The Great Typo Hunt.

Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time.

by Jeff Deck.

1

How to Change the World

June 810, 2007 (Hanover, NH)Wherein Jeff Deck, una.s.suming Editor, has his measure taken by a flurry of his peers and learns that his Destiny is to serve a Higher Cause; whereupon he recognizes the Sign of his quest in an errant sign which warns 'gainst either geographic indiscretion or trading locks of hair.

On a fine June weekend in 2007, in the verdant reaches of northern New Hampshire, I decided to change the world.

The world needed changing-that I knew. Global warming threatened to give us all a lethal tan; war and poverty decimated whole nations; crops worldwide were shriveling; even our brethren beasts menaced us with their monkeypox and bird flu and mad cow disease. I just couldn't figure out what I I could do for our troubled civilization. could do for our troubled civilization.

Those thoughts echoed in my head as I drove into the idyllic little town of Hanover, New Hampshire, for my five-year college reunion. I'd been toying with the idea of a road trip. Oil addiction and carbon emissions aside, I had to count myself among the many Americans who regarded their cars as a signifier for freedom itself. Any day I could get into my iron steed and-escape. I hadn't, so far, but I could. I could explore the country, embark on towering adventures, and simultaneously fulfill some n.o.ble purpose. Yes, a road trip seemed like a fine idea, but I didn't know what was worth seeing and, more crucially, I didn't know how to infuse the trip with the sparkling sap of magnificence. How do people blunder into conditions that their unique abilities alone can resolve? I couldn't trust that I would wander into a situation where only my intimate knowledge of Final Fantasy lore would defuse a standoff between two rival video-game-obsessed street gangs. I pondered that as I pulled into a parking spot and ventured off to find my cla.s.smates.

To exacerbate the matter, it turned out that five years was more than enough time for my fellow graduates to work miracles in the public and private sectors. My heart beat at techno tempo as I listened to tales of the most astonishing exploits and enn.o.bling acts of virtue. I talked with one woman who was slowly restoring ecosystems damaged by the rapacious engines of industry. Another guy, a lawyer, sought to break up harmful corporate monopolies. Others were doctors, bankers, and politicos, all positioned to alter the great trajectory of civilization. And then there was me.

"So, Jeff, what have you you been doing?" they'd ask, with the unspoken postscript: "... for humanity?" been doing?" they'd ask, with the unspoken postscript: "... for humanity?"

Unlike my cla.s.smates, I hadn't erected any schools for Balinese orphans or wrested any kittens from death's blasting maw. After graduating, I'd moved to the Washington, D.C., area to see what I could do with the skills I'd picked up from a creative writing degree. The chief export of the nation's capital is, of course, paperwork, so I reckoned I could land some kind of writing or editing position at one of the many nonprofits and a.s.sociations in the area. An academic publishing house in Dupont Circle took me in and nursed me on the Chicago Manual of Style Chicago Manual of Style. I burned a few years there as an editor, managing two strangely divergent publications: a magazine about rocks and minerals, appropriately t.i.tled Rocks & Minerals Rocks & Minerals, and a New Age-y journal about consciousness transformation and other inscrutable bits of pseudo-academia. Neither topic was exactly my area of expertise. My qualifications for the job rested mainly on my ability to ferret out spelling and grammatical mistakes in text. I found that I was a natural, spotting typos with idiot-savant-esque regularity. I hadn't had this kind of chance to show off my geeky prowess since winning consecutive junior-high spelling bees. In high school I'd branched out from mere spelling perfectionism to the full gamut of editing delights on behalf of my school paper. At the publishing house, I could water my little patch of textual earth, checking that fluorite fluorite was spelled with the was spelled with the u u before the before the o o, and that the names of Norse G.o.ds had the s that they required.

This sufficed for a while, but eventually I noticed the distinct lack of influence that my little labors had on the world outside my publications. I felt the call to return to New England, and I traded D.C. for Boston to be closer to family and old friends. Now I worked as an administrative a.s.sistant for a center at MIT that studied climate change, but my heart remained that of a reviser and corrector.

Outside the reunion tent, I b.u.mped into Kevin, an occasional buddy in our college days; he was one of those genial and imperturbable people you wish, upon crossing his path later, you'd known better. I related my minor publication successes, a short story here and there, and that I had at least found work in my field (for a while) as an editor before moving to Boston. Then I asked him, "You'd been doing all that sports broadcasting for the college radio. Did you ever do anything with that?"

"Sorta started to," he began. It had been difficult at first. Even before he'd left Dartmouth, he'd begun sending out tapes of his broadcasts. A year out of college, he was still sending them out and had gotten a job selling suits to pay his bills, and he decided he needed a new plan. While keeping his job in the evenings, he took a broadcasting cla.s.s at a local trade school, which got him access to an internship at a television station. This was his ticket back into broadcasting. Over the intervening years, he'd proven himself through the internship and had become a key player at the news station. "So, now I'm in charge of the ten-o'clock news, Monday through Friday nights."

"Wait ... you're the guy picking which stories go on the air?"

"That's part of the job. I mean, that goes hand-in-hand with a.s.signing the stories to people."

"Which you do, too?" He nodded. Kevin's story brought the rest of my cla.s.smates' stories into perspective. Determination seemed to be the factor that elevated an ordinary destiny into a life of impact.

That night the reunion featured an event on the upper level of Dartmouth's sprawling arts center, usually known as "the Hop." While old comrades, crushes, and foes merged into a perspiring ma.s.s on the dance floor, I mulled the question of my destiny outside on the rooftop patio. There I could gaze at the campus quad, the Green, and, beyond it, the eternal phallus of Baker Tower, our axis mundi axis mundi. As I leaned on the rail, cooling under the Hanover moon, I couldn't fathom how an editor would go heroically forth among the populace. While medical school or law school served as a straightforward way of approaching a concrete goal, I just didn't see myself taking up a stethoscope or a gavel. I had to hew to my own talents and strengths, but what instrument could I wield in the great clashes of our era? A red pen? I realized that no matter how I angled my approach to this problem, I'd need to strive beyond my daytime duties as an administrative a.s.sistant. Even if the professor I worked for were to go on to win the n.o.bel Peace Prize (which he did manage to do later that year, with Al Gore), I could not be satisfied with "administrative a.s.sistant" as the apogee of my career.

The next day I returned to my apartment in Somerville, Ma.s.sachusetts, close to some revelation but unable to quite pin it down. In the glaring light of my reunion, I retook an inventory of my current situation. I had plenty of friends nearby, and my aforementioned job at MIT at least paid well. My rent remained cheap, since the landlady's parents had plastered the house with religious propaganda, scaring off general interest in the property. Things were, all in all, not so bad.

The breezy summer afternoon beckoned to me, so I ambled outside. Maybe I'd seek out a hot dog in Davis Square. But fate fate intervened between me and that dog. Halfway to my destination, a large white and red object-appalling to any sensitive eye-froze me in my tracks! intervened between me and that dog. Halfway to my destination, a large white and red object-appalling to any sensitive eye-froze me in my tracks!

NO TRESSPa.s.sING.

The sign had been taunting pa.s.sersby with that loathsome extra s s for who knew how long. It hung on a wooden fence around a vacant lot next to a dentist's office. Sure, I'd noticed this sign before; dozens of walks to Davis Square had occasioned dozens of silent fist-shakings at this very spot. This time, though, the sign's offense struck deeper. How many spelling mistakes had I noticed over the years in shop windows, street signs, menus, billboards, and other public venues? Countless, I thought. for who knew how long. It hung on a wooden fence around a vacant lot next to a dentist's office. Sure, I'd noticed this sign before; dozens of walks to Davis Square had occasioned dozens of silent fist-shakings at this very spot. This time, though, the sign's offense struck deeper. How many spelling mistakes had I noticed over the years in shop windows, street signs, menus, billboards, and other public venues? Countless, I thought. Not an enterance. NYC Pizza and Pasta at it's best! Cappuchino! Pistashio! Get palm reading's here! Not an enterance. NYC Pizza and Pasta at it's best! Cappuchino! Pistashio! Get palm reading's here! To/too, their/there/they're, and your/you're confusion, comma and apostrophe abuse, transpositions and omissions, and other sins against intelligibility too heinous to dwell on. Each one on its own amounted to naught but a needle of irritation thrusting into my tender hide. But together they const.i.tuted a larger problem, a social ill that cried out for justice. To/too, their/there/they're, and your/you're confusion, comma and apostrophe abuse, transpositions and omissions, and other sins against intelligibility too heinous to dwell on. Each one on its own amounted to naught but a needle of irritation thrusting into my tender hide. But together they const.i.tuted a larger problem, a social ill that cried out for justice.

For a champion, even.

I stared at that NO TRESSPa.s.sING NO TRESSPa.s.sING sign, and I wondered: sign, and I wondered: Could I be the one? Could I be the one? What if I were to step forward and What if I were to step forward and do do something? The glare from the extra something? The glare from the extra s s seemed to mock me. Sure, others before me had recognized that there was a problem afoot in modern English. Plenty of people had made much hay of ridiculing spelling and grammatical errors on late-night shows and in humor books and on websites weighted with snark. But: seemed to mock me. Sure, others before me had recognized that there was a problem afoot in modern English. Plenty of people had made much hay of ridiculing spelling and grammatical errors on late-night shows and in humor books and on websites weighted with snark. But: Who among them had ever bothered with actual corrective action? Who among them had ever bothered with actual corrective action? So far as I knew, not a soul. A lambent vision descended upon me, like the living wheels revealed unto Ezekiel. In it, I saw myself armed with Wite-Out and black marker, waging a campaign of holy destruction on spelling and grammatical mistakes. The picture widened to describe not just my neighborhood, not just the Boston area or even the august span of the Bay State, but the entire nation. So far as I knew, not a soul. A lambent vision descended upon me, like the living wheels revealed unto Ezekiel. In it, I saw myself armed with Wite-Out and black marker, waging a campaign of holy destruction on spelling and grammatical mistakes. The picture widened to describe not just my neighborhood, not just the Boston area or even the august span of the Bay State, but the entire nation.

There was my answer-typo hunting was the good that I, Jeff Deck, was uniquely suited to visit upon society. was my answer-typo hunting was the good that I, Jeff Deck, was uniquely suited to visit upon society.

I would change the world, one typo correction at a time.

I turned back toward home, abandoning thoughts of hot dogs, and locked myself in my room, as typo-free a warren as one would expect. Typos might leap out from anywhere-were, in fact, everywhere. How should I go about this quest? And would I be alone in my fight, against the whole world? Then it all clicked into place, and the vision stuck. I already had one ally, the Sleipnir to my Odin: Callie, my car. That road trip I'd wanted to take! This would be the motivational engine that I'd been missing. I think I collapsed onto the bed, the force of revelation knocking me unconscious, the proverbial lightbulb blinding me with its incandescent flare. Of course, I had also missed lunch.

When I came to, I decided I should attempt another outing, but this one with much more purpose. I immediately bought a sizable wall map of the United States and tacked it over my bed. With the sunset casting an eerie glow through my apartment, I stood enraptured by the sheer span of the nation. So many tiny names, so many roads roads. Quite a profusion of territory over which to spread the gospel of good grammar-at least several thousand miles. I'd make a loop of the country's perimeter, since that seemed the best method for (a) seeing the most of this mammoth republic and (b) avoiding covering the same ground twice.

Are you sure about this? quoth the doubting raven in the dark aerie of my mind. quoth the doubting raven in the dark aerie of my mind. Are you sure, are you sure? Are you sure, are you sure?

"Shut your beak," I growled. True, my history did not especially glimmer with derring-do. First off, I had been terrified of driving at least until my early twenties, and my travels to date had never taken me west of Ohio; much of the country, most most of it, lay beyond my ken. That in itself could argue for the adventure, but I wondered if I might be getting in over my head, setting too many new challenges at once. I'd been shy growing up, not p.r.o.ne to speaking out of turn or, well, speaking much at all. Once I started going around the country trying to correct typos, I'd inevitably have to of it, lay beyond my ken. That in itself could argue for the adventure, but I wondered if I might be getting in over my head, setting too many new challenges at once. I'd been shy growing up, not p.r.o.ne to speaking out of turn or, well, speaking much at all. Once I started going around the country trying to correct typos, I'd inevitably have to talk talk to other people. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this mission of mine would force me to continually confront strangers-oftentimes over their own mistakes! How far did I honestly estimate that I had come from the meek days of yore? to other people. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this mission of mine would force me to continually confront strangers-oftentimes over their own mistakes! How far did I honestly estimate that I had come from the meek days of yore?

I chose to put these worries aside. I had plenty of time to address them, while other, more tangible items needed immediate attention. Certainly I wouldn't be able to take a vacation from work for long enough to travel across the country, correcting typos as I went, so I'd have to leave my job. I'd need to set my sights on loftier concerns than income. Spider-Man always had money trouble, after all. If I took the leap for typo hunting in the pursuit of a better, more grammatically correct world, so be it.

I could still be sensible in my preparations, though. The trip itself would cost some serious bread. I had a savings account with some starter funds h.o.a.rded away, and I earned enough that I could save much more. If I cut costs by not going out as much, packing my lunch more often, and refraining from any extraneous purchases, I could probably save a significant chunk of change. I wouldn't want to travel the nation in the winter anyway, so I figured I could stay at my job through December and then take a couple of months to organize full-time all the little details of the trip. Not only would I have the chance to build up a respectable bank account, but I could also take more time to a.n.a.lyze the various aspects of this trip and decide if I really and truly could pull it all off.

I reached for a pencil on my desk to start jotting down some notes, and somehow I grabbed a Sharpie instead. It felt right in my hand, as though it had always belonged there. This, I thought, could be the tool to make a hero.

2

Allies

June 2007-February 2008 (Somerville, MA)Finds our sleepless Hero ama.s.sing Allies for the impending orthographic onslaught across the Nation. For this audacious Cause, he must call upon all species of Persuasion, from breathless verbal sparring to cyberspatial communication, and even climbing unto that very pinnacle of heroics: donning Eighties attire in public.

I discussed my cross-country typo-hunting notion with barely anyone, cradling it close and secret lest the scrutiny of others burn mortal wounds into its gossamer body. This pa.s.sive strategy worked fine during the daytime, but at night I lay awake and sweating underneath the giant map of the United States. I felt the weight of the nation hanging over me, from San Diego at my feet to the Florida Keys at my crown, with lower Texas thrusting accusingly at my nethers. In the hazy borderlands between sleep and wakefulness, America morphed and mutated, enlarged and anthropomorphized, to alternatively admonish me to action or cry that I hurtle to its rescue. My orthographic duties could not be delayed. I had to begin planning discussed my cross-country typo-hunting notion with barely anyone, cradling it close and secret lest the scrutiny of others burn mortal wounds into its gossamer body. This pa.s.sive strategy worked fine during the daytime, but at night I lay awake and sweating underneath the giant map of the United States. I felt the weight of the nation hanging over me, from San Diego at my feet to the Florida Keys at my crown, with lower Texas thrusting accusingly at my nethers. In the hazy borderlands between sleep and wakefulness, America morphed and mutated, enlarged and anthropomorphized, to alternatively admonish me to action or cry that I hurtle to its rescue. My orthographic duties could not be delayed. I had to begin planning now now, which conveniently left ample time for chickening out.

I mused over the details on extended lunch breaks that summer, sitting on the lawns beneath the glistening central dome of MIT. With my route already roughly mapped, I turned to temporal questions: when to go, and for how long. I'd first envisioned an odyssey of six months, but that'd be pricey and exhausting-three months would do fine. I could hold on to my apartment while I was gone and tailor the route to the seasons. I had a horrific vision of driving through the northern states fighting blizzards and treacherous ice the whole way. I also wouldn't want to head through the South and Southwest anytime after April, lest I and my car melt into a blasphemous puddle of man-machine on the highway. Come March, I'd head south and then west. By April 1, I'd hit the bottom of the West Coast and work my way up. Late April through May would carry me homeward, east through the northern states.

In August I made the strategic purchases of a laptop and a GPS. The former would help me to keep in touch with those back home and a.s.sure them on a regular basis that I had not been garroted by a disagreeable shopkeeper. The latter would compensate for my dismal sense of direction. They would be my constant electronic companions, boons of our dawning technological age. Yet, what about companions of the actual human variety? Would Frodo ever have reached the heart of Mordor without the devoted companionship of Sam? Where would White be without Strunk? Strunk? I needed somebody to stride with me into stores or restaurants or munic.i.p.al buildings, our two pairs of eyes simultaneously scanning the walls and aisles for rank lexical foes. Someone to cause a diversion in front while I snuck around back, someone to mop the dew from my dampened brow as I raised my marker for the glory of all humankind. Someone who could take the wheel once in a while, and pay for half of the hotel rooms. I needed somebody to stride with me into stores or restaurants or munic.i.p.al buildings, our two pairs of eyes simultaneously scanning the walls and aisles for rank lexical foes. Someone to cause a diversion in front while I snuck around back, someone to mop the dew from my dampened brow as I raised my marker for the glory of all humankind. Someone who could take the wheel once in a while, and pay for half of the hotel rooms.

It was time to go public with my intentions. I hoped my trip idea had grown a sufficiently leathery sh.e.l.l.

To recruit allies, I'd have to somehow thwart the considerable barricades thrown up by practical, responsible life. Most of my friends were gainfully employed and thus not likely to accompany me on the road for a dozen weeks. I could try for a rotating lineup of roadmates, but taking off work for even a third or a quarter of that time would be out of the question for normal folks. The standard clauses of the American dream only included two weeks of vacation a year. Still, I knew at least one person who would risk it all for a stab at true adventure and righteous action.

"Dude!" Benjamin hollered into the phone without preamble. "I'm so done."

"Hi?"

"That's it; I've had enough. I'm quitting my job."

Benjamin D. Herson had skipped our reunion, but I already knew what he'd he'd been up to the last five years. Back in D.C., we'd been roommates, holding down jobs while we co-wrote an epic novel about two ordinary guys beating up evil frat boys. He would come home from his night shift at the bookstore as I was heading off to edit been up to the last five years. Back in D.C., we'd been roommates, holding down jobs while we co-wrote an epic novel about two ordinary guys beating up evil frat boys. He would come home from his night shift at the bookstore as I was heading off to edit Rocks & Minerals Rocks & Minerals, and slip me the day's bus transfer, which I would dutifully return that evening before he left the apartment for more overnight shelving. My only regret about moving back to New England had been leaving my old friend behind.

"You're leaving the bookstore?" This shocked me to the core. When asked once why, if he loved his job so much, he didn't marry it, Benjamin had replied that he proposed to it late one night, in the hallowed aisle between the Architecture and Household Repairs shelves. It had played coy, and now it had broken his heart.

"Yes, and I'm going to hike the Appalachian Trail next year."

"Really? I'm planning on taking a road trip next year." I wanted to ease sideways into discussing my idea.

"Cool, so we're both heading off on adventures."

"So speaking of our adventures," I said.

"Oh yeah! My brother was going to come on the trail, but he's married now. So he's out. Want to hike New Hampshire with me?"

"Hm."

"That's okay, Deck. You've got time to think about it."

"The thing about my road trip is that, while I'm going around, I thought I could also-"

"When are you going? What time of year?"

"Probably around-"

"Because, you know, if you want any company, and you plan it right ... I won't hit the trail until April, so I could potentially do a leg of your trip with you or something."

Capital! I thought. He was so raring to go, I hadn't even had to ask him. Then it occurred to me that Benjamin didn't drive, had never even bothered to get a learner's permit. So much for sharing the wheel. Now I merely had to mention that in addition to taking in the sights of our comely nation, we'd also be hara.s.sing people about spelling mistakes the whole time.

"... time to see the country, you know, before it's gone," Benjamin was saying.

"Before the country's gone?"

"What? No, the opportunity!"

"Yes, the opportunity," I replied, determined now, "and I thought I'd also also take the opportunity to correct typos while I'm traveling around." take the opportunity to correct typos while I'm traveling around."

"You want to correct typos around the country?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah."

"Didn't you write a story about something like that?"

"No," I said, "that was just one typo."

"On a homeless guy's sign!"

Benjamin, as usual, had excellent recall (another desirable trait in typo hunters, who would need to summon the musty old rules of grammar on the fly). A few years back, I had written a short story called "The Missing R," about a well-meaning editor with a warped sense of how to aid his fellow man. The story had ended with the editor inserting a missing r r into a homeless man's sign ( into a homeless man's sign (HOMELESS, HUNGY, PLEASE HELP). Obviously the character and I had divergent priorities, but now that I thought about it, perhaps the story had tapped into my subconscious more than I'd realized. That sign, after all, had been based on a real one I'd spotted long ago.

"Right," I said. "I don't think I'd bother with the typos of the dest.i.tute."

"Because sometimes I think those are intentional."

"But what do you think?" I pressed.

"About what?"

"The typos! And going around the country fixing them!"

"I think a road trip's a great idea," Benjamin said.

Someone in the background asked him a question on his lunch break. As Benjamin patiently explained to his co-worker how to go about some arcane inventory procedure, I attempted to mentally regroup.

"Sorry," he said. "And I'm not even the inventory supervisor!"

"Right. So do you think someone could sustain a trip around the country correcting typos? I'm pretty sure they're everywhere."

"Sure. Yeah, typos, man. So this'll be cross-country, right? As in, all the way across? As long as you can get me to Californ-aye-yay, count me in. L.A.'s stolen a good half dozen of my friends."

Benjamin's endors.e.m.e.nt of the actual mission was lukewarm at best, but no matter. I steered us instead toward the proverbial bra.s.s tacks. We discussed the dates and found that my plans to head down the East Coast and west across the South in March fit well with Benjamin's plans to hike the Appalachian Trail. He'd come along until Los Angeles and then come back east to strike out on the Trail (it would be early spring, an ideal time for a northbound hiker starting in Georgia). I'd signed on my first sidekick for almost a month's worth of trip.

I savored this initial triumph for a moment or two, then decided to attempt recruiting friends for the latter legs of the trip. I tried to picture the more unconventional types, the ones who would be as open as Benjamin was to exploits and escapades. Then I remembered that my friend Josh Roberts, who lived down in New York City, had been talking about a West Coast road trip for years now. His perfectionist tendencies would have him typo hunting with gusto. He'd jump at this opportunity! I instant-messaged him.

Sometimes, in the oft-long stretches between seeing each other, I kind of forgot what Josh was like in person. His online persona became the reality, a living screen name that hid the red-haired, bespectacled figure typing away behind it. To some extent, we are are our own text, which is why my mission would be important-erroneous signs confer their blemishes on their very owners. Still, the images we project with IMs and social network profiles are hardly a subst.i.tute for genuine, three-dimensional people. our own text, which is why my mission would be important-erroneous signs confer their blemishes on their very owners. Still, the images we project with IMs and social network profiles are hardly a subst.i.tute for genuine, three-dimensional people.

After I'd finished describing my proposed journey, Josh was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Oh my G.o.d. You'll be killed within a week."

I feigned indifference, trying for a different angle of appeal. "Probably, but it could at least be funny."

"Okay, I do do find unintentional misspellings funny," Josh allowed. "I saw a diner calling itself the 'All Night Dinner' once, but I can't remember where." find unintentional misspellings funny," Josh allowed. "I saw a diner calling itself the 'All Night Dinner' once, but I can't remember where."

Yes, I thought, come along for the yuks if you must. Once we were on the road, carrying out actual corrective action, I could train him to focus on the higher goals of the journey. Right now I only had to get him into the pa.s.senger seat.

"Who are you road-tripping with?" he asked.

"Whoever wants to come along," I said. Then, cautiously: "So ... are you in?"

"Definitely!" he fired back, to my delight. "I've never been to the West Coast. I want to do the leg of your trip that'll encompa.s.s Los Angeles to Seattle. I'd even go up to Vancouver if that were possible. And hey, when we're in L.A., I can network."

Josh worked as a film editor and production a.s.sistant in New York. He had some decent gigs with commercials and friends' projects, but I could picture the greater opportunities that Left Coast connections could produce. Judging by the high-quality editing that I'd seen him do, he deserved a shot at loftier glories. I imagined he would bring the same exacting discipline to interstate traveling. True, now that I reflected on our past adventures, Josh could also be obnoxious sometimes, but I figured that would be a plus in places like L.A.

We discussed the financial considerations. Money would be tight for him. Living from gig to gig takes a dire toll on one's bank account. I'd lit the watchfires of the idea in the turrets of his brain, though, and he would not see them extinguished for anything.

"I may have to live off ramen, but I will make it happen," said Josh.

Now both Benjamin and Josh were on board-no longer would I be a lone typo maverick. We were a team, and we needed a catchy name. Something that captured the scope of our ambitions and that would also look great on a T-shirt. Something like TEAL: the Typo Eradication Advancement League.

Autumn fell, and I discussed my ambitions openly and frequently now with friends, family, and hapless seatmates on the subway. Their questions helped me realize that typo typo described some of the errors I would be looking for, but not all. Some errors would be caused by ineducation, not carelessness. Some errors would be scrawled by hand, not typed. They were all worthy quarry, so I would expand the definition of described some of the errors I would be looking for, but not all. Some errors would be caused by ineducation, not carelessness. Some errors would be scrawled by hand, not typed. They were all worthy quarry, so I would expand the definition of typo typo for my purposes, to include all types of textual errors. I had emerged from the typo-hunting closet. I began to set up tentative sofa-surfing arrangements with people I knew in various corners of the country. It turned out there were certain geographic limitations to the Jeff Deck social network. I had the West Coast, the Midwest, and the Northeast/East Coast pretty well covered, but there'd be giant housing gaps in the South, the West, and the Great Plains. I needed cheap shelter options or I'd burn through my travel stash in a hurry, so I picked up a guide to reputable U.S. hostels (it was a short book) and Benjamin and I went halfsies on a tent. Hotels would be a last resort, and definitely not resorts. for my purposes, to include all types of textual errors. I had emerged from the typo-hunting closet. I began to set up tentative sofa-surfing arrangements with people I knew in various corners of the country. It turned out there were certain geographic limitations to the Jeff Deck social network. I had the West Coast, the Midwest, and the Northeast/East Coast pretty well covered, but there'd be giant housing gaps in the South, the West, and the Great Plains. I needed cheap shelter options or I'd burn through my travel stash in a hurry, so I picked up a guide to reputable U.S. hostels (it was a short book) and Benjamin and I went halfsies on a tent. Hotels would be a last resort, and definitely not resorts.

In late September a friend invited me to a party down in Allston, near Boston University. I almost didn't go. It was an eighties occasion, and I had grown weary of such things, having already attended two eighties parties that year. Though I was a child of the decade myself, I never wanted to see parachute pants again. But I was always looking for excuses to talk about my impending mission, so at the last minute I threw on a Nintendo T-shirt and headed for the subway.

My friend greeted me at the door, wearing a dyed side ponytail, glammed-up eye shadow, and a tied-off Aerosmith shirt. Perhaps, I thought, I should have tried harder. She led me into the living room of her apartment, where the revelers had congregated. In the midst of them, a pretty, lanky brunette corralled chairs for guests. Like me, she had made little concession to the eighties part of the evening, opting for a jean skirt and tights. She threw me a thoroughly genuine smile with a goofy tinge, and I froze. My friend said, "Jeff, this is my new roommate, Jane! She's from Maine!"