The Great Typo Hunt Part 7

LONLEY? asked the chalkboard. YOU GOT A FRIEND IN BOOZE YOU GOT A FRIEND IN BOOZE.

Josh was the one who'd pointed out the sign. We peered at the specimen, and I felt a thin rivulet of confidence feed into my heart's murky pool. I had done plenty of chalkboards on this trip. We could fell this typo for sure. There was an apostrophe mistake on the other side, too. Josh gave me a determined nod. I smiled. After all we'd been through, I could count on him as a hardened veteran of the League. He said, "n.o.body's looking right now. Let's just do it-give me half of that chalk, and I'll do one side and you do the other."

"Sure," I said. "You get the apostrophe one, and I'll do lonley." lonley."

"What?"

"Lonley," I repeated, confused now. "The typo you so astutely pointed out on this side of the board." I repeated, confused now. "The typo you so astutely pointed out on this side of the board."

Josh peered at the chalkboard. "Oh yeah, that's a good one!"

"Uh ... what were you looking at, if not that?"

He indicated the next line down. "See, there. You got a friend You got a friend. Should be You've got a friend." You've got a friend."

"That's not a typo. They're trying to be slangy."

"It's not right right, though."

"It's a style thing. You have to allow room for self-expression."

Josh shrugged. "All right, let's do our corrections."

He went around and added the apostrophe needed on the other side. As carefully as I could, I converted the e e to an to an l l and vice versa in and vice versa in LONLEY LONLEY on my side. When Josh came back, he decided to add his own correction below that, regardless of what I thought. Thus, to my dismay, a ' on my side. When Josh came back, he decided to add his own correction below that, regardless of what I thought. Thus, to my dismay, a 'VE appeared, like a dark djinn summoned to fulfill the wishes of the black-hearted. appeared, like a dark djinn summoned to fulfill the wishes of the black-hearted.

"Dammit, Jos.h.!.+" I said. "That wasn't a typo. For real. Take that out." He refused. And then it was clear to me: an insurgent had somehow entered the ranks of TEAL, right under my marker-flecked nose.

How did we get here? First I had to take a hard look at the siege engine I had set grinding toward the citadel of English. What was the League about, really? really? Not the idealized form in my head, but its literally stated goals, and our practices in carrying them out. The original mission statement read, in part: Not the idealized form in my head, but its literally stated goals, and our practices in carrying them out. The original mission statement read, in part: [S]lowly the once-una.s.sailable foundations of spelling are crumbling, and the time has come for the crisis to be addressed. We believe that only through working together with vigilance and a love of correctness can we achieve the beauty of a typo-free society.

There was no room for subtlety or individual expression in those words. It was a call to war. I had created a dread automaton that chugged along according to inexpertly programmed instructions. I could see now how in line Josh was with our mission according to its very definition. As in every other aspect of his journey, he had jumped into typo hunting with surpa.s.sing vigor. He had overfixed the chalkboard because that meant extra points, giving a 110 percent effort to the mission. Josh wasn't the traitor to the cause. I I was. was.

No wonder I had gotten so many puzzlingly fanatical comments on the blog from people who decried the decline of America through bad spelling, who wanted me to correct the way that people talked talked as well as the way that they wrote. No wonder Wolman had a.s.sumed that I'd be a hardliner until he'd met me. The League was carrying out the dream of hardliners everywhere. That wasn't what I'd intended at all. I had sought to overstate things a bit in the mission statement, to recognize through self-parodying pomposity that my journey bordered on the absurd; e.g., referring to typos as "vile stains on the delicate fabric of our language." I hadn't expected anyone to nod gravely at my words, missing the hyperbole. as well as the way that they wrote. No wonder Wolman had a.s.sumed that I'd be a hardliner until he'd met me. The League was carrying out the dream of hardliners everywhere. That wasn't what I'd intended at all. I had sought to overstate things a bit in the mission statement, to recognize through self-parodying pomposity that my journey bordered on the absurd; e.g., referring to typos as "vile stains on the delicate fabric of our language." I hadn't expected anyone to nod gravely at my words, missing the hyperbole.

Josh's approach to YOU GOT A FRIEND IN BOOZE YOU GOT A FRIEND IN BOOZE was perfectly consistent with his previous actions. He had displayed a straightforward approach to typo hunting from the start. Back in L.A., when I'd pointed out a fuel pump label that said was perfectly consistent with his previous actions. He had displayed a straightforward approach to typo hunting from the start. Back in L.A., when I'd pointed out a fuel pump label that said HARMFUL OR FATAL IS SWALLOWED HARMFUL OR FATAL IS SWALLOWED, he was unimpressed until I went around and corrected each instance of the error on all seven pumps. It was a concrete task for him, a checklist in which each box must be filled in completely with a No. 2 pencil. Fix every occurrence, change every wrong into right, and then you can have your beer. Upon noticing how often we ran into "owners expense" signs, Josh proclaimed them the "bread and b.u.t.ter of TEAL," seeing each instance as basically another job to be done. Now I realized the implications of this functional approach to language: Josh was a prescriptivist.

The popular perception of English-y folks, or language nerds, is that we are a fairly monolithic group of preposition-obsessed finger-waggers. But bitter ideological divides are a characteristic of every field of interest, and spelling and grammar are no exception. O how the fires of battle rage between the two camps of dogma! To all those who ordinarily give change junctions no more than a pa.s.sing thought-beware!

The Prescriptivist is typified by Lynne Truss and the Old Guard of English conventions, columnists in the tradition of William Safire, and many language-based humorists. Call this one the Grammar Hawk. The Hawk swings and punches in the cause of linguistic tradition, i.e., the way that we've habitually been spelling and punctuating words for a long time. The philosophy here is that there is one proper way to go about orthography, and one way only: what the dictionary and grammar textbooks instruct us to do. These are the standards that have arisen from consensus and that provide the greatest clarity in writing. The Hawk tells people how they should should spell. spell.

The Descriptivist represents most academics (linguists, English professors, cognitive scientists) and dictionary staff. We can call him the Grammar Hippie, for he advocates a pa.s.sive, observational approach to spelling and grammar. The Hippie merely notes how people do do spell, here and now. They refer to "Standard" English rather than "correct" English because many equally valid variations exist; Standard English possesses no absolute, data-proven superiority over other dialects. All of orthography's supposed conventions and rules are ultimately subjective, sometimes even with oppressive agendas behind them. Language is in a continual state of growth and flux. spell, here and now. They refer to "Standard" English rather than "correct" English because many equally valid variations exist; Standard English possesses no absolute, data-proven superiority over other dialects. All of orthography's supposed conventions and rules are ultimately subjective, sometimes even with oppressive agendas behind them. Language is in a continual state of growth and flux.

I hadn't thought about this conflict much when starting out on the mission-I'd been focused on my own personal interpretation of what typos were, of when to consider something an error. Now that I was forced to examine it, typo hunting looked completely ant.i.thetical to Grammar Hippie beliefs, but I didn't feel comfortable with the pure Grammar Hawk approach, either. Black and white could not by themselves paint the complex portrait of American English. (Or rather, North North American English, here in the dark streets of Vancouver.) Ideally, people would see the nuances, would recognize that something like lonley would never be right, but that they were free to bend their speech to a certain degree in the service of dialect and individual character, that indeed such practices were healthy and necessary to the ongoing evolution of a language. However, everyone ended up choosing one side or the other, donning either the feathers of the Hawk or the tie-dye of the Hippie. American English, here in the dark streets of Vancouver.) Ideally, people would see the nuances, would recognize that something like lonley would never be right, but that they were free to bend their speech to a certain degree in the service of dialect and individual character, that indeed such practices were healthy and necessary to the ongoing evolution of a language. However, everyone ended up choosing one side or the other, donning either the feathers of the Hawk or the tie-dye of the Hippie.

Even the triumph of the Cartoon Art Museum corrections seemed sour now, considering the ma.s.s bullying it had taken to get anything done. I'd needed to resort to an unsubtle, Hawklike maneuver; I couldn't imagine marshaling the troops on a regular basis. For a moment I feared that TEAL's entire mission was misguided on some fundamental level-or even futile, like flinging thimblefuls of water onto a beached whale. One typo correction at a time hardly seemed an adequate pace for bringing about a better world.

Coming back to the present, where Josh still fixed me with challenging eyes, I capitulated. I let the hated 've stand on the sign, and we moved on. We grabbed some mediocre j.a.panese food and headed back to the hotel, and I spent a restless night thinking about what I'd become.

Before departing the next day, Josh wanted to buy some Canadian beer to bring back with us across the border. The shop we chose turned out to be overpriced, but that was not its sole failing: one sign proclaimed a particular vintage A DELIGHTFUL WINE JUST TO SIP ON IT'S OWN A DELIGHTFUL WINE JUST TO SIP ON IT'S OWN.

That morning, I'd seen a restaurant marquee promising GREEK GREEK FOOD AT IT'S BEST FOOD AT IT'S BEST. I was beginning to think that Canadians had as much trouble with the its/it's its/it's thing as Americans. But who could blame them? thing as Americans. But who could blame them? Its/it's Its/it's confusion is one of the most common and pervasive types of errors in modern English. We're taught that apostrophes go with possessives like fish with chips, and so when making confusion is one of the most common and pervasive types of errors in modern English. We're taught that apostrophes go with possessives like fish with chips, and so when making it it possessive, the natural choice is to add that obligatory apostrophe. Oh, but our instincts betray us! possessive, the natural choice is to add that obligatory apostrophe. Oh, but our instincts betray us! Its Its is different thanks to its status as a p.r.o.noun, much like is different thanks to its status as a p.r.o.noun, much like his his or or her her (e.g., (e.g., Josh Roberts at his best). It's Josh Roberts at his best). It's can only mean can only mean it is it is. The apostrophe's dual role as both possessive-maker and contraction-maker causes a conflict of interest here, which nineteenth-century printers did not adequately take into account when cementing apostrophe rules in the first place. The distinction is stupid and arbitrary, yes, and until someone comes up with a better idea, we can at least take comfort from knowing that it's the fault of long-dead printers and not us.

All three members of the liquor store staff were watching me with cold and suspicious eyes. One of them approached and asked if she could help me. I told her that she could, actually, and pointed out the it's it's.

Her reaction was frosty. "Does it really matter?"

"It does," I said. I held back from explaining the mission, from elaborating beyond those simple two words. Suddenly I didn't feel like identifying myself by the greater scale of my efforts. I didn't want to be a Grammar Hawk in her eyes. "Do you mind if I fix it? I can just make the s s bigger to absorb the apostrophe." bigger to absorb the apostrophe."

"No, no, don't worry about it. See you later." See you later."

I didn't need the boot physically in my b.u.t.t to get the picture. I left the place and reported my failure to Josh outside, as we walked on from the shop. He said, "Well, you didn't tell them about your journey. That's why they didn't listen."

"I want them to care," I said. "Without the gimmick."

"They don't care without the gimmick."

Of course they don't, I thought darkly. I would revisit this exchange with my friend Frank the next day, during a stymied attempt at the s.p.a.ce Needle. Shouldn't they care that there's a mistake, even without the funny story? Shouldn't they care that there's a mistake, even without the funny story? I'd ask. And Frank's reply: I'd ask. And Frank's reply: They need the story as a reason to care. Otherwise, you're just a guy pointing out a mistake They need the story as a reason to care. Otherwise, you're just a guy pointing out a mistake.

But that was supposed to be the important part. The ridiculous acronym, the animated map with its bouncing cartoon heads, the florid words of the blog, even the crossing of thousands of miles in the name of punctuation-those were all trappings, frosting, not the point itself. In each moment, I was was just a guy pointing out a mistake. The point of the mission was to inspire other ordinary people to speak out when they see mistakes. The prospect of that actually happening had never looked so dim. just a guy pointing out a mistake. The point of the mission was to inspire other ordinary people to speak out when they see mistakes. The prospect of that actually happening had never looked so dim.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 213 Total corrected: 123 * The restaurant closed its doors the following year-though probably our note didn't have anything to do with it. Portland experienced what alt-weekly The restaurant closed its doors the following year-though probably our note didn't have anything to do with it. Portland experienced what alt-weekly Willamette Week Willamette Week called a "Restaurant Apocalypse" starting in late 2008 and lost many great independent spots, thanks to the economy tanking. called a "Restaurant Apocalypse" starting in late 2008 and lost many great independent spots, thanks to the economy tanking.

13 Run-Time Errors

April 2225, 2008 (Cataldo, ID, to Rapid City, SD)At long last, the romantic reunion of our Champion and his demure, computer-literate Sweetheart. They turn Eastward and begin the long course home. If only she didn't believe his mission was utterly Pointless.

The afternoon should have been perfect. Underneath my feet, green gra.s.s struggled into spring. Snow-crowned, evergreen-carpeted mountains speared a blue sky studded with clouds, and Jane was at my side, tresses fluttering in the breeze. A thawed pond lay beyond bare trees preparing to bloom. It still wasn't warm enough to shed our winter coats, but we could at least leave them open. The undulating landscape had been nothing short of stunning on the drive here. I could enjoy all this with the girl I'd waited so long to see, so what was the problem?

"Issac I. Stevens," that was what.

"Hey, Jeffbear," said Jane. "You're squeezing my hand."

Josh and Jane and I had spent the weekend in Seattle, temporarily joining forces for typo hunting. Yesterday Josh had caught a plane home to New York, and Jane and I had struck east, stopping last night at the dubious way station known as Spokane. She brought a much different vibe to TEAL than had her predecessors, and not only because she was my girlfriend. At corrective crossroads where Josh would have been unyielding, and Benjamin kinetically aggressive, Jane chose to be accommodating. She grew up as the middle child in her family, consequently becoming well versed in mediation and compromise. Her chief objective in any given situation was for everyone to get along and not feel unhappy. Obviously, typo hunting ran rather against these conditions, so Jane preferred not to do the aggravating of others herself, instead standing back and offering conciliatory suggestions when my observations ignited somebody's ire. Often she ended up performing a valuable function missing from the heretofore testosterone-dominated League: a voice of reason.

The sign featuring the seemingly odious name "Issac I. Stevens" stood along one of the paths through the grounds at the Cataldo historic site, a mission house used long ago for the Christianizing of native peoples in the area. I'd gotten a vague hint from a guy at a gas station back in Coeur d'Alene that this would be a fine place for Jane and me to stop and eat our sandwiches, before pressing on to the day's destination across the Montana border, Missoula. The site had turned out to be a fine diversion, but I'd already spotted a couple of obvious typos in and around the mission house, and now there was this one. The sign listed a few of the notable historical figures who may have crashed for the night in the guest house-fun facts, but didn't misspelling the first name of the governor of the old Was.h.i.+ngton Territory muddy the educational aspect a bit?

"This is a cla.s.sic screwup," I muttered. "So many people mix up the s s and the and the a a. Could be that the double a a feels unnatural to modern English speakers. I remember back in junior high, one of my cla.s.smates-who would go on to become valedictorian, no less-proudly showed me the glossy cover that he'd designed for his report for science cla.s.s, and there it was. 'Issac Newton.' Even back then, it jumped out at me as wrong." feels unnatural to modern English speakers. I remember back in junior high, one of my cla.s.smates-who would go on to become valedictorian, no less-proudly showed me the glossy cover that he'd designed for his report for science cla.s.s, and there it was. 'Issac Newton.' Even back then, it jumped out at me as wrong."

Something more interesting had caught Jane's attention during this musing, a pretty bird or the sun glinting off the surface of the water, but now she nodded and took a look at the sign again. "Well," she said, "keep this in mind: if Was.h.i.+ngton State was still a territory when this guy was around, it had to be a while ago."

"True."

"Could he have spelled his name that way? It could have been a variation on the name back then."

At first this rationale struck me as suspiciously similar to the one that a park ranger had trotted out for me back at a reconstruction of an old mining town in the southern California desert. One store had promised STATIONARY STATIONARY on its marquee, clearly intended to be an advertis.e.m.e.nt for its goods and not an indicator of its mobility or lack thereof. When I brought the sign up to the ranger, he had said dismissively, "That must be how they spelled 'stationery' back in the Old West." That had been mere days after "St. Frances of a.s.sissi," the so-called Spanish spelling. Apathy masqueraded as an awareness of language change and divergence. Granted, names could change their spellings over time. My own first name is an update of the Old English name Geoffrey (e.g., that lewd rascal Chaucer). In this case, though, sorry-they on its marquee, clearly intended to be an advertis.e.m.e.nt for its goods and not an indicator of its mobility or lack thereof. When I brought the sign up to the ranger, he had said dismissively, "That must be how they spelled 'stationery' back in the Old West." That had been mere days after "St. Frances of a.s.sissi," the so-called Spanish spelling. Apathy masqueraded as an awareness of language change and divergence. Granted, names could change their spellings over time. My own first name is an update of the Old English name Geoffrey (e.g., that lewd rascal Chaucer). In this case, though, sorry-they didn't didn't spell it like that back then. Here, I already knew that Sir Isaac Newton, whose birth had preceded Governor Stevens's by a couple of centuries, was an Isaac, thus I knew that "Issac" was not historically the norm. Or, of course, I could look further back, to the biblical origin of the name, and at least by the King James translation, he was a double-a-not-double-s kind of kid. spell it like that back then. Here, I already knew that Sir Isaac Newton, whose birth had preceded Governor Stevens's by a couple of centuries, was an Isaac, thus I knew that "Issac" was not historically the norm. Or, of course, I could look further back, to the biblical origin of the name, and at least by the King James translation, he was a double-a-not-double-s kind of kid.

But hold on-Jane had suggested that it might have once been a variation variation, not the standard, and that was entirely possible. In the next state over, Montana, visitors to Glacier National Park could stay at the Izaak Walton Inn, named in honor of a seventeenth-century fisherman. Today you can find all sorts of mad alternate spellings of names not long ago regarded as canon, such as Michael (Micheal, Michale-or Makayla for girls). Probably at least a few Issacs roamed the nation at this very moment. What I had to figure out was whether this this Issac, Governor Stevens of the Territory of Was.h.i.+ngton, had actually been an Issac. I suspected he wasn't, but Josh wasn't around to confirm this via his handy-dandy traveling Internet, which I also wasn't willing to put full faith in since the Jonathan Swift botch in Portland. I said to Jane that she could be right, and we soon got back on the road to press on to Montana. Issac, Governor Stevens of the Territory of Was.h.i.+ngton, had actually been an Issac. I suspected he wasn't, but Josh wasn't around to confirm this via his handy-dandy traveling Internet, which I also wasn't willing to put full faith in since the Jonathan Swift botch in Portland. I said to Jane that she could be right, and we soon got back on the road to press on to Montana.

I thought about the Issac-Isaac question all day, though, and even verifying later on the Internet that, yes, the late Governor Stevens did go by Isaac Isaac did nothing to quell my growing unease. I became irritable. That night, after the kids at the Missoula Pita Pit botched our order, I savaged them in the blog, both for their poor customer service and the fact that they worked in a place with did nothing to quell my growing unease. I became irritable. That night, after the kids at the Missoula Pita Pit botched our order, I savaged them in the blog, both for their poor customer service and the fact that they worked in a place with HER'S HER'S written on the bathroom door. Jane got irritable at my irritability, and we skipped our customary evening session of the popular card game Phase 10 and went to bed. written on the bathroom door. Jane got irritable at my irritability, and we skipped our customary evening session of the popular card game Phase 10 and went to bed.

Jane and I endured some long, desolate drives on our journey through the northern Great Plains, and the road from Missoula to Billings was no exception. Indigo mountains were nice, rolling plateaus and fields were cool, but even pleasing scenery can grow monotonous and lonely after a few hours. Such a drive offered plenty of time to reflect and ponder, especially when my fetching companion took a turn behind the wheel. Somewhere in the lower tract of Montana, I began to realize why the Issac business bothered me so much-what makes Isaac Isaac more "correct" than more "correct" than Issac? Issac? It was a slipperier question than it appeared. We regard It was a slipperier question than it appeared. We regard Isaac Isaac as the standard spelling for the name, treasured as the Truth of this particular patch of the given-name landscape. It was in the Bible, no? Except that as the standard spelling for the name, treasured as the Truth of this particular patch of the given-name landscape. It was in the Bible, no? Except that Isaac Isaac is an Anglicized version of a Hebrew name. The original is is an Anglicized version of a Hebrew name. The original is Yishamacr;q Yishamacr;q, so what is Isaac? Isaac? It's a variation, a noodling of It's a variation, a noodling of Yishamacr;q Yishamacr;q into English. The translation could have turned out as into English. The translation could have turned out as Issac Issac instead. The study of people's names, anthroponomastics, can yield histories as long and twisted as, well, the word instead. The study of people's names, anthroponomastics, can yield histories as long and twisted as, well, the word anthroponomastics anthroponomastics.

Then something else occurred to me. I'd gotten used to has.h.i.+ng these kinds of things out with my old buddy Benjamin, echoing the dialectic rhythms of our days as roommates, but somehow I'd failed to solicit help from the one closest to me. Here Jane had come all this way to join me in my crazy mission, even now giving me a rest from the wheel, yet she hadn't been included. She'd done her Jane thing of being there for everyone else without voicing her opinion. I suspected that I hadn't asked her to voice one because I thought I knew what she'd say, and it wouldn't be what I wanted to hear. "Jane?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What do you think makes double-a Isaac Isaac more 'correct' than double-s more 'correct' than double-s Issac?" Issac?" I asked. I asked.

Jane had gone into a kind of trance herself; now she lowered her speed from ninety-five miles per hour to a more reasonable ninety. "Mmmm, I don't think it is is, necessarily. I mean, whatever the guy's name is, that's his name, so if someone else writes it down wrong, then bzzzt-wrong answer. But I don't think one's better than another."

"So ... what about words that aren't someone's name? Where there's no one person to decide the right version."

Jane shrugged. I waited her out, and she smiled one of those self-conscious smiles that comes from knowing someone's staring at you. I certainly wasn't going anywhere. "Um, okay. Well, to be honest, that's why I don't really see the point of your mission, Jeffs. Who's to say what spelling is right right, if the version that you're insisting on is historically as arbitrary as the 'typo' version?"

That had been harder than I'd expected-on me. I didn't want to argue against her, but rather, explain my position, since she'd so carefully mentioned that she didn't see the point. "It's ... it's still important to make the distinction," I said. "Because we all have to agree on one one of the versions. For clarity." of the versions. For clarity."

She gave me a doubtful look. "Clarity. Uh-huh. Would anyone not get that Issac Issac was supposed to be was supposed to be Isaac? Isaac? Would it affect their comprehension of that sign? I know that stuff like that will always bug you, because you know how the dictionary would spell it. But as long as everybody basically understands each other, then dang, what's the problem?" She patted my leg to take the edge off Would it affect their comprehension of that sign? I know that stuff like that will always bug you, because you know how the dictionary would spell it. But as long as everybody basically understands each other, then dang, what's the problem?" She patted my leg to take the edge off dang dang, which was strong language for her. "When you're writing the code for a computer program, you can potentially make a few different kinds of errors. Run-time errors will cause bad glitches or freezes, and compilation errors prevent the program from even running in the first place. Logic errors, on the other hand, aren't as bad-they can at least get through the compiler. You'll get some funky results, but ... I feel like these typos are little logic errors. Not enough to crash the program. If people started walking into walls when they saw a typo, going bonk, bonk, bonk-" Here her pantomime would have been more amusing and perhaps adorable if we had not been traveling at our current speed with her behind the wheel. "If people were having real problems with typos, I guess I'd understand better why I only get to see my bear for one week out of three whole months."

Like a deftly coded function, Jane had returned the precise value of what troubled me. I was losing my grip on what the problem was, besides the fact that I had one. The media's repet.i.tion of that why why question had jostled any hope of certainty right out of my head. First I rea.s.sured Jane that my mission (an idea I'd come up with before even meeting her) could not ever measure up to time devoted exclusively to her. That accomplished, I stared out the window at sere gra.s.s and thought about prescriptivists, aka the Grammar Hawks, who loved to perpetuate the notion that English had a "pure" form. This monolithic set of rules about spelling and grammar, cemented in an ancient age, had supposedly remained unchallenged and una.s.sailed until recent times, when ignorant barbarians besieged its gates with their poor spelling and lazy constructions. History shows this not to be the case. question had jostled any hope of certainty right out of my head. First I rea.s.sured Jane that my mission (an idea I'd come up with before even meeting her) could not ever measure up to time devoted exclusively to her. That accomplished, I stared out the window at sere gra.s.s and thought about prescriptivists, aka the Grammar Hawks, who loved to perpetuate the notion that English had a "pure" form. This monolithic set of rules about spelling and grammar, cemented in an ancient age, had supposedly remained unchallenged and una.s.sailed until recent times, when ignorant barbarians besieged its gates with their poor spelling and lazy constructions. History shows this not to be the case.

First, it's important to note that this complaint about the corruption of the English language is not new-it is very, very old. Perhaps the first professional Hawk was Giraldus Cambrensis (or, more familiarly, Gerald of Wales), a chronicler in the late twelfth century. In his Descriptio Cambriae (Description of Wales) Descriptio Cambriae (Description of Wales), he proclaimed the English spoken in the county of Devon as the purest form of the language, and lamented how the dastardly Danes and Norwegians were corrupting English dialects everywhere else. (Giraldus also had the distinction of being one of the first anti-Irish bigots on record.) A couple hundred years later, in the late fourteenth century, John of Trevisa made the same complaint-but this time the corrupting culprits were the Norman French. As the son of an Anglo-Norman baron, Giraldus would have disputed this. And the English language of, say, the early-to-mid-twentieth century-the version seen by current Hawks as the pure form to defend from today's orthographic miscreants-would give both John and Giraldus the most terrible night sweats.

Who's corrupting whom? Who is/was the guardian of the pure pure version, the version, the right right version of English? The situation gets very mucky when you consider the whole patchwork journey of the language. Old English, spoken for about seven hundred years by shepherds and reformed pillagers, was phonetic in its written form. You spelled the way you talked, and any kind of consistency-even on the same page-could go jump in the moat. Dictionaries weren't even a glint in a scrivener's eye. So much for stylistic uniformity, and the language's ethnic purity had hardly maintained its chast.i.ty, either. Even at this early stage, outside influences poured in, not just from the Germanic tribes that had mashed the language together in the first place, but also Latin (from the remnants of the Roman Empire), and Viking marauders (the ones that Giraldus Cambrensis had complained so bitterly about). Then came the Norman invasion in 1066, and French began its long hold on English, shaping it into Middle English over the centuries. Only in the early 1400s do we see the beginnings of standardization, as legal and governmental clerks agreed upon a common written form (known as Chancery Standard) that kings and Parliament could use to address the whole nation. Even then, that was just the unified language of The Man; the lower cla.s.ses of society preserved English, and the literate among them had neither cause nor desire to fix up their own spelling and grammar, which was still heavily regionalized. version of English? The situation gets very mucky when you consider the whole patchwork journey of the language. Old English, spoken for about seven hundred years by shepherds and reformed pillagers, was phonetic in its written form. You spelled the way you talked, and any kind of consistency-even on the same page-could go jump in the moat. Dictionaries weren't even a glint in a scrivener's eye. So much for stylistic uniformity, and the language's ethnic purity had hardly maintained its chast.i.ty, either. Even at this early stage, outside influences poured in, not just from the Germanic tribes that had mashed the language together in the first place, but also Latin (from the remnants of the Roman Empire), and Viking marauders (the ones that Giraldus Cambrensis had complained so bitterly about). Then came the Norman invasion in 1066, and French began its long hold on English, shaping it into Middle English over the centuries. Only in the early 1400s do we see the beginnings of standardization, as legal and governmental clerks agreed upon a common written form (known as Chancery Standard) that kings and Parliament could use to address the whole nation. Even then, that was just the unified language of The Man; the lower cla.s.ses of society preserved English, and the literate among them had neither cause nor desire to fix up their own spelling and grammar, which was still heavily regionalized.

It wasn't until the seventeenth century that people cobbled together the first dictionaries, and those were aimed first at listing words as a reference, and then at defining defining all these new words flooding into English, plus of course the heaps of words that already existed. They hadn't agreed upon the exact spelling of those words quite yet. That would take a whole other debate among the nation's literate and influential that often turned rancorous. For the first time, the Grammar Hawks surfaced in real numbers, arguing that the language should be peeled back to its purest state-in this case arguing for the old Germanic form as the purest. Obviously they didn't win out, but a later, similar wave backing Latin as the pure form would have better luck. all these new words flooding into English, plus of course the heaps of words that already existed. They hadn't agreed upon the exact spelling of those words quite yet. That would take a whole other debate among the nation's literate and influential that often turned rancorous. For the first time, the Grammar Hawks surfaced in real numbers, arguing that the language should be peeled back to its purest state-in this case arguing for the old Germanic form as the purest. Obviously they didn't win out, but a later, similar wave backing Latin as the pure form would have better luck.

Only with the publication of Samuel Johnson's dictionary in 1755, less than three hundred years ago, did the dictionary move from mere reference to being regarded as the central authority. As Seth Lerer points out in his book Inventing English Inventing English, Johnson's baby "created the public idea of the dictionary as the arbiter of language use." Dr. Johnson had high hopes of being able to fix fix the language into a single solid and stable form. But the eight-year task of being the sole arbiter, navigating among regional variations and the abundance of spellings for difficult words, without a pole star (or more than the barest twinkling of phonetic principles) to guide his many decisions, eventually mellowed him from being a strict, self-made Hawk to taking on decidedly Grammar Hippie tendencies. Quotations from well-known sources littered the dictionary, backing up the choices he'd made, as if to direct attention away from his role as the decision-maker. the language into a single solid and stable form. But the eight-year task of being the sole arbiter, navigating among regional variations and the abundance of spellings for difficult words, without a pole star (or more than the barest twinkling of phonetic principles) to guide his many decisions, eventually mellowed him from being a strict, self-made Hawk to taking on decidedly Grammar Hippie tendencies. Quotations from well-known sources littered the dictionary, backing up the choices he'd made, as if to direct attention away from his role as the decision-maker.* He ended up admitting in the preface that his purpose had become "not to form, but register the language; not to teach men how they should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts" (quoted in Lerer's book). That's the Hawk-versus-Hippie dilemma crystallized. He ended up admitting in the preface that his purpose had become "not to form, but register the language; not to teach men how they should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts" (quoted in Lerer's book). That's the Hawk-versus-Hippie dilemma crystallized.

The scenery rolled on. Jane yelped in delight and jabbed her finger at my window. "Look over there! Buffalo!"

I saw them, brown s.h.a.ggy blots on a hill. "Yeah. Buffalo." I slouched further in my seat, staring at the dashboard. Taped to it was a yellowed sign that Josh had bought for me in San Francisco, at a pirate supply store: IF DECK IS SALTY, THERE WILL BE LAs.h.i.+NGS IF DECK IS SALTY, THERE WILL BE LAs.h.i.+NGS. She saw me looking at it.

"You're a salty bear right now, huh? Does that mean you're las.h.i.+ng me to the roof for the rest of the trip? It's okay. You know how I like fresh air." When I didn't laugh heartily enough, she knew I was still lashed to the mast of some stubborn mental frigate. "Aww, come on, I didn't mean to say that your mission's pointless. You've made a lot of people happy by fixing their signs. You have even more people cheering you on every day in the blog."

"Yeah, I know."

"Good!" She brightened. "Hey, I should be making more corrections, right? I've only done a couple so far. When we're in Billings, you tell me when you find one, and I'll grab the Wite-Out. You point, I correct!"

"Deal," I replied, though I wondered if I'd even bother pointing them out for correction. Battered by my own adventures in language investigation over the course of the last month and a half, I felt like weary Samuel Johnson, though with considerably less to show for my efforts. If English is ever-changing and ever-mutating, if no pure form exists and never existed in the first place, then what was I doing? what was I doing? I found that I'd never discovered a satisfactory answer and could no longer sail full speed ahead without one. I had set out to protect the language from errors born of both carelessness and ineducation, but now I didn't quite understand the creature I had taken as my ward. It wriggled to get away from me, it twisted and eeled. I found that I'd never discovered a satisfactory answer and could no longer sail full speed ahead without one. I had set out to protect the language from errors born of both carelessness and ineducation, but now I didn't quite understand the creature I had taken as my ward. It wriggled to get away from me, it twisted and eeled.

Perhaps, I thought, what I regarded as typos were not "mistakes" at all-they were part of the natural evolution of English. How could I know how the speakers of my native tongue would spell a hundred years from now? They'd alight from their potato-fueled urban gliders and laugh at my present efforts. "Check this out-back in 2008, there was a guy who wasted his time on apostrophes! apostrophes! Im sure glad we aint usin Im sure glad we aint usin those those anymore." Was I standing in the way of an inevitable, continual, necessary transformation? I felt like I was trying to guard the tides from the moon. Grammar Hawks had erred in regarding English as a fixed, carefully sculpted ent.i.ty-in other words, treating it like Latin. anymore." Was I standing in the way of an inevitable, continual, necessary transformation? I felt like I was trying to guard the tides from the moon. Grammar Hawks had erred in regarding English as a fixed, carefully sculpted ent.i.ty-in other words, treating it like Latin.* An on-the-ground, vernacular language simply behaves in different ways from a rarefied and static tongue. Now I had to face the possibility that the mission of the Typo Eradication Advancement League was as outmoded as ... well, Latin. An on-the-ground, vernacular language simply behaves in different ways from a rarefied and static tongue. Now I had to face the possibility that the mission of the Typo Eradication Advancement League was as outmoded as ... well, Latin.

We finally trundled into Billings that evening. I got out of the car and stretched. Here I was on an epic road trip with my beautiful girlfriend. I had been behaving like a misguided Hawk for too long, swooping and darting at mice while the great grinding world moved on. Maybe it was time to do some strolling, enjoy a nice dinner with Jane, and see if I could spot spot a few typos here and there. Maybe it was time to roll like a Hippie. a few typos here and there. Maybe it was time to roll like a Hippie.

When the Holiday Inn concierge handed me a map of the hotel, featuring a blaring typo in their near-nonsensical slogan (A FRONTIER OF IT'S OWN!), I barely even blinked. "How about that," I said blandly to Jane, indicating the interloping apostrophe. "I'll point it out to them later." It was too late for much hunting, so we headed into a lively bar/meat market downtown and enjoyed great food and two-dollar local drafts, then retired to the hotel to play a rousing game of Phase 10. I drifted to sleep afterward with a sense of relief-I had learned to stop worrying and love the typos.

In the morning we returned to the downtown area, ready to track down errors now that businesses would be open. I saw by the light of day that Billings actually couldn't boast all that much of a downtown, but there were a few shops and cafes available for our perusal. So we wandered, and soon enough I came across a typo, in a commemorative plate on display. It occurred in the middle of a paean to bears: "Be gentle enough to follow natures inspirations and be strong enough to make the world a better place." To the left of the doggerel was a stoic and somewhat self-conscious ursine face.

"Look at that plate," I said.

"What a bear, bear!" said Jane, clapping her hands. Even after she spotted the typo, her enthusiasm for a plate dedicated to her favorite animal could not be diminished. I thought, oh whatever, the manufacturer (American Expedition) won't ever bother correcting this. I ought not to be a killjoy when the plate can still move bear enthusiasts like my TEAL companion.

Next we came upon a shop that carried, among other things, products by local artists. The proprietor came up to me with a warm smile and we exchanged pleasantries. As she chattered on, my eyes wandered to a display of framed poetry by Billings-area wordsmiths. There it was, buried in a poem about rural routes or something: "Our dusty road winds its' way through sage ..." Like Vancouver, Billings sure seemed to be having a problem with its its itses. I opened my mouth to point out the typo to the nice lady in front of me ... and I closed it again. I would say nothing. What tattered standard did I think to wave in the faces of the state's honest citizens? I had only the grammatical snapshot of this mere moment in history to flaunt. The whole thing was pointless, as Jane had intimated. Thus spake, or didn't didn't spake, the newly minted Grammar Hippie. I snapped a quick picture of the poem and hurried out onto the street, Jane following me with a puzzled look. spake, the newly minted Grammar Hippie. I snapped a quick picture of the poem and hurried out onto the street, Jane following me with a puzzled look.

"What happened?" she said outside.

I told her about the typo and my hesitation.

"I'm glad you didn't say anything!" Jane a.s.serted. "It's a poem poem."

"And?"

She squinted at me in the suns.h.i.+ne. "In poetry, language belongs to the poet. Would you go through e.e. c.u.mmings's poems and add capitalization? Like Emily d.i.c.kinson's old editor, removing all the dashes from her poems?"

Ouch. She had pierced right to the heart of the matter: I was presuming too much. The gentleman who'd come up with these verses was more poetaster than poet, but he still enjoyed citizens.h.i.+p in a country beyond the League's jurisdiction. This had been obvious to Jane from the start. She was, now that I thought about it, the quintessential Grammar Hippie-not just due to her fondness for nonconfrontation, but because she recognized the mutable nature of truth. In my pre-League existence, if I complained to her about somebody knocking me over in a subway car, she would play devil's advocate and suggest that the offender could have been having a bad day, or maybe he had bad eyesight. Jane understood that we are trapped within the cage of our own perceptions and biases. From my perspective, the subway brute existed only only as a jerk: that moment of transgression defined him. But from his viewpoint, it was a pa.s.sing instant in what might otherwise be a life of unblemished charity, hardly the action for which posterity should remember him. Unlikely, perhaps, but as a jerk: that moment of transgression defined him. But from his viewpoint, it was a pa.s.sing instant in what might otherwise be a life of unblemished charity, hardly the action for which posterity should remember him. Unlikely, perhaps, but possible possible.

In language, as in life, we cling to what we were taught and what we have always done, making it difficult not just to understand the quirks and seeming peccadilloes of others, but to relinquish beliefs that have become outmoded. If I saw a sign that said ice tea ice tea instead of instead of iced tea iced tea, I'd judge it as a mistake. But ice cream ice cream started off as started off as iced cream iced cream. So many people left off the hard-to-enunciate d d when spelling the word that it eventually disappeared. Whether I like it or not, when spelling the word that it eventually disappeared. Whether I like it or not, ice tea ice tea might be vindicated someday by a s.h.i.+ft in spelling norms. Why, then, should I sweat small distinctions that may eventually prove irrelevant? I had plenty of reasons to rejoice in our language. We speak, and write, in one of the most diverse, gloriously ec.u.menical tongues on the planet. In English, there is a word or phrase for pretty much anything we want to say, and if there isn't, might be vindicated someday by a s.h.i.+ft in spelling norms. Why, then, should I sweat small distinctions that may eventually prove irrelevant? I had plenty of reasons to rejoice in our language. We speak, and write, in one of the most diverse, gloriously ec.u.menical tongues on the planet. In English, there is a word or phrase for pretty much anything we want to say, and if there isn't, we make it up we make it up, and it is welcomed into the family. We can express ourselves as complexly or as simply as we like. We can be magniloquent didacts, or we can talk plain.

A pretty realization, so why did I feel empty?

Billings would be, in retrospect, a time of tranquillity. Soon after we left, Jane and I faced no end of traveler's woes. Snow drifted down from the grayness, thickening gradually. By the time we crossed into Wyoming, we found ourselves cutting through a full-fledged storm. This was right around when Callie began to demand service for her engine, for the first time since the Southeast. We lost two and a half hours to car repairs in Sheridan, and all the while snow fell in sheets. We didn't roll into Rapid City until almost nine o'clock at night. Here it was Authority's turn to rebel, steering us amiss and leading us to a darkened mall instead of our hotel. Half-maddened by the worst drive of the trip and blinded by fogged windows, I swung Callie back around in a reckless turn. A police car materialized from the shadows, as if it had been waiting for someone like us to come along. The adolescent officer admonished me to "stop driving so crazy." That I did not get a ticket was the sole mercy of the day. We finally reached the hotel, to discover that (a) it had a real live indoor waterslide waterslide and (b) the waterslide was now closed for the evening. and (b) the waterslide was now closed for the evening.

Still, we were able to simmer in a hot tub for a spell, and that helped. We went back to the room and drank a couple of nips, and I wrote the day's blog entry while Jane embarked on a steams.h.i.+p for dreamland. I closed my laptop and glanced at the bed. She was sleeping with her mouth open, her arm curled around a little plush buffalo I'd bought for her. She'd come all the way out here, to drive across trackless plains and support a mission she didn't believe in, only so that she could be with me. I already missed her. In a couple of days we would arrive in Minneapolis, and Jane would fly home, and I would be alone. The stretch of territory that remained after that, the final leg all the way back to Ma.s.sachusetts, seemed vast and futile. If I had truly become a Grammar Hippie, an observer instead of a fixer, I no longer had much use for the aims of the League.

I could just speed home. I had a lot more stops on my itinerary in the Midwest and the East than were strictly necessary. I could lay aside my Kit and my hat and dedicate myself to the enticing prospect of getting back to familiar environs as soon as possible. Then all these ambiguities and conundra would be over, and I could return to a normal life.

My cell phone rang.

"Check it," said Benjamin. "There are two main categories of spelling junctions: plus-junctions and change-junctions. To To plus plus morrow morrow equals equals tomorrow tomorrow, that's a plus junction. Copy Copy times times ed ed equals equals copied copied, that's a change junction. Your very first spelling catch-after the shower curtain, I mean-was 'referal'. Refer Refer times times al al equals equals referral referral, a consonant-doubling change-junction. They couldn't handle the junction, man!"

I regarded the wall for a moment. A standard-issue hotel print hung there, flowers in a field that could have been anywhere. Finally I said, "Isn't it about two in the morning on the East Coast?"

"Screw that, man. I can't put this stuff down. I found some great books on grammar, and I'm beginning to understand how some of these typos keep happening."

Jane muttered something about radio b.u.t.tons and turned over in her sleep to dream further web-designer dreams. "That's cool," I said, "but-wait a minute, aren't you supposed to be huddled in a tent in Georgia right now?"

"I've been thinking a lot about what we found during my leg of the trip, and I've been following the blog since then, and ... I don't think my part in this is over yet. Reading your entries from the last few days makes me all the more sure of that."

"What do you mean?" I said.