MonkeyFight

The Typo Project

Step away from your blog for a few weeks and Egypt falls to the revolution. I should go on vacation more often.

I just noticed two typos in the first paragraph of an article by Jeopardy genius Ken Jennings on Slate. In the article, Jennings describes what it was like to compete against a computer by the name of Watson.  I refuse to link to it because, as previously stated, there are two typos in the first paragraph. I stopped reading at that point so I may never know what Ken has to say about going head to head with a machine.  

Slate is one of the more respected online sites for whatever it is they do so I was particularly distressed to come across such amateurism. It yanked my ire especially hard because I’ve been re-reading Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style this week - last night even - and I’ve been charmed and inspired by ‘the little book’ about writing. E.B. White’s essay An Approach to Style is particularly inspiring when describing the experience of  writing: 

Writing is, for most, laborious and slow. The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by.  A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up. Like other gunners, the writer must cultivate patience, working many covers to bring down one partridge. 

I found this to be an evocative and accurate description of my experience as a writer since I never sit down to write without my 20 Gauge Browning Pump Shotgun.  Like Watson the supercomputer it is a legendary workhorse, but unlike Watson it's crafted from forged steel and fine walnut.

The errors in Slate are hardly rare; I see more typos than ever across major sites like The New York Times and Wired and Girls Who Went Wild Going Wild Again. I assume this is in part because of the speed with which content has to be produced and posted in the digital age. Even these blog entries leave me with an uncomfortable hurried feeling and I post about as fast as a carrier pigeon with a dial-up connection.

I simply can't raise my son in a world that accepts so many careless mistakes. Since The Boy's birth I've already started saying, 'I'm doing well' instead of 'I'm doing good'.  But the time has come for bolder action. I hereby propose The Typo Project, a global initiative in which readers alert media organizations of their typos.  The flood of phone calls, emails, letters, tweets, retweets, and pokes will let them know the People are watching, and organizations of good conscience will raise the bar accordingly. Organizations of bad conscience will rue the day! Somebody start a Facebook page already. The movement might not be as sexy as Tahir Square but it’s a start.

Regardless of The Typo Project's success and the money, fame, and power it brings me, this experience has proved that I should no longer sit in front of my computer reading Ken Jennings’ meditation on competing against a computer. Otherwise, the computers have already won.

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Ed. Note: Those individuals concerned about the Slate proofreader who might be fired due to my outrage should be reassured:  I don’t care if the kid loses the job.  For Christ’s sake I want the job (as long as it’s high pay and low hours) (and I can make my own schedule) (actually, never mind I’ve got shit to do).

Fatherese

The Boy has definitely been smiling at The Wife more than me lately.  I denied it at first - thought it was a figment of my imagination.  But the more I paid attention, the more obvious it became – she was getting more grins.

I chalked it up to breastfeeding at first.  After all, those are clearly some blissful bonding moments. But suddenly this hardly seemed fair. Who knew how this would affect my relationship with The Boy? I started to worry I’d be chasing his elusive smile for the rest of my life.  Always accommodating him, always caving to his demands in hopes of seeing that smile that would make me feel important and relevant in his world. I’d be like the U.N. Security Council. I couldn’t give up without a fight.

I spent a day jerry rigging a harness that held a feeding bottle at the exact angle of The Wife’s breast. When I was done it seemed functional but looked like I was wearing some sort of fetish gear for people who want to be told they're naughty.  Regardless, when I finally tried it out on The Boy, a chest hair poked him in the eye and he started wailing.

I had to change tack. If The Wife was going to provide nutrition and comfort then, I decided, I could provide entertainment. At first I kept it to the basics. I walked up to him as if everything was perfectly normal, and then I pretended to be surprised. Like, “Oh, my God, what happened?” (which is pretty much how I feel as I go about my day).  That got him to raise his eyebrows but no smile. Then I pretended there was a fly buzzing around the room so I twisted my head around and around until I had to sit down to steady myself (also something I have to do quite frequently throughout the day). The fly routine got the dogs interested for a few minutes but The Boy was unimpressed.

To up the ante, I borrowed a few tricks from the timeless and mysterious art of pantomime.  I waited for The Wife to leave the apartment and then I got to work. I was hoping to paint my face white, but all we had in the house was the purple outdoor paint we used on our fence.  I hesitated until I saw we had turpentine.  And just to be extra careful I only used one coat.

Once the paint dried, I got into my black leotard that I don’t often talk about, and I headed for The Boy’s room. He couldn’t suckle my teat but I could put on a show!  I found him with his entire right hand in his mouth and his eyes locked on his feet. Tough crowd.  When he finally noticed me, I leapt into action.  I pulled on the invisible rope, I moved my hands along the invisible wall, I even ad-libbed by pretending to raise and lower the curtains. I got nothing.  Even if he knew how to clap the sound would have been deadened by that soggy right hand.

While I waited for my face to stop burning from the turpentine, I picked up a book I’d been ignoring for weeks:  Touchpoints by T. Berry Brazelton. It’s about the emotional and behavioral development of children from birth to three years old.  To my surprise the book fell open to a section on communication and ‘motherese’:  “the soft, gentle, high-pitched baby talk” which apparently lets your baby know he should pay attention to you.   Brazleton says that motherese helps the baby save precious energy by ignoring the other adults in the room (a skill we could all use especially around the holidays). “All right, Dr. Brazleton,” I thought. “Assuming that’s your real name...”

It was worth a shot.

I started talking to The Boy in a high-pitched voice that landed somewhere between The Nanny and a balloon being relieved of its helium.  I immediately got The Dog's attention again.  My 15 year-old mutt hobbled out of bed to find a quieter place to sleep. And he’s deaf. Anyway, within seconds, right on cue, The Boy, good ol' Enrico, gave me a big smile. Even a few squeaky laughs followed by more smiles as I kept talking to him in motherese fatherese.

What a relief. Now I figure I’m only a few months behind The Wife with regard to bonding with The Boy.  But I figure if I talk in that helium voice every waking moment for the next few months I should be able to catch up before he gets to daycare where all sorts of other high-pitched voices will vie for his attention.