Typo Hunt Across America

Lansdowne, PA

I learned a vital lesson today. The drive out of Hoboken started off nice enough; I glimpsed Lady Liberty far off beyond a concrete barrier, and was treated to a view of some beautiful industrial derricks, wreathed in the wistful haze of air pollution. I had my elaborate audio contrivance spinning me tracks from the latest album of an artist known as Seal, and I was actually getting a little misty-eyed during his gently idiotic duet with his supermodel wife about their unassailable love. I felt happy for him. We went way back, after all. All was cool this day on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Then it started to rain. At the same time, I began to suspect the god-voice in my GPS, Authority, to be screwing with me. Was I really supposed to get off the Turnpike here? The rain increased in intensity. Now it was definitely headlight weather. The wheel in my hands remained level, yet Callie’s tires began to insist on their own vector, and I got nervous. After all, it had only been a week or so ago that she had run me into a snowbank in Maine when I was on my way to visit Jane, thanks to an abrupt squall that covered the roads in thin but treacherous white. Callie’s steering, a little gamey even at the best of times, had failed me then, and I didn’t want her to let me down again so soon. I took the next exit… ever so gently.

When faced with a choice of Burlington or Bordentown, I chose the latter for its more forgiving ramp. Now I just needed a place to stop and wait out the rain for a few minutes. The first candidate was a house of tarot and fortune-telling, but I could just picture the horror movie exposition there, dreary rain included. Instead I went on and pulled into the lot of Roma Bank, apparently a financial institution for gypsies. There I waited, ate Pop Tarts, and finally departed about forty-five minutes later in rain that was just as heavy as it had been forty-five minutes ago. The last thing I wanted to do was get on another slick highway.

“Maybe you don’t have to,” murmured Authority.

“Eh?”

“Follow Burlington Road for a while,” Authority suggested. “I’ll tell you where to go. You’ll get where you’re going… eventually.”

I should have resisted the temptation to put my trust entirely in her–in it, but I hadn’t made adequate preparations of my own beforehand on the internet. Here is the lesson that I learned today: Do not put full stock in a machine, f’Chrissake. The next couple of hours were a smeary blur as Authority sadistically led me through the practical heart of Philadelphia, with the requisite logjam of homicidal motorists, while where I wanted to go wasn’t really in the city at all. I imagined I could hear the echo of a demonic titter from within the machine attached to my windshield as poor Callie and I juddered over roads inlaid with slippery metal tracks for trolley cars.

Then, thankfully, the horrific ride came to an end, and I’d arrived at my friend Raisha’s place in Lansdowne, a suburb just outside Philly proper. Raisha’s generous attention to my comfort went a long way towards negating the bleakness of the drive down. Eventually I got back into a typo-hunting kind of mood, and she found one in her very own apartment to act as a warm-up exercise.

Oh, Mr. Thorogood! Already I grow weary of you and your ilk. How much effort does it really take to make your possessive a possessive? Surely less than it took to render that exquisite twine-work framing the band name. I had, of course, some white-out that would be able to act in this case as a white-in.

Once I’d explained a little more about the goals and processes of the League, Raisha agreed to come along on an expedition for our lofty cause. She suggested a nearby grocery store as a venue likely in need of our assistance. About ten seconds after we’d entered the place (mostly empty and echoing at nine pm on a Friday), I spotted a bold and egregious error in the produce section.

A stake through the heart of all that is righteous and good! I glanced around for an employee of the grocery store so that I could bring the error to the proper attention. However, it appeared that the entire staff had gathered together by the registers for some dark purpose, so no one was really around to care. Only one thing left to do, then.

Raisha got caught up in the spirit of TEAL’s adventures and went a little ahead along the cooler aisles, scrutinizing each sign. We found a bunch more apostrophe omissions a la Thorogood, but I had gotten bored with such commonplace villainy, much in the same way that cops must get tired of arresting the same petty infractors over and over. Then Raisha caught something and called me over.

Delicious! Pomegranite, o favored fruit of prospectors and geologists across the land! This was a deep and cleansing fix, a rejuvenating blow against indifference.

We finished our circuit of the store and headed back across the front, toward the exit. Apparently the den meeting of cashiers and bagboys had ended, as two of the employees were now busy lifting big signs to plaster on the front of the store. I paused as I noted what sign they were working on now: a giant version of the words bearing the typo I thought I had eradicated for good. BEEFSTAKE TOMATOES. No, old enemy, you will not rise again stronger than before!

“Excuse me,” I said, “I hate to interrupt, but I believe that ‘Beefstake’ is spelled wrong. It should be s-t-e-a-k.”

The guy on the ladder favored me with a look of searing apathy. “What, are we missing a letter?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned from me and affixed the sign to the glass, showcasing the error for the world to see. And with that, my work was undone.

Tomorrow: down to the D.C. area, where Benjamin joins the mission.

Totals
Typos Found: 11
Typos Corrected: 7

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This entry was posted on Friday, March 7th, 2008 at 11:57 pm and is filed under Pennsylvania. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.