Shortly after the December 4th upload of the "On Dead Horses" submission, my internet world came crashing down. That is, the high-speed online service that flies through the air in this apartment only to be captured by some sort of wireless receptor in my Powerbook allowing me to connect with the outside world . . . died. And despite numerous "efforts" by the bastards over at Time Warner NYC to remedy the problem, things are just now getting back up to speed. If there's one thing that I've learned from this experience it's that I am absolutely reliant on the internet for all sorts of things--efforts at news gathering and holiday shopping, especially, have been quite strained over the last few weeks. But perhaps the most important lesson I've taken away from this cyberspace catastrophe is that making fun of other people in my blog may not be the best direction in which to steer the ship. So, to the "beat it with a dead horse" lady, I offer my most sincere apology. To those of you who have become loyal readers, I wish you the utmost happiness during this holiday season, time spent with good friends, and the acquisition of joy in whatever manifestation you most like it to take. A properly functioning internet service ensures that regular postings will again grace this website once the clamor of the holidays pass and the new year rolls around.
posted by mjxm at 6:58 PM |
Thursday, December 04, 2003
LIL' ZOGGIE: ON DEAD HORSES
There's an idiom in the English language that cautions against "beating a dead horse." It's quite likely that you've heard the phrase, or even used it yourself in the course of conversation. According to GoEnglish.com, the idiom refers to not "forcing an issue that is already closed." The site further notes:
"You are beating a dead horse when you insist on talking about something that cannot be changed. Example: 'I'd like to talk with you again about what happened.' Reply: 'Oh, come on. Let's not beat a dead horse.' Beating a dead horse is an action that has no purpose, because no matter how hard or how long you beat a dead horse, it is not going to get up and run. Example: 'Let's not talk about it any more. Okay?' Reply: 'You're right. We're just beating a dead horse.' To repeatedly bring up a particular topic with no chance of affecting the outcome is beating a dead horse. Example: 'Dad, are you sure we can't get a new computer for the upstairs?' Reply: 'Son, we talked about this and the decision was 'no'. You are beating a dead horse.'"
The concept, I think you'll agree, is simple enough. But don't tell that to a colleague of mine at the office who insists on telling people, on a near-daily basis, not to "beat it with a dead horse." Each and every time she says it, a feeling that combines hilarity and confusion overcomes me. A vision of somebody trying to pick up a dead horse by the hooves in an effort to administer a beating immediately springs forth, and the ridiculousness of the image leaves me right on the cusp of laughter. At the same time, I cannot help but wonder what the hell this woman thinks she's saying. Sometime last year, I stopped her mid-sentence and said: "Look, you don't beat something with a dead horse. A dead horse would be far too heavy to beat something with . . . unless it was a really small horse. The expression is 'do not beat a dead horse.'" Her response was something along the lines of, "Whatever . . . you know what I mean." So, I haven't mentioned it again. But after at least a year of such gaffes, everyone in the office is aware of the woman's improper idiom usage, and the others are much less diplomatic than I am when it comes to shielding tendencies to laugh at the notion of someone attempting to beat something with a dead horse. In actuality, it's kind of hard to blame them. "Let's not beat the layout with a dead horse." "Don't beat the design with a dead horse." "Can't you see you're just beating the headline issue with a dead horse?" It never stops with her, and it also never stops sounding utterly ridiculous. My only hope is that one day our office will receive a huge package via FedEx, and that once opened the giant box will reveal an actual dead horse. After the initial shock of receiving such a thing through the mail wears off--and even several hours after its receipt--I assume that various employees would still be looking at the horse and talking about the peculiarity of the parcel. Thereafter, my colleague with the incorrect idiom issue could chide the rubber-neckers with the following admonition: "Come on you guys . . . let's not beat the dead horse with a dead horse."
posted by mjxm at 7:27 PM |
LIL' ZOGGIE: ON TALENT
Sometimes it can be difficult to tell whether a relevant theory or notion is your own, or whether it's simply something that you heard somewhere and appropriated as your own without truly knowing. To wit, my longstanding, and possibly stolen, theory on the subject of how talent is distributed among those of us who inhabit the planet. The theory is perhaps best elucidated in the context of my trip uptown tonight to hear a reading by August Wilson at the 92nd Street Y. Wilson is my favorite playwright--and not just because he's from Pittsburgh and sets each of his plays in my hometown. It's pretty much unanimous opinion among the folks who classify themselves as experts on this type of thing that he's one of the two or three top American playwrights of the latter half of the 20th century. Though the printed versions of his works are impressive, there really is little that can compare to the powerful emotion that a well-executed Wilson play evokes. For that reason, I don't even really enjoy reading his stuff. To me, the stories are things to be seen and heard. And if you're ever given the opportunity to check out one of his plays at a theater, you should jump at the chance. Anyway, at tonight's event, Wilson read some of his poems and performed various dialogues from his roster of productions. As we exited the hall, Evelyn remarked that she couldn't fathom how someone could be so proficient at the art of crafting words. And that's where the mjxm theory of talent distribution entered the conversation. The short version of it is as follows: We are all born with the capacity to be better than everyone else in the world--or at least in the top 1 percentile of the world population--at something. It's only a matter of figuring out what that thing is, determining whether it is something that modern society rewards, and, if so, cultivating that talent. So, for instance, if your thing is throwing a baseball 100 miles-per-hour or performing medical operations of the most delicate nature . . . you're pretty much set. A lucrative career as a professional baseball player or doctor, respectively, awaits. If, like August Wilson, you're thing is the capacity to paint a picture with words better than nearly anyone in the world, you're in good shape, as well. You may not pull in the salary of a Roger Clemens, but your fame is worldwide in scope and respect is something you possess in abundance. Of course, if your thing is . . . let's say . . . spitting for accuracy, then you're pretty much screwed. Sure, you can be good, or even great, at several other things that are important in our modern society. And you can still live a fruitful and valuable life. But the harsh reality is that the thing that you do better than everyone else on the planet is not something that's going to pay the bills, garner you gobs of respect, get you laid, or whathaveyou. And, if you think about it for a bit, you'll realize that there's lots of examples of these "unfortunate bests" out there: the guy from undergrad who can flick a bottle cap 30 yards using only his thumb and pointer finger; the lady at work who can tell if any line is crooked without the aid of a ruler; the friend of a friend who can sneeze without blinking. In short, under my theory, Wilson, to some extent, lucked out. He worked hard for sure, and his success wasn't simply handed to him. But his "best thing" is something that is given high regard in the modern era. In a nutshell, that's my theory on talent distribution via the August Wilson example. In closing, I'd like to simply say the following: Some may assert that I'm bitter about the fact that Wilson's "best thing" is not my "best thing," or because he and I can't swap "things." But those people are dead wrong. It may not be tomorrow, and it may not even be in 10 years, but sometime down the line spitting for accuracy is going to eclipse baseball as America's national pastime. And when that day comes, August Wilson is going to be plopping down $25 to come see me perform at the 92nd Street Y.
posted by mjxm at 12:17 AM |
