"Well, hold on," said the woman. "I'm going to call someone right now to complain about this." She picked up the phone and spoke to her supervisor without preamble. "Hey, you know those big signs we paid two hundred and fifty bucks each for? They've got a mistake. Two guys came in and pointed it out. Cemetery with an a a. Yeah. These guys are going around the country fixing typos, and they want to fix these, make this a success story. Uh-huh. All right." She hung up. "Well, you are welcome to fix them, but I'm not sure how you're going to be able to do that. I mean, we still want them to look professional ..."

"Got it. Do you have a red pen or red marker?" I asked.

"No ..." She searched around the pamphlet stands. "No, I don't believe I do. I can bring something in tomorrow from home, though. Just come back tomorrow and you can fix these."

An earnest offer, not an attempt to get rid of us. But tomorrow night happened to be the first night I'd actually booked ahead, at a hostel in Lafayette. We said we'd hunt down a marker, a familiar mission that we hoped this time wouldn't invite hailstorms.

"Okay, you can check the Walgreen's up the street. You know, if you boys are looking for typos, you came to the right place. You'll find them all over this town. Why, the other day I saw a big pink building with a yellow and blue sign, said WE SALE FISH WE SALE FISH. Now, what kind of sense does that make?" She proceeded to regale us with stories on every typo she had ever found throughout the watchful course of her life. I found it interesting that our mission would trigger such a monologue. Indeed, in other stops we made around the country, many people we met had typo tales of their own to share, usually unbidden. I think most of us must carry a kind of repository of errors noticed and internalized during a lifetime of bombardment by signs and ads and billboards and flyers. We may not even be aware of the repository until it is unlocked by the right stimulus-say, for example, a couple of yahoos walking around with elixir of correction.

Having a destination and directions for our marker-finding mission turned out to be helpful. I debated whether a red marker alone would be a sufficient enrichment of the Typo Correction Kit. Who knew what other hues a typo might choose to garb itself in? I ended up adding a whole rainbow's array of Sharpies to my a.r.s.enal.

When we came back, we saw that the woman had some actual customers to attend to, sweaty Midwesterners manhandling the Segways. So we just went about our business. Benjamin and I pried the signs from the windows and laid them out on the flattest surfaces available. As I uncapped my elixir and red marker, the tour office manager paused in giving instructions to the tourists, as if she could smell smell fresh corrective fluid. She stared us down and said, "It better look good." fresh corrective fluid. She stared us down and said, "It better look good."

Benjamin looked apprehensive at this sterner shade to the woman's tone, but I felt confident in my altering abilities. I worked at the a a first, blotting out the offending portions, then used marker to shade in areas that would complete the letter's transformation to an first, blotting out the offending portions, then used marker to shade in areas that would complete the letter's transformation to an e e. I repeated vowel surgery on the other sign, and then we erected the beneficiaries of our handiwork, Benjamin climbing up on the windowsill to affix the higher copy. Once they'd been put back in place, the proprietor thanked us, noting that the signs looked great. A success story indeed, and one of my overall favorite typo corrections.

All in all, New Orleans was one of the most receptive cities to typo correcting that the League found during its entire journey. The employees we'd happened upon had demonstrated the most autonomy. A little faith in basic human judgment can do wonders.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 50 Total corrected: 28 * Mallrats Mallrats (1995). (1995).* Granted, a good number of words stray from pure phonetic representation, but we'll get to that in Granted, a good number of words stray from pure phonetic representation, but we'll get to that in Chapter 13 Chapter 13 and beyond. and beyond.* When I asked Benjamin what had induced his hysterics, he offered a story about autonomous action, RadioShack, and one of his favorite bands. Matthew Good Band, a Canadian rock group, had shot a video featuring a RadioShack logo and a scene inside the store. The general manager of that store-and fan of the band-even got a cameo in the video. The band had gotten permission, presumably via the GM, from the regional office. When the video came out, and people at the national level heard the lyric "Down at the RadioShack/We're turnin' sh*t into solid gold," they attempted to sue the band for using the storefront in the video. The suit didn't go far, of course, as the band had approving signatures from the regional office. When I asked Benjamin what had induced his hysterics, he offered a story about autonomous action, RadioShack, and one of his favorite bands. Matthew Good Band, a Canadian rock group, had shot a video featuring a RadioShack logo and a scene inside the store. The general manager of that store-and fan of the band-even got a cameo in the video. The band had gotten permission, presumably via the GM, from the regional office. When the video came out, and people at the national level heard the lyric "Down at the RadioShack/We're turnin' sh*t into solid gold," they attempted to sue the band for using the storefront in the video. The suit didn't go far, of course, as the band had approving signatures from the regional office.* There already exists a cottage industry for this in websites such as There already exists a cottage industry for this in websites such as Engrish.com.

8

Davy Jones Isn't a Biblical Figure

March 20, 2008 (Lafayette, LA, to Galveston, TX)Plans cast aside like naughty apostrophes plucked from plural nouns, our Young Adventurers tack southward. Controversy, FLAME, and government regulations abound; truly, everything is Bigger in Texas.

"Those drivers'll kill you," the hostel clerk had said. "They will run you right off the road in Houston, swear to G.o.d."

Benjamin and I had shivered, as if we were huddled by a campfire listening to the grisly tale of the Halberd-Wielding Hitchhiker instead of baking in the midmorning Louisiana heat. The clerk shed her ident.i.ty as front-desk guardian of the Blue Moon, Lafayette's preeminent hostel-slash-honky-tonk, and embraced her camp-counselor role, leaning toward us with a darkening brow. She described to us six lanes' worth of unadulterated fear, populated exclusively by motorists whose driving education had been paid for by the blood of pedestrians. "So when you see that Houston skyline in the distance, watch out." watch out." Her eyes grew dim with remembered horrors. Her eyes grew dim with remembered horrors.

We checked out and did not look back at the Ancient Mariner of the bayou. As we approached the Texas border, the de facto boundary in my mind between familiar East and the alien territories of the West, we considered heeding the warning of the desk clerk and bypa.s.sing Houston. My U.S. guidebook confirmed her dire words about the city: "Visitors should be prepared ... to get lost more than once." I pictured a frenzy of glittering windshields in the heat, death-machines caroming at my poor girl with a conscious intent to murder. Benjamin recalled hearing a tale once of Houston drivers moving b.u.mper to b.u.mper on the highway-at seventy miles per hour.

When we pulled over to investigate one of the Waffle Houses, which had become a regular fixture of the Southern terrain, we discussed it over hash browns. Did we dare veer from my carefully prepared itinerary to avoid down-home Southern vehicular manslaughter? Benjamin unfurled his trusty map, and our eyes simultaneously landed on an alternative destination: Galveston. He confessed to a fascination with the town. I agreed, remembering details from my hostel guide. "A beach resort," I said brightly, "an island island beach resort ... in Texas! Imagine that! We could even go for a swim." beach resort ... in Texas! Imagine that! We could even go for a swim."

He fixed me with a peculiar glance. That hadn't been what he'd meant. Having read Isaac's Storm Isaac's Storm by Erik Larson, about the deadly hurricane that struck Galveston in 1900, Benjamin couldn't understand its continued existence as a city. "Larson explains in the book that Galveston Bay's features serve to effectively by Erik Larson, about the deadly hurricane that struck Galveston in 1900, Benjamin couldn't understand its continued existence as a city. "Larson explains in the book that Galveston Bay's features serve to effectively maximize maximize the damage of hurricanes' storm surges. I sort of a.s.sumed, when I finished reading the book, that everyone had given up on it. Packed up and left." the damage of hurricanes' storm surges. I sort of a.s.sumed, when I finished reading the book, that everyone had given up on it. Packed up and left."

Apparently not. Two weeks into the trek around the country, we strayed from my original course thanks to Benjamin's curiosity, my desire for an ocean dip, and the clerk's terror-inducing warnings. We parted ways with I-10, taking a jaunt south to the l.u.s.trous Gulf of Mexico, which we would hug for almost thirty miles until eventually confronting a pier. Partway through this stretch of sunny, quiet coast, we made an heinous discovery. I immediately pulled over to the side of the road and Benjamin and I walked back to examine the object that had so affronted us-not through its existence alone, but also the fell undercurrents that, at least to Benjamin, it implied.

Thus Ca.n.a.l City becomes a.n.a.l CITY a.n.a.l CITY.

"Well!" Benjamin said, his eyes popping even more than was customary. "We are in trouble."

I frowned. "It's too bad that the juvenile delinquents of the Bolivar Peninsula don't have anything better to do, but I don't see how that means trouble for us." us."

He responded with a knowing laugh that I didn't like.

"What?" I demanded.

"Oh, what refreshing naivete to think that this is the isolated work of a couple of Dos Equisswilling punks with Freudian hangups," said Benjamin.

"Er ... what else would it be?"

He looked out across the sea, a troubled cast settling over his bewhiskered face. "I've long suspected their existence. But I never thought I'd see evidence like this." this."

"Evidence of what?!"

Benjamin paused before answering, his eyes narrowing and his fists curling. "FLAME," "FLAME," he finally intoned. "Our dark inverse." he finally intoned. "Our dark inverse."

I looked to the sign again, but I found no guidance there. "All right," I said, "I give up. I'll bite. What does FLAME mean?"

"The Fiendish League for Advancing Mistakes in English," he replied, shaking his head at my astonishing ignorance. "Or, as they would have it, Feindish Leege 4 Addvancen Missteaks n Englesh. Even as we roam the nation performing good grammatical deeds, my dear Deck, I fear these villains are doing the same with acts of absolute evil."

After a significant pause, he added, "And ... Great Scott Great Scott, I just realized ..." I sighed in exasperation as I waited for him to continue. "I didn't pack any swim trunks," he said. "I can't go for a swim when we get there."

Leaving the perverse (and probably wholly imaginary) world of FLAME behind for the time being, we returned to the drive, watching the stilt houses go by. Eventually we came to the end of the road, or at least the end for cars lacking amphibian outfitting. I had seen the (belated) warning from Authority several miles back that there would be a ferry involved. I hadn't forgotten the off-season ferry debacle back in North Carolina, but I figured this time, since we were headed for an island, and a touristy one at that, the ferry had to be running. To my delight, we saw a queue of cars, and a boat hove into view on distant waters. Here the ferry ran year-round, and was free, what a bonus!

We drove Callie onto the ferry and then stood at the rail, watching the Gulf, as the vessel chugged on toward the island. Earlier in the day, I had booked us a room at a hostel that promised easy access to the beach. When we arrived at the place, we saw that they hadn't been kidding; we were steps away from white sands. It was a dive hotel with a few rooms converted to hostel s.p.a.ce, somewhat dingy, but hey, we were men of humble tastes. We gulped down the last of Abby's scones and then pulled on our trunks (or, in Benjamin's case, changed from jeans into shorts) for a late-afternoon dip in the ocean and some relaxation-er, I mean, a trip to ensure that the beach was free of typos. Though we did did find and fix an error on the entrance sign, the excursion was more for a moment of rest for these weary travelers. I called Jane, stuck in frozen and miserable New England, from my beach towel. Benjamin, absorbed in his Frank Herbert book, didn't even go into the water. find and fix an error on the entrance sign, the excursion was more for a moment of rest for these weary travelers. I called Jane, stuck in frozen and miserable New England, from my beach towel. Benjamin, absorbed in his Frank Herbert book, didn't even go into the water.

Evening fell, and we realized that we still needed to do more typo hunting to justify our earlier lounging. We took off on foot and found a couple of typos in touristy locales reminiscent of Myrtle Beach, but the most memorable (and notorious) discovery of the night took place in an abandoned miniature golf course off Seawall Boulevard. We were walking back to the hostel, since Benjamin and I had thought our search to be over, but then I spied the shack with its dubious legend. From the look I caught on Benjamin's face, he must have seen it at the same time. Together we clambered down the incline and walked over turf and concrete.

"Arr," I mused at the sight of the little wooden structure astride the green. DAVY JONES LOCKER DAVY JONES LOCKER, it said in painted white letters. Surely someone possessed possessed this locker, and it was not merely this locker, and it was not merely named named Davy Jones. A crucial mark was missing. Benjamin inquired, Watson-like, as to my implement of correction. We didn't have a white marker of any sort. I had already fumbled for the elixir that would grant Davy Jones the soundest sleep, and I held it up for my friend. "Could be a lot of Wite-Out," he said, hesitating, then asked the question that was really on his mind. "Is it also going to need ...?" Davy Jones. A crucial mark was missing. Benjamin inquired, Watson-like, as to my implement of correction. We didn't have a white marker of any sort. I had already fumbled for the elixir that would grant Davy Jones the soundest sleep, and I held it up for my friend. "Could be a lot of Wite-Out," he said, hesitating, then asked the question that was really on his mind. "Is it also going to need ...?"

"Yes," I replied, "Davy Jones isn't a biblical figure."

"Could be a lot of Wite-Out," Benjamin repeated. "You sure about this one?"

It occurred to me that while the path of correction had seemed obvious to me, given the style book that the League had more or less chosen to follow, Benjamin was not lugging around the Chicago Manual of Style, 15th Edition Chicago Manual of Style, 15th Edition, in his brain like a mental brick. I had internalized its tenets only through the years of my academic publishing job in D.C. I couldn't expect my companion, adept hunter though he was, to have absorbed the book's contents purely by walking through the reference section every day.

There is widespread confusion over what to do with these s s-possessives, partly because no absolute rule exists. Different style manuals diverge where Davy Jones possesses his locker. Each style guide aligns its rules with its overall purpose. a.s.sociated Press style has the mission of eliminating anything deemed unnecessary for communicating an idea, such as the serial comma (e.g., the second comma in "Benjamin, Jeff, and Josh"). They see that same redundancy in an s s following an following an s s-apostrophe. You're already ending on an You're already ending on an s s-sound, why add another s? The style I'd learned to use, s? The style I'd learned to use, Chicago Chicago, which is favored by the publishing industry, aimed to simplify the rules themselves; thus, Chicago Chicago would prefer to keep things consistent, adding an would prefer to keep things consistent, adding an s s after the apostrophe and thereby treating after the apostrophe and thereby treating s s-ending possessives like any others. (Chicago (Chicago does make an exception for names from the Bible and antiquity that end in does make an exception for names from the Bible and antiquity that end in s s, like Jesus or Xerxes.) The Modern Language a.s.sociation (MLA) style, employed by academic writers, prefers this route as well. Though it helped that at least a couple of style guides backed my desire to use the s s after the apostrophe, I knew deep down that my preference did not spring entirely from reason: I simply liked the way that after the apostrophe, I knew deep down that my preference did not spring entirely from reason: I simply liked the way that JONES'S JONES'S would look better than would look better than JONES' JONES'. Perhaps this was how style guide variances happened in the first place.

After I'd explained the competing views about the s s-apostrophe situation, Benjamin suggested that we could could go with whichever best preserved our supplies. That, of course, would be AP style. Denied the wholehearted support I had sought, I grew defensive. "Are you at heart a spelling go with whichever best preserved our supplies. That, of course, would be AP style. Denied the wholehearted support I had sought, I grew defensive. "Are you at heart a spelling minimalist minimalist, old friend? Do we part ideological ways here? Is that it?"

"Hey ... I only want the simplest means to the end of correcting this typo, yo."

I reflected a moment more. "This could be the first time we've come across something with two possible corrections. For the sake of consistency-even if that's a silly consideration for different signs in different contexts across different states states-we ought to correct with Chicago Chicago. That's what I've been using, more or less, so far."

"Okay, I'm cool with that," he replied. We couldn't very well switch typo-correcting parameters mid-journey, any more than a grad student could swap MLA for APA mid-thesis. I turned back to my plywood canvas and went to work. We would have to hope that the cop stationed a block away wouldn't look over and take us for vandals. The bad kind of vandals, I mean.

Perhaps I should have considered Benjamin's words as a harbinger of comments soon to befall the League. I'd been proud of my handiwork afterward, the painted-on s s making a respectable attempt at fitting in with its stenciled brethren. Some folks in the wider world later scrutinizing our adventures expressed their disapproval with the correction, however, especially when the making a respectable attempt at fitting in with its stenciled brethren. Some folks in the wider world later scrutinizing our adventures expressed their disapproval with the correction, however, especially when the Boston Globe Boston Globe article on us ran a week later and used the Davy Jones pictures as an example of our typo-fixing. The entry on the TEAL blog filled with comments such as these: article on us ran a week later and used the Davy Jones pictures as an example of our typo-fixing. The entry on the TEAL blog filled with comments such as these: *

You could have saved some white paint by adding only the apostrophe and not the (extra) "S"I too had always been taught that words ending in "s" did not receive an additional "s" when they become possessive. A little controversy with your morning coffee?I can state with confidence that AP style does not put the extra S on anybody, Biblical or contemporary. I think you could have saved the Wite-Out on Davy's name.a.s.sociated Press Stylebook says-you need to go back to Galveston and remove the superlative [sic ... did they mean [sic ... did they mean superfluous?] S superfluous?] S.

I was perplexed at first by the criticism. I had expected everyone to agree that we'd left the Locker in a better state than we'd found it. But many of these people were acting as if we had done something wrong.* Why was everyone talking about AP? Had they confused me for a journalist? I realized, finally, that a couple of threads of misunderstanding were unspooling here. Why was everyone talking about AP? Had they confused me for a journalist? I realized, finally, that a couple of threads of misunderstanding were unspooling here.

I had been a.s.suming that everyone was at least aware that stylistic rules of the language could vary depending on who was using them. But now it hit me-some people, like the writers of the first two comments above, were unaware that different style guides even existed existed. They thought that long ago, an overlord of the English language had, with a slam of his mailed fist upon some oaken table, definitively put all grammatical questions to rest. "Never end a sentence with a preposition," quoth he, "and that is b.l.o.o.d.y that." that."

How much I had taken for granted! Of course there'd be loads of people out there who had stopped thinking critically about grammar the day they escaped their last English teacher (the stand-in for that overlord from the misty past). Forget this, they said to themselves, I'm going to be a biochem major. If they were not bound for editorship, as I had been, they might never have had the occasion to consider the existence of-the necessity for-different approaches to the language. A journalist trying to squeeze a story into a newspaper column would naturally have different grammatical priorities from, say, a scholar writing up a journal article on the significance of the color green in Proust. The former will want her punctuation, abbreviation, and so forth to be as economical as possible. The latter will use his comma and quotation placement to elucidate his close textual a.n.a.lysis. So you give the journalist an AP Style Guide AP Style Guide to inform her work, and you advise the scholar to use the to inform her work, and you advise the scholar to use the MLA Handbook MLA Handbook. Medical writers have still different needs, so they'll find the APA Guide APA Guide helpful, and so forth. Fiction and mainstream nonfiction writers will mostly turn to the helpful, and so forth. Fiction and mainstream nonfiction writers will mostly turn to the Chicago Manual Chicago Manual. In fact, the vast majority of books on the North American market are edited according to Chicago Chicago rules. A bibliophilic fellow such as myself would naturally gravitate toward such a style. rules. A bibliophilic fellow such as myself would naturally gravitate toward such a style.

Which brings me to the other type of comments left in regard to the Davy Jones correction, the ones that chided me for not using AP style, of all things. This mentality is, in a way, more pernicious than simply not knowing about the plurality of style guides. Its proponents are are aware that different rulebooks exist, but for whatever reason, they insist that one particular guide is king of all, and any others should be discarded. Consider this argument another wedge served from the malodorous pie known as "My Way Is Right," the dessert of choice for politicians, religious leaders, and warring pastry chefs. aware that different rulebooks exist, but for whatever reason, they insist that one particular guide is king of all, and any others should be discarded. Consider this argument another wedge served from the malodorous pie known as "My Way Is Right," the dessert of choice for politicians, religious leaders, and warring pastry chefs.

If some other marauder had gotten to the Locker first, and had chosen to make Davy Jones possessive per AP style, I would have no problem with that. TEAL is not about elevating one style guide over the other. The point is that any correction correction, regardless of the stylebook, is better than leaving the thing wrong wrong. Whether it's Davy Jones's Locker or Davy Jones' Locker, kindly acknowledge the fact that we have improved on "Davy Jones Locker."

The one argument that I will consider was offered by someone claiming that Chicago Chicago also calls for withholding the extra also calls for withholding the extra s s in the case of mythical figures (which probably pertains more to cla.s.sical heroes like Achilles and Odysseus, but who knows, may extend to folk legends). in the case of mythical figures (which probably pertains more to cla.s.sical heroes like Achilles and Odysseus, but who knows, may extend to folk legends).* The rest of the angry commenters must clomp back to the Barony of the Trolls, where the Internet's full-time instigators dwell. The rest of the angry commenters must clomp back to the Barony of the Trolls, where the Internet's full-time instigators dwell.

In the morning we decided to make a stop or two in the little downtown of the island. Benjamin had discovered a flyer in our room for a used-book store that sounded enticing. We stopped in and bought a few more books for the road from their enviable sci-fi and fantasy collection. Other genres were, shall we say, less well represented. Namely, their "Horor" and "Tecno-Spy" genres. When we came down to the desk with our respective stacks of great finds, I asked if we could do something about the typos. A resounding "Definitely!" came from the woman behind the desk as she handed me her marker, cementing the place's status as my new favorite bookstore. Last night we'd started our hunt as the sun dropped out of sight, but today we'd already scored a hit well before high noon.

After stowing our book haul, we headed for the post office, housed in the lobby of a federal courthouse of impressive proportions. On the courthouse lawn I found an engraved sign with a small problem. They'd spelled METEOROLOGICAL METEOROLOGICAL wrong, leaving out the first wrong, leaving out the first o o. While Benjamin got in line to mail a present back to Jenny, I went off to see if I could alert the town fathers to the error. I walked alone down the vast and echoing hall and came to a security gate manned by a white-haired guard. I said, through the gate, "h.e.l.lo there. I noticed a typo on the sign on the lawn outside, and I was wondering who I should talk to about having it fixed?"

I turned my camera on and found the appropriate picture in its memory, then handed it over to show him. He accepted the camera through the gate, which began beeping at the intrusion of a metal object. I said, "See how meteorological meteorological is missing an is missing an o?" o?"

He nodded. "Yep. But they'd need an engraver to fix that, and the way this town spends money, I don't think it's likely to happen."

Well, he'd know best. Though disappointed, I could not have even feigned surprise that this one had gotten by us. "All right, thanks for your time."

"One other thing," the old sentinel added, as he handed me back my camera, this time around the gate. "You want to be more careful with this camera. Taking pictures of the inside or outside of a courthouse is a federal offense."

"But my picture was of a sign on the lawn lawn of the courthouse," I said. "Not of the courthouse itself." of the courthouse," I said. "Not of the courthouse itself."

He shook his head. "They ...," and he let the word linger, either considering his next words or making a thoughtful distinction, "... could still construe it as the courthouse, and confiscate your camera. So don't take any pictures around here. Especially not of the inside!"

Thanks for the tip, I thought. Maybe such a policy existed, and he was showing me mercy, this man bound by the iron fetters of bureaucracy. Or maybe he was feeding me an extra helping of tripe. At the time, I just didn't know. I said, "Thanks," and scurried back outside.

Both this incident and the affair of the Locker struck me as examples of a peculiar kind of blindness or, perhaps more accurately, nearsightedness: fixating upon one stately elm while missing the proverbial forest behind it. For the style-guide naifs, and the AP-style devotees, their tree was a.s.sumptions about language convention that they had never thought to question. For the federal overseers, it was security at all costs, laying down rules with a rational premise and then enforcing them to the point of paranoia. Galveston boasts a beautiful courthouse, and I'm guessing that not everyone who wants to take pictures of it is a terrorist. Though, in fairness, at least I still have my camera, which the guard could could have confiscated. have confiscated.

Ahh, but all hunters must take care not to fall victim to their own weapons. Visual impediment is a hazard of typo hunting itself, since the sport is about zooming in on the little details of our surroundings, focusing on elements that are oft taken for granted while ignoring the broader purposes of their existence. Woe to any who entered that bookstore and saw only the "horor" of misspelled words, but missed that glorious fantasy and sci-fi selection! I vowed that in my quest, I would never lose sight of the spirit spirit of whatever text I came across, or whatever inst.i.tution fate brought my way. of whatever text I came across, or whatever inst.i.tution fate brought my way.

I wish that there weren't an unhappy postscript to the tale of Galveston, but there is, as Erik Larson perhaps foresaw. Add this doomed island to New Orleans and Biloxi as victims of Hurricane Alley. Some six months after our visit, Ike would tear through the Texas coast and leave behind stacks of kindling and bare patches where houses used to be. Anything on the Bolivar Peninsula was pretty much flattened, so say farewell to a.n.a.l City. Our beachside hostel-in-a-motel, a grubby Galveston icon for almost fifty years, met ruin. Davy Jones'(s) Locker, subject of so much impa.s.sioned debate, is now purely a symbol, as the hurricane obliterated the actual plywood structure, along with the rest of the abandoned putt-putt course. Storms and tides hammered that wonderful bookstore (though it has since been remodeled and reopened, thankfully).

The courthouse, however, remains intact. You'll have to stop by and see its engraved sign, on the lawn at 25th and F. Leave your camera at home.

There is not much I can say about the ravages of nature that would not also, necessarily, apply to the impermanence of all things. The city is rebuilding itself, but a fair portion of what we saw and touched there is gone forever. That casual annihilation may make our efforts seem especially futile, but the bare fact is this: any any sign that we noted along the entire trip could be gone tomorrow. Maybe the actual moment of noticing, of caring, is itself the important part, regardless of what may come after. sign that we noted along the entire trip could be gone tomorrow. Maybe the actual moment of noticing, of caring, is itself the important part, regardless of what may come after.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 61 Total corrected: 34 * See also See also chapter 10 chapter 10.* Copyeditor's note: Copyeditor's note: Chicago Chicago doesn't specify omitting the extra doesn't specify omitting the extra s s in names of mythical figures per se, but only those ending with an in names of mythical figures per se, but only those ending with an eez eez sound, or in cases where it would make the result look and sound odd. sound, or in cases where it would make the result look and sound odd. (Chicago (Chicago considers the way a thing would sound when read aloud; see its section on handling of inclusive numbers.) It also takes into account customary usage; thus Achilles' Euripedes', Rameses', but also Isis', Moses', Odysseus', Jesus'. Davy Jones's would not qualify for this exception. considers the way a thing would sound when read aloud; see its section on handling of inclusive numbers.) It also takes into account customary usage; thus Achilles' Euripedes', Rameses', but also Isis', Moses', Odysseus', Jesus'. Davy Jones's would not qualify for this exception.

9

Typos Aren't Charming

March 2627, 2008 (Santa Fe, NM, to Flagstaff, AZ)Discloses how the Mission, too long masticated, began losing its flavor. Happily for the palate, vibrant Southwestern towns offer a distinct savor all their own. Conflict arises between the Grammatical Champion, wavering with contradictory feelings, and his Faithful Dawg, obstinate to the last.

As I stepped out of the hostel bunk room and onto the back porch, a couple of the donkeys raised their heads to acknowledge me. They ambled about on the sandy ground, munching at whatever lay conveniently nearby: a leafy branch, a stray shoot of gra.s.s, the wooden railing behind which I stood. It took a moment to reconcile the sudden appearance of five donkeys with the fact that I was awake-not that I dream about donkeys often. I considered the possibility that they were a missive from the divine lords of language, a reminder to stubbornly stick to my mission. I'd faltered in Albuquerque last night upon spotting a typo beyond reach, but Benjamin had swiftly identified a supervisor to a.s.sist us. Kelly's Brew Pub need no longer endure the city's ridiculing them with an extra e e, as "Kelley's" had appeared in a munic.i.p.al sign directly beneath their own sign. Once I saw how we had helped a thin ray of brilliance to shine down on the pub's dark night of orthography, I wondered why I had hesitated at all. As I reflected, one bull attempted to mount a less-than-enthusiastic partner. No, best not to look for directives here.

Benjamin joined me on the porch. He shook off his initial surprise and broke into an excited smile. "All right! We can do this in style! Let's saddle up for Santa Fe," he said, reaching over the rail to pet the nearest donkey on the head.

"Uh ...," I said, glancing uncertainly at the animals.

"Fine, fine. Callie it is."

Our hostel lay in the green hills of Cibola National Forest, between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Cedar Crest had proved to be an authentically rustic experience. The little cabin that was our shelter barely had running water, and the proprietor thought "Wi-Fi" to be an arcane cussword, but what do you want for twenty bucks a night?

Since we'd covered Albuquerque last night, Santa Fe would be the site of our hunt today. After a gorgeous drive between the sibling cities, we came upon a town plaza with a row of shops leading to a central square, which boasted America's "oldest continuously used public building" and the towering Cathedral of St. Francis of a.s.sisi. A stroll along the shops seemed in order. Continuing on the morning's theme, we made a turn down Burro Alley, where we spotted our first ill-begotten sign. In the window of an otherwise friendly little French cafe, a sign commanded, NO SMOKING ARE DOGS ALLOWED NO SMOKING ARE DOGS ALLOWED.

This amused Benjamin to no end. He'd spend the rest of the day playing with equally inappropriate word subst.i.tutions. "Dude, how about 'No smoking our our dogs allowed.'" His mood crashed, however, when I declared that we weren't going to fix it. I pointed to my explanation before he could burst into a demand for one: the next three windows sported the same sign, but in those three the word dogs allowed.'" His mood crashed, however, when I declared that we weren't going to fix it. I pointed to my explanation before he could burst into a demand for one: the next three windows sported the same sign, but in those three the word ARE ARE had been replaced with an even bolder had been replaced with an even bolder OR OR in marker thick enough to make the two letters cover the three. Crude, but effective. Someone had already recognized the error and corrected most of the signs, so it seemed pointless to bother, at least to me. in marker thick enough to make the two letters cover the three. Crude, but effective. Someone had already recognized the error and corrected most of the signs, so it seemed pointless to bother, at least to me.

Benjamin growled, then replied in staccato, "But. They. Still. Missed. One."

I resisted further, but this was mutiny, and Mr. Christian demanded I surrender to him my marker and elixir. Then he went into the cafe, somehow slipped past the host, and ducked into the room with the window that the original corrector hadn't remembered to visit. The fix happened fast, and after making sure the elixir had dried enough to not stick to the window, he reattached the sign and swung back out of there before anyone could comment. As we walked back the way we'd come, Benjamin broke the silence by offering, with a nod at the street marker, "What can I say? I'm just that stubborn." The sign of the donkey. Or was I the a.s.s? "And Jeff-no smoking dogs allowed!"

I tried to make up for my malaise with the next one, sticking to my Sharpies over the initial irritation of the local bookstore employees. Feeling like an adventurer who'd recovered a stolen artifact thought lost for good, I returned the apostrophe to its rightful place in a sign for Barron's Barron's magazine. Strangely, something about the scene shifted. Happy as I'd been at my restored treasure of an apostrophe, I found myself caught off guard as a shadowy figure began to prowl the corners of my consciousness-not the apostrophe thief, but a similar, internal scoundrel with the potential for greater mayhem. I couldn't get a clear view, but I sensed its ident.i.ty: doubt. Quiet, tentative, but nevertheless substantial doubt. If I tried to ignore it, the troublesome notion would sneak into backstabbing distance, dealing a critical hit to my confidence in the mission. Yet I couldn't catch it, the rogue dancing out of reach when I spun and lunged. magazine. Strangely, something about the scene shifted. Happy as I'd been at my restored treasure of an apostrophe, I found myself caught off guard as a shadowy figure began to prowl the corners of my consciousness-not the apostrophe thief, but a similar, internal scoundrel with the potential for greater mayhem. I couldn't get a clear view, but I sensed its ident.i.ty: doubt. Quiet, tentative, but nevertheless substantial doubt. If I tried to ignore it, the troublesome notion would sneak into backstabbing distance, dealing a critical hit to my confidence in the mission. Yet I couldn't catch it, the rogue dancing out of reach when I spun and lunged.

I stood outside staring back at the storefront for a moment, making the employees within fear that this mooncalf would be bothering them with oddball requests all day. Despite the rudeness I'd encountered, first by the younger clerk who thought I'd wanted an issue of Barron's Barron's and then by the older one, who'd given me the go-ahead to fix their sign with a hearty "whatever" to get rid of me, the place had an honest feel to it. A local little bookshop for people who actually read. and then by the older one, who'd given me the go-ahead to fix their sign with a hearty "whatever" to get rid of me, the place had an honest feel to it. A local little bookshop for people who actually read.

Benjamin nearly walked on without me before he noticed how I'd gotten stuck. "I liked that bookstore," I said.

He agreed. Nice place. Moving along ...

But I couldn't. Something felt wrong about me or my mission, or both. Some contradiction between my feelings and actions. As we explored further, the thief at my heels continued to harry me with light fingers, challenging the preconceived notions I'd held when I saddled up for this adventure. Oh, but if I could stand here a moment more, I'd have it figured out!

Alas, not yet. We continued wandering down the street and made our way over to the Mineral & Fossil Gallery, where Benjamin decided to pick something up for Jenny. I began examining exhibits and felt my internal radio tune to a familiar frequency. I knew knew these words. I'd had to spell-check some of them before. I began to enjoy seeing in person some of the minerals featured in articles during my time at these words. I'd had to spell-check some of them before. I began to enjoy seeing in person some of the minerals featured in articles during my time at Rocks & Minerals Rocks & Minerals. Then I spotted a specimen with a label locality that rankled. I waved Benjamin over, and he and a tiny carving of a turtle joined me at the case. "Minas Gerais, but they've got the i i before the before the a a here, and I'm pretty sure that's wrong." here, and I'm pretty sure that's wrong."

"And I'm I'm pretty sure it's too obscure for me," Benjamin said, a strange testing look in his eye. "It's all you." pretty sure it's too obscure for me," Benjamin said, a strange testing look in his eye. "It's all you."

Yeah. I approached a clerk for help, explaining my purpose immediately so as not to offend her as I had the bookstore fellows. She came over to the case and examined the error. She'd obviously had more experience with minerals than I'd had in my short tenure at the magazine, and she immediately recognized the problem. It didn't look look right to her, she said. Ah, surely she possessed the very spirit of the League! I almost invited her to join our mission; her able eye could fix upon the most difficult quarry wherever TEAL might boldly spelunk. We conferenced on the correct spelling, and she opened the case so I could correct the error myself, even thanking me. Benjamin gave a silent nod of approval from the other side of the store. right to her, she said. Ah, surely she possessed the very spirit of the League! I almost invited her to join our mission; her able eye could fix upon the most difficult quarry wherever TEAL might boldly spelunk. We conferenced on the correct spelling, and she opened the case so I could correct the error myself, even thanking me. Benjamin gave a silent nod of approval from the other side of the store.

Then we bought some gifts for our girls, and oh, I'd hate to impose any further, but my receipt had a problem. So did Benjamin's. So had every receipt they'd ever printed from this cash register from the day the store had opened. At the top, under the store's name, lay the address: 127 W. San Francesco St. A simple glance at the street sign outside, West San Francisco, proved the receipts in error. Benjamin hung his head as I pointed it out, but when the kind woman ringing me up said she didn't know how to fix it, Benjamin ended the episode by requesting they "pa.s.s it along" and thanking them for everything. He figured that only the GM of the store would have access to what got printed on the receipts. They honestly could not change it then and there. "Not even the other store managers had access to the store personalization function." I nodded as if I knew what that meant as we headed into another store.

After we'd admired some local artwork for sale, we struck up a conversation with a friendly young woman named Hailey near the shoe section. As she chatted about the city's virtues, I began to realize how much I was enjoying myself here. Santa Fe would be added to the list of our favorite places, like Austin, that possessed their own character and felt real real. Inevitably, though, a national franchise had infiltrated the town square, and Benjamin and I had watched, fascinated, as people dove into it, crowding the place as if afraid to venture from the haven manufactured for them by corporate America. I recognized that, yes, this street itself had probably been crafted as a capitalist simulacrum of a small town that had never quite been, yet it still had a sense of individuality brought to it by the independent businesses.

Hailey helped me pick out a cowboy hat and showed me how to set it properly 'pon my melon. When we left the store, I wanted to blurt out an observation about how much nicer these kinds of places were than the Walmart-ized communities or the strip malls featuring the same store names over and over again, some names so ubiquitous as to confuse any sense of navigating through a country. Which were you to believe? The odometer that said you'd come a thousand miles, or the storefronts before you with the same names you thought you'd left behind? Each new iteration would reveal unto you the exact same floorplan as its brethren back home, and you'd navigate flawlessly, as if you'd once visited this store in a dream. Before I spoke, though, Benjamin sighed and offered a thought of his own. "Not much text in that one. Too bad, we'd caught one in every single store we checked until there."

My new cowboy hat became the only thing keeping my skull intact as my mind exploded outward with the force of the revelations. I rewound myself back to the bookstore, understood what I'd missed there, and kept going. Back to Austin and New Orleans, back again to Alabama and the Carolinas, all the way to my first miserable typo-hunting excursion in Boston. Then I snapped back into the present moment like a rubber band. I'd apparently gotten in line with Benjamin at a humble fajita stand at the corner of the main square. The line moved fast, and we scored ourselves some sizzling food and lemonade, found a park bench, and enjoyed our repast. As if mirroring my mental overload, my taste buds bloomed in full thanks to a sensational rain of flavors. Benjamin handed over half of the ample stack of napkins we'd been given, tons of extras for the nose-blowing that unacclimated consumers would require; the well-spiced fajitas had opened our sinuses to breathe in the world. We kept pausing between bites to mutter our astonishment before blowing our noses and resuming stuffing ourselves with the food.