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Stop! Grammar Time!

For nearly all of my professional writing life, part of my job has included editing others’ work. During that time I’ve learned that most people don’t understand capitalization, subscribe to all manner of superstitions around how sentences should begin and end, and generally use far too many words.

Here’s another thing: People are far more likely to write if when they ought to use whether. Paul Brians explains the difference:

“If” is used frequently in casual speech and writing where some others would prefer “whether”: “I wonder if you would be willing to dress up as a giant turnip for the parade?” Revise to “I wonder whether. . . .” “If” can’t really be called an error, but when you are discussing two alternative possibilities, “whether” sounds more polished. (The two possibilities in this example are: 1) you would be willing or 2) you wouldn’t. In sentences using “whether” “or not” is often understood.) Don’t substitute the very different word “whither,” which means “where.”

The way I was taught is that if is conditional, i.e., if X, then Y.

“If I were a rich man,” sings Tevye in Fiddler on The Roof,

I’d build a big tall house with rooms by the dozen
Right in the middle of the town
A fine tin roof with real wooden floors below
There would be one long staircase just going up
And one even longer coming down
And one more leading nowhere, just for show

See how that works? If he were rich, then he’d blow his money.

But if you’re wondering about the state of Tevye’s finances, you might ask one of his friends, “Do you know whether Tevye is rich?” There are two possibilities, neither of which is conditional: (1) yes, he’s rich, or (2) no, he’s not.

And right about now you’re thinking to yourself, I wonder whether Aaron is this much of a pedant in real life.

Requiescite in pace, Mr. Watts

Speaking of Charlie Watts (you didn’t think I’d let his death pass without saying something, did you?), I think Jack Hamilton over at Slate gets it exactly right: Watts was “a drummer whose whole musicality…vastly exceeded the sum of its parts….”

Even though I think Watts’s jazz chops are a bit overstated, it’s apparent how much he was influenced by the genre in the way he could set—and hold—an unmistakable groove. In other words, while I doubt he could swing as hard as, say, Jimmy Cobb, Watts understood that his role was as much about creating a feeling as it was keeping time. And that’s not a very rock ‘n’ roll approach to drumming.

“You can’t learn to play music like this,” writes Hamilton. “You’re born with those ears or you’re not. No one will ever play drums like Charlie Watts, the perfect drummer in what was, once upon a time, the perfect band.”

Butt Fluff Was Robbed!

With all the terrible stuff in the news of late—Afghanistan, COVID, the death of Charlie Watts—it’s worth remembering the words of Samwise Gamgee:

It’s like the great stories, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad has happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines, it’ll shine out the clearer. I know now folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going because they were holding on to something. That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.

And what could be more worth fighting for than, say, corgi racing?

Survey Says…

Want to measure your “verbal creativity”? Got four minutes? You’re in luck.

The Divergent Association Task is a quick measure of verbal creativity and divergent thinking, the ability to generate diverse solutions to open-ended problems. The task involves thinking of 10 words that are as different from each other as possible. For example, the words cat and dog are similar, but the words cat and book are not. People who are more creative tend to generate words that have greater distances between them. These distances are inferred by examining how often the words are used together in similar contexts. Still, this task measures only a sliver of the complex process of creativity.

Yeah, I took the test:

Now, it should be noted that divergent thinking appears nowhere on the authoritative list of “100 Skills Every Man Should Know,” so I’m not sure any of this actually matters. But that’s not going to stop me from sending my score to CK and demanding a substantial raise.

Louder = Better

“My chief complaint against some practitioners of heavy metal guitar from the early 70s through the early 80s,” writes guitarist and composer Marc Ribot, “is that I can immediately tell their distorted sounds are not really placing their amps at risk. To whatever extent I have a moral sensibility, this offends it.”

Reminds me of one Saturday morning when, thinking I was alone in the office, I figured it was okay to play Earth 2: Special Low-Frequency Version at an appropriately ear-splitting volume. I was about mid-way through “Teeth of Lions Rule the Divine” before I realized CK was, in fact, also in the building. He was somehow under the impression that the refrigerator was dying. The majesty of drone metal apparently eludes him.

You’ll Be Reading These until the Cows Come Home to Roost

A malaphor, according to Wiktionary, is a blend of malapropism and metaphor; “an error in which two similar figures of speech are merged, producing an often nonsensical result.” The Washington Post‘s Lawrence Harrison apparently coined the term back in 1976.

Luckily for us, Dave Hatfield has been collecting specimens for more than 30 years. (Not surprisingly, most of his examples come from the political sphere.)

Stop! Grammar Time!

This is your daily reminder that premises, when referring to a tract of land together with its buildings, is already a singular noun. So your home is your premises, not your premise. (The latter is a logical proposition or legal statement.)

While I’m, at it, I should also point out that it’s versus, not verse, when, e.g., you run across something like this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b42_RVpvVoc

(Because it turns out we get versus from the Latin adversus for against. Either v. or vs. is an acceptable abbreviation.)

“SORRY FOR THE INCONTINENCE”

Workers aren’t working in Wyoming. (Including proofreaders, it seems.)

Behold! A 100-tweet thread about Friedrich Schlegel! Here’s an unrolled version if you prefer.

Let me be clear: Only barbarians “shun organisation” of their bookshelves.

“Seen from a great distance, a life can be summed up in a single sentence—but as soon as one comes closer to life, it dissolves into an ocean of time, events, things, and people. It is still there, somewhere in the multitude, but it is no longer supreme, for in a life seen at close range there is no organizing principle.” – Karl Ove Knausgaard

Orchestra conductors come clean: “You’re pretty much just getting paid six figures to close your eyes a bunch and groove around to nice music.”

A Many-Splendoured Thing

The Internet is awash with terrible, terrible things, e.g. university websites, totalitarian millennials, and TikTok influencers. But sometimes—sometimes—a guy can discover something only the Internet could possibly have delivered. Like a French art rock band‘s brilliant cover of a song by an Icelandic experimental pop musician, courtesy of a podcast out of the UK.

The world is a little smaller these days. I guess that’s not always a bad thing.

Today in History

From the diary of James Lees-Milne, August 10, 1945:

I had to lunch with Charles Fry my publisher at the Park Lane Hotel. He was late, having just got up after some orgy à trois with whips, etc. He is terribly depraved and related every detail, not questioning whether I wished to listen. In the middle of the narration I simply said, ‘Stop! Stop!’ At the same table an officer was eating, and imbibing every word. I thought he gave me a crooked look for having spoilt his fun.

My delight in Churchill’s defeat, disapproval of the Socialists’ victory, detestation of the atom bomb and disgust with the Allies’ treatment of Germany are about equal. Muddle.

Published in Prophesying Peace: Diaries, 1944–1945.

The More You Know

From John McWhorter’s delightful Nine Nasty Words, we learn the origin of one of my all-time faves: shit.

English ultimately traces back to a language spoken by people living in what is now Ukraine, who almost certainly used a word skei that meant “cut off” or “slice.” Over the millennia, some of their descendants settled in England, with skei having morphed to scit. But in Old English, its meaning had drifted into a particular kind of cutting off. Likely some people along the way started referring to defecation as going to “cut one off” or the like—the expression to pinch a loaf is unavoidable as a comparison. Sc- soon became sh-, and so just as scip was our ship, scit is, um, yeah.

No shit.

Odds and Ends

Over at the Literary Review, Adrian Tinniswood reviews James Fox’s The World According to Colour: A Cultural History, in which Fox argues that color is “a pigment of our imaginations”:

The Tiv people of West Africa get by perfectly happily with just three basic colour terms: black, white and red. Mursi cattle farmers in Ethiopia have eleven colour terms for cows, but they have none for anything else. At the other end of the spectrum, the Optical Society of America lists 2,755 primary colours, while paint manufacturers now offer more than 40,000 dyes and pigments, so many…that they have run out of sensible names for them. ‘Dead Salmon’ and ‘Churlish Green’ are two of the more outlandish….

Speaking of outlandish colors, check out these beautiful creatures:

Today I learned that, in the 4th century BC, an elite military unit comprising 150 pair-bonded male couples—the Sacred Band of Thebes—went undefeated for three decades.

Long-time readers know of my love for the Grateful Dead; most of them would probably rather stick nickels in their noses than listen. I’m okay with that. But here are a couple of Dead-adjacent albums worth checking out anyway: Mickey Hart’s RAMU, and Ned Lagin’s Seastones.

“The drug war’s simplistic account of what drugs do and are,” writes Michael Pollan, “has for too long prevented us from thinking clearly about the meaning and potential use of these very different substances.”

Life’s Enduring Mysteries

Things I learned while paging through the Oregonian today: (1) Our neighbors to the south need instruction on how to pump their own gas, and (2) there exist people in this world who believe that premiumizing is a word.

What I still don’t know after paging through the Oregonian today: (1) Why ambient temperature, and not common sense, should suspend the regulations against self-service, and (2) why we don’t lock these people up.

Love Lives of the Composers

The term groupies entered the lexicon around 1965; four years later, both Rolling Stone and Time covered the topic extensively in print. But Ted Gioia tells us that the actual practice of fans “seeking out a special intimacy with the celebrity musicians” of their day goes much farther back. Consider the case of Franz Joseph Haydn, who died more than two centuries ago:

In England the composer almost certainly had an affair with Rebecca Schroeter, almost 20 years his junior—who invited him into her home to give a “music lesson.” But even before this career-changing trip, Haydn pursued a love affair with mezzo-soprano Luigia Polzelli, almost thirty years younger than him. In 1789, he initiated a friendship with Maria Anna von Genzinger, roughly the same age as Schroeter, and their correspondence indicates a rare degree of intimacy. What happened in private between Haydn and these female admirers is hidden from our view, but we do know that in one letter, the great composer referred to his wife as an “infernal beast.” At his death in 1809, Haydn’s will enumerated many bequests to women who were neither family members nor relatives of any sort.

And Haydn “was not especially good-looking,” says Gioia. So chin up, nerds. There’s still a chance.

RIP Dusty Hill

With the news of the ZZ Top bassist’s untimely death, I reckon the appropriate way to mourn is to mix yourself a ranch water and put Tres Hombres on the stereo—then read about one of the more bizarre chapters in pop culture history.

As for me, I’ll just ponder the closing lyrics from “Jesus Just Left Chicago”:

You might not see him in person
But he’ll see you just the same
You don’t have to worry ’cause takin’ care of business is his name

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