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IDES OF FEB, MINUS ONE DAY 2/12/2011 6:54:59 AM
Don’t blame Christina Aquilera for murdering the “Star Spangled Banner” at Super Bowl XLV. The worst we can slap her with is Anthem Abuse — the piece was already dead the day José Feliciano strangled it at the old Tiger Stadium prior to Game 5 of the World Series in 1968. I was sitting in the press box when Red Smith got up to walk out, snarling “They don’t pay me enough to listen to crap like this! Remind me to send Scott Key a Valentine’s Day card!”
Smith, a truly great American and New York Times icon, had long departed his mortal coil by the time of Aquilera, but he too might have wondered why she was hired in the first place when Lea Michelle, a truly gifted chanteuse from “Glee,” was on the scene and available. The idiots who retained Aquilera should be summarily dismissed and never given a responsible job again.
In fact, the “Star Spangled Banner” itself should have been retired years ago, in favor of “America the Beautiful” or even “God Bless America.” An old English drinking song, despite noble words by a minor poet, it has never really cut it since becoming sacred in 1931.
In any event, Mr. Smith may have had the right idea. I have always had misgivings about certain holidays, and without confirming suspected ‘Scroogisms’ to any specific occasion, I will, to the relief of many, I’m sure, address my comments solely re Valentine’s Day.
Universally, Valentine cards, flowers and candy — over forty BILLION assorted offerings — are given to people who need assurances they are really cared about. In 1840 a lady named Esther Howland began selling Valentine cards (she was possibly employed by Hallmark?) and they immediately caught on. Today, Christmas cards are Numero Uno, but Valentine cards are a close second and gaining ground.
It’s interesting that women purchase 87% of all Valentine cards. The remaining 13% are male guilt-reducers.
History tells us a fellow named Atiquilla Valentinus was a Roman priest in the 3rd century, at the same time Emperor Claudius II had the brilliant idea that unmarried blokes made better warriors than family men with kids. So, he, the Emperor, banned all nuptials. “Hold your horses,” said Fr. Valentinus, “not on my watch! Any of you boys and girls want to get married, come see me! I’ll hitch you up — so long as none of you is gay!”
And come they did, by the hundreds! And Valentinus married them — in secret!
Of course, some spoilsport blew the whistle and ol’ Claudius got wind of it. Valentinus was promptly arrested and sentenced to death. “Off with his head, for God’s sake!”
While he was incarcerated and awaiting his ill-deserved fate, he actually (if accidentally) sent the very first known “Valentine”. It seems his jailor, Flavius Enictus, had a young and lissome daughter named Vivian who often visited the priest and brought him chocolates, his only worldly passion. Shortly before his execution, he wrote her, asking for some particularly coveted bonbons — and he signed the note “From your Valentinus.”
A lot of people (like afore mentioned Esther Howland) decided February 14 was a good day to celebrate Valentine’s Day, because that’s the date of Fr. Valentinus’s martyrdom in 270 AD. Naturally, once the story got out, he was canonized, and St.Valentinus came to symbolize the sort of chap everyone admires: sympathetic, industrious, inventive, heroic — and, of course, dramatically and incurably romantic.
Finally, about two hundred years later, Pope Galesius said, “Okay, you guys win, I declare it’s henceforth official. February 14 is now and forever to be known as Valentine’s Day. Send a memo to Hallmark and Whitman’s, and make sure we get our cut.”
But the story doesn’t end there. Along came the Middle Ages, and the peasants and their clergy in England and France had some idea that on February 14 the grouse, geese, robins, sparrows, pheasants et al began their mating season, confirming once and for all that mid-February — Valentine’s Day — was a time of co-habitation, fornication, connubial bliss and conjugal visits.
Quite taken by this, it is reputed that while pining away in the Tower of London, Charles, Duke of Orleans, penned an original Valentine poem to his wife shortly after he was taken prisoner during the Battle of Agincourt. It is alleged he wrote this heart-melting epic in 1415, and the next time you’re in town you can actually see it at the British Library, along with the Valentine to Catherine of Valois King Henry V commissioned John Lydgate to write on his behalf (could this be where Rostand got the idea for “Cyrano”?)
That’s all well and good, you say, but what about Cupid?
Well, Cupid is to Valentine’s Day pretty much what Santa Claus is to Christmas. He’s just a myth made up by the Romans — well, first the Greeks, only they called him Eros (guess what word we get from that!) Anyway, his mom Aphrodite gave the kid this bow and arrow set for his birthday — (“Be careful with that thing or you’ll put your eye out!”)
According to the myth, if Cupid shoots you with one of his golden tips, you’ll go gah-gah over the next person you encounter. Right.
The idea of Cupid became so popular (like Santa) that he now symbolizes Valentine’s Day. 99.7% of the cards, flowers and candy sold today embody his persona — and to hell with St.Valentinus.
The point is, like Christmas, Valentine’s Day has fallen into the slimy pond of commercial enterprise and drowned in a myriad of misconceptions that have nothing to do with its original meaning. The distribution of syrupy verse few can read without gagging, caloric candy that will grow moldy and stale, and flowers that will wilt and fade before we can recall with fondness why they were sent in the first place, has become, as has the doling out of gaily wrapped gifts in late December, a rite of expected passage — as meaningless as it is phony.
All right, perhaps I have succumbed to the comfort of a crotchety Ebenezer Cupidity, but what misdemeanor have I committed in calling a spade a spade? . . .Is it a felony to prefer Memorial Day, Flag Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day and New Year’s Day over Valentine’s Day and Christmas?
If so, Your Honor, I plead guilty and throw myself on the arrows of the court. . . . But don’t get me started on Presidents’ Day!
