You Don’t Say

As an employee of the LA Unified School District, I have the opportunity each year to change my health benefits plan. Every fall, a letter arrives from the District informing me that the annual Open Enrollment, as it’s called, begins on November 1.

Here’s how this year’s letter begins:

Each year, the Health Benefits Committee, comprised of representatives from the LAUSD and each bargaining unit, review our benefits plans to determine if they are cost-effective….

Did you notice the subject-verb mistake? Committee is the subject of the sentence. As a collective noun, committee takes a singular verb. That means the verb should be reviews, not review.

OK, mistakes happen, especially when the subject and verb are separated by other words. But what’s the excuse for comprised of representatives? Although it’s a common expression, comprised of is wrong–always. The committee may be made up of representatives, or the committee may comprise representatives, but it’s never going to be comprised of something.

It was a banner week for misusing comprise. Here’s what else came across my desk last week:

From a professional journal for educational administrators:

The CTHSS [Connecticut Technical High School System], comprised of 17 regional locations, serves more than 10,500 students.

From an Internet news service, in an article about LA County Teachers of the Year:

The winning educators, comprised of 10 women and 2 men, teach a range of grades and subjects…. And in the same article, two paragraphs later, ….contestants submitted essays, lesson plans and other materials to judging panels comprised of peers.

Comprise means contain, made up of, or consist of. The nation (contains, is made up of, consists of) 50 states. If you’re conversant with active and passive voice, think of it this way–comprise is best used in the active voice followed by a direct object: The nation comprises 50 states.

At the risk of sounding like Joe Biden in a debate with Sarah Palin, let me repeat: comprised of  is always wrong.

I downloaded “The Blueprint for Change, Barack Obama’s Plan for America” last week from the campaign’s Web site. It’s good reading, and I think Obama has a good plan for America.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a good proofreader. The plan is riddled with a bunch of Proofreading 101 mistakes.

Take this sentence, for example, from the Health Care section of the plan:

The insurance business today is dominated by a small group of large companies that has been gobbling up their rivals.

A good proofreader, regardless of political affiliation, would cringe at the mistake in that sentence.

The dependent clause, that has been gobbling up their rivals, modifies or explains the plural noun companies. So the verb in the clause should be in the plural form: that have been gobbling up. That long prepositional phrase should read of large companies that have been gobbling up their rivals.

Then there’s this gaffe in capitalization in a subheading, also in the Health Care section:

Too Little is Spent on Prevention and Public Health

I won’t argue with the position stated in the subhead, but as a proofreader, I’d flag that lowercase is.  Is is a verb. In titles, headlines, and subheadings, all verbs–even two-letter ones like is–take a capital letter.

Yes, these are minor mistakes and don’t diminish the merits of Obama’s plan. But there are too many of these minor mistakes–I counted 10 in the first 12 pages–for such an important document.

Come on, Obama, you raised $66 million in August. Surely there’s enough cash in the campaign coffers to afford a proofreader or two.

Invitations to wine tastings are always welcome, even if they contain usage mistakes, as did the one I received this week. In part, it read:

Of all the influences on Chile’s wine industry, perhaps the most notable was Claude Gay, who brought more than 60 clippings to Santiago, including all the principle grapes of Bordeaux.

The principle grapes of Bordeaux? Even with a glass or two of wine, I know that principle should be principal.

Here’s an easy way to remember how these two words are used:

• Principle is used only as a noun. It means a rule, code of conduct, or truth (e.g., the principle of self-determination, a woman of principle).
• Principal is usually an adjective meaning chief or most important (e.g., the principal ingredient). It can also be a noun, usually meaning the person in charge of a school or a sum of money.

Confusing the two words is a common mistake, so don’t take it too hard if you didn’t spot the mistake in the wine tasting invitation. Even the country’s principal newspaper, the New York Times, has published articles misusing the two words (see: A Dictionary of Modern American Usage, by Bryan A. Garner, Oxford University Press, 1998).

If you’re not sure whether to use principle or principal, try the substitution test. Replace principle or principal with either rule (or truth) or chief. For example:

The chief grapes of Bordeaux. The principal grapes of Bordeaux.

Now let’s uncork that wine!

The air is thick with gravitas these days. I started noticing it back in February during the Clinton-Obama debate at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood when Sen. Clinton identified gravitas as a necessary characteristic of the next commander in chief.

Leave it to a Democrat to use vocabulary that can only be understood by college graduates (which comprise less than 30 percent of US adults over 25). Can you imagine the Republicans, those sloganeering masters (”Drill, baby, drill.”), talking about gravitas?

Now it seems as if you can’t pick up a newspaper or magazine or listen to a news broadcast without encountering the word gravitas. My most recent encounter: an article in the New York Times online on September 12 by Jim Rutenberg about the Sarah Palin interviews with ABC-TV’s Charles Gibson. Mr. Rutenberg wrote, “In choosing Mr. Gibson as Ms. Palin’s interlocutor, the campaign was going with a journalist known for having a mild manner but the gravitas to be taken seriously.”

It’s a great-sounding word, but what does it mean? Most of us have probably not heard the word, let alone used it.

According to Merriam-Webster, gravitas means “high seriousness (as in a person’s bearing or treatment of a subject).” Definitions in other dictionaries are variations on the themes of seriousness, dignity, or solemnity.

With two months left in the presidential campaign, we’re bound to hear or see gravitas again. Let’s just hope the novelty of the word wears off before gravitas becomes a campaign cliche.

In the school district office where I work, we have a new HP laserjet photocopy machine. Instructions and messages pop up on a small digital screen, and you need a pass code to use the machine. Despite its many features–bound-book copying, two-sided copies, collating, stapling, automatic paper selection–I don’t like the machine very much. It’s slower than the previous copier, and I can never remember the pass code.

Which is all beside the point.

Last week, after I punched in the pass code, I got this message on the little screen: ORDER CARTRIDGE LESS THAN 3000 PAGES

Just like that–all caps, no punctuation. The message was hard to read for that reason, and I read it twice before I got it. I made a mental note to inform the secretary who handles the supply ordering.

On the way back to my desk, I thought about the message. Less than 3000 pages? Shouldn’t that be fewer than 3000 pages?

Maybe not, although conventional wisdom has it that fewer is used with plural nouns (fewer pages, fewer cars) and less is used to describe amounts and quantities (less energy, less money).

Think about expressions like in 25 words or less or less than 100 miles to go in which the 25 words and the 100 miles are thought of as whole quantities. Could the same rationale be applied to 3000 pages?

Maybe the folks who programmed the copier tossed this question around and decided on the whole quantity rationale. Or maybe they just wanted to use shorter words so they would all fit on that small screen.

A Labor Day weekend trip to San Diego with my friend Peter found us wandering the confusing ramps and passageways of the multi-level Horton Plaza in the Gaslamp Quarter of downtown. We were in search of a slim-fit white dress shirt for Peter. Although the shopping expedition was unsuccessful, the plaza turned out to be an interesting place to visit for another reason.

Horton Plaza is one of the city’s top attractions. In fact, back in the mid-1980s, when it was built, Horton Plaza was a risky departure from conventional shopping center architecture. Its bright colors, ramps, angled walls and flowing spaces introduced a new architectural vernacular to commercial development. The success of Horton Plaza was a catalyst for further development in the rundown Gaslamp Quarter of downtown San Diego.

So I guess Horton Plaza has a right to boast. And so it does, with a giant wall-size banner proclaiming itself as “San Diego’s Most Unique Shopping Experience.” My quibble isn’t with Horton Plaza’s asserting its uniqueness, given its history (although for my money, if you’ve seen one Westfield shopping center, you’ve seen them all).

But I do challenge the “most unique” collocation. The word unique means one of a kind, without equal. There are no degrees of uniqueness. The word unique stands alone, without modifiers. The banner should proclaim “San Diego’s Unique Shopping Experience.” Granted, that claim seems to fall a bit flat. The ad copywriter probably thought the same thing and inserted the word most in an effort to strengthen the claim. In the world of advertising copywriting, in which everything purportedly is unique, the word has lost its meaning.

Hint to copywriter: It was a lame claim to begin with. Come up with something more original next time.

I picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Downtown News on my way to lunch one day last week. It’s a freebie, and I like to have something to read if I’m eating by myself.

Opining about Sam Zell, the billionaire new owner of the Los Angeles Times, the executive editor of Downtown News, Jon Regardie, wrote, “After deciding it’d be a good idea to buy Tribune Co., with enough debt to shake up an oil sheik….”

I stopped reading the rest of the sentence because my eyes went back to the contraction “it’d.” Don’t get me wrong–I’ve got nothing against common contractions. As you may have noticed, I use them in my writing. But the contraction “it’d” seems to me very awkward in print. And how is it pronounced: id, itid, what?

Back at the office, a quick search on Google News for “it’s” turned up thousands of hits, many in direct quotes. Understandably, if “it’d” appears in a direct quote, then it has to stand. Furthermore,you’ll find “it’d” in the dictionary (at least it is my Merriam Webster Collegiate 11^th Edition).

But for my money (nowhere near Sam Zell’s), I’d stick with “it would” or “it had” in print, especially for publications, company reports or any written communication that are widely distributed.

When it comes to “it’d,” I’d err on the side of contraction caution.

Macy’s sent me a letter while back that began like this: 

As a valued and loyal customer of Macy’s, we want to help simplify your shopping experience. 

Thank you, Macy’s. I’m all for simplification. And for good grammar. So would you mind getting rid of the dangling modifier at the beginning of that sentence.

The group of words at the beginning of the sentence, “As a valued and loyal customer of Macy’s”, describes me, at least in Macy’s eyes. Therefore, the first word in the main part of the sentence should be you, to refer to me, the valued and loyal customer. The word that is there now, we, refers to Macy’s, which is not the valued and loyal customer. That’s why the dependent clause at the beginning of the sentence is a dangling modifier. It doesn’t have a logical connection to any of the words in the main clause.

There are two simple ways to fix the problem:

1. Rewrite the main clause so the dependent clause has a logical connection to a word in the main clause: As a valued and loyal customer of Macy’s, you deserve a simplified shopping experience.

2. Rewrite the dependent clause to explain why Macy’s wants to simplify my shopping experience: Because you are a valued and loyal customer of Macy’s, we want to help simplify your shopping experience.

Wasn’t that simple?

The other day I was testing the ripeness of the Haas avocados in a Ralph’s supermarket in Studio City. I was gently squeezing one of the plump, pebbly-skinned fruits, when I heard a male voice ask the grocery clerk, “Where’s your sour cream at?”

The avocado I was squeezing wasn’t ripe, but the grammatical moment sure was.

When did it become commonplace to marry where with at? By definition where means at what place. Tacking on the preposition at to a where question is unnecessary. ”Where is your sour cream? would have been sufficient. (I woud also replace the possessive adjective your with the simple article the, but that’s another posting.)

Am I the only person who knows this? I can’t tell you how many cell phone conversations I have overheard that have included the question, “So, where are you at?” I’ve heard teachers use this collocation when discussing the merits of a particular assessment tool as ”a way of helping us find out where the students are at.”

If you ask me where I’m at, my answer is, “At my wit’s end.”

As Donna in the new movie musical Mamma Mia!, Meryl Streep sings the wistful ballad “Slipping Through My Fingers.” Her daughter is about to be married and Donna reflects in song how quickly her only child has grown up.

It’s a lovely moment in the film, and Streep carries it off beautifully. Except when she sings these lyrics:

Sleep in her eyes
Her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake.

Her and me? Fingernails on a chalkboard.

OK, I know they’re only song lyrics, and songwriters (Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus, in this case) get a certain amount of poetic license when it comes to usage. But there’s no rhyme scheme to preserve here, and the correct pronouns–she and I–sound fine to me. Maybe her and me is easier to sing. I don’t know, but the line sure sounds awkward to this listener.

Anyway, the movie is fun, maybe not as much as fun as the stage show, but worth the price of a ticket, despite the pronoun lapse.