Because Who Doesn't Want to Whoop Someone Else's Ass for Me?

It occurred to me today, while sitting in the dreaded middle seat on a jetblue flight to Los Angeles, that a majority of the non-contributing readers of this blog are architects. Asian architects. I have no profound theory about why this is the case, but to FT, CC, and the rest of my merry architecting readers from the Orient, hello! You have reminded me that my presence in Los Angeles over the next few days means that I will be missing this probably very insider-y but still very insightful convergence of thinking/building types at Postopolis, a five day conference-slash-meeting-of-the-architecturally-inclined-blogging-minds, hosted by the Storefront for Art and Architecture. Ongoing discussions of architecture, urbanism, landscape, and design will ensue! Live blogging! There might be some military historians in the house! Lebbeus Woods! Crazy Mark Wigley! Lawrence Weschler! A DJ! Anyone who thinks they might be the slightest bit interested in such an affair should wander past Kenmare street and report back to me. I am very sad to be missing it. It would've given me the opportunity to potentially spar with one Jeff Byles, the author of Rubble: Unearthing the History of Demolition; many moons ago, he wrote a piece on ruins in The Believer, and to this day I still get a little tense whenever I think about how asinine it was. And so now I'm sad that I won't get to attend Postopolis and verbally whoop his ass. So to all you architects and/or folks interested in architecture and/or folks interested in intellectually sparring with Jeff Byles in my stead -- please head over to the Storefront and let me know how it goes. Intelligent, multidisciplinary, polymediated discourse on urbanism seems sort of hard to come by these days. [And if you can't/won't make it, then you can do what I've had to do, and just read the live blogging itself: City of Sound, BLDG BLOG, Inhabitat, and Subtopia, the four blogs that curated the goings-on. Enjoy!]

Love Bites!

Yesterday, mercifully, was a half-day at work, which meant that I had a weekday afternoon free to do all the things that one wishes one could do, but can only do on the weekend, when everyone else has the same idea and consequently museums and Coney Island and restaurants all become impossible, crowded places. I had planned to meet up with RL, and had the nice idea of going down to the Storefront for Art and Architecture to see an exhibit of late Soviet-era architecture, as seen through images, films, and so on. I mean, how could you go wrong seeing an exhibit featuring this wondrous monstrosity? I actually wouldn't know how you could go wrong seeing an exhibit featuring that wondrous montrosity, because by the time I got to Union Square, it was nearly 90 degrees, and all RL wanted to do was be indoors, in air-conditioned bliss. So we traipsed from cineplex to cineplex until we decided that Bug would be a really good idea. And so ... yeah. We saw Bug. And you know what? It was pretty friggin' glorious. I haven't laughed that hard while watching a 'psychological' 'thriller' since maybe Anaconda, back in the 90s, with MH and a bottle of Lagavulin. The dialogue in Bug was amazing. RL and I were trying to figure out afterwards how much the writers were in on the joke (if there was indeed a joke to be had), and decided that there's little way one can write or deliver lines like, "You don't know a thing about aphids!" or (my favorite) "I am the super mother bug!" without some pretty potent drugs and a fairly solid understanding of camp. I highly recommend you all check this out, inbetween barbecues, this weekend or any weekend this summer. God, yes. RL pointed out that we were now batting 2-for-2 with the otherwise dreary Village East Cinemas, the saddest excuse for a first-run theatre in the city. Several weeks ago we had wandered in there to see 28 Weeks Later, which also proved to be pretty spectacular -- possibly even better than the original, but that's another post entirely -- and which also seemed to be setting a trope-ic trend: love bites. I don't want to spoil anything for anyone here, but suffice it to say that in both 28 Weeks Later and Bug, the exchange of fluids makes people crazy. Literally crazy. And I'm not talking crazy in love here. These films are making pretty compelling arguments for why we need to stop loving, and also then to stop using sex as the means through which we show that love. Because you screw, you lose. Hell, in 28 Weeks Later, you don't even need to screw. You love, you lose your mind. Completely. I don't want to wax very philosophical, moral, or personal about this, except to say that I recently had brunch at a place not too far from my apartment, Zucco Le French Diner, which despite its huh? sort of name, was a lovely, lovely spot that really delivered the goods. And by goods I mean a great steak and eggs and mashed potatoes dish, as well as a wonderful fois gras, toast, and apple compote starter that maybe kind of blew my post-wine-addled mind. I'm not going to say it was better than sex, but I'd take that over potential insanity any day. Because everyone wins when they're eating fois gras. For brunch. I'll probably head over to the late-Soviet architecture exhibit today, accidental celibacy in tow. Oh, but don't cry for me, relationshipped ones! I'm rather enjoying the return of my sanity.