Leaving Your Spelling Skills in San Francisco

Here's another installment of my ongoing (and probably useless) series lamenting the decline of accurate grammar and spelling in our age of information downpour, especially on the Internet.

With this particular error, The Oregonian won't be able to keep the grammarians of San Francisco, um, at bay:

Top story on The Oregonian's website (Oct. 23, 2011)

It's sad, too, because Portland and San Francisco have so much in common: progressive politics, proximity to the Pacific Ocean and high vegans-per-capita statistics (based purely on observational and anecdotal data). For now, it looks like the two West Coast cities don't 'C' eye to eye.

Who knows? Maybe we'll soon see a story about "Portlin" in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Let The Good Times Scroll, Hero Edition

Nation!

Unfortunately, there's no tried-and-true method for achieving 15 minutes of fame. For 1.5 seconds, though, all you needed in 2011 was a small donation to Comedy Central funnyman Stephen Colbert's Colbert Super PAC. See the straight-faced satirist salute his supporters -- including yours truly -- in this silly Sept. 29 segment:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Colbert Super PAC - Ham Rove's Secrets
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

Fame is fleeting -- especially considering the Ministry of Internet will eventually remove this clip -- but don't put it on the ThreatDown just yet! Screen shots swoop in to save the day:

Image source: www.colbertnation.com

And hey, if it takes a character like Colbert to educate the American public about the seedy ways in which our politicians' campaigns are financed, so be it. His message this election season is an important one: Turtles don't like peanut butter.

Nowadays, Even Father-Son Time Has a Catch

Image source: John Wong Photography via AllPosters.com

I

t's one of those potentially perfect evenings in the middle of August, a darkening blue blanket chasing the sun toward the horizon, a warm breeze crawling gently through the grass. A father and son play a relaxed game of catch, not exchanging many words, not needing to. The child is perhaps 10 years old -- old enough to keep the ball from slipping out of his brown leather glove, young enough that he still enjoys the simple thrill of throwing a stitched sphere of cork back and forth.

The ball skies overhead in a towering parabola. Soon it will slam with a thud into the boy's well-worn glove. Soon it will zip eagerly back toward the father, each time carrying with it an intangible scrapbook of fond childhood memories. And soon the mosquitoes will have their turn to frolic about in the twilight air, and their would-be victims will sneak off into the night to fetch root beer floats at a nearby parlor.

The youthful father's next toss soars into the air, higher than the one before it. But the ball, not seconds ago a bonding baton, is now a distraction device. As the boy scrambles to get under it, the father reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a small contraption -- one that will put him in touch with people other than his son. The scene is a 21st century twist on a timeless tradition, a modern mangling of an otherwise heart-melting moment.

Words are sprayed calmly and carelessly into the phone, maybe to a wife, maybe to a friend, maybe to a business partner. The father holds out his glove, gesturing that he can still catch with one hand. His child obliges, returning the ball to what might as well be a catch-playing robot. Now, though, the ball lingers in the father's glove, his throwing hand busy holding the phone to his ear.

"Dad!" the boy hollers, at first sounding more eager than upset. He waits a few moments more, becoming slightly less patient with each moment his father's conversation doesn't cease. "Come on!" The father appears to hear his son's plea, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his throwing hand. His mind is still elsewhere.

Even against the beams of man-made light shining from the poles that surround the field, darkness reigns. The phone call ends. So does the game of catch. "Time to go," the father says quietly, not having to compete with many other sounds. "OK," the boy replies, removing his glove and heading toward the car as his father, with the benefit of longer strides, makes up for the distance that existed between the two during their game.

Car doors open and shut. An engine starts. The child is too excited about ice cream and soda to think about it, but somewhere inside he feels let down. Like a runner stranded at third base at the end of an inning, he's almost home, yearning for what could have been, his potentially perfect evening disappearing into a black web of mosquitoes and cellphone signals.

British News Scandal Surrounds Inanimate Object

Or at least that's what the front page of the Los Angeles Times website led me to believe Wednesday night with this shocking headline:

Was a hearing aid embezzling money? Was a first aid kit making unethical phone calls? This could be an interesting read! Oh, wait -- it's about an aide? Why didn't you say so?

It appears that the writer of this online headline, not David Cameron, needs the aide. Then again, I guess they invented alternative spellings for a reason.

The Greatest Joke of All Time, Perhaps

So, there's this guy named Jim, and Jim loves baseball (although we'll never know why). He probably goes to  four or five games each season, usually with his friend Frank. This time it's a beautiful summer afternoon, and Jim and Frank are seated in a sunny section on the third-base side. Perfect day for baseball, as they say.

A few innings in, Jim gets thirsty, and he doesn't feel like waiting for a vendor howling "Cold drinks here!" to come down the nearby aisle. So he asks Frank if he wants anything to drink -- he doesn't -- and makes his way to the concession stands. But things have changed since Jim's last trip to the stadium.

He learns as much after talking to one of the food cashiers: Now, instead of selling drinks at the various food stands, the stadium has a separate line for each beverage. So there's a Sprite stand and a Coke queue, a lemonade line and a Barq's booth. There's even a line for Full Throttle energy drinks because, let's face it, you need energy drinks at baseball games.

Slightly puzzled by the new arrangement, Jim heads toward Refreshment Row. He walks slowly behind the dozen-or-so lines of people, analyzing each beverage option, but nothing's jumping out at him. He doesn't really like Coke. He's not in the mood for Sprite. The lemonade line is two innings long. For whatever reason, Jim just can't make up his mind.

So he ambles back toward the food stands without buying a drink, stops at the drinking fountain for a few sips of water and approaches the cashier who told him about the weird new setup.

"Sorry to bother you again, but I was just over at Refreshment Row and couldn't decide what to get," Jim says. "Are there any other choices?"

The Curious Case of Soccer in America

The stands are packed for a soccer match ... in America? (photo by Jeff Goodman)

It's about as predictable as an announcer's lung-testing wail after a goal: Any time the United States is remotely relevant on the international soccer scene, the national public discourse revolves around the future of the sport in the Land of the Free.

Is it stagnant? Is it growing? Is the ever-increasing coverage a sign of burgeoning interest in "The Beautiful Game," or is it merely reflective of technological advancements in the age of Twitter and 24-hour news? One barometer: If the pundits are still having the "Has soccer taken off in America?" debate, it probably hasn't taken off yet.

Indeed, the centrality of futbol in the lives of average American kids has a somewhat puzzling trajectory; it begins with AYSO and soon becomes "Eh, so?" Youngsters go from playing soccer every four days to watching soccer every four years. It's as if soccer teaches them to run ... and then they run away from it.

Like clockwork, however, they return as spectators for international competition, much as they did for the 2011 edition of the FIFA Women's World Cup. It was, by many accounts, a precious moment for both genders in the nation's soccer movement. Ratings were up. Sales were up. Marriage proposals for not-currently-single Cal alumna Alex Morgan were up. Even after losing the final to Japan in penalty kicks despite leading 2-1 with three minutes left in overtime, the U.S. women's national team was lauded -- mistakenly, in my opinion -- for its awe-inspiring effort. (It should take more than losing to advance a sport's status, shouldn't it?)

Jeld-Wen Field in Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

But maybe that unconditional praise speaks to the reason -- namely, patriotism -- Americans tune in to international soccer in the first place. Because let's face it: are they really watching in droves because they love soccer? The game, at its core, isn't visually pleasing to the untrained eye. In some ways, it's like watching an invisible puppeteer as he struggles to untangle his dolls. In other ways, it's like watching a painfully inept pinball player for 90 minutes straight. You could shell out 40 bucks -- or pounds, or euros, or whatever -- and never see the scoreboard change!

And yet, millions of people around the world are drawn to soccer matches each year. Just this week, Jeld-Wen Field in Portland was packed for the Timbers' exhibition against Argentine club Independiente. The Timbers, who recently joined Major League Soccer, have developed an impressive local following in a city that could probably fill a stadium with rain before it could with people.

These aren't just fair-weather fans, either. They came out in full force to sing the national anthem for the team's home opener in April; their now-famous cheering section, the green-clad Timbers Army, chants everything from "You are my sunshine" to "Burn, destroy, wreck and kill!" Regardless of whether these examples say more about the loyalty of people in Portland or about their passion for the game, you'd never know by attending a Timbers game that soccer is the No. 5 sport in the States.

Certainly, it feels like there's more to soccer in America than Volvo-driving moms and viral videos of fake injuries. At least for now, though, the relationship between country and sport is less like a successful marriage and more like a prolonged game of Footsie. When the two do decide to get serious -- that is, when soccer scores in the U.S. -- we'll know about it. Because there will be a hoarse announcer sharing the news with the world, shouting endlessly into his microphone: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

So Many Bad Grammar, So Few Time

News flash: Grammar is going the way of the, uh, newspaper.

In an age of information when speed trumps accuracy, it's no surprise to see unforgivable errors in sentence construction, spelling and punctuation across the media landscape. But while many of these gaffes are probably the results of innocent typos, some of them suggest a more pervasive trend of linguistic ineptitude in places where English proficiency should be expected.

For instance, there was a story Wednesday morning about bombings in Mumbai that zoomed into the lead space on the Los Angeles Times website. It was grave news, especially for a city that is no stranger to terrorist attacks. However, it was hard to ignore the glaring mistake in the headline:

"Series," as the headline writer surely knows, is the subject of the headline, rendering incorrect the usage of "kill" in this case. Of course, there is a scenario in which the above headline would be correct; indeed, if there had been multiple series of blasts, "kill" would be appropriate. (After all, the word "series" is the same as a singular or plural noun.) But a quick scanning of the story made it clear that Mumbai had endured one set of blasts, not more, and that the subject-verb agreement was out of sorts.

Essentially the same mistake was seen the following day in The Daily Californian, the independent student newspaper at UC Berkeley. Alas, the frustration that should have been directed at the news of another hefty tuition increase was instead pointed at an avoidable grammatical error:

Now, the Daily Cal is an excellent publication. It even has a copy blog of its own. And hey, everyone makes mistakes. But what made this particular blunder so outrageous was the fact that the grammatically correct version of the same headline could be found a few inches below the gaffe in the breaking-news banner. Hermes does not approve.

The House That Jackson Built

Jackson Tower, formerly the Journal Building

Buildings, inanimate though they may be, are like nostalgic grandparents; they too tell the stories of yesteryear. They spin tales with each detail, bringing forth history with every layer of brick, steel and paint. Before I go all Ted Mosby on you, though, I'll continue with what really matters about buildings:

They weave worlds together.

These thoughts swirled in my head as I walked through the glass doors on one of my first days of work in downtown Portland, admiring Jackson Tower's classic touches: its aging clock tower, brass trim and analog elevator displays. Inching toward its 100th anniversary, Jackson Tower stands above Pioneer Court Square as an aesthetic and historical icon, a tribute to this city's past.

For instance, the glazed terra-cotta structure -- located on SW Broadway just south of Yamhill Street -- is a testament to a time when the newspaper industry wasn't crumbling. Indeed, it was known for many years as the Journal Building because it housed The Oregon Journal, a now-defunct publication that rivaled The Oregonian.

That fact was enticing enough considering my interest and experience in the field. But what really turned this building into an embodiment of the is-this-fate-or-is-this-a-coincidence question was the ever-present legacy of the former newspaper's owner and editor, Charles Samuel Jackson. The Virginia native journeyed west and became a prominent publisher, donating a large plot of land on Marquam Hill to the University of Oregon medical school.

Except now, the land that was once the University of Oregon medical school is now Oregon Health & Science University -- the reason my girlfriend and I live in Portland in the first place.

And so, in closing, a quote from Barney Stinson about architects: "Think about it; you create something out of nothing. You're like God. There's nobody hotter than God."

Even Towels Can't Find Work in This Economy

The gym locker room is a fragile place, an intersection of the public and private domains and thus a potentially awkward setting for otherwise common activities.

Showering. Changing clothes. Looking in the mirror to make sure your eyes are still aligned properly.

Normal stuff.

It could be considered a hub of efficiency, and there's usually a certain standard of decorum that reigns in the locker room -- at least on the men's side, to make a gross generalization. Conversations, if they exist, are short. So are the showers. For whatever reason, that's usually how it goes.

But not everyone subscribes to these unwritten rules.

Case in point: After a 30-minute battle against the treadmill earlier this week, I walked into the locker room at a 24 Hour Fitness gym to use the bathroom. I then moved into the main room (where the sinks are) and found an elderly man standing in front of an electric hand dryer. His hands, however, were not under the air duct; they were holding a gray towel around his presumably unclothed waistline, creating a makeshift dormitory for his Congressman Anthony.

The situation induced mental head-scratching as I proceeded to wash my hands. There were six sinks, three soap dispensers and two hand dryers, meaning the one not being used by Dr. Breezy was suddenly a hot commodity. I rinsed hastily.

More striking than my own scenario, though, was the logistical conundrum: How could this behavior be considered acceptable? It wasn't just that this man was hogging the clean air -- he already had unimpeded access to a towel (which, despite our technological advances, is still considered a drying device)!

I felt kind of sad as I walked out of the locker room, hands mostly dry. The towel basically got laid off and still had to kiss its former employer's behind.

The People in Portland Are Ridiculously Nice

Maybe it's because I've spent most of my life in Los Angeles -- the me-centric capital of the world -- but there's something about the way people interact in Portland that makes a transplant feel awkwardly unkind. A few examples on a list that undoubtedly will grow with time:

• Imagine a portrait of a stereotypical bus driver: gruff, annoyed, persistently unhappy and unforgiving. Then hop on a bus to the largest city in Oregon, where the caricature takes a wild turn. One afternoon at a major intersection in southeast Portland, a bus driver who had made a normal stop to pick up and drop off riders began pulling away from the curb for the green light. Just then, a young pedestrian darted toward the bus in a parallel crosswalk, hoping to catch it before its departure. In other cities, he would have waited for the next bus and blamed himself for being late. Not here. Here, the bus driver, instead of zooming into the distance, drove through the intersection, pulled toward the curb -- blocking a lane of traffic in the process -- and opened the front door as the young man raced back across the crosswalk to board. Just like that. It wasn't even sunny out.

• The gas station cashier doesn't just give you directions to a tricky freeway on-ramp. No, he walks around the counter and takes you outside, pointing precisely and smiling all the way. Like it was his job or something. Plus, the guys who fill your tank -- self-service gas pumping is illegal in Oregon -- are also friendly. They should all consider moving to L.A. -- they'd make great tips.

• Homeless people aren't exactly known for their friendliness. Written off as lazy misfits or unavoidable byproducts of metropolitan life, they are often greeted by pedestrians with uncomfortable neglect -- if not scorn. Adding to the list of sweeping generalizations ... Portland seems different when it comes to this dynamic. Although the issue persists in Portland, so too does the city's apparently undying warmth (figuratively speaking, of course). The homeless people offer "Hello" and "Good afternoon," even initiating pleasant conversation. Oh, and in some cases, good luck finding the Cup o' Change.

 Stop being so nice, Portland!