Epic: A Modern Postulation of the Classics
Posted Monday, May 24, 2010 at 10:43 AM

When a term like epic is ascribed to an event of any scape or circumstance, the inquisative listener must delve into a collective consciousness that incorporates more than a scant few years, a paltry decade or two. Not even centuries pack enough juice to adequately define what ultimately will have taken MILLENIA to be cemented into the mythos of its stewards. Epic is the back-bone of our histories, the muscle of our legends, the groove of our ancestral vinyl. Consequently, Oxford's definition is of particular deficiency due precisely to its lack of temporal precedent; modern happenstance simply ain't O.G. Without doubt, there are many examples of this metaphor entrenched within our recent past; pick any event from WWII, the release of "Copkiller", the American Revolution, and perhaps the most poetic among them, the absolute disembowelment of the British Raj by an impoverished lawyer who had just listened to Erik B. and Rakim's "Master Plan" in its original Sanskrit. Additionally, the term's historic parlance has been scuttled by an ever increasingly media-centric culture; think of anything from a Mitchener novel to "CB4."
No, we must travel past Galileo, the Black Death, the Magna Carta, and even the Battle of Hastings. Back we go, beyond the funkless ages to the very fall of Rome itself. It is here, finally, that the scope of a word like "Epic" can begin to coalesce from the ether, ironically focused through the lens of its own absurdity. It predates the printing press, or even abbey scribes. It's a collection of tales and deeds so great in magnitude and import that not even the dearth of the written word could keep it from us. It's about village elders teaching 'round the fire, not only of the known, but also of emminent uncertainties gathering armament at the very cusp of torchlight and darkness. It's about heroes who, with little more than guile and fortitude, served kings and saved nations. In essence, the revolution CANNOT be televised. And so, we sway obediently to the meter of its telling, simultaneously forging and thatching its integrity within the wells and churns of our fellowship. It is passed on, in whole or in part, to our children and neighbors, who stir in their own spice of blood and sweat, their own familial tempo. So, the deeds of our forbears have grown to become the very glue that binds the self to the tribe, the ancestor to his children.
It may be some days before the triumphs of the BAAC at Law-Town shall be retold with the same vigor and relish as those of Aurther, Alexander, and Ellington (small wonder we refer to ourselves as a "club"), but as we brave louts were dragging ourselves from the battlefield less than a fortnight thence, I swear I could hear Homer's voice, itself, rehearsing each nuance of this brand new flow before us. And, by Jove, it shall be served with s'mores. Epic s'mores (perhaps with a touch of sineamon and red chile).
So, SUCK IT, Beowulf! Bow down your wussy head, Gilgamesh! For, this is the tale o'th' BAAC and their valiant band of brigands that now hold forth the COPA d'OSA. Prepare to be regaled with the account that for the next epoch shall serve any who might listen as THE standard for heroism. Though facing certain relegation to the maelstrom, these few exhausted and weak cast aways far afield from hearth and store did, finally, wrest resurrection from the bones of Lazarus himself, and, in so doing, did place great fear into the gullets of any galoots who might try to muster a rally agin'em.
So, let it be written in the land of the red man, yea, throughout every glen and dale beyond, that a new yarn shall hold sway o'er the storyteller's tongue hereafter; of the BAAC, their prize, and the horde of poisonous flamingoes that willingly paid the price most dear that the club might prevail. So mote it be, you muthascratchers! You just got out-douched by the Athletics!