My next board

Two weeks ago tomorrow I attended the retirement of two of my professors at the UMD School of Architecture. It was a great event, filled with an entire cross section of the different eras of students that these two excellent human beings got to teach, over the past 30 years, and I owe much of my personal success to their prowess. I made sure I told them that, in the moments that I was able to steal to speak with them personally, as they were in great demand by the multitudes of former students who no doubt had similar sentiments.

The characteristic that always struck me about these men, in addition to their being extremely honest and blunt, was the security they had in their own personas. There were no airs, no sociopathic tendencies of self-centered egomania, no insecurities as to how they were perceived by others. They were true to themselves, and urged all of us to do the same.

It was a series of speakers in the late afternoon and a dinner in the main studio, with drinks at the traditional studio bar beforehand. The cool aspect of the studio space at UMD is that it is a double height space in the center, with two levels of studio and classroom space at the perimeter. The corridor serving the classrooms served as exhibit space for work presented as well as a viewing space into the studios below, a dynamic space to be sure. Legend has it that when the school was designed the double height space, which is not efficient use of campus building resources, was to be a "lab" for full height wall sections and the building of construction detail mock-ups. Other than the full size bar for Friday post studio happy hours and the annual monstrosity of construction of "sets" for the thematic Beaux Arts Ball, it really was a large gathering space for the community that we were in.

As it turned out, the pieces of various communities were there two weeks ago to celebrate the careers of these two remarkable men, and the school had urged us to show them what we had done in our careers. We were asked to feature some of our work in a format that they asked us to use, for continuity of display, and the night before the party I created my 24" x 24" board of some of the work I've done in the past 16 years of practicing architecture. Doesn't do justice to try to compress that amount of work in a small board, but it was a cool exercise and got me to think about what my next board will look like in 15 years. The exercise itself was a great way to turn a page and reset my attitude a bit. Thanks Ralph and Karl for everything.

Speaking of resetting, I almost reset my hand through a wall tonight, after spending 4 hours fixing our washing machine. We made the mistake of sticking a $10 Ikea rug in the wash this week, not knowing that when the rubber backing of such Swedish tapestry encounters water it transmogrifies into approximately 2,100,456 rubber particles of the exact size to wreak havoc on the filtration and pumping systems of front load washing machines. I know this now because after spending a buck fifty on an appliance repair dude today we were presented with the same sopping mess of the remaining particulation that he was not able to extract on his site visit. He warned us that this may happen. So I call him on a Friday evening, and he walked me through the repair, not knowing for sure if I would just throw my hands up in the air and call him back to finish the repair himself.

It was really a case of disconnecting some hoses, cleaning out debris, and reconnecting. It was the reconnecting that almost did me in. Spring clamps are quite simple, unless you're trying to connect hoses/piping that require one to be triple jointed and sporting an extra hand. After much gnashing of teeth and expletives, I did what any mature male would do.

I laid on the floor and wept. Not really, but I was frustrated. I did lay on the floor, though.

It finally all came together and laundry is now humming. Fixing laundry machines won't be on my next board, but at least I finished something this week.

Massimilliano

The Giro d'Italia is on its final week, and what a race it's shaping up to be. Even though I'm not riding much lately, the bike is still a part of me. It's the whole reason I started this blog, as a matter of fact.

My family often makes reference to how many bikes I own, so here's the official story:

When I was a teenager I rode around my village in the Philippines on my Schwinn Caliente (with the revolutionary, at the time, Front Freewheel system), dreaming of cycling glory as an Olympic sprinter. Lest anyone think I was actually in a "village" in the wild, it was a gated community wedged between horrible slums, a sprawling outdoor mall shopping complex and expressways with wicked traffic, the likes I have never seen since leaving the islands. Metro Manila is legendary for its congestion, sprawl, and pollution, and it's no longer a pleasant city (but it sure was fun as a teenager).

When I got back stateside, I bought a Peugeot PH10S with a Maillard "Helicomatic" freewheel, an impressive machine for a 17 year old. I thought I was the dude, what with my esoteric French machine, and considered myself quite the cyclist. Little did I know that there were kids like Greg Lemond and Andy Hampsten on the other side of the country who really were something, and I was nothing. As I got to understand racing, I put on a set of 32 hole Sun hoops with some Avocet baldies and I felt like it was a whole new bike. Pretty soon I was "spinning" and before I knew it I became a full fledged elitist bike snob.

Enter the era of my workhorse ride, my Cilo 600 Aelle. I bought it from a local shop, and shared the tragic memory of the dude who sold me the bike here. It was a great bike, and I logged many miles on it for about 5 years, until I bought a Serotta Nova SL in lieu of an engagement ring for my wife to be. Let's just say she didn't really appreciate that but she stuck with me, a feat of strength that awes me to this day. My Serotta was sweet, but, as my wife so aptly put it, was the "glamour girl" as opposed to the "girl next door" Cilo. And if anyone knows me, girl next door is much more my style. Even hanging a different manufacturer for every component, while gimmicky, didn't really make it as nice a ride as the Cilo. I raced on it for a couple of years and hung it up after I started architecture school. Somewhere in there I joined the mountain bike rage and bought a bright yellow Specialized RockHopper.

While I worked at College Park Bicycles during arch school, I built enough wheels one summer to earn a ride of my choice, and I chose a Specialized StumpJumper FS, a beautiful hardtail that now sits in pieces in my crawlspace, as I had to cannibalize it to build my first cyclocross bike. But I'm jumping ahead. Before I chopped up this MTB, I quit riding altogether for about 13 years.

I got fat.

After designing a house addition for my friend, I entered the carbon fiber realm and was back on a Giant Cadex, then bought a Look KG461, after which I burned more cash on my Eddy Merckx CHM (dream bike since I started reading Winning Magazine), and built an Outback 'cross bike with cannibalized bits until settling on a cheap sweet Raleigh RX1 (not glam) 'cross bike that does the trick. The preceding sentence includes a life change of 30+ lbs weight loss, a far better overall attitude, and loyal patronage of a local business since 2003. Supporting the local shop is what I like to do. The Cadex has become my fixie (built a wheel with a cool ENO eccentric hub to convert the vert dropout into a usable fixed gear machine), which I don't ride nearly enough.

Throughout this entire thread I found that I needed to disabuse myself of the notion that I was any good, as my racing career features no podiums and a scant 3rd place in a training race, among equal amounts of pack finishes and DNF's. So you'll never see my name on any top whatever lists, other than the lower half of BikeReg results listings.

There is a silver lining, though. I discovered that my namesake races for some lower level pro Italian squad and actually gets results. Sometimes he even shows up in CyclingNews, and is quoted, even. In some cases, his team actually depends on his skills. And his name is Massimilliano, to boot. With alliteration like that, what's not to like? And this guy's a true paisan, not some third generation paper tiger like me. I have been tracking this man's results, as it will give me the faint impression that my name can be synonymous with a cycling career, even though the resemblance is non-existent, except for the fact that he has limbs and a head, just like me.

He's not in the Giro d'Italia, this year, though. Even after a concerted effort to "let him ride" before last year's Giro. Pity.

Rockin' the red

Last year, when my favorite hockey team clambered back into a semblance of a playoff team, with hope springing eternal and fans jumping back on the bandwagon, the marketing wizards foisted this catchphrase on us. In tandem with the back to the futuristic retro logo and color scheme, rockin' the red was what we did. Now they're playing golf, and this phrase takes on a different meaning.

As I emerged from the waters of Lake Holiday this weekend, my friend Mike (and host of the weekend festivities) looked at me and said "You're rockin' the red!" He was referring to my pronounced torso, which used to be a pasty, doughy color. It is now bright red due to the fact that my first foray into summer sun is, without fail, sans sunscreen, save for the obligatory wave at my neck and (maybe) my shoulders. While I snoozed on the fine white sand (trucked in from afar, as it is a "beach" on a lake) on Sunday, I was encouraged by various members of the entourage to apply some sunscreen. As I hate to be disturbed in the onerous task of ensuring that a maximum number of sandy particles maintain their position under my prone form, I lazily slathered on some sunscreen on my chest. The resultant "tan" is an amoeba-shaped island in an angry sea of crimson. If I had really been on my game I would have cut out some concentric circles out of construction paper and carefully placed them on my belly to see if I could generate some publicity for Target. Family beach vacation is only 10 weeks or so away. It's good to have goals.

This Memorial Day weekend was quite relaxing, though, as we hung out with Mike's family and another family at their house on Lake Holiday, which is north of Winchester VA. In years past I would take this opportunity to bring the Eddy with me to ride in some real hills while everyone was frolicking in the water, but this year I just didn't get it together. I've been riding pretty consistently for 5 years--I've taken quite a long break (almost 6 months) from a cycling routine, which is too long, really, but clearly necessary because I'm just now figuring out that I want to get back on the bike again. Last time I gave up riding competitively I pretty much gave up riding altogether...for 13 years. Won't happen this time.

What's cool about these friends, though, is that we've known them for years in the context of our kids: school, sports, scouts. Beyond that we've gotten to be close, and we begin to influence each other's lives in subtle ways. Growing up with friends from childhood and through our earlier (pre relationship/marriage/kid) years, the influences are much more overt. The reason I can strum a guitar almost competently is because I've spent enough time with Mike while hanging out at games and school events and parties to understand that it's never too late to start something new. Mike is a talented dude, and he makes the things he does seem rather easy, so I find it less daunting to try these things myself. To try to start something that you've always wanted to do takes you back to an earlier time in life, when things were more exciting because the future was less known. Even now the future is still always unknown, but we've established patterns that set our routines in ways that can be stultifying, so learning how to play a guitar (something I've always wanted to do but never did) is now a pleasant adventure.

Floating in a canoe on a fresh water lake with whichever of the nine kids is along, hanging on for dear life on the Super Mable as we're being dragged across the lake at upwards of 25 MPH, cooking and eating ginormous amounts of food and drink with friends who feel like family, cleaning up the aftermath of an overflowing toilet with these same good people, watching all the little people battle it out on the docks with super-soakers while we sit on the deck and soak it all in, creaming the house champion at Wii Super Mario race something or other, sitting on the beach with a cold one in hand...all of this makes for a memorable Memorial Day weekend. So much so that I don't think I thought about work once, other than to tell some stories.

I can almost play "Drunken Angel" by Lucinda Williams now after watching Mike play it last night. I may be feeling the effects of rockin' the red this weekend, but it was worth it.

Moving on

We had just finished some soft toss drills, fielding drills, showing the kids how to slide into bases without killing themselves, and the obligatory baserunning to end practice last night. I kept everyone busy and moving through the action to take my mind off the fact that I was missing the first period of Game 7, in which the Caps would vanquish the Pens and move on to the conference finals. I was wearing my Backstrom shirt (not jersey--no way am I shelling out 2 1/2 bills for an oversize sweater), a red beacon on the green field.

When we ended practice the kids gathered round my phone as I pulled up the score, only to see my face fall as it read 2-0 Pens after the first period. We gathered the equipment, scattered home, and by the time I walked in the house (about 1/4 mile from the field), it was already 4-0 and Varly was on the bench. 5-0 5 minutes later. Game, series, season over 3 goals ago. Brutal.

During the post-game shake Ovie told his arch nemesis Sid that he hoped they would go on and win the Cup. Little did I know how much this small sentiment represented an attitude shift that I experienced earlier in the week.

The reason I love hockey above almost every other sport, despite the fact that I've never played it and can hardly skate 10 strides without hugging the boards is because of the immense respect that these guys have for each other despite the naked and chilling aggression that they display on the ice while the competition is on. Winners shake hands with losers at the end of each series in a manner that is not customary in most sports, save international pro soccer matches, when they actually exchange jerseys.

In the past the Penguins have always seemed to have the Caps number, especially in the playoffs, an irritation that has grown into an unhealthy anger on my part toward the team of my father's home city. I actually start enjoying hockey less because I'm focusing on wishing that teams would lose rather than win--if my team can't get there, why should anyone else? That's just bitter thinking, and in the end it's really not that important, just a diversion in the grand scheme of things.

I realized that through understanding this dynamic that some negative vibes that I have been immersed in at work really don't have to be that way. In my ongoing relationship with my business partners I have developed an unhealthy anger with one of them based on some historic patterns that have developed after working 14 years together. On Tuesday a simple request on his part became a dispute that had me questioning why I was doing this anymore, a sentiment that has entered my mind many times of late. I brought home my unpleasantness to share with my family, a sure way to win more friends and influence people. In the past I resort to getting on my bike to work out this angst, but lately that hasn't been a mechanism to work these things out, for some unknown reason (that's part of the problem). Instead of keeping this bottled up, I decided to write my partner a personal email to air some stuff out. I've always thought that these types of emails are risky, because they could be misinterpreted blah blah blah but this one flowed and felt right, so I hit "send" without regret.

It's as if a new page has turned since Tuesday. Everything is cool now. I realized that the layers of negativity had clouded my perspective and taken out the joy of what I do. Simple things--I haven't been enjoying what I have and have been worrying about what's unimportant.

So the Caps had a great season, went farther in the playoffs than last year, and lost to a better team, who deserves to go all the way. The rest of the playoffs will be incredible.

Go Pens go. Never thought I'd utter those words.

Good luck charm

Her head was adorned with peach fuzz, and since she’s a "hot sleeper", her little chrome dome warmed my cheek as I listened on the radio as the Caps beat the Sabres to move on to the Stanley Cup Finals in May of 1998. She was my good luck charm, parked on my chest, snoozing while I fretted, no bigger than a large loaf of bread.

Now she is tall and athletic, long blond hair, and a quick wit. She knows EXACTLY how to bother her brother, as all little sisters do so proficiently. She wears her Backstrom t-shirt when the Caps games are on and understands the game unlike many her age. Last time the Caps won a playoff series, she was portable. Now she scoots around the neighborhood to hang with her friends, she closes gaps on the soccer field with astonishing speed, and elementary school is almost in her rear view mirror.

Caps are up 2-0 against the Pen-goons. She may not watch all the games with me, but when she does, they tend to win. Coincidence? I think not.

It's been a while...

since I’ve posted, a direct result of ennui and entropy, a sure fire guarantee for listless living, lately. I didn’t mean to alliterate (twice), but it just came out that way.

I’m now out of my funk that began late last summer, at least I think I am. I was sitting at the SF airport when I first wrote this, waiting for my flight home from the AIA Convention. Last time I wrote in an introspective way I was in LA with Karen, about 6 weeks ago. It was that trip that sparked the idea of this trip. I’ve been practicing architecture for 15 years, immersed in it for almost 20, and have rarely justified the time or expense that is required for me to look outside myself and learn from this incredibly rich and robust group of people.

Let’s just say that now I’m jazzed, and I see the opportunity to act upon some inspiration that has been revealed to me by scraping away the layers of bad juju that have accumulated over time, due to myopia and pessimistic thinking. I can already feel those dominoes starting to fall and by this time next month I will have finished the bathroom, added on a porch, lost 20 pounds, landscaped the entire yard, written a bestseller, and saved the economy. Not to mention learn how to make sushi.

Goals are nice, no?