



Baby boy is so fucking superior.
His dick is imbued with magical powers.
His piss and shit are life-giving.
When he wakes up in the morning, his breath smells like honey.
One day, he’ll show the world how exceptional he is.
That’s right: everyone will bow to baby boy.
Maybe he’ll find a bud to rub cocks with, too.



































This undated postcard depicts the Illinois Central (IC) Depot in New Orleans, later referred to as Union Station, opened in 18921 2 and demolished in 1954.3 4
Officially credited to Louis Sullivan, the project likely had at least some input from Sullivan’s assistant at the time, Frank Lloyd Wright, who drafted the station’s blueprints.5
In the depot design, you can spot the nascent elements of what would become the Prairie School style: the low-slung composition, hip roof, wide eaves, and patterned grouping of windows on the side were all radically different from the prevailing architecture of the time—certainly in the Deep South.
That’s not to say it was an attractive building, though. In fact, I would consider it downright ugly. The New Orleans press apparently agreed, with the Times-Picayune saying rather demurely at the station’s opening:
“It is not the finest depot in America, but it is a comfortable, ornamental building…”6
Ouch.
My pet theory is that the IC Depot’s design influenced G.L. Norrman—you knew I’d fit him into this somehow.
Norrman visited New Orleans at least four times between 1893 and 1894,7 8 9 10 11and he must have seen the structure. Within a few years, he fully embraced low-slung buildings with hip roofs, though he began heading in that direction with his design for the C.D. Hurt Residence in 1893.
Note the similarities between the depot and Norrman’s design for the Eureka Hotel (1902), or better yet, Denmark Hall (1901), which included a hip roof, thin chimneys, a porch lined with columns, and a second-floor balustrade, much like the depot.
There’s no such thing as original art.








Several years ago I drove around New Orleans for about two hours—long enough to learn that the place is a charmless shithole.
On my way out of town, I was chased for several miles by some cracked-out asshole screaming and throwing objects at my rental car, for reasons that could only make sense to an addled mind.
Before that inglorious send-off, I drove through the French Quarter and the Garden District and was quite underwhelmed by New Orleans’ so-called architecture, which is little more than cheap cast iron slapped onto a lot of gaudy, poorly designed buildings.
I made a point of driving by the former Howard Memorial Library, completed in 18891 and ostensibly designed by H.H. Richardson,2 who grew up in New Orleans but wisely moved North to practice architecture.
The building’s style is, of course, Romanesque—Richardson is credited with inventing the style. It’s not one of his better works, though, and was based on a rejected design for a Michigan library.3
Richardson never saw the building either: construction began a year after his death, and his successor firm, Shepley, Rutan & Coolidge, dusted off the plans and reworked them.4
Thus, it could reasonably be argued that Richardson didn’t design the building at all, although it’s often touted as his only work in the South. It certainly lacks the sophistication of his better Northern designs, but Richardson’s output was always hit-or-miss.
I also suspect that Shepley, Rutan, and Coolidge, who were originally Richardson’s assistants, were largely responsible for his later designs anyway, but that’s a discussion for another time.
I’d originally planned to take pictures of the library, but I’ll never set foot in New Orleans again, so this postcard will suffice.
On the front, S.S. writes:
“Good morning Edith. How did you enjoy the 4th.”
The card was addressed to Miss Edith Smith of Box 85, Clinton, Miss., and postmarked on July 5, 1907.


Ever been to Dothan, Alabama?
I know I’ve driven through there a few times, but I’ll be damned if I can remember anything about it. That doesn’t surprise me, though—Alabama towns are generally sad and unremarkable.
This postcard depicts the Adams Motel in Dothan and was published by W.P. Shealy Advertising of Dothan.
The back of the postcard contains the following description:
ADAMS MOTEL
Located 1 block North of Traffic Circle
on U.S. Hwy. 231
39 Units – Air-Conditioned – Panel-Ray Heat –
Tile Tubs and Showers – Room Phones – Con-
veniently Located Near Restaurants.
Phone: Area Code 205 – 792-5194
Dothan, Alabama
Owned & Operated by Mr. & Mrs. Luther Snell
The motel still exists, albeit altered, and is now the Adams Inn. The Googie-style sign shown on the postcard is long gone.
This postcard was never mailed, but someone used it to tally up their trip expenses, with the following calculations scribbled on the back:
1/30/66 With Red Massy [?]
2 Rooms $14.00
Tax .42
Dinner “Billy’s”
3 meals 11.50
Tax .36
Tip 1.25
13.11
You only tipped 10 percent? Cheap bastard.







The following anecdote is about Wilson Eyre, Jr. (1858-1944), a leading Philadelphia architect in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
First published in The Washington Post in December 1910, the story was subsequently reprinted in newspapers across the United States in early 1911.
Much like G.L. Norrman in the Southeast, Eyre was a uniquely expressive designer and a colorful public figure whose surviving body of work I greatly admire.
Reportedly, Eyre was openly homosexual—long before it gained social acceptance—which makes him even more interesting.
Who knows if this tale is true, but it at least reveals something of Eyre’s reputation, and it’s hella good for mythmaking.
‘Wilson Eyre, Jr., the noted Philadelphia architect, can criticize with delicate wit architecture which he disapproves. A brother architect induced Mr. Eyre the other day to go to see one of his latest constructions, a flaring edifice not far from the city hall. Mr. Eyre looked over the new building gravely and silently, and at the end of the inspection the host said in rather anxious tones:
‘”Well, how do you like it? It’s pretty good, don’t you think?”
‘”Excellent!” said Mr. Eyre. “It has only one fault.”
‘”What’s that?” the other asked.
‘”It’s fireproof,” was the reply.’1