I Can’t Leave My House Because of Bad Typography Everywhere
I have spent my adult life safe in New York’s confines, where Comic Sans has been banned and Helvetica keeps millions moving in Germanic order. Though bad type faces must certainly exist, I have kept myself pure by only looking at signs for businesses I have already vetted through online reviews.
This Labor Day was the first I’ve spent like a “normal” New Yorker (previous holidays being dedicated to hackathons), as my fiancee wanted to see friends in the suburbs. His friends have moved into a beautiful house, with space and trees and a pool and horses all around. It would be an idyllic respite, except… Except…
Except for all of the bad type. It is unavoidable. It is everywhere. It is beloved.
In the suburbs, they love bad type.
Their pets love bad type.
Their computers love bad type.
Their Uncle Guido loves putting three different fonts of bad type together, shooting off fireworks and playing not just paintball — EXTREME paintball.
I wonder if his brain is so addled from all of these explosive activities that he can’t appreciate how WRONG he is for putting three such heinous fonts ANYWHERE, let alone in such close proximity.
After popping three Xanax, I was ready to return to Manhattan and my beloved fonts. I’d built up a decent appetite from all the loathing. But, what’s this?
What is that I see on my beloved local sushi place?
That’s it. Nowhere is safe.
I’m never leaving my house, again.