it is, as we say, on."
I lost a tooth that night but you should've seen the other guy. Glorious.
Finally, let's bring Milton to the table.
Zardoya loved Paradise Lost without restraint, without apology, without concern for the quotations (and he quoted the work often) which confused or enchanted anyone around. And of all the characters Milton crafted, Zardoya loved Satan most of all.
...
A frigid night, when the sky was almost clear enough to see our galaxy's heart. We went to a cozy little strip club he frequented. A woman from Argentina -- as softly beautiful as a Dickenson poem about death -- sat in Zardoya's lap. Her interest extended beyond the usual entertainer/customer funds exchange. As she sat, he whispered in her ear. I settled in with a drink, listening to 'Dominique' try to talk me into the "Champagne Room".
What's going to happen in the Champagne Room, lovely Dominique?
Oh, you know sweetie...
I did, but didn't want to part with the cash. I suggested Dominique relax and hang out for a little bit -- not long enough to lose a lot of profit but for a little while -- telling me about her day while I slowly sipped myself into a sweeter and sweeter buzz. She did. For much longer than I anticipated.
While Dominique happily kvetched, Zardoya continued whispering in Ingrid's ear. She was, transfixed. I could see I'd be taking a cab home alone that night. Dominique heavily hinted at meeting after work. I knew I wouldn't be much fun and so begged off. No rush. There'd be other nights like this before I died.
Days later, I asked Z what he'd whispered in Ingrid's ear. He leaned in close and said:
This boot licking punk, this angel tried to convince Satan to give in, to repent, to bow down before the Son of God, some conjured thing, dreamed up by God on a whim.
Fuck that, Satan said:
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers, If these magnific Titles yet remain Not meerly titular, since by Decree Another now hath to himself ingross't All Power, and us eclipst under the name Of King anointed, for whom all this haste Of midnight march, and hurried meeting here, This onely to consult how we may best With what may be devis'd of honours new Receive him coming to receive from us Knee-tribute yet unpaid, prostration vile, Too much to one, but double how endur'd, To one and to his image now proclaim'd? But what if better counsels might erect Our minds and teach us to cast off this Yoke? Will ye submit your necks, and chuse to bend The supple knee? ye will not, if I trust To know ye right, or if ye know your selves Natives and Sons of Heav'n possest before By none, and if not equal all, yet free, Equally free; for Orders and Degrees Jarr not with liberty, but well consist. Who can in reason then or right assume Monarchie over such as live by right His equals, if in power and splendor less, In freedome equal? or can introduce Law and Edict on us, who without law Erre not, much less for this to be our Lord, And look for adoration to th' abuse Of those Imperial Titles which assert Our being ordain'd to govern, not to serve?
[...]
I couldn't be certain but I suspected this was the first time Paradise Lost got someone laid.
.d.