Which Knucklehead Designed This One? And Where Does He Live?

As a near-perfect example of Post-Modern fashion-victim architecture, out of style decades before it was even built, it ought to be hard to top this one.  Ought to be, but it won't be, unfortunately.  Squished imperiously into a really lively part of Paris' 18th Arrondissement, it looks like a parody of a building — and that's before the prisoners who get sentenced to live there even show up —  but plainly that's what _____________, the arrogant ass who "designed" it intended all along.  After all, he doesn't have to live in it, and then watch it stain the neighborhood.

But hey!   Enough of the typical ineffectual carping, of the usual ex post facto frustration.  Let's play that exciting new real-life game: Blame The Architect!  

All you have to do to play is: First, let's find out the name of the architect.  Name the over-bearing, over-educated asshole who very likely never even visited this neighborhood until his soul-destroying ego-trip shoved its way in, spreading and spilling "architect blight" all around  like rat poison in a shiny new box.

Then, once we learn the name of the architect, let's get his phone number, and we can call him up and ask him all kinds of fun questions.  Like, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

And "How come your building seems so damn determined to damage a really vibrant place?" "Do you really hate other people that much?"   "How do you sleep at night?"   Questions like that.

Of course, he may not be inclined to answer, mainly because you're asking him reasonable questions in sensible language rather than Architect Cant or Auto-Aestheti-Speak.  Thus, you're a phillistine.  With no right to ask questions, or even question his taste's extraordinary superiority.   So sit down, shut up, and get steam-rollered.  That's the way this dance is  meant to be done.  At least that's what the architects think.