Posts

Showing posts with the label Thompson (Jim)

Body-text fonts, pt. 33: Century Old Style

The “Century” fonts – ITC Century, Century Expanded, Century Old Style, Century Schoolbook, etc. – aren’t as similar as one would expect. This is explained by font-writer Allan Haley:

Century Old Style (this month’s fêted font)
has more character and personality than the other Century designs. It is the red-headed, freckle-faced member of the family.
And why is that?
Not really an Old Style design [the other “Century” fonts aren’t, either], … it does have … angled serifs in the lowercase and a flavor of Old Style traits.
Ah, yes, I see what Halley means. The font is hardly Centaurish (for instance), but it’s also not abjectly un-Venetian.

Also notable is Century Old Style’s wonky uppercase “C.”

The font’s general plainness and its quirks ensure that it
almost cannot be used in an inappropriate application, and it virtually cannot be overused. Where other typefaces, which have a similar range of abilities, can become commonplace or unexciting (sort of typographic vanilla), Century Old Style maintains a personality and a presence (more like French vanilla).
I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Some pulpy Vintage Black Lizard crime novels (e.g., by Jim Thompson) are set in Century Old Style. Alas, I can’t find a worthy specimen to post here.

Instead, here is a page from a book of old British commercial art. (The author is Robert Opie, the son of those marvelous antiquarians, Iona & Peter.)

Enlarge, please.


And here is a page from a children’s bible.


Different companies issue darker and lighter versions of Century Old Style. I’m partial to this new (absolutely free!) version. Weary of Times New Roman? Use this instead.

Zadok the priest; Pop. 1280; a recipe

Karin: “Zadok the priest
And Nathan the prophet
Were hangin’ out,
Doing some stuff.”


Some commenter on YouTube: “Can you imagine when the Queen eventually passes away, and Charles becomes King. As he walks through Westminster Abbey on the day of his coronation … 95% of the viewing public are going to be thinking to themselves, ‘Why the bloody hell are they playing the Champions League theme?!?!’”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Per this entry: Jim Thompson’s Pop. 1280 has arrived from a library in Connecticut. So far, it’s better than The Killer Inside Me. Funnier, at least.
I’d been thinking it was about time to do some political campaignin’, since I had a pretty tough opponent coming up for a change. … [¶] Always before, I’d let the word get around that I was against this and that, things like cockfighting and gambling and whiskey and so on. So my opposition would figure they’d better come out against ’em, too, only twice as strong as I did. And I went right ahead and let ’em. Me, almost anyone can make a better speech than I can, and anyone can come out stronger against or for something. Because, me, I’ve got no very strong convictions about anything. Not anymore I haven’t.
[Ch. 9, ¶¶ 1–2]
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Today’s lunch:

Ingredients for the rice cooker:
  • Butter (1 tablespoon)
  • Brown rice, dry (1/3 cup)
  • Water A (2/3 cup)
  • Red lentils, dry (1/2 cup)
  • Water B (1 cup)
  • Russet potatoes, raw, cut into 1/2-in cubes (5 oz)
  • Jalapeño peppers, raw, chopped (2 oz)
  • Yellow onions, raw, chopped (3 oz)
  • Broccoli, raw, chopped (5 oz)
  • Sazón Goya (1 packet)
  • Water C (1/2 cup)
Other ingredients:
  • Tortillas
  • Sour cream
  • Cheese, shredded
  • Etc.
The steps are what you’d expect.

There are approx. 835 kcals in the pot; the amounts and kinds of tortillas, sour cream, cheese, etc. are up to you. The filling, once cooked, is pasty, like refried beans. It’s lumpy where the potatoes are, and just a little crunchy because the rice retains some hardness (don’t worry, it’s edible). To make the rice come out softer, if that is your desire, use more water, although that’ll make everything softer. Or, I dunno, use less rice.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Scott was baptized in a small church in Michigan; afterward, there was special music by one of the congregants. “The guy told us he’d recorded four CDs,” said Jennifer, Karin’s stepsister. “I wasn’t expecting him to sing them all.”

A consumer report

I’m testing the public library’s interlibrary loan service. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to order books through the website (and, usually, I’m pretty handy at that sort of thing).

No matter. The library is a six-minute walk from my house. I make the journey.

I disclose my desire to the clerk. He puts in the order. It takes two minutes. All hunky dory.

Three days later, I get an email. Your loan will be ready in 2 to 4 weeks (boldface in the original).

Two to four weeks! Now, I don’t like to be an ingrate, but that’s just not going to cut it, at least not on a consistent basis. In two to four weeks I could have an entirely different set of interests. Thank goodness this book isn’t for a research project; it’s just Pop. 1280, another of Jim Thompson’s lurid, cynical novels about wicked small-town officers of the law. Another novel I could take or leave (although, at this moment, I’m definitely itching to read it).

There are days I wish I still worked at IUSB, where, as often as not, a desired book would be on campus; alternatively, I could order it from Bloomington, Fort Wayne, Kokomo, or wherever and pick it up after four or five days.

Step out of academia, though, and I get banished to the outer darkness.

Daniel is old enough now that I give him board books and they entertain him for a good ten minutes. Samuel, alas, is not as interested in books as he used to be. He watches too much YouTube.

A weed is a plant out of place

Karin got one of her largest paychecks of the year and went “hog wild” – literally – buying such a huge hunk of “clearance” pork that I had to lug it through the house for her.

Said she: “I’ll ask Scott” – her new stepfather – “to smoke it for us.”

Nothing doing. Karin’s mom & Scott moved into a new house this weekend. They no longer have access to their smoker.

I’m all for putting the pork into various slow cookers and then shredding it and eating it with homemade “Alabama” sauce.

(See, I am become a middle-aged man who talks about his meats.)

By the end of the week, we should have the picnic table that I ordered through Facebook Marketplace. I’ve been fond of picnic tables since I was in high school. I and my dorm-mates used to enjoy suppers out of doors.

Karin & I tend to pursue our respective “home improvement” ideas independently of one another. Her ambition for the back yard, tonight, was to pull out weeds that no one sees. This was complicated by her confusion as to what is and what isn’t a weed. I told her about a passage in Jim Thompson that I read not long ago, in which Lou Ford’s defense lawyer tells him a definition that comes “right out of the agronomy books”:
“A weed is a plant out of place.” I find a hollyhock in my cornfield, and it’s a weed. I find it in my yard, and it’s a flower. … You’re in my garden, Mr. Ford.
I’ve been revisiting the nineties’ contextualist epistemologists, whom I briefly studied many years ago, in order to read the aughts’ “pragmatic encroachment” epistemologists (whose work I was downright oblivious to at the time). Keith DeRose, in a recent collection of old and new essays, is apologetic because his “Solving the Skeptical Problem” is such a long paper. David Lewis ends his famous paper, “Elusive Knowledge,” by saying that although he could have written it longer, and nearer to the truth, that wouldn’t have been in anyone’s interest. His paper displays a certain amount of formalism thrown about informally, together with casual references to guys named Fred and Donald in the vicinity of San Francisco, in service of a view with Chestertonian paradoxicality. An insider’s paper: important, but surely a pain to teach. A paper with weed-like qualities in just about any home garden.

Readings

What with heat indices of 100-plus (F) and a sputtering air conditioner, this has been a sultry week. The boys and I have spent much time in the cool basement. There is a precise boundary, on the basement staircase, between the cold and hot air masses.

More things I’ve been reading:

Joan Aiken, The Way to Write for Children. I thought this was terrific, even though I have no plans to write for children.

Ben Macintyre, The Spy and the Traitor.

Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me. What’s remarkable is how petty the narrator is. How twerpy. He gets as much (or more) of a thrill needling people as murdering them. I’m reminded of In Plain Sight, the TV series about the real-life Scottish serial killer Peter Manuel.

Sylvia Townsend Warner, Mr Fortune’s Maggot, about a South Seas missionary (and I just finished Lolly Willowes).

All of Montaigne. This could take a while.