#154: Blue Boat in Galway Bay

Galway Bay, Ireland

On a rainy day in Galway (is there any other kind?), I sat by the window of McDonagh's, greedily consuming a platter of fish and chips, gazing out at the foot traffic as it to-ed and fro-ed, wondering what the hell I was doing in Galway. I'd arrived on the train from Dublin just after noon and had fooled myself that I would somehow save my personal McDonagh's fishfest for dinner, and there I was, twenty minutes off the train, following the crunchy whiff of chipper and drifting toward the counter with visions of cod swimming in my head. I'd already figured it was likely to be the highlight of my day trip, and maybe I was setting myself up for disappointment by making the pilgrimage so early on. But there I was.

Galway and I have a bit of previous between us, and I'd approached the solo journey with some trepidation. My aim was nostalgia, pure and simple. As the train chugged its way west, I did some calculations: it had been well over ten years since I'd last set foot in Galway, and I was anxious to go back and see what remained -- or didn't -- of my fond and not-so-fond memories. On the wild, rocky shores of Galway Bay, I had fallen in love (with the bay) and had my heart broken (on the bay), and landscapes have a way of storing up memories you didn't even know you had, then unleashing them on you with gale force wind. Stepping off a train into so much history can be disorienting. I needed some fried food to ground me.

Beneath a miscellany of framed knick-knacks and vaguely seafaring-related certificates I feasted alone. I noted the sign over the door to McDonagh's that informed me MANAGEMENT RESERVED THE RIGHT TO REFUSE ADMISSION and wondered why the past tense. Nautical knots dangled in a diorama on the wall. Under the hangman's knot and the wagonner's hitch, I poured more salt onto the deliciously salty chips and noted a giant shell from the Irish Naturalist's Journal with the heading: THE OCCURRENCE OF AN EXCEPTIONALLY LARGE ESCALLOP FROM THE WEST OF IRELAND. Was this why I had come to Galway?

Gazing out gloomily at the wet, dismal day, I spent a long time chewing my lunch and reading an aged typed certificate on the wall, which I diligently copied into my notebook, for no other reason than I had no companion or iPhone handy and the grease on my fingers would've easily destroyed any book I was reading. The paper, affixed with a golden seal, read:

We certify that the establishment of P.J. McDonagh restaurant and fish delicatessen is the finest purveyor of marine food of all ports of call of the Soviet fleet in Atlantic and Pacific waters. It is with great pleasure we commend this certificate for fine food and friendly service.

Master of R/V Professor Marti

Chief Mate

Vladimir Pelipenko

Alexander Pavlov

The 24 of March 1989

The Port of Galway

I finished my fish and chips, swallowed the last dregs of warm Coca-Cola, then added my own footnote to the margin:

"The fact that I stopped to copy the entire text tells you a lot about my loneliness, I think."

The author "gettin' all introspective n' shit" on Galway Bay, January 2011

#155: Brooklyn Pastoral

Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

#156: Space Age Number Pad

Financial District, NYC

Let's take a moment to enjoy a little whimsy in our financial district before our economy goes in a handbasket bound for hell.

#157: The Snick vs. the Euroslash

Soho, NYC

In honor of today's slashed-seven, I'm re-posting some of my musings on the so-called "snick." It's worth going over to the original post to read the comments and see how my astute readers helped me arrive at the name.

There's something irresistibly European about the 7 with a slash through it. It's rare to see it pop up on this side of the Atlantic and it usually appears only in handwriting to differentiate it from the handwritten 1. I had a brief phase some time ago where I gave the 7 a whirl in my own correspondence, just to see if it lent me that certain old school European je ne sais quoi. The gesture was enthusiastic but short-lived, the handwriting equivalent of dyeing my hair with Manic Panic, or like the three weeks where I decided to add the French accents over the "e"s in my name. Most of these re-inventions die out mercifully quickly. The slashed-seven, alas, does not routinely flow from my quill. But when I see one looking as good as this 79, I want to kick-start the pretension all over again.

But back to the EU. Taking the idea further, there's a striking stylistic similarity between the 7 and the euro symbol, officially adopted in 1997. It could be coincidence, but here's food for thought. According to the European Commission:

Inspiration for the € symbol itself came from the Greek epsilon (Є) – a reference to the cradle of European civilisation – and the first letter of the word Europe, crossed by two parallel lines to ‘certify’ the stability of the euro.


The creation fable is disputed - aren't they all? - by graphic designer Arthur Eisenmenger, who claims to have developed the symbol a quarter century before. Still, it's impossible not to admire the simplicity of the design as well as the consistency with not just the 7 but also other currencies. Beside the euro, the pound and the yen also use horizontal lines. (Though as a devotee of the "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks , I'm skeptical of the commission's claim that drawing = through the letter C will "certify" economic stability.) The quest for the ideal typographical icon is spreading to other countries and regions as well. Driven by money-grubbing motives Inspired by the elegance of the euro sign, designers are working right now to develop a currency symbol for the Indian rupee . Sharpen those pencils and break out the Moleskines, folks. The Indian government wants you.

But the question remains - and maybe my readers can help me out here - what is that little slash through the seven called? I found myself Googling all versions of "7," "squiggle," "slash," "typography" and consulted an article on the excellent I Love Typography site. Serifs, counters, ascenders, descenders, spines, stems, terminals and ligatures: there's a word for every part of a typeface. Everything, it seems, except the 7. If there are any typographer lurkers out there who can enlighten me, by all means. In the meantime, I'll open the question to my language lovers (you know who you are): if you had your druthers, what would you name the squiggle through the 7? I'm putting in my vote for the Euroslash. But hey, this is a democracy, right?

#158: Sky Rink Number-Gazing

Chelsea Piers, NYC

Last I checked, hidden cameras weren't exactly encouraged in public locker rooms, so I tried to be discreet about this one. I've been fascinated by this angular, oddball locker typeface lately, and let's face it, who doesn't like to see the word KRYPTONITE spelled out in some blockish, intimidating all-caps? (Well, I can think of one fellow, but I believe he's busy with a hangover from Comic-Con.)

I was sure to tuck the lens away swiftly before lacing up my ice skates and acting like nothing happened, lest anyone get the wrong idea. It feels a little prurient taking such interest in typefaces in a place as flatly unromantic as a locker room. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

#159: Four Flowers

Upper East Side, NYC

#160: Shakespeare Pub

Parnell Street, Dublin

To drink or not to drink: that is the question.

#161: Boxed In

Soho, NYC

#162: Red Hook, Red Arrow

Red Hook, Brooklyn

#163: Sharps and Curves

Upper East Side, NYC

#164: Ludlow Guitars

Lower East Side, NYC

#165: Menace in Gowanus

Gowanus, Brooklyn

Those unafraid of the ominous Gowanus "DOG" from earlier this week, here's another way to test your capacity for urban menace. Just gaze upon this wall and wonder what it would look like if the black spray paint dripping down the wall was blood red. Fun!

And if you do require further proof of the existence of the evil dogs of Gowanus, you need look no further than this. (via WORD Brooklyn, bookstore peeps who know what's what.) Told you, there are some scary canines out there. Just call them Canis unfamiliaris. Or better yet, don't call them anything. Just skulk past carefully and hope you don't fall in the Gowanus Canal as you make your escape.

#166: On a Soho Scaffold

Soho, NYC

It's temporary, it's covered in sawdust, and thousands of people pass by it every day without noticing its elegant curves and quirky hand lettering, but that's what makes this 166 all the more charming. Soho windows get all the attention. But construction sites need a bit of beauty, too.

#167: This Is Today's "Number"

Gowanus, Brooklyn

These days, I relish any opportunity to catch a show at the Bell House in Brooklyn. The venue has a consistently good line-up of bands and I appreciate any place where I can easily stumble home if I don't feel like waiting for the F train. A Bell House night always hits the spot, whether I'm marveling at my glow-in-the-dark entry hand stamp, feeding the broken photo booth with useless dollar bills, or sipping Six Point Sweet Action from a plastic cup while I wonder why there aren't more ladies out to see Shellac or New Model Army.

But let's face it: my favorite reason these days for a trip to this Gowanus music venue is I get to see this "sign" painted on the building next door: BEWARE OF "DOG."

Typographical errors are one thing, but when someone goes out of their way to warn me of a guard animal so terrifying it can only be likened to a recognizable animal, I start picturing a slobber-jawed Cerberus and I walk past that door FAST. Or should I say "fast"? After all, I did meander long enough outside to snap this "picture."

If you enjoy this sort of thing, there's always more chortling to be had over at The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. After all, someone's got to be the "WATCHDOG" for this type of behavior.

#168: Hide Away Folk Family

Boerum Hill, Brooklyn

While I'm unsure what an inverted jumbo shrimp is doing perched in the middle of this folksy couple, I appreciate the homespun spirit behind today's oddball number. Brooklyn is full of surprises.

#169: Local 169

Flatiron District, NYC

Home to the Local 169 Amalgamated Clothing & Textiles Workers Union. I often see clusters of disgruntled boots-and-jeans-clad union workers gathered on the sidewalk outside, not to be confused with the disgruntled boots-and-jeans-clad workers from the Guitar Center next door, who aren't so much into the camraderie thing. Plus, at least the union guys get paid for their cigarette breaks, unlike their downtrodden, Ramones-listening counterparts. Go union!

#170: Everything's Gone Green

Turtle Bay, NYC

I'm just going to speak in New Order titles until the summer's over and I get my brains back.

#171: Shadowlands

Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

It's just the brownstone up the road, but giving it a needlessly pompous title like "Shadowlands" makes the whole business feel a bit more . . . epic.

#172: Minimalist

Turtle Bay, NYC

#173: Keys to the Kingdom

Siena, Italy

I know Siena is a pious place and takes its saints very seriously, but Saint Peter looks to me like he's gearing up for a round of Medieval Hollywood Squares.

#174: The Rings of Saturn

Chelsea, NYC

#175: Collins Barracks

Arbour Hill, Dublin

#176: Spirit of 176

Lunenberg, Nova Scotia

#177: Upper East Blues

Upper East Side, NYC

#178: Perpetual Care

Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn

This snap was taken from the grave of a Civil War soldier. So if Robert E. Lee or Ulysses S. Grant show up to haunt my dreams tonight, at least this time there'll be a good reason for it. Note to karma police: I am available to do Civil War re-enactments as penance, should such this become necessary. Please send bayonet.

#179: Two Mosaics

Gowanus, Brooklyn

East Village, NYC

What is it about the #179 that makes people want to get all crazy with the tiles and glue?

#180: Scars and Stripes

Upper West Side, NYC

#181: Bit O' Rococo

Lunenberg, Nova Scotia

#182: Shield Beetle

Upper East Side, NYC

#183: The Hand of the Unseen Scribe

Irishtown, Dublin

A favorite from the &7 collection. One thing that's always baffled me about Irishtown is why the numbers go so high when the streets are so short. I also like to wonder who lives in this house with the hand of the unseen scribe. A writer? An artist? A quill-and-scroll practitioner? An Oscar Wilde impersonator?

#184: Canada Gothic

Lunenberg, Nova Scotia

In honor of Canada Day, here's my typographical nod to our neighbors to the north. Consider this my olive branch after the harrowing experience last summer of getting turned away at the Canadian border with a vanful of musical instruments and nine weary bandmates. Still and all, if it hadn't been for that snub, we never would've lingered so long in Vermont and gotten to know the itinerant philosopher, raft-builder, and sage Poppa Neutrino. Plus, we got to hang out in a laundromat in Montpelier! It all worked out in the end. And so, Happy Canada Day, y'all. I forgive you.