The architecture of despair

Why do so many people love New Orleans’s French Quarter, New York’s Greenwich Village, and Savannah, GA? Because they don’t look like the above photo. They look like the ones below, with reasonably-scaled buildings abutting sidewalks, active street life, and public spaces people actually use.

The Big Easy...on the eyes—my favorite U.S. city

Shops, sidewalks, humans, trees, and non-hideous buildings

A public square that people actually use

In contrast, sprawling, car-crazed places like Atlanta, Houston, and the outskirts of Nashville can best be described by James Howard Kunstler (urban design critic and author of The Geography of Nowhere): ”The immersive ugliness of our everyday environments in America is entropy made visible.” He calls these hellscapes of concrete and commerce “places that are not worth caring about,” places that “generate despair.”

Check out his 2004 TED Talk about how to create urban spaces that encourage rich public and civic life. Despite several moments of crazed hyperbole, he makes wonderful points about the folly of American urban design, and he’s quite an entertaining speaker.

We don’t have thousand-year-old cathedral and market squares in America, he points out, so we have to create our own versions of livable public space…and we haven’t done such a great job. His point is this: in order to create quality spaces where people will enjoy gathering, builders have to think carefully about how to define space with buildings.

In my own neighborhood, this question is about to become a heated one. The main commercial corridor, 12th Avenue South, is in the throes of several big demolition and development projects. I sincerely hope that the guys drawing up blueprints have thought carefully about how to create a public space that people will want to walk, shop, ride bicycles, eat, drink, and be. Because we are most likely going to live with the ramifications of their decisions for the rest of our lives.

A friendly note to local developers: To whatever degree you may care, I’ve given some thought to what I believe makes a place pleasant, lovely, walkable, and generally human-friendly. Here are a few criteria for what, to my mind, constitutes development that doesn’t completely &%$# up the area it’s supposed to be improving. A few requests:

1. Retail/commerce with windows that abut the sidewalk.

2. Includes restaurants with outdoor seating to improve street life.

3. No blank walls facing the street.

4. Parking hidden in rear; no surface parking lots or garages facing the street.

5. Non-hideous, interesting architecture, to scale with surrounding neighborhood. Choose a material and use it. Please: no patchwork of 17 different building materials on the facade!

6. Anything of value that’s demolished must be replaced with something (arguably) better.

7. Retail space that small local entrepreneurs can afford.

8. NO. NATIONAL. CHAINS. If you lease to Starbucks or Chipotle, expect a big-@$$ boycott and some egg on your facade. “You gotta break some eggs to make an omelet,” you say? I’ll break some @#$%!&* eggs. And that @#$% is impossible to scrub off a building.

Of course, no two people agree on what constitutes “progress.” I invite readers to respectfully disagree and post their preferences in the comments section. Meanwhile, this being my blog, representing my opinions, let’s take a drive around Nashville and explore a few neighborhood mixed-use developments that I like and dislike, to discuss the passes/epic fails of each:

1. 12South Tower: Where’s the store?

There may be a shop up there somewhere. But I'm not sure.

Fail. I don’t mind the architecture—the brick is OK, and I like the iron railings. But when I walk by it, I feel the death kiss of masonry instead of human activity and shop windows to ogle. Doors and windows are a story above the street, and are thus useless and lifeless.

2. 12th and Paris: Vibrant Street life

Walk by on a summer Saturday—people & popsicles galore

Pass. I know. Plenty of folks don’t like the Paris Building—nearby merchants are mad about parking, etc. But I like it. It fulfills the majority of my criteria: Parking is hidden, local merchants are thriving there, folks sit outside to eat on nice days, and on sunny Saturdays, the block is bursting with human activity. I love to walk by and absorb the life and laughter. It’s why I moved to 12South instead of Brentwood.

3. Fifth and Main. WTF? 

Design by committee. Or possibly a student design contest.

Epic fail. I have to hand it to anyone who has the guts to attempt a mixed-use project on the potholed ribbon of blight that is Main Street. Unfortunately, it did not succeed. Nice try on the windows, but it’s still mostly concrete in my face…if I for some reason decided to actually become a pedestrian on this nefarious stretch of Main. And I have a hunch this edifice is going to age like a meth addict’s teeth.

4. The Hill Center: Anything is better than Green Hills Mall-landia.

Cool! My favorite chains! Is this in Pasadena?

Pass, barely. This meets the criteria visually: buildings, sidewalks, outdoor seating. But there’s absolutely no charm, and nothing local about the place. Am I in Pasadena? Or Kansas City? Chock-full of chains, and the few locals have gone out of business. However: this development did not cause the demolition of anything worthwhile. It’s in Green Hills. Any attempt at “urbanism” there is better than what preceded it. A college try, at least, to scale back the heinous strip-mallization of Nashville suburbs.

5. Germantown infill: Havens for local business.

Local businesses thrive in this architectural oasis

Pass. To my mind, Germantown does just about the best job of to-scale development of any neighborhood in Nashville. Excellent local businesses thrive here—places like City House, Germantown Cafe, Cocoa Tree, and Lazzaroli’s—alongside some of the best historic architecture in town. And the newer residential development, in my opinion, fits in well. (See below.) It looks more like urban high-density brownstones than the horrible Post gated apartment compounds that proliferate in monstro-cities like Atlanta. And density, in the urban landscape, is good. To a point.

Germantown: Urban high-density residential, with taste

6. East Nashville—A Real Neighborhood with Big-City Zoning

East Nashville—Mecca for artisanal small business and charming lunatics

Pass. East Nashville, love it or not, has charm oozing out its cracked-out pores: psychotic dudes dancing in downpours, gorgeous old houses interspersed with meth lab duplexes, a crazy-loyal cult fan base that embraces full-on the idea of Us and Them. East Nashville’s biggest advantage is the variety of low-cost, zoning-appropriate retail space scattered throughout the neighborhood, instead of only on a few linear main thoroughfares. Which makes it possible and affordable for all sorts of creative small businesses to spring up—Mas Tacos, Silly Goose, Marche, Holland House, and Ugly Muggs, to name a few. And for that, I have neighborhood envy.

Some of these businesses occupy or re-use old buildings. Others do quite well in new developments like the one above. It’s not bad looking, there’s retail on the ground floor, and I quite like it.

7. Urban Grub, 12South: Huh.

Nothing good had to die for this to exist. But what is it?

Incomplete. I’m giving this an “I” and withholding judgment for now. It could be fantastic. It could be a visual freight train pileup. Hard to say at this juncture. The critical point for me is: nothing excellent got torn down to make way for it, so it’s most likely a net gain for 12South.

Rumours of Demolition Are Not Exaggerated

Which brings me to what’s prompted this series of posts in the first place: For the first time in my 10 years in the neighborhood, something I really care about is going away in the name of development. When the bulldozers come, I am going to weep shamelessly. And that means that suddenly, the stakes went way up for me. Consequently, I’m going to judge what rises from my favorite wine bar’s ashes much more harshly than all previous building projects here. It’s going to take a whole lot for what comes next to be a net gain for me, an improvement in my quality of life. And that’s kind of a big responsibility, You Developers. Please do well. And do good. Don’t make our little corner of the world worse.

Something lost, uncertain gains

Related post: Rumours Wine Bar Closing Soon

Related post: Surveyors at Rumours…So Soon?

Owner Christy Shuff has announced that February 4th will be the restaurant’s final day in business at its current location. Here is a note she sent to the regulars earlier today:

Dear friends & family,

As you may know, Rumours must close its doors to make way for new construction in the 12South neighborhood.

While it’s hard for us in the Rumours community to let go, progress on such a scale is inevitable on 12th Avenue South. We’ve had a fantastic run. I am grateful and happy for the decade I’ve spent watching 12South change and grow, and for the opportunity to grow and learn alongside a neighborhood that has become so dear to me. Thank you for your support, business, and kindness.

With that said, I want to invite you all to help us celebrate our ten-year run on 12South! Today begins the 20 DAY countdown to February 4th, which will be our last night in business at 2304 12th Ave. South. Please spread the word, so that we can share our last twenty days with a restaurant full of amazing people.

Love & kindness,
Christy

If you’re already a fan of Rumours Wine and Art Bar, please consider having a few glasses of wine there over the next three weeks. A great turnout before the 4th would go a long way towards helping Christy and Jenn get started on the next iteration of Rumours, and not just financially. It’s tough to weather the summary shutdown of your creation and means of livelihood, wholly on someone else’s terms. It takes tremendous energy and a big leap of faith to press on afterwards and begin again.

So here’s the plea: If you enjoy the friendly little watering hole and the community that has arisen there, vote with your feet (and wallets) between now and the 4th. Let the Rumours folks know you like what they do. I’ll see you there.

Related post: Rumours 12South Closing Soon

Related post: Musings on 12South Development

That sounds about right.

"I love you as long as you keep me fed and warm. But if you die alone in bed, I will eat your face off."

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Photo: Port-au-Prince, courtesy of the UN Development Programme

Death toll estimates vary widely—from in the tens of thousands to more than 300,000—as homes, apartment buildings, schools, prisons, and even hospitals pancaked into rubble, leaving Port-au-Prince a post-apocalyptic ruin. The next day, President René Préval told the New York Times that he had no idea where he would sleep.

Civil engineer Elizabeth Hausler believes that most of those people didn’t have to die, and that millions of people did not have to lose their homes.

Hausler, via Dowser.org

But wait: an earthquake is a natural disaster, right? Sure, says Hausler. But earthquake death tolls are man-made tragedies. “Earthquakes don’t kill people,” she says. “Poorly build buildings do.”

Hausler learned to build things working summers with her dad, a skilled brickmason. And then she started building a wholly unique expertise—armed with a PhD in civil engineering, she headed to Gujarat as a Fulbright Scholar to help rebuild after a massive quake. And she realized that she could help prevent thousands of needless deaths by teaching people to build earthquake resistant homes.

Easier said than done, of course. But with Build Change, a nonprofit she launched to help teach government officials, contractors, and homeowners how to build structures that are more likely to withstand earthquakes, Hausler has made it her mission to make temblors less deadly in places like Haiti, Gujarat, and Sichuan.

Collapsed hotel, Haiti, via UN Dev. Programme

My friend and colleague Peter Aronson talked with Hausler late last year about her work, for his excellent new podcast and blog series, called Housing Revolution. I happily agreed to help with the series (although most of the work, and the idea itself, are Peter’s). It’s been thrilling to learn about the innovative work going on in a field to which I’d honestly never given much thought: making housing safer, more sustainable, and affordable to inhabitants of the developing world’s sprawling slums.

Hausler especially fascinated me: here’s a person who looked at a problem the rest of the world viewed as unavoidable—high death tolls in earthquake-prone areas—and assigned herself the task of solving it, one building at a time. Just knowing about a person like this, quietly doing the hard work of making a few corners of the planet better, makes me feel hopeful that the world has more human capital to offer than the impotent bozos who tend to hog the spotlight.

I encourage you to take 20 minutes and listen to the podcast interview with Hausler. I predict that you, too, will be utterly fascinated.

Also, check out this fascinating infographic from National Geographic that details earthquake fatalities in various quake zones and describes simple building methods that make houses stronger (like making windows smaller and using straw bales to build walls). Great stuff.

Hear the podcast: How to Build Earthquake-Resistant Houses on a Tight Budget

Related post: Where are 7 billion people going to live?

However, I have serious street cred:

It reads "1/11/80, To Kim Green, Best Wishes, Paul 'Bear' Bryant"

Know what this means? It means I’m grandfathered in.

Sure. I admit that I haven’t spent the requisite number of gorgeous autumn Saturday afternoons grinding my teeth in front of the television for the past forty years. My dad is that true fan, and he deserves all the gloating he wants to lay down for the next few months. I don’t deserve to gloat. So I won’t.

Because I frankly find certain aspects of the college football culture a bit suspect. Images of huge bemuscled young men rippling and murdering each other and celebrating together juxtaposed with rows of cute co-eds in tiny bikinilike “uniforms” jiggling on the sidelines? Very much on my nerves. Guys doing things and having all the fun on center stage while girls act all wind-beneath-their-wings offstage, happy to be admired for their cuteness during TV time-outs? What a fantastic metaphor for the lives of girls in America! How very apple pie! And then, of course, there’s the ugly little fact that college and professional football players are literally beating their brains out, and sometimes even pounding each other into early-onset dementia, for our amusement. It’s a bit Roman when you really think about it. And let’s not even get started on the money.

Putting all that aside, willingly suspending disillusionment, I confess that sometimes, when the band starts playing “Yea Alabama!” and the guys charge out onto the field in a sea of crimson, I feel like a kid again.

There’s no avoiding it: anything you learn to love at an early age, some small part of you will always love. The crowd roars, and it all floods back: the #4 Joey Jones jersey I wore all through high school, the massive crush I had on Mike Shula, the time I called “Bear” Bryant’s radio show when I was 6 years old. I called to tell him that I was planning to play football for him at Alabama. He had the common decency to say, “We’ll be waiting for you.”

And my mom likes to tell this story, a sweet little parable about inculcation at an early age: I was around 5 years old. We were driving to Hunstville, and I was reading billboards as they shot past. “Alabama 53,” I recited from a highway sign. And then I ad-libbed, “Auburn Zero.”

When it came to the Tide, I loved it all. Thing is, I didn’t want to watch or decorate the sidelines. I wanted to play. And it took an unreasonable amount of time for me to realize that the best a scrawny, 5’4″, 110 pounder was going to manage was a few ultramural flag football victories in college. We take our glory where we can get it.

Still, it was fun to be The Girl Who Loves Football when I was in high school. It made me feel like one of the guys, to be able to give the UT fans what-for at the end of October, or to receive what-for in return. During the school-wide “senior sale” (a bizarre human-auction fundraiser that surely has ceased to exist by now, in light of the rather unfortunate history it evokes), some of the guys bought me and made me dress up in full UT regalia, Big-Orange from head to toe. Being rolled in pig $#!^ would have been less humiliating. And even now, it’s kind of fun to explain what “fourth-and two” means to bewildered girlfriends, cramming for Superbowl Sunday.

What did I learn from my football-loving years? For sure I learned how to juke a tackler (OK, a flag-puller) chasing me down the sidelines on a kickoff return. I learned that it’s more fun to participate, at whatever level you can (from tossing a pigskin with the boys at recess to discussing the finer points of the Wishbone offense), than to traffic in passive cuteness. And I just figured out, from watching and thoroughly enjoying the Bama-LSU game last night, that even if you grow in a different direction than the culture of your childhood, it doesn’t mean you have to despise what you once enjoyed.

Call me a fair-weather fan if you want to. But I have an autographed photo of Paul W. “Bear” Bryant. Do you? (Whoops! I just gloated.)

Related article: A sport I could play, even at 5’4″

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It was a bit gut wrenching to see a survey crew at work this morning at 2304 12th Avenue South. It’s real now. IF the next step is demolition (I had a little too much wine and nostalgia last night, so forgive me if I’m jumping to conclusions), in the bulldozers’ wake, what would replace the patio that’s become my second backyard over the past few years? Apartments? Retail outlets I can’t afford to shop in? Surface parking?

I’m not naive: I get that one person’s community gathering place, home, and beloved watering hole is another person’s real estate investment. When it comes down to dollars, who can afford to be all touchy-feely? There’s no room for sentimentality when it’s time to write the mortgage check.  Business is business, right?

What’s tough for me to grasp is why business sometimes has to feel so…unfeeling. Is it even possible to merge commerce and caring? It seems that we, as a society, tend to think not. When an artist chooses to trade successfully in his creative work, we label him as a “sellout.” We root for social entrepreneurs but secretly believe that they will fail. And too often, the ways people choose to do business make the world a little worse for the rest of us. (Think Massey Energy.)

Is it really so impossible to do well and to do good, at the same time? To create something beautiful that changes the world for the better, and to cash in? I imagine that Steve Jobs, J.K. Rowling, Thomas Keller, Nicholas Kristof, and Somaly Mam would say no, it is not impossible. It’s just rare. It takes vision.

Halcyon Bike Shop—Mission+Commerce+Character

We apparently believe that there’s no room for the artist’s brain in the world of hard-nosed economic realities. Transactions must be devoid of feeling, we think. It’s a zero-sum game.

And where has that gotten us, exactly?

A lot of people tell me that I should be glad that 12South is doing so well, economically speaking. It can only increase the value of my property, they say. The thing is, I don’t much care. I’m not planning to sell. What I value isn’t the appraisal report on my house. I value the ability to walk up the street and hold court on a beautiful patio with my urban tribe. I value the artistry of Rumours owners Christy Shuff and Jenn Doherty McCarthy—the way they make me feel right at home every single time I walk in, and the way Jenn always knows what to pour. And I value the un-corporate cuteness of our little stretch of 12South—the old houses painted funky colors, the little gardens, the patio laughter on a perfect fall afternoon.

Do you know what pure, unadulterated commerce tastes like? Olive Garden. Applebee’s. I’ll pass, thanks.

I’m starting to feel as if these marvelous property values of ours have made our street smell a little too much like money, and as a result, a little less like a community. I hope I’m wrong. I hope that developers who may have grander plans for my favorite patio and wine bar really do intend to make lots of money and to make a small corner of the world a little bit better for everyone. Unfortunately, those two concepts do not always go hand in hand.

Related post: On Food, Love, and Artistry

Related post: Halcyon Days – One neighborhood’s “evolution”

This is not a piece of journalistic writing, because I am not objective about this turn of events. I have an emotional dog in this fight.

Generally, I’m not one of those rabid listserv purists who goes nuts every time somebody proposes a new development in my neighborhood. And although the proposed construction project at 2310 12th Avenue South (the property between the 12South Taproom and Rumours Wine Bar) does appear a bit overblown and disproportionate at first glance (67 apartments and 4,200 sq. ft. of retail), I was ready to keep an open mind.

But when I found out last week that that the owners of the Rumours property right next door had exerted a little deep-pocket muscle on Rumours restaurateurs to strongly “incentivize” them to sell their lease with four years left, I felt frustrated and not a little bit angry. I can’t be sure whether this is directly connected to the aforementioned development, and there are few facts available right now. All I know is that Valentine’s Day will probably be Rumours’ last night in business. And I’m sad.

I’ve had this feeling before. In college, I lived in a tiny dormitory across a railroad track from the rest of campus (where I fit in rather poorly). The building was structured like an old motel, with balconies and a big common kitchen area shared by the international students there. It was a fun and creative little community of language students and kids from all over the world. The year I lived in that dorm was the happiest time of my college years—it was the one place where I felt like I belonged. I remember big shared meals, all sorts of languages spoken, and a truly epic water balloon fight.

A couple of years later, the university tore it down to build a parking garage.

It felt like somebody had just taken a dump into my coffee. I loved Saunders Hall, and replacing it with parking felt like a slap in the face. But people, and institutions, value different things. My late-night philosophical talks with kids from Russia, Colombia, and Greece didn’t mean a thing to all the science professors who needed a place to park. Still, I mourned.

My 40th birthday

I’ve enjoyed many happy moments at “our” little Wine Bar, a few blocks’ walk from our house and the best (IMHO) patio in town. Rumours is the one place on 12South where I feel like I belong. I’ve never had a water balloon fight at the Wine Bar; but for years, that’s where I always went to celebrate or commiserate. It’s where I celebrated my 40th birthday, and had my first (and probably only) photography exhibition, and where Hal and I shared many, many hundreds of glasses of wine, and philosophical conversation, with friends from all over the world.

To me, Rumours is 12South, and 12South can’t be its true self without Rumours. Know that I will mourn.

I know there’s probably more to the story than meets the eye, that I have few facts on which to base these emotions, and that it’s not all about me. As I learn more, I’ll try to share what I find out, in a slightly less emotional way. I’ll do my best to put the journalist’s hat back on. But for today, this is me, telling you on my blog, that I wish things were otherwise, and that “my” Wine Bar could live on. Maybe they’ll find a new home within an easy stumble from Halcyon. That’s my hope.

*Best wishes and eternal thanks to Christy and Jenn for keeping Rumours running so long and so well. Ladies, I’ll see you there many times before Feb. 14! Whatever your next project is, I will be there.

Related post: My farewell to the original 12South pioneer

Related post: The rewards of being a regular customer

I’ve been wanting to find a way to tell this story since 1997, when I stumbled into one of the most extraordinary friendships of my life.

Arun* was a Buddhist monk, but he didn’t want to be. Of course, I didn’t know that when I first knocked on his door. Through a friend, I’d agreed to spend time with him each week, tutoring him in English. I would up being a different sort of tutor altogether. And so did he.

Of course, I had an agenda of my own. I was a twenty-something in a soul-crushing cubicle job, lost and bewildered in the Big World of Pseudo-Adult Life. I was the falling leaf that drifts and turns in the air. And I had the ridiculous idea that I could absorb some manner of enlightenment, whatever I thought that meant, if I kept company with a Buddhist monk.

But enlightenment, whatever form it takes, seldom comes in the ways you expect.

My first surprise was that Arun didn’t plan to stay a monk for any longer than he absolutely had to. (I believe the status of his visa may have depended on his remaining in the saffron robes and continuing to preside at Nashville’s Cambodian Buddhist temple.) Like many young men in Southeast Asia, he’d gone into the monastery at 18 less for spiritual reasons than to honor his family and get an education. And that decision opened his world in ways he’d never imagined: he learned to read, came to America, and fell in love.

That was the second big surprise: he’d fallen for a married woman who was also looking for a way out of a difficult life; and that didn’t sit so well with the powers-that-be at his former monastery. He was promptly exiled to Nashville’s temple—which was actually just a dingy old ranch house just off Dickerson Pike, a few blocks from the temptations of XXX bookstores and other prurient entertainments.

We soon gave up on the “English lessons” and just commiserated—about relationships and life choices, like a couple of girlfriends. Soon I was cooking up all sorts of projects to cheer him up, not realizing that I was inadvertently causing him to break all manner of religious law and custom. For example:

1. I brought him some flowers to plant. He planted them, but then casually let it drop later that he wasn’t supposed to dig in the soil because he might inadvertently harm a worm or insect.

2. I took him out to lunch with my mom. This produced a series of transgressions—he wasn’t supposed to eat a meal after noon, I believe he said. And you should have seen his eyes light up when my mom lit up. He bummed a cigarette, and I realized that his corruption was nearly complete.

My favorite moment with Arun was an afternoon so perfect it’s almost impossible to describe. My friend Peter, a non-religious Jewish man who was studying Buddhist practice, came to visit. We spread a picnic out on the old wooden table in the front yard of the “temple.” And then, the two young Mormons dropped by.

Try to imagine the scene: two baby-faced Mormon missionaries attempting to engage a Buddhist monk, a total spiritual skeptic, and a Jewish Buddhist in religious debate. The young fellows’ work was cut out for them. By the end of the lively discussion, the Mormons had agreed that Arun, and anyone else, ought to be able to believe whatever they chose, as the five of us tossed a frisbee in the yard. Arun sat on the table, clapping his hands and giggling.

I knew the end of Arun’s monkhood was coming when I got the “smoking” call from him at work one afternoon. I picked up the phone, and heard his quiet voice saying, “I want to smoke.” Huh. What to say to that one. I had a hunch that what he really meant was, “I am lonely. I am bored. I crave something. I want to engage in, not renounce the world.” In less serious moments, he joked that he wanted to be a country singer, “like LeAnn Rimes.” Pretty un-monkly stuff.

Initially, I’m embarrassed to confess that I was a little bit disappointed by this turn of events. Having a Buddhist monk friend had a certain cache, I had to admit. I’d take him to Ultimate Frisbee practice and to Radnor Lake sometimes. People were drawn to him, fascinated, and this reinforced the air of studied eccentricity I was working so hard to cultivate.

But when the day came for Arun to move from the monastery into the world, I was happy for him. If he wanted to renounce renunciation, to embrace desire, I was all for it. And although I didn’t wind up achieving Nirvana (I know what you-re thinking, and no, I didn’t achieve that type of Nirvana with him, either), I have to admit: in some way that I can’t fully grasp, observing Arun’s path to his re-imagined life somehow freed my imagination to follow my own.

If you want to find out how, you’ll just have to read the full essay in HER Nashville.

“Seeking means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal.” ― Herman Hesse

Arun Visits Frisbee League - Note: We're *All* in Saffron

*Not his real name

If you are a person of sophisticated and delicate sensibilities, I advise you to click the back arrow now.

The setup: We’re at our friend Bubba’s house, tying into a cooler full of fresh oysters he’s just brought back from the Gulf. Hal (my husband, a private investigator) is telling a story about a domestic case he’s working: he’s just dropped off a pair of underwear at a laboratory for analysis. One of his clients wants to learn more about the substance therein, and the activities it might (or might not) suggest that his wife has recently enjoyed.

Hal’s cracking open oyster after oyster, each time spilling a little oyster juice onto his pants.

“You ought to send those pants to the lab for analysis,” says Bubba.

“‘Sir, we regret to inform you that you are a bivalve,’” says Hal.

And then Coke says, “You can’t run. But you can hide.”

Sheer, awe-inspiring genius.

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