Rude Talk in Athens Read online

  Also by Mark Haskell Smith

  Fiction

  Moist

  Delicious

  Salty

  Baked

  Raw: A Love Story

  Blown

  Nonfiction

  Heart of Dankness

  Naked at Lunch

  AN UNNAMED PRESS BOOK

  Copyright © 2021 Mark Haskell Smith

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to [email protected]. Published in North America by the Unnamed Press.

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  Unnamed Press, and the colophon, are registered trademarks of Unnamed Media LLC.

  ISBN: 978-1-951213-34-3

  eISBN: 978-1-951213-38-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021939547

  This book is a work of nonfiction.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America by Versa Press, inc.

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  First Edition

  RUDE TALK IN ATHENS

  Ancient Rivals, the Birth of Comedy, and a Writer’s Journey through Greece

  MARK HASKELL SMITH

  You will never create anything great by drinking water.

  —Attributed to Cratinus, fifth century BCE

  Contents

  An Introductory Scene

  Parodos

  At the Symposium

  Athens™®

  The Case against Ariphrades

  The Defense of Ariphrades

  Amazonon Street

  Rusk Never Sleeps

  The Name of the Moth

  The Antagonist of the Piece

  Clouds

  The Arc of Comedy Bends

  Yanis Varoufakis Is in the House (of Parliament)

  Tilemachos at Sea

  Decorative Pottery

  Don’t Hate the Player, Hate the Game

  Building Zeta

  Parabasis

  This Library Is on Fire

  Ta Kanaria

  Acknowledgments

  Endnotes

  About the Author

  RUDE TALK IN ATHENS

  An Introductory Scene

  The Meltemi was not fucking around. We had intended to sail in the morning, from Koufonisia to Iraklia, but the fierce seasonal wind that torments these islands, the Aegean version of the Santa Ana winds in Los Angeles, had other ideas. A small craft warning had been issued. We were stuck. Not that anyone complained. Why set out in heavy seas for a beautiful Greek island when you’re already on a beautiful Greek island?

  Better to live in the moment, which is easy to do when there’s a bar that, every day at sunset, lays cushions along a stone jetty so that you can have a drink and watch the daylight fade. As the sun drops behind the horizon, the light cuts through a channel between two islands, plunging the undulating hills into a deep purple while the sea shimmers and the sky glows violet and rosé. Or maybe that was the wine. It really wasn’t an inconvenience. When life gives you a glass of rosé, order a bottle.

  Koufonisia is a small island in a string of small islands in what is called the Lesser Cyclades in the Aegean Sea. It’s a few hours by ferry from Athens, not far from Naxos, which is larger and part of the regular Cyclades. The small island that turned purple, only a few hundred meters away, was inhabited solely by goats.

  The air was fresh, the wine was cold and delicious, and the smell of grilling fish was drifting from the kitchen of a nearby taverna. I was with my wife and some friends, and we were relaxed and happy. If it sounds idyllic, it was. In that moment, life felt extremely pleasurable. I thought, Why isn’t this the goal of human existence? Not necessarily this island or this rosé or these friends, but the feeling of pleasure, the joy at being alive in the world. Why can’t we arrange society so that everyone can experience this feeling most of the time? We could, you know, if we weren’t so busy chasing a dollar, extracting the life out of the planet, and dropping bombs on each other. And for what? Why the unrelenting hustle? You can’t put a sunset or friendship or a summer breeze on your credit card. Which is not to say that the journey to this spot was free, but there are sunsets and friends and breezes in Los Angeles that are right outside my door. Why do we devote our lives to activities and objects that don’t bring us pleasure?

  I am not the first person to have this thought. Around 311 BCE, a Greek philosopher named Epicurus believed that pleasure should be the highest goal of humanity. He described the three main ingredients for happiness as friendship, disengagement from material concerns, and free time to pursue your own interests. In other words, live communally with people you like, free your mind from the delusion that objects or money or fame will make you happy, and take time for contemplation, for walks in nature, for reading and art. This simple philosophy became extremely popular in ancient Greece, and by the first century CE there were approximately a half million people living in Epicurean communes throughout the Mediterranean. A couple thousand years after Epicurus laid out his ideas, an economist in London named Karl Marx used it as inspiration for a very similar societal model he called “communism.”

  Epicurus was not a food snob or wine aficionado. By his own accounts he lived simply, preferring lentils and bread to lavish banquets. How he became associated with luxury goods, brand ambassadors, ortolan gobblers, and, for want of a better word, assholes is a consequence of the Catholic Church’s two-thousand-year smear campaign against him and his followers. That’s because Epicurus had no time for deities, he was all about simple pleasure and contemplation in the here and now. He didn’t believe in the afterlife. As he wrote, “When we exist, death is not yet present, and when death is present, then we do not exist.”1 Once you were dead, you were dead, which is a distinctly off-brand idea for the Church, an organization promising eternal reward in the afterlife as long as you did what it said while you were alive.

  Epicurus didn’t only write about pleasure; long before the invention of the electron microscope he believed that the world was made up of tiny particles, and he had profound thoughts about social justice, politics, and the corrosive nature of money. The dude was blessed with serious foresight.2 His ideas resonated with me. After writing books about the history of nudism and the world’s best cannabis, it seemed natural to explore the idea of the pursuit of pleasure as a force for social justice. I thought I would write a book on the history of pleasure, from Epicurus to the present day, and why making pleasure a priority in our lives might be the radical idea we need to halt climate change, minimize income inequality, and reimagine a life post–consumer capitalism.

  I was reading historian James Davidson’s remarkable book Courtesans and Fishcakes: The Consuming Passions of Classical Athens when I came across a throwaway line in a chapter about the drinking culture of ancient Greece. Davidson wrote: “At some point in the last quarter of the fifth century a man called Ariphrades had managed to acquire notoriety as a practitioner of cunnilingus.”3 In the context of Davidson’s book, he was quoting the playwright Aristophanes, who felt that what Ariphrades did was disgusting and advised his friends not to share their wine cups with him. And that was the needle-scratch moment, when writing about the history of pleasure went caroming off the rails. My curiosity was piqued. As a fan of the practice myself, I wondered what kind of notoriety a practitioner of cunnilingus could attain. Was he really adept at it? Did he make a public nuisance of himself? And, really, why would anyone care?

  Parodos

  Ancient Greek comedies start with a prologue, a brief introductory scene that sets up the story and provides a little context for what follows. The previous chapter was the p
rologue. What happens next is the parodos, the entry of the chorus, a moment when the costumes are revealed. Sometimes there’s a little song or a dance that sets the vibe for the performance. A chorus is fundamental to early Greek comedies; it is essentially a troupe that takes to the stage at various times to perform musical numbers and interact with the actors. Often it breaks the fourth wall and speaks directly to the audience.

  I have no song or dance. I’m not wearing a colorful costume. And this kind of writing is all about breaking the fourth wall. This parodos takes the form of a disclaimer disguised as an anecdote.

  I used to visit a mechanic in Frogtown, a neighborhood in northeast Los Angeles by the L.A. River notable for warehouses, light industry, and the old Holland Dutch Bakery. He was a self-styled anarchist, an excellent mechanic, and an all-around kind and generous eccentric named Pete. Perhaps because he was a Volkswagen mechanic of a certain generation, he chafed at things like business licenses and bookkeeping practices. He wanted to do his own thing without any oversight from the government, and so on his receipts it said:

  Incompetent Free Man—Trying To Help My Word Your Only Guarantee—Payment Not Required

  He didn’t charge money for his services but accepted “non-deductible donations of Federal Reserve notes.” If you were between paychecks or waiting for your next Hollywood deal to come through, he’d fix your car and you could pay him when you could. No interest, no deposit, no questions. He also had a bumper sticker on his car that said: GOD SAVE ME FROM YOUR FOLLOWERS. Which may, later, have some relevance to this story.

  Although you have presumably paid money for this book, I’m going to offer a similar disclaimer, not that I can trouble-shoot your clutch or change your spark plugs, but that I am an incompetent-free human, not a scholar of ancient Greece. I don’t read classical or modern Greek and I never undertook any serious study of the classics when I was in college. I’m not even sure the classics were offered at my college. The sections of this book that are historical re-creations are based on information that I have pulled from various sources, trying to paint a picture of Athenian life circa 420 BCE, and just like a cheesy re-creation on the History Channel, some artistic license has been taken.

  Scholars of ancient Greece might be put off by what I’m attempting here and I’m okay with that. This is not a book of scholarship. It is more of a ramble through a time and a place than an academic work. It is a speculative biography. Kind of. And while a professor with a Ph.D. in classical studies may be able to read the texts in ancient Greek, while she may be able to parse the historical context of the humor, classicists aren’t comedy writers. I’ve written several novels—and a couple of movies and plays—that aspire to be comedies. I know what it’s like to earn a living writing comedy. It’s a weird job, trying to squeeze a laugh out of a fellow human being, and it comes with as many perils and pleasures as you’d expect. So while I may not have memorized passages of Homer, for better or worse, the skill set that I’m bringing to this project is my curiosity and the ability to be occasionally entertaining.

  If you’re unfamiliar with the world of ancient Athens, then you’re in for a treat, because it is a fascinating and rich period of human history. A time and a place where representative democracy, free speech, and comedy all took root. I wouldn’t be writing this book—or any book like the kinds of books I write—without Athenians standing up and demanding to control their own destiny. Joined in a common cause, they fought against monarchs and oligarchs and tribal traditions, they came together and proclaimed a revolutionary idea: the essential right to have a voice in the decisions that governed their lives and to express themselves freely and without fear. Heroically, once they had secured these hard-earned freedoms, they began making jokes about farts and boners.

  At the Symposium

  “Acropolis” is a Greek word that breaks down as akro, “highest” or “topmost,” and polis, “city.” It’s typically a hill with sheer cliffs and steep slopes, enabling residents to drop heavy objects and rain fire on any invaders who might be coming to sack the town and enslave them. It was a useful advantage back in the day, and there are a surprising number of acropoleis scattered around Greece. But just like when New Yorkers say “the city” they mean Manhattan and not Queens, when people say “the Acropolis” they are referring to the Acropolis of Athens. That’s because it’s crowned by the Parthenon, the ancient temple of the goddess Athena. You might not be able to find Greece on a map, but you will have seen an image of the Parthenon.

  The Parthenon (Wikimedia Commons).

  T-shirts, key chains, bottle openers, those paper cups you get from Greek diners, and all kinds of replica statues made out of injection-molded plastics can be found with the image of the Parthenon. It is one of the most iconic icons in the world. It is also the defining symbol of the city of Athens. The municipality doesn’t allow buildings over a certain height because it wants everyone to have a view of it. Walk around Athens after dark and it’s impossible to miss the Parthenon glowing on top of the Acropolis. Maybe it’s just me, someone who lives in Los Angeles, where they could turn the Hollywood sign into a singing and dancing laser light spectacular and I wouldn’t look up, but seeing the Parthenon at night makes me stop in my tracks. More than beautiful; somehow resonant and mysterious.

  At the base of the Acropolis, close to the ruins of the ancient Theater of Dionysus, is the Acropolis Museum, which opened in 2009. Compared with the jumbled-up buildings of the surrounding area, the museum is a sleek and beautiful repository for the sculptures, archaeological objects, and marble friezes left behind after a British earl named Thomas Bruce looted the Parthenon in the early 1800s.* When construction of the museum began—in a discovery that didn’t surprise a single archaeologist—builders found the ruins of a neighborhood thousands of years old on the site.

  As you can imagine, this kind of find is not uncommon in Athens. When it’s not looming over the city from the Acropolis, the ancient world is underfoot everywhere. During construction of the subway system, excavation crews uncovered ancient rivers, villas, workshops, brothels, tavernas—all kinds of remnants of a robust civilization. Many of these structures they left in situ in the stations, turning the underground into public archaeological museums. The past has even been assimilated into retail environments: for example there’s a Zara store with a glass floor where you can look down into a Roman mausoleum built on top of a Greek mausoleum, which is probably on top of some other structure, which is, as some Americans might tell you, built on the field where Jesus used to ride a Triceratops for fun.

  The past is inescapable, and that is part of the city’s charm. Athenians manage to live alongside the ancient world without any problem. When the Acropolis Museum architects discovered the ruins of a thriving neighborhood on their site, they didn’t freak out; they turned it into an exhibit. Now you can walk underneath the museum and see the remnants of old sewers and drains, modest houses and slightly larger villas. Including a home with an andron.

  An andron was a room used exclusively by men for manly things, like getting wasted and talking about sports and politics. It was the original man cave—although now that I say that, there were probably men-only caves back in Paleolithic times where men got wasted on fermented fruit and swapped Paleo diet tips. But back in the fifth century BCE, almost every successful Athenian had some version of an andron in his home. The andron under the Acropolis Museum has remnants of mosaic floor and the benches set into the walls that were required for a proper symposium.

  A symposium is not, as I had always thought, a tedious academic conference where papers on obscure topics are delivered in droning monotone, but a drinking party. The etymology in ancient Greek looks like this: sum- (together) + potēs (drinker) = sumpotēs, or “fellow drinker.” Later it became “symposium.” It turns out I have been attending symposia my entire adult life. I am quite good at symposiuming.

  Men would gather in the andron, wine mixed with water would be served, maybe some snacks,
and they would talk. These drinking parties, like all drinking parties, started out with small talk—maybe about poetry and love or the price of anchovies—and then, like all drinking parties, either fizzled out completely or turned into a rager. My favorite line from Plato’s Symposium, an account of a drinking party celebrating the victory of the poet Agathon at the Lenaia festival in 416 BCE, is not the speech by Socrates or Aristophanes’s lovely depiction of the origins of sexual attraction, but from Alcibiades,* who arrives late, already half in the bag, and announces with great gusto, “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m plastered.”1

  The andron under the Acropolis Museum (photograph by Diana Faust).

  The andron was reserved for male bonding, but that doesn’t mean that there weren’t women present. Any decent symposium would feature singing, dancing, drink-pouring sex workers called “flute girls.”

  Flute girls were likely slaves owned by one of the local brothels, which is not to say that they weren’t musicians or to imply that they were all prostitutes. In fact, there is some debate about this among historians. We do know that they were trained to play an aulos, which was a double-reeded, double-bodied flute—kind of like having two oboes jammed into your mouth at the same time. Playing this tricky instrument was a skill that I imagine took considerable practice to master. Many scholars relegate flute girls to the role of sex workers who played some tunes and then provided a happy finish to the evening’s entertainment. And this may have been true. But history has been written by men, and men don’t really give women credit for their accomplishments. And, like a lot of things about Athenian society at that time, we don’t really know, so let’s just say that in a kind of crazy twist, flute girls were both musicians and groupies, and it was not unusual for them to be enslaved.