Poor Howie doesn’t seem to understand the industry in which he claims to be a professional. Worse is that any credibility he may have is decimated by his poor spelling and grammar and angry reaction to a benign story. Any client that hires a marketing firm whose employee(s) can’t spell “you’re” deserves whatever it gets; and any client that does not vet this guy’s claims of being a marketing specialist (simply one look at SPM’s website speaks volumes) is a moron.

Grammar matters! It reflects your knowledge, professionalism and credibility. Nothing says amateur, idiot or unprofessional quite like “your an idiot” or “Apple’s for Sale!”

I often see similar confusion (all over the web) between “login” and “log in”.

CORRECT: What is your login information?

INCORRECT: Please login.

CORRECT: You must log in before accessing this feature.

INCORRECT: My log in doesn’t work!

“Logout” and “log out” are a bit trickier. To log out is to exit something that you logged into such as a secure computer session or . . . well, I can’t think of anything else. The average person doesn’t use “logout” (the noun) in everyday conversation. Yes, they see it when they’re logged in to their secure e-mail or banking websites, but most probably don’t utilize the function and instead just close the browser window. Systems administrators use it when discussing metrics with their colleagues, as in We observe that the number of logouts does not match the number of logins. Logging in provides a wealth of information to the people administering the system being logged into. Often to obtain login credentials, one must register one’s information in exchange for a username and password. Logging in gives admins information about date and time, computer and browser used, location, behavior, etc. that can be used to sell “things”. Logging out? Not so much. Therefore, it makes sense that “log in” and “login” are more prevalent online than “logout” and “log out”.

Your thoughts?

Oh, my five regular visitors, I’ve neglected this site for too long. It’s not that grammar has gotten better, it’s just that there are so many other things to worry about these days. Things like money. Blogs are certainly not fields of dreams—I’ve built one, placed some ads, generated some content, and have made a whole $10. My partner has disappeared but I don’t begrudge him (much).

So, let’s see what’s been happening in the fight against bad grammar.

“Britain’s Got Talent” has taken the northern hemisphere by storm and with good reason. There’s that whole ugly duckling metaphor that has consumed entertainment television and internet videos and blogs. But, sound it out. “Britain has got talent.” I really dislike the word got. It’s an ugly, non-essential word that confuses speakers and writers and confounds readers and listeners. What’s wrong with “Britain Has Talent”? Do you get it? Get what? Never mind (imaginary voice in my head). Let’s use “Do you understand?” instead.

I propose that we (grammar warriors) demand an end to the use of got in speech and writing.

This document is the work of and copyright is held by Robert Farago.

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People often ask how I became an editor. It started the summer after I graduated high school. Amazon.com had just started and from them I ordered a book titled “Car Secrets Revealed” (by Corey Rudl). The book, while somewhat interesting, was nearly impossible to read because of numerous spelling errors, run on sentences, and other grammatical mistakes. The book had some good info in it so I didn’t want to return it; instead, I researched the author, got his e-mail, and pestered him to let me edit the second edition of his book. The rest is history. While Mr. Rudl went on to become an infamous “e-mail marketer,” I went to college, dropped out after a year-and-a-half, and found myself in a succession of various jobs that were information management-related: database programming; converting Boeing tech manuals to PDFs; and proofreading for a major commercial printer, among others. Each setting was completely unlike the other but two things remained with me always: a good dictionary and a style guide (usually The Chicago Manual of Style).

Continue reading . . .

The Mini began life in a fit of pique. Saying that, describing Leonard Lord’s creative spark with a French expression may be too ironic even for the British (who’ve been defending their island nation with arched eyebrows for centuries). Less obliquely, the head of the British Motor Corporation allegedly launched the automotive project with the words “God damn these bloody awful [German] Bubble Cars. We must drive them off the road by designing a proper miniature car.” In 1959, while the UK was still suffering from a gigantic post-WWII, post-Empire hangover, the ill-fated BMC launched the Mini. Long story short, Mini RIP 1970. Until the Germans (of all people) decided to resurrect the brand. BMW beget MINI.

Notice the addition of the three capital letters. MINI, not Mini. BMW changed the iconic car’s typography to signal the fact that the new MINI was not or was—well, I’m not quite sure. Although the Germans designed the new, 2001 MINI, it was (and is) built in the Land of Hope and Glory (Oxford). So not a point of origin issue, then.

Perhaps BMW wanted to distinguish the new car’s relatively robust quality from the previous machine’s tendency to malfunction, fall apart and rust. You know make a BREAK with the past, while maintaining a LINK to the past. Lovers of the original car will gladly tell you the new MINI is a far more bloated conveyance than its namesake, and assume that [what they see as] MINI is a typographical admission of the car’s fundamental flaw (i.e., what BMW saw as its main advantage.)

In all likelihood, the caps lock rechristening was initiated by a marketing maven (wearing really trendy designer glasses) who didn’t get paid to leave well enough alone. One can imagine the bullet-ridden Powerpoint slide (screen?) gliding over the MINI champion’s giddiness. In any case, not to coin a phrase, making Mini into MINI was a bloody awful decision.

With the MINI, BMW launched one of those entirely pointless wars between a corporation’s love of trendy typography and popular usage. Of course, BMW never stood a chance. When faced with the infinitesimal decision between holding down the caps lock key to satisfy an unknown, unseen legal obligation or branding infatuation, or not, not wins every time.

The gig was up right from the git-go. Prior to the MINI’s launch, the entirely enthusiastic automotive media failed to capitalize the automaker’s capital idea. Even the obsequious Motor Trend—a magazine whose editorial decisions have been made entirely pliable by BMW’s advertising budget—failed to get with the program.

Well, they did and they didn’t. Their editors remembered to the maximize the MINI, while their writers (hard working, detail-oriented people that they are) ignored it. The end result was entirely predictable: both uses co-existed, with MINI losing ground. For once, Motor Trend lived up to its moniker.

A shift key is a terrible thing to waste, but at least the MINI mishegos separates the pedants from the pistonheads. For example, Wikipedia (the unauthoritative authority on all things) has two distinct entries for vehicles spelled m-i-n-i: MINI and Mini. But even this unambiguous dichotomy causes typographical conniptions and a retreat into disambiguation.

At the top of Wiki’s Mini page: “For the “new” Mini, see Mini (BMW). For other uses, see Mini (disambiguation).” Shouldn’t that be “For the new MINI, see: MINI?” And what’s with the quote marks around “new”? Is Wiki’s anonymous editor showing his displeasure at BMW’s Mini revolution or a more general annoyance with precious typography? And over at Wiki’s MINI entry, the word is bolded and an explanatory aside (apology?) offered: “Mini (styled as MINI) is a British automotive brand . . . .”

Who cares? No one who doesn’t shelter under BMW’s corporate umbrella, obviously. I publish and moderate an automotive website: thetruthaboutcars.com. Although I use MINI to refer to the 2001 car (I’ve got my own issues), our car-savvy commentariot does not. As for the mainstream press or on the street? Fuhgeddaboutit.

In a strange way, BMW should take some comfort in pistonheads’ (and potential consumers’) lack of adherence to and/or outright ignorance of this particular example of corporate lexicography. Except for a group of die-hard Mini fans, the MINI is a Mini. Anyway, it would cost BMW tens of millions of dollars to throw in the typographical towel. And if you type “Mini” into Google, official MINI sites occupy the first two positions. So, then never mind.

If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s this: even the largest companies can’t buck popular usage. Nor should they try. The best possible solution is to create a compelling name for an automotive product and then actively perpetuate any nicknames given to the vehicle by the general public. (For example, enthusiasts have dubbed the new Chevrolet Malibu “the new ’Bu.”) Avoid trendy typography at all costs.

And if your audience misspells the product’s name or, God forbid, misplaces the hyphen (don’t get me started), go with it, not against it. Just as you can’t fight city hall, you can’t force people to make keystrokes that satisfy internal politics, rather than personal psychology, which has no time whatsoever for such inane games.

On 3 February, I posted on The Truth About Cars a piece informing the site’s visitors that I wished to create a style guide for that site. I wanted to know what certain terms visitors thought we should use in the reviews of cars. For example, should the site always use “torques” when listing an engine’s torque rating (à la Jeremy Clarkson) or stick with the technically correct, but boring, pound-feet or lb/ft? I asked how we should denote horsepower: capital or lowercase “HP”; should we use bhp; etc. I asked if—for the benefit of the site’s many foreign visitors—we should include metric equivalents. I had no idea the shitstorm this would create.

A post like the above brings out the armchair editors. Emboldened by their sense of anonymity, some commenters accuse you of “making a mountain out of a molehill;” “distracting people from the core mission of the site” (which I found odd as the mission is to tell the truth); or “making it harder than it needs to be” (clicking a few buttons in an online survey is hard?). All I want to do is refine the site, make it consistent, and keep it enjoyable. Having to re-read something because the terminology is incorrect or a word is misspelled is not fun. Moreover, TTAC is, I think, one of very few sites that continually asks for input from its readers, considers it, and, if appropriate, acts on it. The site’s publisher reads every single comment and responds personally if required. Does Edmunds or Car Connection do this?

Blog publishers need thick skins. That said, commenters should keep in mind that post writers have feelings and deserve a measure of respect. If you disagree with a post, state that and give a reason, but don’t attack the writer. And, at least have the chutzpah to leave your real name in the comment. Anonymous hit-and-run commenters are the worst. Thankfully, we can block your IP address from commenting again. TTAC and TTAG have standing invitations to readers who wish to write a counterpoint editorial. But guess what? Few people take us up on the offer. Instead they write in the comments things such as (paraphrasing): “I hate this article. You’ve crossed the line and I’m never coming back!” (It’s funny that in this particular instance it was a guest editorial and not the explicit opinion of the site’s publisher.)

My favorite comments to hate are the ones that point out (gleefully, I imagine) a spelling or grammar mistake in my post. I maintain that no one is perfect (not even me, cerebral narcissism be damned). That’s why I like web publishing so much—mistakes can be corrected minutes, days or years after you publish (as long as you remember your login infomration). I admit I used to make the comments, too. Now though, after getting rather serious about blog posting, I’ll send a polite, courteous e-mail letting the author know. Professionalism wins in my book.

Once upon a time, I spent ten years as a hypnotist. I offered the standard watch swinging services: weight loss, smoking cessation, confidence, phobias, etc. Unlike my colleagues, I had no interest in talking about my client’s mother. Sit down, shut up, I hypnotize you, you achieve your goal or you don’t. For those who didn’t, I never deployed the industry standard accountability chaff: “I’m a great hypnotist but you’re a lousy subject.” I based my work on the Stanford Hypnotic Susceptibility Scale. I’d hypnotize a client, and then work my way through the Scale’s twelve graduated tests—until the client either “failed” a test or achieved the weird ass dozen. It was no-fault hypnosis; given my abilities and yours, this is where you fall on the scale and here’s what I can do for you. All major credit cards accepted.

The scale starts with simple ideomotor suggestions, such as “your extended arm is so heavy it must fall to your side” (Victorian speaking style optional). It quickly moves into the realm of the genuinely odd, as the hypnotist works to create cognitive distortion. “You will forget the number six as you count down from ten,” “your name is now Esterhazy,” “every time I look at my watch you will cluck like a chicken.” From there, the hypnotist attempts perceptual effects, such as positive hallucination (“you will think your mother is sitting next to me”). Test number twelve, the highest level of susceptibility: negative hallucination. “When you awake from trance, you will not see me.” Yes, subjects can cheat, but there are ways to differentiate between “social compliance” and genuine hypnotic response. And I don’t want to repeat myself by explaining that particular piece of the puzzle again.

Gotcha! Or not. As the test’s existence proves, not everyone is capable of the same level of hypnotic response, to a given hypnotist, on a given day, in a given social situation, having taken a given hypnotic drug, under a given (or implied) threat of violence. But the truth about trance is that all of these bizarre hypnotic effects—from ideomotor suggestability to negative hallucination—are induced versions of a naturally occurring phenomena. Someone yawns. You yawn. You don’t see your keys, even though they are, literally, right in front of your eyes.

As a professional writer who generates more than 5000 words per day, it’s the latter which I find most intriguing. My prose is bedeviled by negative hallucinations. I see words, punctuation, spelling and spacing that aren’t there. For example, this morning I wrote “If you recall, President Bush gave GM some money ($9.4b) and told them to come back later for more ($4b). The second tranche (as the gourmands would says) depending on sorting out the United Auto Workers (UAW), convincing bondholders to swap debt for equity and rationalizing their brand portfolio.” As THE gourmands would SAYS? Of course I know that the correct version should be “(as gourmands would say).” But I didn’t publish it that way. And I didn’t see this riotous mistake until four hours later, on an iPhone, in an amusement park.

Mistakes like this, which usually manifest themselves far less egregiously (fun zayn moyl, in Gots oyer), are often called “typos.” It’s an archaic term, linking us back to the days when spell checking meant never having to say you were sorry (especially to Samuel Johnson). Writers would blame misspellings, lost words, incorrect usage and suchlike on those mechanically minded oafs known as typographers, laborers who somehow failed to perfectly translate perfectly written words into a perfect plateful of hand-assembled dies. The word “typo”—short for typographical error—has become a useful euphemism for any unintentional grammatical mistake.

If you think about the mental process involved, bad grammar is actually a badge of honor, rather than a moment of laziness and/or ignorance. After all, negative hallucinations only occur in the deepest levels of trance. If you think of it that way, the above mistake indicates that I was so focused on what I was doing, so deeply involved in my literary pursuit, that my grammar paid the price. What’s more, I remained so deeply engrossed in the writing process that I couldn’t properly proof-read my own copy until later, when I emerged from this quasi-religious mental state. Indeed, if my copy had been perfect, it would have indicated a lack of intellectual horsepower.

Yes, well, perhaps not. A deep trance state is not always caused by the supernatural mental prowess of a genius deploying his God-given talent for laser-like focus, although I like to think that’s the main possibility. Sleep deprivation and simple tiredness are equally capable culprits. Whether disordered of or not, attention deficiency is another possible gateway to this seemingly stunning hypnotic effect. A couple of nagging children will do the trick. Alcohol is another possibility: you’re too relaxed to see something as insignificant as a “typo.” And no way can I can write stoned.

In any case, writers develop techniques to spot “typos” (now in quotes!). Reading my copy out loud is a remarkably effective prophylactic against deeply embarrassing grammatical failures—even though it’s more than slightly disconcerting for family members who already call me “the nutter in the attic.” I also find that simply leaving my copy for a later re-read works a treat. Unfortunately, I write for the internet. So I can’t do that. Fortunately, I can come back to my copy later and change it with near-infinite ease (which raises a whole ‘nother set of problems). But the best way to avoid the negative hallucination pitfall is to hire a proper proofreader. Provided, of course, they are not prone to pensiveness. Good luck with that, Jeff.