The Monday Book: THE GREAT TYPO HUNT

The Great Typo Hunt: Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time

typo huntI picked up this book because a couple of years ago, some friends and I temporarily banded together in an organization called the Guerrilla Grammar Girls. It doesn’t really exist anymore as planned, but I figured the book would be fun.

It was actually a lot more thought-provoking than expected. Jeff Deck is a former magazine editor, his co-author Benjamin Herson a bookstore manager. They did a cross-country road trip looking for and correcting typos wherever they found them: on the beaches, in the stores, and during one encounter with lasting repercussions, at the Grand Canyon.

Deck began to notice, driving about with his companions (Herson for the most part, but his girlfriend rode shotgun for part of the trip) that the places where typos were most likely to occur were the places they most wanted to be, such as mom-n-pops and independent retailers–often in rural areas, but always off the beaten track.

(They must not have visited many Walmarts, I feel compelled to add, or that theory would have died, but never mind, back to the book.)

Their need to correct, uphold, and defend English grammar and spelling got a bit tangled with their wish to understand how mistakes happened in the first place–particularly those pesky apostrophes as possessives versus plurals–but it also got mixed into that afore-mentioned discussion about urban versus rural and corporate versus independent. Was cutting slack for “folksie” demeaning or appropriate? This never really resolved itself in their repeated and rapid-fire dialogues as they traversed the country eating cheap fast food and staying in Econolodges or KOA campgrounds.

What did happen was their correction of a Grand Canyon information sign that was in and of itself, a national monument. Mary Colter was a folk artist who painted the sign in 1932, using womens’ instead of women’s. Deck and Herson had a full-on correction kit, complete with markers, chalk, whiteout and a few stick-on items, which they carried with them into the Canyon. You can guess what happened to the sign. A few months later, they found themselves in court on criminal charges of defacing Colter’s work.

It does strike me as odd Deck and Herson never aligned the significance of folk art, protected heritage, and rural independence a la the Colter sign debacle to their discussion of how independent businesses and rural locations are more likely to produce typos, but there are plenty of other philosophy moments to chew on in this book.

The writing, I say at the risk of being judgmental, is sometimes a bit blowsy, striving for cuteness rather than clarity, yet endearing at points, and entertaining almost all the time. They’re good at capturing the attitudes and diverse reactions of the people they encountered on the trip. Just imagine what it would be like to walk up to people all over the States and say, “Excuse me, but there’s a typo on your sign. Want me to correct if for you?” Some of the responses are pure psychological study, while others are straight stand-up comedy.

If you’re the grammarian about whom mothers warn their children, you’ll enjoy The Great Typo Hunt.

Six o’clock and —AH, CRAP!

Inevitably, when Jack and I hatch an after-the-shop-closes plan, we get last-minute browsers. It’s part of the business of being a business owner and we accept that, Zen-like as two Quakers can be. . . .

We got addicted to a French TV series called “Spirals.” After squeezing in an episode here and there after Needlework Nights and choir practices, we had a clear evening and planned to watch the final three episodes in a oner—a veritable orgy of big-screen viewing for two souls who struggled to get an hour in per week.

And we were really, non-grownupishly looking forward to it.

Picture it now: two college-educated adults debating the merits of turning off the phone. I made a veggie pizza at 4 pm and set up the hot air corn popper. The last customer disappeared at 5 pm and we sat, twiddling our thumbs in a dawdle of anticipation, useless for any project save waiting. At 5:45 Jack got out our screen and projector (all the benefits of a big-screen TV, plus economy and portability.) I checked the oven upstairs – pizza just going nicely golden at the edges – and started the salad.

And the shop bell rang.

We have an electric bell rigged to the door’s opening so we’ll know when customers come in. At 5:54, a teen-ager in a hoodie bopped into the shop, smiling. “Got any books on meditation?”

Yes, dear. Several. We use them to find inner peace at moments like this.

Baring my teeth in what I hoped would look like a smile, I led the child to Comparative Religion. She had questions; late browsers always do. Eastern or Native American? Dream therapy or transcendence? I took off my party hat, donned my bookselling beret, and swung into action.

Twenty-five minutes passed before she seemed satisfied that we’d found the single published book that met all her criteria. She arose from the puddle of rejects pulled from the shelves, stretched languorously, and said, “OK, then, I’ll guess I’ll take this one.”

$1.05 later, she meandered out the door, stopping to idle in the local book section as I resisted the urge to give an un-Zen-like push from the rear. It’s not her fault she bought a cheap book. She’s a teen. I should be grateful she’s reading. And that she shops local. That I got a chance to talk to her about what she likes to read. She didn’t know we had a “big” (pathetic) night planned. We should be thankful that we have customers at all in this bad economy. We have friends who run bookshops that close at 9 pm and then they still have to drive or walk home.

These things I chant to myself as I bolt the door and turn out all the shop lights. Munching burnt, cold pizza as the opening credits roll, Jack said, “Most of the time, it’s good to be our own bosses.”

Yes. Just perhaps a bit harder to find inner peace.