Desperate weeks produce disastrous results. Summer’s guarantee to send I.Q.’s plummeting is in full swing, so this week at the movies, the choices were robots running amok; Will Ferrell battling dinosaurs in an alternate universe called the Hollywood back lot; various wolverines, terminators and ossified Star Trek Xeroxes; and another night trapped in yet another museum with Ben Stiller. I’d rather take my chances exposed to swine flu.

So I looked elsewhere for what I hoped would be something different. What I found were What Goes Up, Pontypool and Drag Me to Hell (For Rex Reed’s review please visit observer.com)—three low-budget horrors bad enough to send a sane person searching for a bargain weekend in Romania overlooking a mudslide. Two of them I am lumping together, because frankly, I can’t make up my mind which one is worse. What Goes Up features a sub-mental script and paralytic direction (both by Jonathan Glatzer, a name to erase forever from your Facebook) about a cynical reporter named Babbitt (Steve Coogan) who becomes so obsessed writing columns about the fictional achievements of a girlfriend who committed suicide that to get rid of him, his exasperated editor exiles him to the frozen wastes of a hamlet in New Hampshire to get a human-interest story on Christa McAuliffe, the teacher-turned-astronaut in the fatal 1986 Challenger mission. (It is not clear whether she has already crashed and burned, or if she’s still waiting to launch, but it doesn’t seem to matter.) This hinge rusts instantly, since Babbitt is more interested in looking up an old school chum who also teaches in the same high school. Wouldn’t you know this popular professor-slash-priest has recently jumped to his death from the top of a building, leaving behind a homeroom full of the most dysfunctional students since Columbine.

Forgetting all about Christa McAuliffe, whose story might have been the basis of a movie worth making, Babbitt (the pun is probably intended) goes for the students instead, uncovering such juicy tidbits (and sharing them with whichever part of the audience is still awake) as a strange girl who was in love with the dead teacher; a randy boy whose mother catches him having anal sex with a crippled classmate; a sexually frustrated choir mistress–slash–volleyball coach; and a peeping Tom who masturbates while watching a woman breast-feeding a newborn baby. The only thing any of this has to do with Christa McAuliffe is that it takes place while the school is staging a musical called Blast Off! In the end, Babbitt, who shows no indication of talent throughout the entire film, wins the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. Glatzer and his writing partner, Robert Lawson, trap a nice cast in deadly material. Hilary Duff and Molly Shannon are the only recognizable names in the hapless supporting roll call. Too bad they’ve been given nothing of any consequence to do. Without a trace of tempo or one shred of narrative pacing, What Goes Up is not really a movie; it’s the cheapest kind of amateurishness that looks like it was shot with a cell phone.

It gets worse. Next to a fermented Canadian mess called Pontypool, the dismal What Goes Up begins to look like a classic. The title of this avant-garde fiasco refers to the name of a town in the middle of nowhere that means “something’s gonna happen.” Nothing ever does (it’s a Canadian movie, after all), but on this foul-weather day a sleazy early morning shock jock in a cowboy hat named Grant Mazzy (played by Stephen McHattie, who looks like moldy rye bread) includes in his usual marathon babble a police report about a shootout with a group of ice fishermen who are all drunk and reportedly talking gibberish, running around stark naked waving dismembered body parts. In “major breaking news,” traumatized people riot outside a doctor’s office only five kilometers away from the radio station, which broadcasts from a church basement. The local populace seems to be going mad and killing each other, contaminating each other with some mysterious flesh-eating virus and then committing suicide. It’s only a matter of time before they attack the radio station while the pretty production assistant slams her head against the glass control-room partition and sprays the walls with a jet spray of blood and pus. Clearly, maverick director Bruce McDonald thinks he’s making a new-wave zombie movie, but none of the elements add up to anything more than pretentious confusion. For one thing, the virus is spread through words, resulting in the kind of jabberwocky that makes experimental ninth-grade creative writing classes sound like The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. “Should we be talking about this? What are we talking about? Should we be talking at all?” If it wasn’t so boring, the dialogue would be a laugh a minute. The acting is so abominable that the cast is better off unmentioned. Like most Canadian movies (this is a rude generalization that I have learned, through time and experience, is worth making), it has no tension, meter or structure, and is utterly pointless. Worse, as the vandalism, looting, mass panic and chewing of human livers spreads across Canada, the movie never shows anything it describes. It just focuses on the endless blabber of the people inside the radio station experiencing seizures. Leaving, I overheard one head-scratching viewer moan, “That’s another hour and a half of my life I’m never going to get back.” One man calls it genocide with elevator music, but to me Pontypool is nothing more than a creepy way to get even with Don Imus.

rreed@observer.com

Variety reports:

But this fall, a sign was posted to the entrance, dated Sept. 15, announcing that the pet spa had been “forced out” of its lease.

In fact, the departure of WoofSpa from the meatpacking district was the culmination of a prolonged legal struggle with its landlord over tens of thousands of dollars in unpaid rent, as well as numerous regulatory violations and customer complaints of less-than-luxurious animal accommodations.

WoofSpa owner Keith Acker, who on more than one occasion during the life of his business spoke to trend-spotting reporters eager for pampered-pooch stories featuring him, wouldn’t comment on the shuttering.

“Neither I or WoofSpa will be responding to or commenting on your inquiries,” he wrote in an e-mail to The Observer.

But an attorney for the building’s management, acknowledging the legal struggle with the business, said that WoofSpa had not been evicted.

“They just got up and left,” he said.

The sudden shuttering came as little surprise to some disgruntled patrons, who became dissatisfied with the upscale dog-hotel.

“With the fake Le Corbusier sofas and fake Warhols, it was very much geared toward the West Village aesthetic done doggie-style,” said one neighborhood dog owner and former client, who wanted her name—and that of her precious pooch—withheld. “Keith really tapped into something, knowing that there was a certain comfort level that us West Village–meatpacking [district]–Chelsea residents felt in leaving our dogs somewhere stylish.”

Conversations with several patrons revealed that however luxurious-looking the place may have been, a kennel is still finally an indoor place where lots of dogs spend lots of time; dogs with rich owners, it turns out, don’t smell any better than the less fortunate of their species, making the prospect of an upscale kennel seem, at best, paradoxical.

And indeed, beyond its chic-looking lobby, behind the large black doors, the style-conscious anonym (and several other visitors) described a backroom with cages and fenced-in playpens more typical of a traditional shelter.

In the center of its cement floor, they remember seeing a large drain reminiscent of a communal shower.

For months, she reported no problems while her little dog “hung out in the lobby every day on the leather sofas and looked out the window,” she said. “He loved it there.”

But one day, her dog was bit in the face by another dog. And though WoofSpa employees responsibly rushed the pup to the vet and even covered its medical bills, she wasn’t pleased to hear that her dog’s attacker was also readmitted to WoofSpa.

Then, one day in the summer of 2004, she was tipped off by an internal WoofSpa whistleblower that her precious pooch had been caged up and locked in a closet in the back, with no water. Sure enough, that’s how she found him. She demanded her money back and vowed to never return.

Ever since, she and another dog owner—whose pet was also confined to the same closet—have referred to the place as “doggie Abu Ghraib.”

“You hear bad stories about all of them,” she said of dog-care providers in general. “But I’ve never heard WoofSpa-caliber stories about any place else.”

Another less frequent WoofSpa patron, Mary Ann Puccia, said she swore off the place after just two visits. The second time she came to pick up her tiny Papillon, she said, employees couldn’t immediately recall what they’d done with him. It turned out that her pet had been stuck inside his zippered carrier and stashed behind the reception desk.

“God knows how long he’d been in there! He may very well have been in there since the moment I dropped him off before 9 o’clock in the morning, and it was after 6 when I picked him up,” said Ms. Puccia, adding that it appeared her pup hadn’t been fed, either.

“The food container in the side of the bag was still there,” she continued. “All these huge dogs—including a malamute—were loitering and sniffing around his bag when I picked him up. The other dogs were probably sniffing out the food.

“Ever since that experience, he’s a maniac in his carrier,” she added. “It was very traumatic.”

Jordan Kaplan, owner of the Petaholics dog-walking and sitting service, has heard many similar WoofSpa tales.

“New Yorkers have a very high expectation of how they want their pets treated,” said Mr. Kaplan. “But, with that being said, this was just far and above any other companies that we were hearing about. Just a lot of bad news. Not just one disgruntled client, but a lot of people.”

Despite the negative pet-community chatter, WoofSpa was never once reported to the Humane Law Enforcement Office of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a private entity that routinely investigates complaints of animal abuse throughout the state.

But WoofSpa’s record with city regulators is not so uneventful.

In 2004, the Department of Health and Mental Hygiene cited WoofSpa for lacking the very permit necessary to operate a pet-care facility. The business eventually got one, according to a health-department spokesperson. But the business also went on to rack up multiple citations for its employees lacking the proper animal-care certification, as well as for regularly failing to file the required self-inspection reports.

WoofSpa was further hounded by Department of Buildings, which sent inspectors there at least four times and issued two citations for “illegal use of space for dog kennel.”

Zoning regulations, it turns out, don’t allow for dog-boarding facilities in residential and most commercial districts, classifying such places in the same category as human crematoriums, “[p]oultry or rabbit killing establishments,” and other semi-industrial enterprises that involve “offensive noise” and “odorous matter.”

Of course, no self-respecting Manhattan pet-care center would ever market itself as a “kennel,” even though many do provide overnight accommodations for mutts en masse.

“We tend to not shun that word, but we don’t like to toss it around because we’re really not a ‘kennel’ atmosphere,” said Rachel Deichman, manager of WoofSpa rival Biscuits & Bath in Greenwich Village, a self-described “cage-free facility” that instead provides “glass-enclosed corrals” for pets that stay the night.

For WoofSpa, the Building Department’s insulting “kennel” designation initially amounted to only a $400 fine, city records show. But the issue did come back to bite the dysfunctional doggie-care center during legal proceedings earlier this year.

As the landlord moved to evict WoofSpa over more than $40,000 in unpaid rent—which Mr. Acker attributed to adjacent construction driving off his customers with noxious fumes and vermin spillover—a lawyer representing the building’s condo owners further strengthened the case for removal by pointing out how WoofSpa’s “use of the premises is in violation of the zoning regulations,” according to court papers.

On July 31, the WoofSpa and its landlord reached an agreement to keep Mr. Acker in business so long as he made weekly payments of more than $12,000 to pay back his debt. He further pledged to operate “in accord with all zoning regulations.”

A month and half later, the WoofSpa moved out, leaving behind a pile of boxes and chewed-up furniture on the sidewalk, as well as a sign indicating that management was planning on “re-establishing our business in a new location.” (Calls to a posted cell-phone number were not returned.)

Real-estate broker Faith Hope Consolo, who’s now marketing the former WoofSpa space, declined to comment on Mr. Acker’s abrupt exit but said she expects the next retail tenant to be “more typical of the neighborhood.”

Me on page 292 of Modern Bride's summer issue.

I shared an elevator with event planning rockstar Preston Bailey (who told my Aunt Kim that she "was really workin' it" with her dress), met Molly Shannon's videographer, which was a bit of serendipity since we hired Molly Shannon's photographer Teness Herman.

Best of all I got this gorgeous, heavy crystal award for being an "innovative trendsetter" on the one year anniversary, to the day, of the launch of my business. Color me flattered to the nth degree. There were no
tear filled speeches or dancing showgirls, but here are some other highlights and observations of the evening:

* "Business chic" (listed on the invitation) resulted in everything from jeans to a ball gown.

* Though I fully expected to hate Starr Jones, in person she was actually funny and gave a very sweet speech before presenting her event planner David Tutera with his award.

* Ashleigh Banfield is one kick ass dancer. She's a great reporter too, but man can this chick rock out.

* A sweet woman named Brooke, from Macy's Bridal Marketing Department, called me out on my blogging and offered us any registry help we need. Wow, people really read this!

* Trista and Ryan (from The Bachelorette) are still together! I was going to chat with Trista (who was a presenter) because her wedding was at The Lodge at Rancho Mirage, where our guests are going to stay. I had an opportunity on the way back from the bathroom but I chickened out.

* For any brides who are lucky enough to have the cash to consider a wedding at the Ritz Carlton Battery Park, the food was divine, the views were spectacular and the bathrooms were kick ass.

* We got a 17 pound gift bag, with all sorts of wonderful goodies, but my favorite was the red velvet cupcake from Cakeman Raven (another one of the honorees). For me, there's nothing like coming home, kicking my shoes off and hunkering down with a dee-licious cupcake. (Does anyone wonder why I'm always bitching that I need to lose weight?)

Well, I'm a Modern Bride trendsetter. You just never know.

Bruce Ehrmann, a broker with Stribling and Associates, who sold Ms. Shannon the property, declined to comment on the buyer's identity. A spokesperson for Ms. Shannon also declined to comment on the purchase.

Ms. Shannon's three-bedroom apartment has full city views, marble baths and a balcony. The $22 million, 10-story building, which was completed in 2003, is just one of the many new developments that have sprouted up along the wind-swept blocks of Manhattan's lower West Side. It occupies what was originally a Renaissance Revival warehouse built in 1905 for the wine importer Julius Wile. SHoP (the architects behind the Rector Street Bridge and the winning design for a 56,000-square-foot flagship academic building at the Fashion Institute of Technology) topped the historic structure with a futuristic four-story addition featuring a zinc-and-glass façade illuminated by rows of vertical lights.

The big purchase follows on the heels of the debut of Ms. Shannon's Fox sitcom Cracking Up , in which she stars as the eccentric housewife Lesley Shackleton opposite Rushmore star and Coppola clan member Jason Schwartzman. The show was created by Mike White, the screenwriter who penned Jack Black's winning lines in School of Rock as well as the indie hit The Good Girl starring Jennifer Aniston.

In 1995, Ms. Shannon landed on SNL and immediately charmed audiences with her socially awkward comedy and ranting characters known for their effusive outbursts. She went on to a series of film roles, including appearances in American Splendor , Shallow Hal and Never Been Kissed .

In March 2003, the Ohio native got engaged to the artist Fritz Chesnut, and the two will now take advantage of the apartment's third bedroom, as they recently welcomed a new member to the clan-a daughter who was born in September.

Actor and producer Mitchell Lichtenstein, the son of the pioneering Pop artist Roy Lichtenstein, has doubled his Greenwich Village real-estate holdings with the purchase of a red-brick, five-story townhouse at 120 West 12th Street, city records show. Late last year, Mr. Lichtenstein, 48, purchased a 6,049-square-foot townhouse for $2.65 million right next-door to his current residence, a townhouse at 118 West 12th Street that he purchased for $8.8 million in 1997.

The actor-who appeared throughout the 80's and 90's in programs like Cheers , Miami Vice and Law and Order -shares his stomping grounds with such notable neighbors as Diane von Furstenberg, Gwyneth Paltrow and her Coldplay rocker beau, Chris Martin.

"This opportunity came up, and he took it," said broker Joseph Pollaci, an associate at D.G. Hart Associates, who sold Mr. Lichtenstein the building. Mr. Pollaci said he was unaware if Mr. Lichtenstein plans to unload his other residence at 118 West 12th Street, or combine the two into one massive townhouse.

Mr. Lichtenstein could not be reached for comment.

The 23-foot-wide townhouse, which evidently is in great need of some T.L.C., was owned by St. Vincent's Church before Mr. Lichtenstein snapped it up. It was configured with a garden/parlor-level duplex, two floor-through apartments upstairs and a fifth-floor studio with a roof deck. If Mr. Lichtenstein does plan a renovation, he shouldn't be left wanting for artistic inspiration, considering his lineage. Roy Lichtenstein passed away in 1997, but his boldly colored creations continue to grace the city's public spaces, from his Times Square subway mural depicting intergalactic spaceship transport to his sculptures installed around City Hall.

Recent Transactions in the Real Estate Market

Midtown

Three-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bathroom condo.

Asking: $8.5 million. Selling: $6.5 million.

Taxes: $4,743. Charges: $2,317.

Time on the market: five months.

INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF MAGNATES In recent years, the lobbies of midtown's soaring condo buildings-from the Millennium Tower to the Metropolitan Tower-have been filled with the melodies of foreign languages as well-heeled international flocked to these developments, which offer luxurious Manhattan living without the stress of the thorny Park Avenue co-op boards that have long shunned buyers with foreign bank accounts. So when the Greek shipping magnate who owned this lavish 4,200-square-foot penthouse on the 53rd floor of Central Park Place-the 300-unit tower on the corner of Eighth Avenue and 57th Street-returned to Greece with his family, it is perhaps not surprising that he rented the apartment to another expat, a South American industrialist. Last year, the Greek gentleman decided that he wanted to cash out, and the renter decided to purchase the place. "It's the largest of the four penthouses in the building," said Nancy Tela, an associate broker at Cooper Square Sales and Leasing Corp. who represented the seller. "And you get Central Park views to the north and Hudson River views as well." The buyer now owns a slice of midtown in a fashionable building that counts Goldie Hawn as a resident. The full-floor apartment offers 360-degree views, two 750-square-foot terraces and a kitchen with top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances. The amenities continue throughout the building and include a health spa (with a pool, sauna and steam room), a roof terrace and a party room.

Chelsea

323 West 21st Street

Four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom firehouse.

Asking: $4.295 million. Selling: $4.45 million.

Time on the market: five months.

HOT PROPERTY Why own a townhouse when you can have your very own firehouse? Ten years ago, this four-story, 8,000-square-foot firehouse, which was built in 1864, was converted into a luxurious residential property with a ground-floor duplex and a pair of two-bedroom apartments on the upper floors, one with a 1,000-square-foot terrace. Since its conversion, the 25-foot-wide red-brick firehouse and its ivy-covered façade have been featured in the pages of Architectural Digest and New York Living. "It's really one of the most unique properties in Manhattan," said Elissa Slan, a vice president at Douglas Elliman who had the exclusive listing on the property. The new owners, a doctor and his wife, purchased the building as an investment and plan to continue renting out the apartments. In prior years, the firehouse has drawn such tenants as John Wells, the producer behind the Academy Award–nominated Far from Heaven and the Robin Williams thriller One Hour Photo as well as TV hits, including ER and The West Wing . The building's main draw, though, is the 4,600-square-foot duplex that's outfitted with a solarium, an open kitchen and a loft-like living space with maple floors. The duplex has four bedrooms, three and a half baths and-a rarity for Manhattan-a private 700-square-foot garage that's entered through arched wooden doors.

Brooklyn Heights

138 Remsen Street

Two-bedroom, one-bathroom co-op.

Asking: $450,000. Selling: $475,000.

Maintenance: $750;

47 percent tax-deductible.

Time on the market: six months.

TRAVEL BUG MAKES SELLER ITCHY After living in this renovated brownstone co-op for the past three years, the owner, a single woman who worked in finance, decided that she'd had her fill of the frenzied New York lifestyle and was ready to spread her wings. So she left behind her 960-square-foot apartment and headed off for a year-long sojourn in India. And we thought Brooklyn was supposed to be relaxing! "She's traveling for a year; she wanted to get away," said her broker, Cheryl Nielsen-Saaf, a senior vice president at the Corcoran Group. This isn't the first time the seller has caught the travel bug. Before landing on her tree-lined Remsen Street block, the travel-savvy owner had spent a long stretch exploring South America. The buyers, a journalist and his wife, who works in the fashion industry, had been renting nearby and were ready to own in the neighborhood. "They were first-time buyers. One of the things they liked about the apartment is that they didn't need to do a thing. It was completely renovated," Ms. Saaf said. Indeed, the thirtysomethings will now enjoy such features as 14-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors and a modern kitchen with a dishwasher. And to make Brooklyn living even easier, the building has four parking spaces behind the building. Linda Wolff, a senior associate at the Corcoran Group, represented the buyers.