Johnny Can't Spell . . .

. . . because most of the rest of us, it seems, are morons.

R'uh r'oh. Just warning you now, it may be time to run and duck and cover. It's going to be one of those again.

There are a lot of people running around who descry the state of education in this country. Just about as many as who run around telling us how wonderful teachers are, and how unappreciated and underpaid they are. Now, before you all go off jumping to conclusions because of the last part of the preceding sentence, let me clear something up.

Education is a wonderful thing. I'm all for it. But I have to say, since it seems that most of the partisans on either side of the debate on the relative state of education in this nation can't seem to either spell or use the English language correctly, they're not helping their case any.

Let me put it this way . . .

"Orientate," or any variation thereof, is not a word, nor has it ever been a word. You can not "orientate" something, nor can you have it "orientated." You can, however, orient something, or have it oriented.

The plural form of the word "aircraft" - or, for that matter, of "landing craft" - is not "aircrafts" (or "landing crafts"). "Crafts" are something you do during an Arts & Crafts class. But it is one aircraft, two aircraft, three aircraft, many aircraft. Just like the plural form of the word "deer" is, well, "deer" and not "deers."

"Irregardless" is likewise not a word. The word you're looking for is "regardless."

The singular form of the word "corps" is not "corp" but "corps." The word "corp" does not exist, unless you put a "." after the "p", in which case you get "corp." which is the abbreviation of the word "corporation." Not to be confused with the word "corpse," which means a body, "corps" means a body of something, such as a large body of soldiers, or a Nursing Corps, or a Corps of Engineers. One corps, two corps, three corps, many corps. United States Marine Corps, not United States Marine Corp.

When you have a word that ends in "s" and you are indicating possession, you use an apostrophe but you do not add another "s." As in "That is the Phillips' car" and not "That is the Phillips's car."

There is no such thing as a "preventative" measure or a "preventative" anything. The word you are trying to say is "preventive."

The word is "normalcy," pronounced "normal-see" and not "nor-mal-i-see."

And it is "nuclear," pronounced "nu-clear" and not "new-cue-leer."

It is "Look! There are two moose!" and not "Look! There are two mooses!"

The word "waist" and the word "waste" do not mean the same thing.

The word "peek" and the word "peak" also do not mean the same thing.

Nor do the word "breech" and the word "breach."

So, given that I keep seeing those linguistic sins, and many others, continually committed by allegedly educated people, it doesn't surprise me in the least that Johnny is a little baffled when it comes to spelling and the language. But what really frosts me is that I see these errors also being consistently made by professional teachers. And if the people who are in charge of teaching the language can't use it properly, then who is to blame for little Johnny not being able to spell?

Friends

When I was growing up, I had a friend, someone I thought would always be around. You know what I mean, we all had a friend like that. Inseparable, best buddies and blood brothers, you could complete his sentences and he always knew what you were thinking. The kind of friend your mother hated because he was a "bad influence" on you . . .

Christopher Phillips, where are you?

I remember the last time I saw Chris, back in 1988. He and his then girlfriend came to spend a few days with me back when I was still living in Chicago. It had been a while since we'd seen each other, but that didn't matter. We picked right up again as if no time had passed at all, as if we'd last met only the day before. And I regretted that we couldn't spend more time together, because I had to work, and a twelve-hour day and a commute just didn't leave a whole lot left over.

Christophe, mon ami, qu'est-ce que tu fait?

It seemed like I'd known Chris my entire life. Sleep-overs at his house or at mine, staying up late to watch Creature Features, gleefully finding new ways to turn our paents' hair grey.

I remember going to the movies every Friday night with Chris, and my father bringing him along on our post-Christmas skiing trips. Of him sharing my exile to the Inidana State Dunes during that memorable summer - and, after a particularly bad thunderstorm where a bolt of lightning split a tree next to the house, throwing a pillow on the floor and announcing "We're dead! You killed us!"

I remember one of the times my mother was out of the country and my father was off on one of his retreats with his patients, when I grabbed the pizza and Chris grabbed the beer and we retreated behind a locked door where the babysitter couldn't reach us. Or going out for "flingies," which entailed buying hot fudge sundaes at Baskin-Robbins, and then flinging the hot fudge at passing cars. Those long, plastic spoons made great catapults.

Chris was the first person I ever got drunk with, after that terrible day. And yes, my old friend, I still can't drink Scotch. He was one of the first people to get to my house that day and, when I would check out, was one of only two people who could pull me back.

I never aplogized to him for the traffic. But I think he already knew.

I remember sitting up into the early hours of the morning, sharing beer and listening to music, discussing history, politics, philosophy and the finer points of females. Of talking about the future, and reverently remembering the past and those who were no longer with us. Of reaffirming a friendship that was immutable, as solid as the ground beneath our feet.

"You know I'd carry your ass forty miles through enemy lines, you bastard." Yeah, Chris, I know; and I'd still do the same for you.

Where are you, Christopher Phillips?