Yesterday, celebrating my father in law's birthday, we were at a restaurant with loud televisions, showing lucha libre, the Spanish term for pro wrestling. The food was excellent, so good that it almost made up for the two televisions blaring offensively stupid content, the acrobatics of the wrestlers notwithstanding.
There's no excuse for the fact that the restaurant was so noisy, except that everywhere else is—not much of an excuse. The TVs should have been muted.
As usual, I had a book with me. Yesterday, it was the Iliad. Impishly, I thought maybe it'd be amusing to attend an afternoon of lucha libre and to pull some stunt to get myself on television, but instead of flashing some leg or bringing foghorns like everyone else does, I'd show up at the arena, pull out my copy of the Iliad, and read.
Not long after having this thought, it occurred to me that nearly every character in the Iliad, a seminal work in Western literature, would be enchanted by the spectacle of lucha libre.