Rem Koolhaas must die. A

Rem Koolhaas must die.

A couple of months ago, I did my best to tear Rem Koolhaas a new one for the friggin’ godawful new Prada store on Prince street. “The ultimate luxury is not shopping!” burbled this great, horrible pillock when describing why he had, on purpose, designed a space that was good for nothing.


Evelyn Waugh loathed chrome, mirrors, and sheetmetal-paneled studies as a harbinger of Horrible Modern Society. It wasn’t the chrome decorations that Waugh hated, it was the decadent, frivolous, and ultimately pointless lives that were surrounded by them that Waugh equated with the Apocalypse. Flip, trendy, and a self-important generator of deeply crappy soundbites, Rem Koolhaas could have been ripped whole from Waugh’s darkest nightmare. Witness his latest abomination: the new flag for the EU, guaranteed to cause headaches and look already dated TWO FRIGGING YEARS AGO.


As an antidote to Koolhaas’s feckless and burbling embrace of mid-nineties post-productive post-representational awfulness*, I present Cal Hopkins Amish Armada: clean graphics, sarcasm used AS sarcasm (not masquerading as some kind of delicious postmodern irony), and a T-shirt I can wear on my motorcycle in Lancaster county.

Rem Koolhaas must die. A

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