#276: I Swear I Saw This

Chelsea, NYC

Right. So I pretty much the entire reason I started up the number line again was so I could brag about this absolute beauty, a graphic white #276 on a toothy blue circle saw. I'm always on the lookout for hand-lettered type in the city, and this one is both attentive to detail and quirky. There are still scores of great hand-painted hardware and lumber signs around New York, though you usually have to travel off the main drag to spot them. Here's a look at some of the rest of the sign:

The whole look is idiosyncratic yet carefully crafted. I love the faint gray shadow around the lettering and the fact that the spiked back of the saw almost makes it look like a porcupine. An &7 favorite to be sure. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

#293: Fisherman's Blues

Monterey, CA

So I'm aware that blogging is dead (as is the novel, as is the Irish language, as is most everything I've devoted my livelihood to as of late, f**k the pundits), and yet..

I have this compulsion. This need for completion. The unfinished number line was bothering me. The lack of an obsessive public project, the want of an outlet to share a small piece of what makes me happy every day, was bothering me. So let's just say I'm going to keep this countdown going now that I've kicked it back to life and see if I can't make it back down to #1 after all.

On a blog that loves typography, there are days when the number is the star of the show. Then there are those days when you have to step back and let the wooden fisherman have his moment in the limelight. Here's to the fine yellow-jacketed seafaring gent I found one day while wandering around the piers in Monterey, California. He looks so pleased with himself and his catch that I couldn't resist.

#338: Serifs to Serifs, Rust to Rust

East Village, NYC

With a hard right angle serif on top and a softer curlicue underneath, these 3's are unusual, both noble and whimsical. Combine those with a proper upright infinity 8 -- not to mention a touch of rust -- and it's a mighty fine look.

#339: Disappointed Bridge

Pittsburgh, PA

Early in the day on June 16th, 1904 in James Joyce's Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus is giving a history lesson to an academically lackluster pack of spoiled rich kids. The lesson is not going over well, sort of the early 20th century Irish equivalent of the economics teacher in Ferris Bueller's Day Off deadpanning, "Bueller? . . . Bueller?" But it does lead Stephen to muse, when no one can answer a simple inquiry about what a pier is, that a pier is "a disappointed bridge."

The tendency to render to inanimate objects human feelings and qualities is something very near and dear to me, and it happens a lot when I contemplate a new set of numbers each week, trying to imagine what these mute images are trying to say to me. And when I look at these numbers, what I see are two 3's and a 9 all striving, with their loopy serifs, to be 8's. Disappointed bridges.

#1: The Big Red One

Galway, Ireland

Ah, nothing like a few of my favorite things to close out 2011: an Irish setting, some nice hand-painted handiwork, an eye-popping color contrast, scenic bits of flaking rust, and an unexpected location (front of a Galway Dumpster, anyone?). Oh yes, and in the title, a reference to an old war movie, which I'm amazed I don't manage to work in more often considering how much time I spend watching them. I might have to spend all of next year tracking down pictures of Steve McQueen and writing about the typography in the credits of The Great Escape to get my fix. But then, I wouldn't dream of doing that to you, loyal readers...

So here we are: the end of the number line. Another year, another 365 numbers. Though sometimes the constant deadlines drove me mental, it's been so much fun picking through my collection and sharing the best and the brightest of the bunch. I've enjoyed having so many readers drop by and visit, whether you comment or just have a look over your morning coffee. I knew #1 was going to have to be special in a year filled with so many of them scattered about -- it was totally worth paying that bill late just so I could have an excuse to write 11/11/11 on that check -- and I hope this one does the year justice.

Those of you who followed along in 2009 know that even after reaching a big milestone such as this, I'm not terribly good at remaining quiet. There were the Helvetica postcards, the homages to Dublin dereliction, and the "hey-look-at-me-I'm-posting-unthematic-things-and-it's-making-me-uneasy" apologias. You can expect -- if not more of the same -- more meanderings and stabs in the dark in the new year as I continue to make disturbances in the blogosphere. But in the meantime, I want to wish you all a very happy new year and to say thank you for making Ampersand Seven one of my favorite shared obsessions ever.

#12: Twelve with a Twist

Drumcondra, Dublin

#13: Sharps

Reykjavik, Iceland

#19: Warm Fuzzies

Cambridge, Boston

#20: Swanning About

Galway, Ireland

#23: Royal Canadian Legion

Lunenberg, Nova Scotia

#33: Nuts!

The Liberties, Dublin

So every now and then when I'm out trawling for numbers, I turn a corner and happen upon one that actually makes me stop dead in my tracks, raise my sunglasses to my forehead, and say, out loud, "No effin' way." This squirrel-clad number (double threes, if you don't mind!) may be one of the best gifts the streets of Dublin has ever given me, and the dear knows Dublin has given me a great deal.

As for the scant verbal offerings lately, all I can say is, "Nuts!" I've been up to my collarbone in work and hope to re-surface more often in coming weeks to see you through the final stretch of &7 -- this year's version, anyway. Thanks to all who have commented on recent posts. I know it's late, but I'm replying to all your messages as I can. I always appreciate your stopping by.

#34: Retro Apartments

Upper East Side, NYC

#36: Studio 36

#38: St. Ann's Warehouse

DUMBO, Brooklyn

#42: Cassidy's Pub

Camden Street, Dublin

#56: Fly the Flag

Siena, Italy

#71: I Am Helvetica, Hear Me Roar

Fifth Avenue, NYC

#87: Luquer Street Special

Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn

NOTE: This is a re-post, mostly because I love this 87 too much to replace it with anything new. Long live Luquer Street!

On the edge of Red Hook, just beyond the point where the Prospect Expressway twists into Hamilton Avenue and not far from the Sunoco gas station with the flashing sign that misspells its own name, two bright, Vaudevillian beacons blink out a bright 87 in lights of green and yellow. The numbers are mismatched in size but perfect partners in crime plastered against the stark charcoal gray of their brick building. Driving late at night along the featureless expressway, one's eyes can't help but be diverted by the sight. It's as if a piece of Times Square fell off the delivery truck on the way to Manhattan. But as soon as you notice it – blink, and it's gone. I had noticed it before – usually late at night, usually on the way back from some band practice or gig – but it was some time before I ventured on foot to see the iconic numbers from street level.

Luquer Street in Brooklyn is a quiet 4-block street that stretches along the border of Carroll Gardens and Red Hook. As much as I always want to say it with a hard "Q" sound (as in "liquor", on which many of my decisions are based), residents pronounce it "Lu-QUEER". The always fruitful Forgotten New York ("Celebrating 10 Years of Forgotenning") launched a full investigation into the Luquer name based on the evidence of maps, including some dating back to 1866, that show the spelling as "Luqueer." Who knows why or when precisely the second "E" was dropped, though the correct spelling (based on the Luqueer family, who owned a good deal of Brooklyn's Twelfth Ward) is in fact with two "E"s.

This particular portrait was snapped during a snowstorm, one of several we've had here in New York this winter. Somehow the sight of this slightly gaudy, lovable 87 in the whitewashed scene brought me a feeling of great joy. Unlike some other neighbors I could mention who seem to shove their ugliness uniqueness down your throat, this 87 always strikes the right balance of blatantly bizarre and charmingly homespun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

#91: When Entrance Is Sought

Soho, NYC

This door in Soho gets top marks for design, typography, and overall cleverness. The passive voice, not so much.

#115: The Prettiest Water Retention System Cap in Town

Galway, Ireland

One of the first things I like to do in a foreign country -- after that initial rush of exchange rate hubris has passed and the cash machine has spit out my fresh stack of Monopoly money -- is take in the small details.

I get a lot of pleasure just noting he differences in everyday things: the shape of a faucet or the different melody when the subway doors close. I also like to learn how to ask for basic needs -- food, water, coffee, bookstore, and so on -- and can generally pick up the word for "water" quite easily, which I often learn from looking -- where else? Down. So I have pondered UISCE in Ireland and VODA in the Czech Republic and good old WATER in the U S of A.

Is it time for my annual fawning links to Manhole Covers, Etc. and Sewers of the World, Unite! yet? 'Cause I smell a golden opportunity.

Seriously, y'all. If you're not looking down at the manhole covers, sewer caps, and other distracting sidewalk shiny things of your city or the places you travel, you're missing out on something special. Consider this #115. The ornate and suggestively Celtic design on something as quotidian as a water retention system cap tells us something about how those Galwegians take pride in their city. It's sure as heck the prettiest retention system cap I've ever had the privilege to trip over while wondering if I'm supposed to LOOK RIGHT or LOOK LEFT when I'm crossing the street. And the fact that it goes unnoticed by most? That just adds to the charm. (Present company excluded, naturally.)

It's a common misconception that tourists only look up when walking through the cavernous streets of an unknown city. Oh no. When it comes to scouring a new metropolis, we sewer lovers of the world (who have never, as far as I know, willingly united in any place other than the internet) know the treasures are often hidden closer to street level. We will look down, around, under lampposts, and behind fences for treasure, crouching in alleys and kneeling in supplication before the asphalt gods for a closer look. We will annoy you as we block the crosswalks to take photographs of, what, our feet? A crushed Coke can in the gutter? We also will come for your children, but that's not till the zombie sequel film.

And whether you like to look up, down, sideways, or backwards, one thing remains clear: sometimes it's not such a bad thing to be a tourist in your own town.