Who can even remember the last time we availed ourselves of the services of our fine, fine friend? You know her; we love her...it's the Blind Item Girl! And here she is, fresh out of nominal retirement, to bring us—what? Well, not the freshest pail of milk, it's true—when this tip was sent in we could all still say "Crikey!" without irony—but something that must be of the gravest importance to somebody since the sender, one 30a50416ef, saw fit to open an account and email us from Anonymous Speech. Which made us feel pretty special. And a little hurt. When did we ever burn a source? Particularly one who provides his own strike-throughs?
Here's a blind item for you:
Which majorsignificant large midwestern school of architecture almost reeled in a certain dike-lovin' gallerist (couldn't resist) as commodore but lost the catch due to a mutiny of fifth tier urban designerseconomistsintellectuals regional planners?
now get your ass in gear because the "architecture community" can't function without slander...
Just for the record, we love Keanu. We saw Bill & Ted's like a thousand times back in the wilds of '89. And Ted's signature query—"Are there any personages of historical significance here?"—has guided us fruitfully through many an after-hours clusterfuck. But some people don't have the same tropism for fame. And those people, of course, have no business reading this site, in which stars are fucked and starfuckers feted. Or is it the other way around?
Which barely-known New York architect (rhymes with cHronic) doesn't want anyone to know he designed an apartment for Keanu Reeves? The Manhattan palais is said to be quite lavish—onyx bathroom, anyone?—but strangely it has not yet appeared on any of the bi-weekly postcards cries in the wilderness he sends out to promote his trendy work. Perhaps the job would embarrass his wife, design curator at a snooty museum uptown?
On this day of community, sharing, togetherness, and—lest we forget!—true love, all unfolding and blossoming with the weight of springtime happiness, we find it our duty to provide you, our dear and prodigiously involved Readers, with a semi-Blind Item.
Which would-be New York architecture and media power couple on-the-hoof recently found themselves in a compromising elevator scenario? The pair, both snarky scribes, were reportedly dumbstruck by the only other company in the cab: none other than Peter Eisenman and his do-my-bidding wife, Cynthia Davidson, just home from Citarella. One had just filed his latest Eisenman dis, while the other is still reeling from Peter's pellucid "pedagogy." Awkward.
Blind Item: You Wouldn't Hit a Pregnant Girl, Would You?
It's a strange, strange world. And if there's one thing we've learned—one thing—it's that no one knows what goes on between two people. Not them, not you. And certainly not us. The truth is always stranger than its fragments caught in print. Stranger and more appalling. So appalling, in this case, that we are moved to highlight the travesty anew. Stop the presses. Stop the insanity! Yesterday we passed on the blindest of Items for your consideration, recounting an incident, years past, in which a certain starchitect-on-the-hoof socked a young female coworker, for no greater reason, we heard, than a construction site misunderstanding triggering an egoists unchecked rage. Now we learn via a particularly fecund Comments thread that the assailed may have been heavy with child at the moment of the assault.
On the job. Pregnant. And this motherfucker throws a punch? Not cool.
Spring has sprang in old Gotham, friends. And it's a glorious, glorious thing. Enough, even, to make us reconsider, for a moment, our bitter ways. Why press our fellow men, lovers of the Mother Art, to change? To take a closer look at their ethical track? Even, indeed, those broken expedience-calculating machines that pass for morality? For your sake, naturally; entertainment trumps all. And the moment has passed.
Which princeling starchitect, charged with his foreign master's greatest American project, freaked out over some detail of the construction and assaulted a senior colleague on the job? We hear she left the firm. And sued. And won a nice settlement. Yet the assailant continues his violent ways....
It has been so, so long since we've had a good blind item to share. So long. Too long! So it was with some delight that we saw, just now, a comment appended to a recent post in which the writer, identifying herself only as "jilted female architecture student," adopted the style of those black lettres. A wee hint, girlfriend: One usually omits the name of the accused in such things. That's what makes it funny. But if you insist, and we quote:
Which married Cameron Sinclair is known to enjoy his many visits to "lecture" at college campuses to then have trysts with young females that he meets at schools of architecture? His Architecture for Humanity bullshit is a cover for the self-aggrandizing prick that he is.
Revenge, people. We speak to you now about revenge. Which can be sweet, if surely dealt—sweeter still if surely and quickly dealt. Why, just this morning we were bested at our own game—shown up, put out—by a wee mote of a blogsurper whom to name would be to unduly empower. And we're not in that biz. Power must be corralled and conserved, safeguarded, nurtured; those who spend it freely feed their foes. That's the blind part. To answer the question posed elsewhere:
Which Ralph Lerner lost his job as dean of the architecture school at Princeton several years ago when he attempted to cover up a nasty sex scandal? A professor was trolling for undergrads—quel horreur!—and when one tasty trollee approached Ralph, he advised her to keep quiet or face the consequences. So old school. She went straight to the university admin. He's on his way into exile.
We'll be honest with you. It's raining. It's raining hard. And it's cold—colder than our calloused hearts, at least, which means that it is cold both empirically and relatively. And that's pretty darn cold! And dark. Did we mention it is also quite dark today? It's quite a cocktail. Quite a cocktail! But it won't keep us from our appointed rounds (neither pain, nor sleaze, nor...). Nothing will. Not when we have, special for you, via six or seven intervening grapevine circuits—but otherwise straight from the source!—a blind item of such surpassing delicacy and delight.
Which great midcentury Titan of the art added something a little special to his famous East Side townhouse renovation? The black, windowless box on the plans was a curiosity around the office, until the project was complete and its use became clear: a home for the architect's catamite.
We're certain you've all noticed the long Blind Item hiatus. Our conjecture is that the old Sniper—twoback, natch (bye bye Becca!)—became so obsessed with Our Lady of the Infinite Whisper that he didn't want to ever air her out. What a crying shame. But here she is this fine, fine day, helping us all to understand that this is a moment for new beginnings, fresh-scented starts, and a return to the biliary bibulousness for which you, sad sows, seek out this well of filth. So to mark the day, to help erase the saccharinetang of The Gutter's late regret, to give you something to chat about when your sweet inamorata calls, to fill silences, to bring noise, to divert, appall, and consternate—but above all to entertain!!!!—we debut today with a Blind Item to end all Blind Items. And we hope you're feeling strong.
Which architect recently wore black to a public event? In case someone missed the point, he also wore funny glasses. Earlier that day he reportedly strutted about the office making pronouncements about form and fate, borrowed the work of an underling to impress a new client, lied to a reporter, lied to his wife, and bawled out a contractor for errors that were in fact his own. There was shock and confusion—no one had ever seen anything like it.
Yesterday was Wednesday. And you know what that is supposed to mean. But after a week of hot, nonstop, dinosauriffic B.I. love, we were a little tired of the whole Blind Item thing. Can't we, we thought, just leave it to Chen? But then our imagination turned to our Special Lady Friend, how she stands there so straight, so stern. She wants us to behave properly. Until it's proper to misbehave. And we will. Next week. When we start caring enough again to hate the very best.
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Who can even remember the 
It's a strange, strange world. And if there's one thing we've learned—one thing—it's that no one knows what goes on between two people. Not them, not you. And certainly not us. The truth is always stranger than its fragments caught in print. Stranger and more appalling. So appalling, in this case, that we are moved to highlight the travesty anew. Stop the presses. Stop the insanity! Yesterday we passed on 