The secret, separate issue behind why we misspell words

One of the great ironies of the English language is that the word "misspell" is frequently misspelled.

At least by me. And by many others. The multiple double-letter combinations may be part of it (are there two consecutive ps? Why not?). That challenge is constant for me. I misspell it half the time. (Not that time, though. I'm two-for-two so far.)

I'm a writer, both professionally and as a hobby. I care about words. I'm a stickler for use (not usage, which means the same thing, but is just two meaningless letters longer. See? I'm a stickler). I also have plenty of spelling problems – and I recently discovered why.

Take permanent, which I misspelled the first two times I wrote it in this sentence before it was corrected by spell check. It's per-MAN-ent. Not per-MEN-ant.

I asked some friends–the same ones who helped me with a column on semantic satiation, which is when you look at a word so long that it suddenly seems like gibberish–to share words with which they struggle to spell.

Definitely was one popular choice. So was conscience. So was differentiating between breath and breathe.

I don't necessarily have problems with those (well, sometimes I struggle with definitely until I stop and think about it. It's de-finite-ly). But sometimes I have a problem with necessarily, the third word in this paragraph. Again, it's the old double-letter challenge: Is it a double-c or a double-s? Or both?

That's a permanent problem for me (I'm hoping that by writing permanent many times in this column, it will lodge in my brain. Permanently.)

My friends shared other words with which they have problems. Some of them are because the words are spelled very differently from how they are pronounced. Like colonel. Or macabre, a word I would only use if I was showing off.

One friend said a word they struggle with is "suspicious," about which I'm strangely dubious (get it?). Another said "occasionally" is a struggle, perhaps for my aforementioned double-letter challenge. There are double letters, but is it the c? The l? Maybe the n?

The same problem arises for committee, which has the rare status of three triple letters. In most of the double-letter words, there are no more than two pair and you have to figure it out. Then you get committee or bookkeeper and you wonder if you're doing too much.

According to YourDictionary.com (which must be authoritative, right? It's a dictionary? And it's yours!), the 10 most commonly misspelled English words are acquit, cemetery, exhilarated, hierarchy, inoculate, liaison, memento, pastime, pronunciation and vacuum. I would misspell virtually all of them, either due to the double-letter problem (does vacuum have a double-c or a double-u . . . or a W, if you're just saying this out loud?) or I say them wrong (It's not moe-mento? It's not ex-hil-er-rated?).

That's a separate problem that's not associated with double letters or weird spellings. And it applies to separate, which should be no surprise if you're inside my brain and see how I try to make dumb jokes with these words.

I misspell (got it!) the word "separate" (got it!) frequently. As often as I misspell "permanent" and for the same reason. That reason? I pronounce the words incorrectly.

I say "sep-per-rut." I say "per-mun-ant." So when it comes time to spell them, I sound them out and spell them wrong.

It turns out that we have a spelling problem that has been largely fixed by spell check functions. And when you get down to it, many of us don't really have a spelling problem, we have a pronouncing problem.

That's separate from misspellings. (Two-for-two!).

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com. 

'Baldergate' lesson: Don't forget to use the clipper guards

I knew something was wrong. Something was off.

But what?

I sat on a stool in our shower, ready for Mrs. Brad to cut my hair. But it seemed wrong somehow.

Mrs. Brad wasn't worried. She was enthusiastic. She started, swiping the clippers across my hair. Seconds later, I had an inch-wide bald strip across my skull. She had forgotten to put a clipper guard on. She'd shaved my head. Or part of it.

Mrs. Brad was stricken. She stepped back with a sick look on her face.

I realized what happened (no wonder things seemed wrong! No wonder I could feel the clippers on my skin!), but I'm an optimist. I thought, "It can't be that bad."

I looked in the mirror. I had a bald stripe on my skull.

Oh. No. It was that bad.

Let's rewind a bit. About six months ago, we decided to have Mrs. Brad cut my hair. For years, I've gone to the $25 haircut stores every six weeks or so and told them my preference. It used to be clipper guard No. 4 on the top, No. 2 on the side (Oh! A really sophisticated haircut!). Eventually, I wanted to stretch out how often I get haircuts, so I switched to No. 3 on the top, No. 2 on the side. (I've now done research. No. 4 cuts your hair to a half-inch, No. 3 cuts it to three-eighths of an inch and No. 2 cuts it to a quarter inch).

Using no clipper guard, of course, shaves your head. But we'll get back to that in a moment.

This wasn't totally new. When the pandemic hit, we did what many others did: We bought clippers. Mrs. Brad cut my hair. It was good enough, but she didn't like the challenge of the contrast: Where does No. 3 end and No. 2 begin?

So post-pandemic, I returned to my haircut store visits. Finally, I struck a deal with Mrs. Brad. If she'd cut my hair, she could cut it all the same length. No. 3, peferably. My hair is low-maintenance and if she cuts it, I don't have to wait at a haircut emporium.

She agreed. For months, it worked well. I'd need a haircut and ask her to cut it. When it was convenient for both of us, I'd set up the stool in the shower, she'd take 10 minutes to cut it. Then I'd use the Dustbuster to get the hair out of the shower and wait another six weeks.

It worked well until the night of Baldergate.

After Mrs. Brad mistakenly (and enthusiastically) mowed all the hair from my scalp, I looked in the mirror. It was shocking. All of my hair was about an inch long (that's not "long" for regular people, but it is for me) except for that strip. On that inch-wide script, you could see my scalp, shining under the light.

It was a reverse mohawk, except it was off-center. It was ridiculous.

My first reaction was to be positive. I told Mrs. Brad I could cover it, to go ahead and cut it regularly.

"How will you cover it?" she asked. I didn't know, but I envisioned wearing a baseball cap for a couple of weeks until it grew back. Yeah, a baseball cap in my office. A baseball cap at church. A baseball cap while playing basketball. Like no one would ask why I was wearing a baseball cap.

Finally, we agreed on a strategy. She'd cut it shorter than normal. It would be No. 2 (a quarter inch) all over, except for the part where no clipper guard was used (where it was zero inches).

It kind of worked. Kind of. Maybe. The rest of that night, every time Mrs. Brad looked at me, she started laughing. She told her mom about it the next day and again couldn't stop laughing.

I told my co-workers, who professed that they hadn't noticed, but then admitted it was impossible to miss once you realize it. My always-short hair was really, really short on that strip.

The day after Baldergate, Mrs. Brad had a positive spin. "You're lucky you have gray hair," she said. "If it was still black, it would be more obvious."

I guess that's something. But a two weeks later, I went to the DMV and got my Real ID driver's license, which required a new photo. So for the next four, eight, 12 years or more, I'll have a reminder in my wallet.

I'm having a bad hair summer.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Spoon, known are the epitome of semantic satiation

Spoon.

That was the word. Spoon.

The longer my friend Liz studied it, the more wrong it looked. And sounded. Spoon. Is that really a word? Spoon. Spoooooooon. Spoooooooon. It can't be right, can it?

I experienced the same thing earlier that day for a different word. I was considering a quote from former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, who said strategy included "known knowns," "known unknowns" and "unknown unknowns." Writing it, suddenly the word "known" seemed wrong. Known. Knoooooown. K-noun? Nnnnooonnne.

You've done this, right? If so, you're not alone. A 1907 paper published in The American Journal of Psychology named the phenomenon "semantic satiation." It is the process of repeating a word over and over to the point where it temporarily loses meaning to the person saying it, who then perceives it as meaningless.

This is a fairly common experience. This isn't using a word wrong or misspelling it (irony: I'm a writer/editor and the word I'm most afraid of misspelling is "misspelling." Too many double letters. More about that in a future column). Semantic satiation is saying spoon so many times that it seems ridiculous and not a word.

It's so common that I asked friends to share examples. Some of their offerings seem like they're not words because they're spelled or pronounced weirdly. But many are words that eventually seem like they must be wrong. And the more you study them, the more wrong they seem.

They're . . . weird. And there's irony in the fact that one such word is weird. Weird. Weird. It can't be spelled that way, right? Or pronounced like that. Weeeeeerd. We-eared. The "ei" combination seems wrong. It seems . . . weird, right?

Like spoon.

Another good example is "bundle." Sure, it initially seems fine. Bundle. A bundle of sticks. Bundling your insurance. A bundle of . . . wait, is that right? Bundle? Bunnnn-dull. That can't be the word. Bundle. Bun-dul-luh, maybe? Bunnn-dull. Strange word. Weird word, if you don't think about "weird" too long.

And how about "restaurant?" It's spelled strangely but it also doesn't seem like a real word. Rest-too-raunt. How about res-taw-u-rant? Restore-ront? Restaurant? A real word? Only if they give you a spoon. Spooooooooon.

There are some other words that seem unwordlike. Tomorrow, for instance. And Wednesday, which like February is generally pronounced wrong, but also doesn't seem like a real word. On Tuesday this week, try saying, "Tomorrow is Wednesday" 10 times in a row. Pretty soon it will feel like you're a toddler making nonsense sounds.

Rhythm was another semantic satiation word, as is honor. Honor? On-er? That can't be right? Rhythm. Rhythm. Rith-umm. I can't even keep rhythm with a spoon. Spoon. Spooooooon.

A couple of other words seem wrong because they are spelled strangely, which focuses you to study them longer: Epitome and awry. Why isn't it "aww-ree?" Or "Ep-pit-tohm?" Even said right, epitome repeated begins to make no sense.

A final nomination for the semantic satiation hall of fame is the word queue. In addition to having four unnecessary letters at the end (if you're moderate, you have to admit it's at least two letters too long). Queue. Quuuuuuuuuuuuu. Qqqqqqqqqqq. That can't be a word.

How many words are there like this? A lot. The real number is probably an unknown unknown. Unknown. Un-noooeeen.

That can't really be a word, can it?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Asteroid striking moon could create chaos, more dumb jokes

An asteroid that looked like it might strike Earth in 2032 will almost assuredly miss us. Good news, right?

Well, not really, because YR4 may now strike the moon. (Yes, "YR4," which is a really great name for an asteroid. Memorable, scientific and short. Also, a good name for a rapper.) 

Yeah, an asteroid may hit the moon. This is the worst moon news since the 1978 overdose death of the drummer for the Who, am I right?

Scientists are downplaying the risk (Of course they are. Hey, did you see that our government now says climate change isn't manmade? I feel better. No need to change anything, I guess, as ocean levels rise and Fairfield becomes waterfront property).

A quick recap of YR4: In late 2024, scientists discovered the asteroid. By February, they said there was a better than 3% chance that YR4 could hit Earth by Dec. 22, 2032. It was the most danger we've had from an asteroid since the film "Armageddon" was released in 1998.

Eventually, experts essentially determined that YR4 would not hit Earth. Then came news this summer that the asteroid could hit the moon. The odds are 4.3%, which makes it the most likely moon interception since Warren Moon threw 21 picks for the Houston Oilers in 1993, am I right?

Astronomers (astrologers? I'm pretty sure it's astronomers, but astronomers and astrologers probably work in adjacent buildings) say the biggest danger of such a collision would be to astronauts or infrastructure on the moon at the time of impact (which seems a very risky life choice for an astronaut: "Hey, how about a trip to the moon in late 2032? What could possibly go wrong?"). 

Also in danger: satellites orbiting Earth, which seems kind of important. Satellites being affected should make us care. In fact, this possible collision could create more Moonies than the Unification Church in the 1970s, am I right?

YR4 is about 200 feet in diameter, so it could do plenty of damage. For context, that's the same diameter as (insert your own fat joke here. I won't do it anymore on the advice of my attorney).

YR4 is not large enough to be a "planet killer" as scientists charmingly call big asteroids, such as the one that led to the extinction of dinosaurs and launched the "Jurassic Park" movie series. YR4 is called a "city killer." Oh, that's all?

A collision between YR4 and the moon would likely be visible (the most visible moon event since Greg "Moon Man" Minton saved 30 games for the 1982 Giants, am I right?) and would create a new crater on the moon's surface while stirring up lunar dust. On Earth, we'd have a meteor shower that could cause up to a decade's worth of meteor debris in a few days.

Here's the good news: With seven-plus years to go, scientists are looking into ways to avoid a YR4 collision with the Earth or moon, including possibilities generally only seen in apocalyptic movies (a spacecraft that hits the meteor, for instance).

So calm down and remember the odds are roughly only 1-in-25 that an asteroid will slam into the moon around Christmas 2032. The most likely outcome is that YR4 misses both Earth and the moon and is just a reminder that we're often subject to the whims of the universe.

On the other hand, there's a chance that the asteroid strikes our main satellite and causes worse damage than scientists expected.

The worst case is foretold in a famous children's book. It might be, "Goodnight moon," am I right?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Eddie, Lacob, Finley? Ranking the top Bay Area sports owners

It's easy to be a solid professional sports owner. For the rich people who buy the teams we love, there are three requirements:

• Spend your money to make the team better,
• Hire good people and let them make the main decisions,
• Be a fan, so we know you care as much as we do.

And, of course, win championships.

Unfortunately, many professional sports franchise owners fail to meet the first three qualifications. They get tight-fisted with their money (ignoring that franchise values double about every five years, meaning they are guaranteed to make money when they sell); the meddle with decisions (forgetting that inheriting wealth or making millions for manufacturing widgits doesn't mean you know how to run a sports team) or they don't seem to care (and move the team to Sacramento as a stopover on the way to Las Vegas).

In Bay Area sports history, we've had some terrible sports owners. We had Charles O. Finley, who ran the Oakland A's like a cheap mom-and-pop store; Chris Cohan, who seemed determined to squeeze every penny out of the Golden State Warriors and hired only people he could push around; John Fisher, who seemed determined to do whatever required to offend A's fans.

We also have some current owners with incomplete grades: How will Jed York handle the 49ers post-Kyle Shanahan? Will Greg Johnson continue to trust Buster Posey with the Giants' decisions?

But there is enough information to rank the top five team owners in Bay Area sports history. In reverse order:

5. Morabito family/Horace Stoneham/Franklin Mieuli. They share the fifth spot for their historic roles. Tony Morabito founded the 49ers and following his 1957 death, his family owned the team until 1977. Stoneham inherited the Giants in 1932 and moved the team here in 1958. He owned the franchise until 1976. Mieuli, a producer who worked on radio broadcasts of the Giants and 49ers, purchased the Warriors for $850,000 and moved them to the Bay Area in 1962. He maintained ownership until 1986.  Finley is not included, since he moved the A's here from Kansas City, but continued his squeeze-out-every-penny ways in Oakland.

4. Peter Magowan. He was the face of the ownership group that saved the Giants from moving to Tampa, Florida, in 1992. The ownership group has largely remained that – a large group of owners, with someone functioning as the lead dog. Magowan was there to sign Barry Bonds. He oversaw the building of what is now Oracle Park (probably the most important move in franchise history, since it ensured the ongoing success of the team). He was a big fan. Check, check, check.

3. Walter Haas. Amazingly, the A's once had outstanding ownership. The Haas family owned the franchise from 1981 through 1995, which was a glorious run of success. The A's had Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco, Dave Stewart, Rickey Henderson and more. The ballpark was still nice. Sandy Alderson was in charge of the front office and Tony La Russa was the manager. Haas enabled all of that and when he sold the team, he extracted a promise that the franchise would remain in Oakland. Unfortunately, the next owners didn't get that promise from Fisher.

2. Eddie DeBartolo: The DeBartolo family owned the Niners during their glory run in the 1980s and 1990s, with Eddie at the helm (They still do, but under Eddie's sister Denise and her son John.). When they bought the franchise from the Morabito brothers in 1977, their first move was to clean house and bring in veteran NFL executive Joe Robbie to run things. He fired popular head coach Monte Clark, which seemed like a terrible move, but it was great foreshadowing. The DeBartolos wanted experts to run the team, which led to Bill Walsh, Carmen Policy and John McVay getting keys to the team. They spent as much money as they could (the Niners' payroll in 1990 was $26.8 million, compared to the average NFL payroll of $15.5 million). DeBartolo took the team on lavish vacations and provided lavish championship rings, something no other team did. Five Super Bowls mean something.

1. Joe Lacob: When he bought the Warriors from Cohan in 2010, it was a relief, but there was a distinct possibility it could be just another rich guy buying a toy. That felt particularly true when Lacob subjected himself to several minutes of booing at the Chris Mullin jersey retirement ceremony in 2012 (coming just six days after the Warriors traded fan favorite Monta Ellis to the Bucks for Andrew Bogut). Instead, Lacob is the model owner. He spends however much is needed to win. He hires brilliant basketball minds (Bob Myers, Mike Dunleavy Jr., Steve Kerr) to make decisions. He sits courtside every game. He built Chase Center, guaranteeing a steady flow of revenue. Now he owns the Golden State Valkyries of the WNBA, which will undoubtedly be successful. He's the king of Bay Area sports owners.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.