Marsyas, the martyred satyr (or, why I don't like Tuesdays)
This morning, as I sit by the window and watch the sun come up, I can’t help but think of Marsyas. Marsyas was a satyr, one of the male companions of Pan and Dionysus in Greek mythology. If you’re waiting for me to call him “goat-like” because he was a satyr, then good for you. You paid attention in school. Apparently, the “goat” aspect came with later Roman influence.
One feature of the early Greek satyr really stands out; they had perpetual erections. Permanent stiffies. They might have been like those Viagra victims who suffer erections for more than four hours, whose first call is supposed to be their doctor. You and I both know that isn’t the first call they make, however.
But I digress. Marsyas was walking around one day as he always did, enjoying some wine and his undying boner, when he found a double flute, an aulos. Sick of screwing and getting drunk, he decided to master a musical instrument. You have to admire the fortitude of a man who takes up a vocation when he has an inexhaustible supply of alcohol (from his buddy Dionysus) and can fornicate at will. Marsyas was a satyr with vision.
He did not know, however, that Athena herself had cast aside this aulos in a fit of pique, having been told by her buddies that the flute made her cheeks puff out in an unflattering manner. Nobody likes to be told they look fat. She had cursed the aulos, dooming its future owner to a horrible end. As Marsyas danced through the forest, prick and flutes akimbo, he was heading for a showdown of mythological proportions.
Marsyas was getting pretty good at the aulos, so he decided to challenge Apollo to a riff-off. Apollo played the lyre, a three-stringed instrument invented by his buddy Hermes. Having mastered the lyre, Apollo then modded it out with an fourth string, a sunburst finish, and a Seymour-Duncan pickup, further adding to his renown. Apollo could shred.
“So what should the stakes be?” said Apollo.
“I say, whoever wins gets to do whatever he wishes to the other,” said Marsyas, no doubt planning on hitting the vanquished Apollo with a pie in the face.
“Okay,” said Apollo, who was known for starting plagues when he was cranky.
The aulos vs. lyre battle was epic. Marsyas actually won the contest, but as he was departing—and the books really say this—Apollo turned his lyre upside down and played the same song again perfectly. That’s right. He went all ZZ Top on Marsyas’ ass.
“I can’t do that with my flute!” exclaimed Marsyas, referring to the musical instrument and not his perpetually pert penis.
“Too bad,” said Apollo, who then flayed the poor bastard alive for his hubris. I kid you not. He skinned the dude, and displayed his hide for all to see.
Why can’t I help but think of Marsyas this morning? Why am I telling you this story? Moreover, why are you still reading?
I don’t really know. My wife wanted to get up early this morning and catch up on studying for her graduate-level class, so to help her out (and to capitalize on her ambition) I said “hey, let’s get up early together! I’ll do some writing, and we’ll keep each other motivated!” Monday night is full of such… hubris.
Before dawn on Tuesday morning with coffee in hand, regret in full effect, and with nothing to write about, I looked up a random Wikipedia article for inspiration. An article about the city of Arles appeared. Arles must be the most boring city in France, and was no help at all. A few years ago in Arles, they found a stone bust of Julius Caesar in the nearby Rhone river and, being French, promptly got into an argument about who put it there. This didn’t interest me either.
But they also found a statue of Marsyas there in the Rhone. And that dude had quite a story, don’t you think?
I believe that Marsyas challenged Apollo on a Monday night, and woke up Tuesday morning for the duel. I bet that come Tuesday morning, as the birds above his head woke him, he probably regretted his decision a little. By the break of dawn, I’m sure he fully realized his folly. Tuesdays are like that. We go to bed having somehow conquered Monday, which is supposed to be the hardest day of the week. And why not? It’s the beginning of a trudge to the next weekend.
But Mondays have a lot going for them, not the least of which is the restfulness from the weekend. Tuesdays don’t have that. They have all of the charm of waking up after a minor skirmish on the way to a full invasion. Even after the worst possible Monday, we spend the night having conquered the odds, thinking everything might turn out okay. By Tuesday morning,though, the hope is gone, and we’re off to a duel using instruments we think we’ve mastered but barely understand. We do it every Tuesday. Some Tuesdays, we survive to see Wednesday, which is a different story altogether.
The moral of the story? If Apollo challenges you to a game of Guitar Hero, decline.