Previously, I wrote about when restaurants mix and match different types of cuisine and the concerns it raises — culinary, political, financial, etc.

No need to rehash the issue, but my sister pointed out this fantastic example which I feel compelled to share.

I think this is not only a bad culinary idea, but is a concrete example of the dismal state of the American economy right now. I mean, you’d have to be financially desperate to add Indian food to your pizza joint, right? It might be different if it was just an Indian restaurant that had their own culinary take on pizza — maybe with Naan for the crust. But look how the sign is set up — “snappy’s” is set in a serif font, “pizza” is set in a sans-serif, and the “indian cuisine” part is sans-serif italic and slapped in the middle of the two as an after thought. No matter what the food is like, typographically it looks like financial disaster.

I promise to try the food. Really. Besides, its very close to the liquor store in case things go horribly wrong.

If there’s one thing I love, it’s history. For me, understanding history helps me feel grounded in the present and part of the larger picture as a whole. Now,  I’ve also been known to stop by a bar now and again. Combine the two and it’s pretty hard for me to resist. Couple these two with a unique story of typography and I’m a moth to the flame.

In New York, there’s no shortage of history and as you might imagine, there’s no shortage of historic bars. Some I’ve been to, some are still on my list. This is about one historic bar that also has a little typographic novelty.

New Yorker’s are resilient (as you might imagine) and have always been that way. The Ear Inn was built in 1817. The long and sordid tale of it’s decades as an unnamed sailor’s haunt perched on the edge of the Hudson River are better left for other times and better historians, but I do want to talk about it’s sign.

It’s sign, you see, is magnificent. It exemplifies both the resilient nature of New Yorkers and a wonderful grasp of typography.

In 1977 when new owners took over the bar, they were faced with two problems. The first? They had to actually name the bar. You see, it had mostly just been known as “bar” or “the Green Door” by the old sailors. And the second? The Landmark Commission. That’s one of the downsides of being historic. You’re protected from the vagaries of progress and as part of the deal you have to remain, well, historic. The Ear Inn had for many many years simply had a neon sign out front stating plainly, “bar”.  Removing or replacing the sign would mean going before the Landmark Commission which in it’s infinite wisdom works at a glacial pace.

As for the name, they decided to name it after the music magazine that inhabited the second floor. As for the sign, this is where the story gets creative. The solution? Just paint over the parts of the “B” in bar to create a sign that reads, “Ear”. True inspiration. Not many folks (outside of those who love typography) would look at the letter “B” and see the “E” hiding inside.

Of course, the Ear Inn can’t avoid progress completely – last time I visited, I spoke with a couple of old timers over some whiskey who were lamenting the fact that many of the regulars were dying off. They were worried not only about their friends and their own future, but what would become of the Ear Inn. A new condo has been built next door (which might help keep the Ear Inn standing upright) and the neighborhood is being gentrified.

On a recent visit to Hearst Castle I discovered  that the man who built a newspaper empire had a predilection for ancient typography — and expressed it in an unusual manner. He (or his architect Julia Morgan) had vellum sheets from Gregorian chants made into lampshades. These lamps adorned not only his private office, but his bedroom as well — basically his entire inner sanctum.

As an admirer of both history and typography, I couldn’t resist taking a few photos. I’m sure the pages were extraordinary in their original form. The subject of why they were turned into lampshades in the first place is a discussion for another time.

I saw this the other day and despite walking by it all the time, the absurdity finally struck me.

It’s one thing to misplace the period on an abbreviation. It’s another to do it twice.

And the odds of doing it twice made me think of two things:

1. Maybe the periods are not misplaced but merely being used as some sort of divider
2. Perhaps the writer is dyslexic and swapped the periods without even realizing.

In the first case, the writer is choosing style over meaning — a mistake in most cases and especially when working in signage.

In the second case, I just think you should double and triple check something before you write it two feet high on the side of building. But heck, that’s just the designer in me.

For a long time now, I’ve been quietly working to bring more space into the world. Specifically to typography and the em dash in particular. The en dash (–) and to a lesser degree it’s cousin the em dash (—) are some of the most misunderstood pieces of punctuation in the English language. Being a designer, I’m intimately concerned with the visual aspects of text and seeing an en dash crammed in between two words just screams, “HELP!” I find myself adding a single space on either side of the en dash consistently and repeatedly in my work. Using the em dash to separate phrases in a sentence has always seemed jarring and then to use it without any space on either side causes it to act as a hard stop on the eye of the reader. Not very pretty and not very functional.

And I’ve always thought it was just my quirky pursuit of a certain visual aesthetic. One of those quiet tasks a designer faces. A task that at first, you try to turf onto the writers through education (along with many of the other of the finer points of digital typography) but eventually resign yourself to as just part of the job.

Recently though, I came across some typography tips which expressed and reaffirmed my beliefs regarding the en and em dash. And from none other than famed typographer Erik Spiekermann in the FontShop publication, “Erik Spiekermann’s Typo Tips.” Right there in Tip #2, he summarizes the proper use of both the en and em dash and (thankfully) helps to justify all the quiet work us designers do to improve the visual appeal of the written word.

It’s nice to be in good company (and to have a resource for explanation when the curious ask why there’s a little breathing room around an en dash).

Here’s a poster I’ve been drawing up for the upcoming holiday weekend. It’s about 90% complete, but I wanted to post a preview before the holiday. There’s still some minor tweaks to do, but I think it’s looking good. I’m thinking of using it as a foray into screen printing — actually working with a printer to get a limited edition run on a nice paper stock. The hard part will be pairing down the colors. I tried to keep it to four colors, but kept coming up with other ideas — and that was before I started working on the texture for the background. In any case, I think I get a version that is somewhere around 4-6 six colors for screen printing (although that’s still a lot). It’s 22″ x 28″.

Sometimes meaning is unintended. Here’s an example I ran across recently that couples hand written text and improper installation to create new meaning.

It’s from a panel of scaffolding on a neighborhood home renovation. Obviously, the panel has been installed upside down and the text is supposed to read, “520 W.”

Instead, when viewed upside down — and very importantly, with the specific handwriting — it now reads, “Moes”

There’s something wonderful in how the “2” transforms into a lowercase “e” right in the middle of what appears to be an all uppercase word. And the number “5” doesn’t always make a good capital letter “S” but yet it works in this case. Additionally, there appears to be no space between the zero and the “W” helping to create a single word. All very accidental and more wonderful for the fact.

Beyond typography and design, it also made me think of “Moe’s Tavern” from The Simpsons.

Mmm…beer.