The Great Typo Hunt Part 6

More visual visual, they clarified. They wanted a big ol' b.o.o.boo that would heighten our little drama. They wanted another one of those Benjamin's-head-sized apostrophes, something that I'd need to splash with a pail of correction fluid.

"Er-sure," I said.

Aiming to please, Benjamin and Josh and I turned our hawklike eyes to the garish landscape around us. We unearthed errors in T-s.h.i.+rt stands, marquees, cafes, and of course more souvenir places. Then we came to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, where our ABC friends offered to buy us beverages. I walked up to the counter and SWEEDISH BERRIES SWEEDISH BERRIES jumped out at me right away. A chalkboard typo, easy enough to fix, or so I thought. The producer talked to the baristas and came to us shaking his head: no cameras inside. At this, the cameraman shrugged, noting that he would have no problem shooting from the outside in through the large gla.s.s exterior of the coffee shop, so he went out to position himself. I brought the Sweedish up to the barista and requested a correction, and she paused. I knew that look well by now-the look that said jumped out at me right away. A chalkboard typo, easy enough to fix, or so I thought. The producer talked to the baristas and came to us shaking his head: no cameras inside. At this, the cameraman shrugged, noting that he would have no problem shooting from the outside in through the large gla.s.s exterior of the coffee shop, so he went out to position himself. I brought the Sweedish up to the barista and requested a correction, and she paused. I knew that look well by now-the look that said Sorry, ace, I don't know who you are or what you're saying, and I don't care. Brush-off in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Sorry, ace, I don't know who you are or what you're saying, and I don't care. Brush-off in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... But before her dismissal could launch, her eyes darted behind me, and caught sight of the guy outside pointing a giant lens at her through the pane. Lo, how the camera did then perform its thaumaturgy upon her! Suddenly she smiled and said that she would fix the error straightaway, and she turned and transformed two But before her dismissal could launch, her eyes darted behind me, and caught sight of the guy outside pointing a giant lens at her through the pane. Lo, how the camera did then perform its thaumaturgy upon her! Suddenly she smiled and said that she would fix the error straightaway, and she turned and transformed two e es into one. Josh came over, not to offer his congratulations, but to boast that he'd found two punctuation-deprived signs on the same bathroom door.

Afterward, I conferred with the correspondent, the producer, and the cameraman. How was that for visual? visual? Did the spectacle through the window meet with their approval? For that was what I now craved. Did the spectacle through the window meet with their approval? For that was what I now craved.

Well, they said. It was OK, it was visual, but perhaps still lacked zest, verve, a fresh and clean feeling. Could I be a shade more daring? daring?

Benjamin, Josh, and I nodded. We would push back the brushy frontiers of typo hunting. There were certain zones that we had previously feared to tread. We corrected mistakes in a tattoo and piercing parlor, where the proprietor was happy to concede to the producer's requests, albeit with a sardonic smile. I reached up to make the minimum required fix to a sign reading WE DONT CARE!! HOW MUCH YOUR HOMIE CAN DO IT 4!!! WE DONT CARE!! HOW MUCH YOUR HOMIE CAN DO IT 4!!! We stalked the aisles of an army surplus store, where a sign for a We stalked the aisles of an army surplus store, where a sign for a h.e.l.lICOPTER HELMET h.e.l.lICOPTER HELMET didn't mean to imply that none but infernal pilots could wear it. Both places I probably wouldn't have been brave enough to police without my attendant platoon. Here, again, the camera crew had given me a strange kind of access or influence. Though there were always trade-offs. For every typo I gained thanks to them, there'd be another I'd lose somewhere else, at a business run by camera-shy folks. It was like reciting a poem through a bullhorn. didn't mean to imply that none but infernal pilots could wear it. Both places I probably wouldn't have been brave enough to police without my attendant platoon. Here, again, the camera crew had given me a strange kind of access or influence. Though there were always trade-offs. For every typo I gained thanks to them, there'd be another I'd lose somewhere else, at a business run by camera-shy folks. It was like reciting a poem through a bullhorn.

The ABC crew wrapped its footage of our corrections with their money shot: me adding the apostrophe to TODAYS SPECIAL TODAYS SPECIAL, which was painted on the front window of a cafe. The cameraman ran back and forth through the doorway to film the action from both sides of the gla.s.s. After they had us take a couple of spins around the block in Callie so they could get driving shots, the first day of ordeals came to an end. I felt exhausted by the combination of typo hunting and pretending to be an interesting, photogenic person. As I calculated the day's reckoning for the blog that night, I was astonished to find that we had netted an incredible total of seventeen typos found, nine of which we were able to correct. In other words, the single most productive day of the entire trip. Still, I couldn't help but feel ambivalent about the whole thing. I was glad that the League's mission would have high-profile coverage, but I also recoiled from the mechanism of the filming. It wasn't so much that I minded playing the clown prince of correction-more that it had felt less personal and more antagonistic than ordinary TEAL practice. When a camera trails you like an unblinking henchman, your interactions with others automatically become more about you you than anything else, stunts rather than meaningful conversations. We'd never intended to follow the model of Sacha Baron Cohen. than anything else, stunts rather than meaningful conversations. We'd never intended to follow the model of Sacha Baron Cohen.

There had had been a moment, fortunately, that clarified our motives and would appear in the actual piece, during a walk-and-talk that I did with the correspondent. been a moment, fortunately, that clarified our motives and would appear in the actual piece, during a walk-and-talk that I did with the correspondent.

"You're very nice about it," he pointed out.

"It's not about making anybody feel bad, or, uh, or, uh, making somebody look stupid or something, it's just really about going after the errors themselves," said I with typical eloquence. This stance genuinely seemed to surprise him, as it contrasted with the unsympathetic, commas-and-brimstone temperament of most high-profile grammarians and sticklers. If viewers could take away that message-that blame should have no place in spelling and grammar-then our appearance would have been well worth the trouble.

Not that the trouble was over. We had to do it all over again the next day.

The three of us rendezvoused with NBC's Today Today crew at the Larchmont Village shopping district. The tree-lined street was a lot quieter than Hollywood Boulevard, feeling almost like a neighborhood in a normal city. The correspondent was younger than the ABC guy had been, playing more the hip contemporary than the amused observer. He wanted to find something that he could correct himself, because it would make a great visual. Could we go ahead and locate a s.e.xily obvious typo? he asked us. crew at the Larchmont Village shopping district. The tree-lined street was a lot quieter than Hollywood Boulevard, feeling almost like a neighborhood in a normal city. The correspondent was younger than the ABC guy had been, playing more the hip contemporary than the amused observer. He wanted to find something that he could correct himself, because it would make a great visual. Could we go ahead and locate a s.e.xily obvious typo? he asked us. That That part sounded familiar. part sounded familiar.

First, though, the driving shots. Like ABC, they wanted to capture us cruising around in my car, but NBC harvested far more shots in this pursuit. At first I didn't get the fixation on Callie-she was a loyal old gal, but what did she have to do with the meat of our mission? I'd explained to them that we didn't spot all that many typos from the car. Then I realized that they had placed much importance on describing the visual language of the road trip. I am driving from city to city, so the viewer must see me physically behind the wheel, peering out the car windows, not to mention actually turning the key and starting the engine. We must create a simulacrum of traveling. The viewer might not understand otherwise. They lent Josh a video camera and instructed him to lean out the window to film Callie's wheels in motion.

The shortest part of the day was the typo hunting. Benjamin, Josh, and I had our voyeur-friendly routine down by now. We walked down the street and into promising establishments with deliberate steps, turning our bright faces to each other and attempting to make sound-bite-worthy comments. Upon entering Sam's Bagels, I spotted the misspelled varietals JALEPENO JALEPENO and and PUMPER-NICKLE PUMPER-NICKLE, and the proprietor was happy to take the signs down and correct them himself. There wasn't much else to unearth on the street, however. We found a few more typos in boutiques here and there, but the haul paled in comparison to yesterday's. Nothing was big and beautiful enough for the correspondent himself to correct, and he seemed disappointed. Before we could try ranging farther for richer material, the crew declared that they had enough footage of our craft. They'd come up with a better idea for the correspondent's stand-up.

A "stand-up" is the correspondent directly addressing the camera, usually at the end of a piece, and it doesn't always involve standing up. For our piece, the correspondent sat at a table outside a cafe. Josh, Benjamin, and I were supposed to walk up behind him, sit down, and point out his name spelled wrong in the chyron below. Ho-ho, a virtual typo. We walked down that street about fifteen times, squeezed tightly against each other so that we all fit in the camera's eye, while they tried to time his speech to a perfect shot of us sitting down behind his table. It was fun, like we were C-listers making our big-screen debut in Three Men Walk Purposefully Down the Sidewalk Three Men Walk Purposefully Down the Sidewalk. Once they gave us the thumbs-up, we TEALers hurrahed. A job well done, now time for lemonade!

But then the producer called me over, gesturing toward the car, and we topped off the day's filming with even more driving shots. Once again, the TV guys had decided that the imagery of the car-us driving around in the car, us getting into the car-was a necessary piece of the visual story. What could visually declare that this was a Road Trip Road Trip better than better than guys in car? guys in car? Where NBC put extra emphasis on the shots of Callie, ABC had put some extra emphasis on my Typo Correction Kit, an invention wholly my own, built and refined during the westward journey. They'd had me lay its contents on a table for a slow pan, and they made sure to include the Kit in shots of me. Both news teams had to a.s.semble what was basically a two-minute movie, which had to include a proper setup and a catchy ending. I sympathized with the demands of storytelling. I only wondered what stories they were planning to tell. Where NBC put extra emphasis on the shots of Callie, ABC had put some extra emphasis on my Typo Correction Kit, an invention wholly my own, built and refined during the westward journey. They'd had me lay its contents on a table for a slow pan, and they made sure to include the Kit in shots of me. Both news teams had to a.s.semble what was basically a two-minute movie, which had to include a proper setup and a catchy ending. I sympathized with the demands of storytelling. I only wondered what stories they were planning to tell.

The NBC folks departed, and then I had to say good-bye to my friend. If Benjamin were not about to hike the Appalachian Trail, I'd be worried about his ability to move on from the visceral thrills of tracking down typos. I was more concerned about his departure's effect on the League. Okay, its effect on me me. How could I carry on without his zeal?

"Thanks for everything, buddy," I said. "I would never have made it this far without your help."

"Oh," he demurred, grasping my hand in a firm shake, "I'm sure you would have, geographically geographically. But maybe not with a correction rate over fifty percent."

A numbers man to the end, I thought. "Well, have a safe flight back," I said. "And when you take your walk in the woods, stick to the path!"

"You get your a.s.s up to Seattle-and Jane-in one piece," said Benjamin, and he headed for the nearest subway station on the Boulevard.

I opened the car door, but then I heard, "Oh, and Deck ..." So I turned.

Benjamin stood some distance away on the sidewalk, pointing a pen at me. "The League is in your hands now!" he called. "Make me proud."

I saluted him with the Typo Correction Kit. Then he was gone, a champion off to new campaigns.

A few days later, first the Today Today piece and then the piece and then the World News World News story aired. Josh and I didn't have a TV at our hostel in San Luis Obispo, so I had to catch the ABC clip online the next morning. I sat on the quilted bedspread, eating a Pop-Tart and Googling my own name. Before clicking on the video of the piece, I read the text a.s.sociated with it-and froze. The toaster pastry fell from my hand. story aired. Josh and I didn't have a TV at our hostel in San Luis Obispo, so I had to catch the ABC clip online the next morning. I sat on the quilted bedspread, eating a Pop-Tart and Googling my own name. Before clicking on the video of the piece, I read the text a.s.sociated with it-and froze. The toaster pastry fell from my hand.

"Typo Eradication a.s.sistance a.s.sistance League?" League?"

"Uh-oh," Josh muttered.

The initial wave of stories about TEAL consisted largely of positive, sympathetic coverage, with equally positive reader response. We rejoiced in these pieces, seeing them as a confirmation that people besides us actually cared about the nits and grits of spelling and grammar. A few of the pieces strove for a deeper understanding of the mission, such as a story by the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune, which brought up the same dilemma of independent-store ident.i.ty that I had fretted over in Santa Fe. However, something was missing from most of the stories about the League.

Our journey was, on the surface, simple. Man Drives Across U.S. Fixing Typos. There it is in six words. The what what of the story is straightforward, which is probably what made it an attractive subject in the first place. The of the story is straightforward, which is probably what made it an attractive subject in the first place. The why why of our story, however, is rather more complicated. Even we didn't have a full grasp of that part, at least not yet. Thus, whenever media outlets tried, in truncated fas.h.i.+on, to address the reasons for our mission, the results were less than enlightening. The of our story, however, is rather more complicated. Even we didn't have a full grasp of that part, at least not yet. Thus, whenever media outlets tried, in truncated fas.h.i.+on, to address the reasons for our mission, the results were less than enlightening. The Today Today piece on TEAL opened with the anchor saying, "In today's world of text messaging, odd abbreviations take the place of actually spelling out a word, so some would argue it's actually helped many of us forget the rules of the English language." piece on TEAL opened with the anchor saying, "In today's world of text messaging, odd abbreviations take the place of actually spelling out a word, so some would argue it's actually helped many of us forget the rules of the English language."

The blame-it-on-texts meme also popped up in the Seattle Times Seattle Times, the Virginian-Pilot Virginian-Pilot, the Albany Times-Union Albany Times-Union (quoting a local English teacher), the (quoting a local English teacher), the Nashua Telegraph Nashua Telegraph, the Longmont Times-Call Longmont Times-Call, and London's Guardian Guardian ("the barbarous neologisms of text-speak"), though I said not a word about texting in my interviews. It was a general, unexamined answer for why modern spelling often falters-easy, pithy, and therefore useful. ("the barbarous neologisms of text-speak"), though I said not a word about texting in my interviews. It was a general, unexamined answer for why modern spelling often falters-easy, pithy, and therefore useful.* Note the Note the Today Today anchor's use of that slippery word anchor's use of that slippery word some. "Some some. "Some would argue" that texting is destroying English. n.o.body specific is actually mentioned here, so the viewer would have to a.s.sume that it's common knowledge, and even that we Leaguers had undertaken our trip for that reason. Jack Shafer, would argue" that texting is destroying English. n.o.body specific is actually mentioned here, so the viewer would have to a.s.sume that it's common knowledge, and even that we Leaguers had undertaken our trip for that reason. Jack Shafer, Slate Slate magazine's curmudgeonly media critic, cla.s.sifies magazine's curmudgeonly media critic, cla.s.sifies some some, along with many, few, often, seems, likely many, few, often, seems, likely, and more more, as "weasel-words," a favorite tool of journalists "who haven't found the data to support their argument."

Blaming spelling errors on cell-phone argot is silly enough. We veer painfully close to the aching borderlands of irony, though, when there are errors in stories about guys fixing errors. Coverage of our mission included a bushel of outright mistakes, all of which could have easily been avoided by taking a second glance at the TEAL website. These weren't obscure bits of arcana, just the answers to basic questions: What does "TEAL" stand for? Not only did we apparently call ourselves the "Typo Eradication a.s.sistance League," but we were also known as the Typo Not only did we apparently call ourselves the "Typo Eradication a.s.sistance League," but we were also known as the Typo Elimination Elimination Advancement League, according to the article in Advancement League, according to the article in The Dartmouth The Dartmouth. I admit that I chose a long name for our team for humorous effect, but come on.

What are our names? In the print edition of the In the print edition of the Boston Globe Boston Globe story about us, a photo caption identified me as Benjamin and Benjamin as me. The ident.i.ty of my bewhiskered companion came constantly into question. The story about us, a photo caption identified me as Benjamin and Benjamin as me. The ident.i.ty of my bewhiskered companion came constantly into question. The Baltimore Sun Baltimore Sun ran a photo caption identifying Benjamin as the twenty-third president of the United States-Benjamin Harrison. He appeared in the ran a photo caption identifying Benjamin as the twenty-third president of the United States-Benjamin Harrison. He appeared in the World Almanac World Almanac, of all places, wearing my middle name as his first, as Michael Herson. The magazine Utne Reader Utne Reader inexplicably referred to him as Jeremy, perhaps to help him fit in with the rest of the League, Jeff, Josh, and Jane. inexplicably referred to him as Jeremy, perhaps to help him fit in with the rest of the League, Jeff, Josh, and Jane.

Where did the trip start? The The Guardian Guardian had us beginning our trip in San Francisco and heading due east, perhaps confused by the BBC interview I did in San Francisco. Portland's had us beginning our trip in San Francisco and heading due east, perhaps confused by the BBC interview I did in San Francisco. Portland's Oregonian Oregonian got the starting city right, but then blew its spelling: "Summerville," Ma.s.sachusetts? Sounds magical! got the starting city right, but then blew its spelling: "Summerville," Ma.s.sachusetts? Sounds magical!

What did I say? Britain's Britain's The Sun The Sun apparently took as gospel an article on TEAL in the satirical magazine apparently took as gospel an article on TEAL in the satirical magazine Private Eye Private Eye, quoting me as lobbing rather harsh words: "Some people just have no feeling for language." The BBC Magazine Monitor, in turn, dutifully quoted The Sun The Sun as quoting me saying that. Call me Jeremy if you want, but don't put words in my mouth, mates. as quoting me saying that. Call me Jeremy if you want, but don't put words in my mouth, mates.

We were only some dudes driving around with markers. It's not like they screwed up reportage on an Iraq offensive, so who cares about whether they got our our little story right? But every word in a news story presumably rests on research; every dollop of delicious factual nougat has supposedly been vetted by somebody. The widespread occurrence of errors about our trip gets a body wondering ... what little story right? But every word in a news story presumably rests on research; every dollop of delicious factual nougat has supposedly been vetted by somebody. The widespread occurrence of errors about our trip gets a body wondering ... what other other stories have been misreported? One of the most egregious recent examples involved all the major media outlets parroting a story about a California paraplegic being healed by the bite of a brown recluse spider. Turns out n.o.body stopped to catch their breath and check the facts. The paraplegic was probably never paraplegic in the first place, which doctors only discovered once the spider bite got the guy to the hospital. Plus, there are no brown recluses in California, at least not outside of the arachnid zoo. Even if it had been one, the brown recluse's venom is cytotoxic-it breaks down cells instead of repairing them. stories have been misreported? One of the most egregious recent examples involved all the major media outlets parroting a story about a California paraplegic being healed by the bite of a brown recluse spider. Turns out n.o.body stopped to catch their breath and check the facts. The paraplegic was probably never paraplegic in the first place, which doctors only discovered once the spider bite got the guy to the hospital. Plus, there are no brown recluses in California, at least not outside of the arachnid zoo. Even if it had been one, the brown recluse's venom is cytotoxic-it breaks down cells instead of repairing them.

Sounds ridiculous, until you consider that if a paper or website or cable channel doesn't jump on a breaking story right away, they'll look slow, out of touch. We, the consumers of all ma.s.sively distributed information, made them that way. We demand information faster with each pa.s.sing year and each emergent technology, heedless of that information's accuracy, seeking only to keep the data IV pumping into our ravenous vessels. What is actually said matters less than its immediacy immediacy. It doesn't have to be this way, though.

O fellow slaves to the datastream, I exhort you! Rise up and shuck your shackles!

Ahem. All right, I'm not an expert, I just played one on TV. Already far too much media criticism bobs around the Ocea.n.u.s of the Internet, unsolicited and often hooting and jeering. The media are overextended and fighting to stay afloat, with shrinking revenues, ma.s.sive staff layoffs, and unsustainable business models. So I won't join the harpoon-slinging pack. I'm a guy who likes to read every piece of text he pa.s.ses by; I tend to amble and ruminate. My ideal mediaverse would feature fewer, longer pieces in print and online; trading the cable-news trend of obsessively gnawing a few lean story bones for more measured, thoughtful coverage; and journos who have time to get the story right because readers and viewers chill while the fact-checkers earn their paychecks.* I suspect we could all live with considerably less fluff in our news diet, as well. Nonprofit investigative news outfits like ProPublica and public radio programs by NPR and American Public Media provide an excellent antidote to shallow stories, but they rely on donations to survive. I'm not suggesting that everyone run out and get an I suspect we could all live with considerably less fluff in our news diet, as well. Nonprofit investigative news outfits like ProPublica and public radio programs by NPR and American Public Media provide an excellent antidote to shallow stories, but they rely on donations to survive. I'm not suggesting that everyone run out and get an All Things Considered All Things Considered tote bag, or that television networks altruistically cut the entertainment angle from news programs, returning them to their original loss-leader status. I merely offer an observation for your consideration: Every time we change the channel or click a link, we determine the path trod by the media beast. tote bag, or that television networks altruistically cut the entertainment angle from news programs, returning them to their original loss-leader status. I merely offer an observation for your consideration: Every time we change the channel or click a link, we determine the path trod by the media beast.

Days later, I steeled my nerves and stepped out in front of the slow surge of cars. I was on a steep hill in San Francisco; I'd had to wait for a trolley to clatter by. Across the street, an attractive blond producer named Zoe beckoned to me. A blight upon s.e.xy British accents, I thought as I clomped along at a deliberate pace, trying to ignore the blare of horns and the menace of nearby b.u.mpers. After about five lonely weeks on the road, I would have walked into traffic for just about any winsome smile. Jane was nearly a hemisphere away, and I missed her terribly.

The BBC's coverage of the League had hardly turned out more sophisticated than that of its American counterparts. They opted for a Wild West theme, thanks to the Santa Fe hat that I still wore as a spur to the mission. At this moment I found myself partic.i.p.ating in a staging of the lone cowboy forging ahead through a herd of steel cattle, or at least that's what they seemed to be reaching for. I'd recently completed a slew of takes of me walking up the hill, and then back down to come back up again. The theatre of the piece had required many other shots-even more, it seemed, than either of the TV crews had wanted in Los Angeles. These folks needed me walking and tapping the "holstered" Typo Correction Kit at my side and walking some more. They needed the hat, and the shadow of the hat. The correspondent had performed little magic tricks between takes, to stave off monotony.

At a Beat Museum dedicated to Jack Kerouac and his cohorts, the BBC correspondent had seen something Kerouackian-Kero-wacky, if you will-in my mission and thus deemed the locale appropriate for a walk-and-talk that would end the piece. This piece of stagecraft would involve us waltzing by a bin of books, picking one of them up, and then me explaining to the correspondent why TEAL stood for all those who did not have the faculty to express themselves as well as Kerouac, or some b.o.l.l.o.c.ks like that. They wanted a smooth sound bite from me that would encapsulate the mission's purpose. What they got was several takes, with us continually walking back over to the bin while I mumbled something different each time. Sometimes when I picked up a book, I'd drop it on the floor. At take five or six, the correspondent looked like he'd rather be doing a magic trick, or anything else.

Probably the most awkward stop had been at a s.e.x shop in the North Beach neighborhood. As with the tattoo parlor and the army-surplus place back on Hollywood Boulevard in L.A., I became filled with the compulsion and courage to go into a more unconventional venue to correct typos, in large part due to the camera crew at my back. I found a pair of typos right away in an ad for a lube that apparently possessed the following traits: MIMICS THE BODIES OWN LUBRICATING FLUIDS MIMICS THE BODIES OWN LUBRICATING FLUIDS, and COMPATIBLE WITH CONDOMS & DIAPHRAMS COMPATIBLE WITH CONDOMS & DIAPHRAMS. The subsequent awkwardness was caused not by the owner of the shop-who turned out to be a nice guy who was happy to let me correct the mistakes-but by the mere, leering presence of me and a British news outfit in such a place. We had barged into the establishment essentially for an expected comedic payoff. I felt more like a f.e.c.kless mountebank than ever. Sheepishly I made my correction with the camera rolling.

Now, if I made it to the curb without dying, my ordeal would be over. I pressed on, steadily avoiding a peek at the annoyed San Franciscans in their hybrid Priuses and Jettas. When I reached the sidewalk, Zoe exchanged signals with the far cameraman and then clapped me on the back. "Right, then, brilliant," she said. "How about a beer?"

We headed back to their car, where we saw that the correspondent had fallen asleep, his face pressed against the window. The cameraman took some optional footage of this, and we all headed to their hotel's bar. I enjoyed three rum-and-c.o.kes on the BBC and inwardly toasted Benjamin with his favorite drink.

In the morning I did an interview with a Minnesota Public Radio show called Grammar Grater Grammar Grater, which a.s.sembles thoughtful weekly episodes on spelling and grammar. My confidence on air had power-leveled since the NPR stutterfest on the second day of the trip. Of course, I could also credit my alertness in the interview to the coa.r.s.e wakeup of the morning's previous interview, with a pair of Iowan shock jocks (though, how shocking could they be, interviewing a grammarian?). As the style of my interviewers swung from fart jokes to engaged questions, I could see the contradictory forces yanking at the public over the airwaves, some daring to offer us insight, some quailing to go near such a thing. I couldn't have guessed that an altogether different tug-of-war lay in store for my mission, with ropes taut and combatants ready to pull.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 183 Total corrected: 104 * Hopefully, informed debunkings such as David Crystal's recent Hopefully, informed debunkings such as David Crystal's recent Txtng: The Gr8 Deb8 Txtng: The Gr8 Deb8 will finally lay this myth to rest. will finally lay this myth to rest.* Six-fifty an hour, as I recall from my intern days. Six-fifty an hour, as I recall from my intern days.

12 You Got a Friend

April 1217, 2008 (San Francisco, CA, to Vancouver, BC)As they round the treacherous curves of the PCH, our Hero and his new firebrand companion do great Deeds in the name of their mother Tongue. Yet all is not well. There is a traitor among them, and a frightening revelation, in the manner of an evil Chicken, is coming home to roost in the head of our Hero.

Josh cracked San Francisco open like a mussel, seeking the sweet creature within. He did the same with every city on our itinerary, but this, the jubilant locus of northern California, came the closest to satisfying his voracity for new experiences and sights and craft beers. His wide-ranging enthusiasm helped to revive me somewhat from the travel-weariness I felt at this point. Without Josh, I would not have ventured into the recondite shops of Haight-Ashbury, would not have encountered the drugged-out denizens of Golden Gate Park, would not have sampled the city's finest Vietnamese and Mexican, nor its nonfigurative and quite tasty mussels themselves. Nor would I have wound up at the Cartoon Art Museum, concealed in the financial district's thicket of towers.

At the time of our visit, the museum featured an exhibit on "s.e.x and Sensibility," profiling ten female cartoonists and their work. What a splendid way, I thought, to honor some of the lesser-known players in the comics game, artists and writers and humorists who deserved more recognition for their talent. Then I started reading the biographical plaques-and the fires of righteous fury licked at the periphery of my vision.

It was a whole gallery gallery of errors. They ranged from relatively minor mistyping ("... raised in one of he lesser parts of the greater Chicago area," "Her father often said in is jovial way ...") to words that were garbled ("I admit I became kind of a bif fishas flounder of Kirshenbaum ...") to places in the text where it appeared that whole words or even phrases were missing ("Interestingly, while she did not have a favorite Beatle, she did have a minute-and-a-half and then went on to work at numerous jobs ...," "I always loved to draw and really loved in a cartoony way"). There were mistakes littering every one of the ten biographies. of errors. They ranged from relatively minor mistyping ("... raised in one of he lesser parts of the greater Chicago area," "Her father often said in is jovial way ...") to words that were garbled ("I admit I became kind of a bif fishas flounder of Kirshenbaum ...") to places in the text where it appeared that whole words or even phrases were missing ("Interestingly, while she did not have a favorite Beatle, she did have a minute-and-a-half and then went on to work at numerous jobs ...," "I always loved to draw and really loved in a cartoony way"). There were mistakes littering every one of the ten biographies.

Josh shook his head upon seeing the errors. "To think we paid six bucks a head to see this," he said, disgusted. With stunning ease, he shed his tourist mantle, and his New Yorker aggression kicked in. "Let's go tell them right now. Let's make sure they fix every single typo!"

"In the name of the League!" I agreed, but Josh was already moving.

He marched over to the woman at the front desk; I hurried to follow. Thinking that his problem-solving approach might involve a quick jab to her face, I subtly shouldered him to the side and took over, asking to speak with the curator of the "s.e.x and Sensibility" exhibit. I explained that typos riddled all their biographies. Her eyes narrowed and she opened with a self-defensive maneuver. She said that they'd had a high-school intern type up most of the signs, as if it were acceptable to lay the blame on that poor kid.

"Why don't you come and take a look at the errors?" Josh said. He had decided to go with verbal pugilism rather than physical, so he added, "FYI, you'll need a good ten minutes to see them all."

She walked over to the exhibit with us. I pointed out the "I became kind of a bif fishas flounder" one as an example. Before I could catalog the other mistakes for her, the museum a.s.sociate changed tactics. She might have seen that these textual sins were too heavy to lay exclusively on the thin shoulders of the high-school intern. She now said that all the biography signs had been copied from a book that had inspired the exhibit. She claimed she'd done a couple of the signs herself and had noticed errors in the book biographies.

Hmm. "So you faithfully copied the errors over into the exhibit signs?" I said.

She didn't respond to this, perhaps realizing that whatever answer she'd give would make her look even worse. Instead, she directed my attention to the book (itself t.i.tled s.e.x and Sensibility) s.e.x and Sensibility), which was in the museum gift shop. Josh and I leafed through until we found the biographies.

"Aha!" Josh said. "Look, it's right here-this woman was 'kind of a big fish as founder big fish as founder of Kirshenbaum'. Not a freaking of Kirshenbaum'. Not a freaking flounder!" flounder!"

A flounder is is kind of a big fish, but I was sure the correlation was coincidental. We read on, realizing that the museum had to be the culprit for the mistakes. The book version of the biographies, the source material, was error-free. Only by reading them could we understand what the exhibit versions had been trying to say. kind of a big fish, but I was sure the correlation was coincidental. We read on, realizing that the museum had to be the culprit for the mistakes. The book version of the biographies, the source material, was error-free. Only by reading them could we understand what the exhibit versions had been trying to say.

We went back to the a.s.sociate and I explained what we had found. For the integrity of the exhibit, and respect for the cartoonists themselves, could the museum fix the signs?

The woman sighed. "You're the first person who's ever said anything about the mistakes. Here's the name of the curator." Then she added, "I really doubt that they'd get fixed even if you tell him about them." With that, she delicately removed the gauntlet from her slender hand and threw it to the floor. I bent down and picked up the damascened steel glove, accepting the challenge, and Josh and I walked out. Given the hostile response from the museum a.s.sociate, I didn't hold out much hope that the curator would listen to little old me.

So I set my readers on him. My minions minions, cropping up in ever-greater numbers each day on the TEAL blog. I'm not sure how many people hara.s.sed this poor caretaker through beseeching e-mails and phone calls, but from the reports that readers sent me, I'm guessing that the guy had a full in-box. The curator popped up on the blog a couple of days later saying that he'd had the signs corrected and begging that I call off the TEAL devotees, who apparently were still inundating him with "vitriolic and speculative" messages. I did, satisfied that justice had been wrought. When certain factions online questioned my judgment in loosing the pack in the first place, Josh stepped in-acting as my second in comment-section duels, on my blog and elsewhere-and vigorously defended me.

We left San Francisco, raring to tackle the rest of the West Coast. But man, was there a lot of it left. North of San Francisco, the coast's population drops sharply, and doesn't pick up again until halfway into Oregon, somewhere around Eugene. We weathered six hours' worth of driving-including a single typo correction at a remote deli-up to Klamath, California, where the very last hostel of the TEAL journey awaited us, a lone wooden house tucked in among endless woods by a stony sh.o.r.e. Somewhere along the way, the temperature had taken a sharp dive, marking our welcome to the Pacific Northwest. There were no typos to find near the hostel, nor indeed even a speck of civilization. Originally the plan had been to take in the nearby forest of redwoods, but by the time we arrived, night had fallen. We stepped out into the drizzle and smuggled booze into the hostel along with our food, knowing that we'd not leave the place until the light of morning.

The next day we powered on all the way to Portland. Jane was in my thoughts constantly now. Her arrival at the Seattle airport was not far away, so every mile brought me closer to her. Again we found ourselves on the road for about six hours, and didn't get into town until evening. Josh had proven a doughty companion for the road, taking intermittent s.h.i.+fts at the wheel, which were crucial at times like this for meeting the demanding pace of the itinerary. I'm not sure whether this trek or that of the previous day took the technical cake for longest travel day of the TEAL trip. All I know is that the consecution of two epic slogs made for tired Leaguers. Nonetheless, soon after we checked into our hotel, my brother in error-sleuthing said, "Let's. .h.i.t the town!"

I remained in a state of collapse on my bed. "Can we do that from here?"

"Man up!" said Josh. "We only have two nights in Portland, and I I intend to enjoy them." He began to search online for the most succulent dinner and distinctive spirits in the neighborhood. intend to enjoy them." He began to search online for the most succulent dinner and distinctive spirits in the neighborhood.

Yes, get out there, but forget grub, rebuked a voice in my head that sounded a lot like Benjamin. You haven't done your hunt today You haven't done your hunt today.

I'm hungry, and beat, I argued back. Tomorrow would be fine. Before Josh, I had spent more than three weeks on the road with the real Benjamin, who possessed a whole-minded focus on the mission and relative disinterest in sightseeing and cuisine. Why shouldn't shouldn't I now follow Josh's lead and allocate a little more time for enjoyment? I now follow Josh's lead and allocate a little more time for enjoyment?

You're on a daily mission, yo, said the haranguer, still in Benjamin masquerade. You should be ... HUNTING! You should be ... HUNTING!

Hunting for typos in the dark?

My internal interlocutor hesitated. You could have found some already today. That's two days in a row of slacking You could have found some already today. That's two days in a row of slacking.

Where? Where in the textless hills and vacant roads should I have gone looking? Was I supposed to conjure typos to fix from the insensate air, during all those lonely miles between San Francisco and here? Where in the textless hills and vacant roads should I have gone looking? Was I supposed to conjure typos to fix from the insensate air, during all those lonely miles between San Francisco and here?

The voice did not respond, so I considered the argument won. Josh and I headed out for burgers at an independent brewery. We ate well there and everywhere else during our brief stay in Portland, including a great breakfast place that through the power of their pancakes could be forgiven for refusing to let me fix their chalkboard. It was feeling like a real live vacation. Still, I could not help but remember the chiding voice in my head, accusing me of dereliction.

Perhaps that was how I came to folly the next day. We met up with David Wolman, an enthusiast of the League whose book on the history of English spelling, Righting the Mother Tongue Righting the Mother Tongue, would come out later that year (not to be confused with Bill Bryson's The Mother Tongue The Mother Tongue, also a book about English language history). Wolman obviously had the same orthographic topics near to his own heart, but he expressed surprise upon meeting me that I wasn't more of a hardliner. As a chronically poor speller, he'd suffered through countless indignities at the hands of unsympathetic schoolmarms and grammar cops. I wondered how he'd gotten the impression that I was like them; did I come off that way in the blog? As we chatted about wayward apostrophes and such at a bistro on Alberta Street, I mentioned a sign that I'd noticed on our way over, in the window of a restaurant closed for the day: "He was a bold man that first eat an oyster," attributed to Jonathan Swift.

"I keep mulling it over," I said. "Obviously grammatical syntax was not quite the same in Swift's day, and yet it seems ... wrong wrong to me." to me."

Wolman agreed but could not be sure.

"Why don't we look it up online?" Josh said, offering up another brindled calf to the voracious elder G.o.ds of technology. I agreed to this, as Josh's Google spellcheck trick had served us well back in San Francisco, when we'd confirmed the spelling of bustier bustier in a secondhand clothing shop. in a secondhand clothing shop.

Wolman pulled out a device with browsing capability and punched the quote into Google, both the way that the restaurant had it and the way that I thought it ought to be, "the man that first ate ate an oyster." He announced that my way had returned more results than the restaurant's way. The virtual jury had spoken. an oyster." He announced that my way had returned more results than the restaurant's way. The virtual jury had spoken.

After our rendezvous with Wolman, Josh and I went back to the closed restaurant and taped a small sign over the window with our correction. Below it, we left a business card. We congratulated ourselves for bettering the restaurant's image in the eyes of the dining public, and went off to grab some seafood.

Only problem was, the virtual jury had been wrong. Later in the evening I did some Internet research of my own and discovered that "first eat an oyster" was, in fact, the correct wording of the Swift quote: "He was a bold Man, that first eat an Oyster" says the Colonel in Swift's Polite Conversation Polite Conversation (at least according to an 1892 printing). I felt the flush of terrible shame redden me from toe to crown. I knew then that I should not have rushed to fix something that I wasn't absolutely sure was incorrect. Tie goes to the proprietor. Though we made no permanent alteration to the sign, the Swift blunder is still one of the two moments that I truly regret during the TEAL trip. (at least according to an 1892 printing). I felt the flush of terrible shame redden me from toe to crown. I knew then that I should not have rushed to fix something that I wasn't absolutely sure was incorrect. Tie goes to the proprietor. Though we made no permanent alteration to the sign, the Swift blunder is still one of the two moments that I truly regret during the TEAL trip.*

On we journeyed to Was.h.i.+ngton State the next day, and the sun broke the gloom, lending considerable beauty to Puget Sound as we arrived in Tacoma. My friend from kindergarten days, Carson, lived in an attractive neighborhood right by the water. He grilled some salmon and the three of us stayed up for a while that evening, getting drunk on wine and watching stupid television. This traditional display of camaraderie helped things feel normal for a while, until I realized I was still wearing my cowboy hat.

"I've got to put in time at the base tomorrow," said Carson. "Hey, if you want, I could-"

"Show us around?!" Josh interrupted, slamming down his empty gla.s.s. "Oh Josh interrupted, slamming down his empty gla.s.s. "Oh yeah!" yeah!" He clapped me on the shoulder, and I tore my gaze away from the bright parade of ephemera onscreen. Maybe it was an afterimage from the TV, or the wine, but I thought I could see jets swooping and barreling in Josh's fervid eyes. "Don't we, Jeff? We do, don't we." He clapped me on the shoulder, and I tore my gaze away from the bright parade of ephemera onscreen. Maybe it was an afterimage from the TV, or the wine, but I thought I could see jets swooping and barreling in Josh's fervid eyes. "Don't we, Jeff? We do, don't we."

"Of course we do," I said. McChord Air Force Base would be a poor venue for typo hunting, what with all the men with guns and all, but I wasn't about to deny Josh the latest bounty on his quest to see the coolest stuff ever.

"I considered being a fighter pilot," Carson said to us the next day as we walked beside him on the tarmac of an airstrip. He was dressed in full lieutenant's regalia, complete with jaunty hat. "But then I realized that I would rather just go someplace and have lunch."

Hence his decision to fly transport jets. Which still impressed the stuffing out of me and Josh. Carson had shown us the interior of a C-17 Globemaster III. It was a giant machine that would climb into the air and convey teenagers with guns to foreign lands. We met a few of these kids in the plane. I couldn't help but feel silly. Here were guys several years younger than me with the means of war in their hands, and what was I I doing? Semantically skirmis.h.i.+ng with markers and elixir of correction? How could my frivolous quest even compare to the doing? Semantically skirmis.h.i.+ng with markers and elixir of correction? How could my frivolous quest even compare to the vitality vitality of the lives these young men led? of the lives these young men led?

I came away from that C-17 troubled by doubts. The airmen I'd met could be certain that they were making a difference, protecting their country from fanatics and evil hearts. By contrast, the Jonathan Swift incident the other day had demonstrated the fine line I myself walked between helping and harming. What kind of good could I be doing, if it could so quickly turn to wrong? As we walked off the airstrip, Carson swiveled toward me and barked, "Jeff! Don't step over that."

I had come close to crossing an innocuous red line painted on the tarmac, near the fence. "Why?"

"Because if you do," said Carson, "an alarm will be triggered, and the base police will come and shoot you."

"Oh. All right."

I stepped well clear of the mortal line, which upon closer inspection was accompanied by a legend saying something about "authorized deadly force." Yes, it would have been helpful to see that earlier. Never had text been so vital to my well-being. Though I had broken many rules so far on the trip, I preferred to do so when the consequences were a little less severe-say, involving an angry shopkeeper instead of a squad with M16s.

Way back in January, Josh had suggested a daring revision to our West Coast schedule: that we forge a path past Seattle and land in Vancouver for an evening, before doubling back to meet Jane's arrival at Sea-Tac. So now we pushed on past Seattle and across the Canadian border, keen to spice up the Typo Hunt Across America with a dash of foreign savor.

At the crossing, a gruff customs officer interrogated us about our purposes for visiting, trying to get us to admit that we were pot-heads who intended to hara.s.s the honest Canadian populace with our grubby mid-continental ways. We elected not to mention the true purpose of our visit, since it did, technically, include at least a minimum of hara.s.sment. Annoyance and discomfort had revealed themselves, I thought, as the golden core of TEAL.

Using the interwebbing skills for which he is renowned, Josh landed us semi-sw.a.n.ky accommodations in downtown Vancouver for a decent price. My initial impression was that the city did not diverge in any noticeable fas.h.i.+on from many of the American cities that I'd already seen. But for the chill in the air, and the vaguely British twist to the spelling on signs, Vancouver could have been San Diego or Atlanta. The following day, we'd take a stroll in the giant park capping the north side, and that generous amount of wildness would lend some character to the city, but this evening's perambulation along lively Robson Street gave a familiar impression. Our search yielded pretty much the same types of errors we'd been finding stateside (mostly missing letters and punctuation). Our correction rate remained low to nonexistent. We wished to be on our best behavior in a foreign land, and unfortunately most of the typos could not be fixed without risking an international incident.

Then we stopped.