Word: gothically
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...will, a broken-down beach town on a quietly nonspecific stretch of the East Coast. The town was once dominated by Cosey's Hotel and Resort, a swanky getaway with "more handsome single men per square foot than anyplace outside Atlanta." But Cosey's is now a Gothic ruin, and Bill Cosey, its handsome, charismatic playa-patriarch, is long dead...
...This tale of a monster emerging from the human mind and the international pursuit of a crumbling manuscript closely follows the canons of the 19th century Gothic novel. Yet Carey does right not to belabor his debt to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which haunts every page. Carey unfolds his plot in a Chinese-box construction of narration within narration, focusing mostly on Chubb's telling his story to Wode-Douglass in a hotel bar in K.L. It's a convention straight out of a Regency-era chiller: the aged friar revealing the horrid skeletons in the abbey closet...
Next to him, the major figure behind the Center was the great architect Raymond Hood, linchpin of the design team. Brilliant, charming and not infrequently pixilated, Hood was one of the pioneers in the transition from Gothic Revival and Beaux Arts skyscrapers to the sleek, mostly unadorned towers of the 1930s. Did Junior want his new buildings crowned with arcades, wreaths and maybe a nice pergola? You bet he did. But Hood, who died before the Center was completed, gave him, with the RCA Building, a modern masterpiece that Rockefeller never fully comprehended...
...enough leather products on display to immediately relaunch itself as Cambridge’s premier S&M supply store. As it is, however, the wall hangings do enough to convince doubtful patrons that the Midwest to which the title refers is not the repressed and repressive setting of American Gothic, but some exotic, mythical land in the Southern Hemisphere, where all falls secondary to the hedonistic pursuit of good meat...
...repertoire while retaining everything that made Castaways so endearing. Pre-Marxist revolutionary Colin Meloy is still penning dime-novel tales about dissolute seamen, WWI doughboys, a blindfolded “Jewess” and a rascally “chimbley sweep.” The songs verge on Gothic, but only in a literary sense—driven by nostalgia, they sound as if the Decemberists have never heard anything recorded after 1975, let alone a Cure record...