I’m tired of all of this.


I want to fully appreciate what I have.
I want to be happy with who I am.
I want my parents to be happy.
I want to make good decisions.
I want to stop being dependant.

I want to be happy with who I am.

I want my roommate to stop referring to our front room as "Club’Red" (and whatever the hell that cutesy apostrophe shit is supposed to mean).

Say bye to this blog. It goes away Sunday. It serves no purpose.

Email me at architortured at gmail dot com. IM me at sloglo13. Thanks for the laughs.

-Matt

I got a bad haircut today.

Not like, "Oh, it’ll grow out in a week or so" bad. This is a bona fide, grade A premium bad haircut. Quite probably as bad as the infamous $4 haircut I got at the barber school in SLO.

Except I paid $11 for it.

I’m not going there again, even if they do have the cheapest haircut in Old Town.


...but the real question is: do I wear a hat for the next two weeks, or no? I’m going with yes, even if I do look like a bigger idiot than usual.

Nothing is more romantic than making glue with your loved one.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I am taking a photography class this semester. Last night, class let out at around 1030PM. We learned how to make prints from negatives.

Then I spent five hours in a darkroom. I came out with nine pictures, none of them great -- but I had used up over half a box (one hundred sheets) of paper.

The entire process is incredible. First, to develop the negatives; but then, to go into a dark room, and dodge, and burn -- moving my hands above the projected image, I felt as though I was sculpting light. I could see myself wanting to do this much more, which scares me a little.

It feels like something is missing, but I can’t name it.

So, I found this great book upstairs in the library called ’Disjecta Membra: Architecture and the Loss of the Body.’ It was printed in 1998 in Austrailia.

I looked for it for a few months.

Finally, I found the email address of the guy who wrote it (Michael Ostwald), a professor of architecture at a university in Austrailia. I told him I had been looking for it, and he offered to send me two copies. Holy crap!

Granted, it means some scholar / stranger in Austrailia now has my home address, but I’m a sucker for books.

I’m excited.

I just had one of the worst interviews of my less-than-illustrious career.

You know that part in Trainspotting when Spud has the interview with the travel agents? And there are three of them sitting around a table, and Spud is whacked out on junk? It was like that, but the three agents were rolled into one guy, named Dennis or Mike or something, and instead of junk, I was rolling on a bran bar.

Plus, they didn’t have any desks left in the office.
Plus, I didn’t bring my portfolio.

Let this be a lesson.

Hang the DJ.

So, I finished yesterday! Somewhat.

I got a bunch of good comments about my project. Some very flattering things were said (such as, "I have never seen an architecture project more closely deal with the position of the body as it related to the architecture and surroundings"). I had some comments on my bad habits! -- "Matt, we can’t talk about your project inteligently if you don’t". (I get nervous when I speak to groups... it went poorly in the beginning).

Overall, it was good! My favorite teacher (the one who teaches my doctorate seminar class) asked for a copy of my documentation and images on a CD, when I get a chance (which, in my mind, is a huge honor). During the second guy’s presentation, they were still talking about mine. The head honcho made sketches (in pen!!!?!?!??) on top of my drawings which I had spent hours on, which kinda ticked me off a little.

It was a good project, I guess; but what if it is all downhill from here? What is this was it? This was my peak? My architectural climax?

Eesh.

Oh, and P.S. to myself - Don’t offer to help unless you know what is in store. I offered to help one friend, who set me up on a job of making tiny houses on a countour model. It sucks. I mean, I am happy to help, but damn.

This is my graveyard.

Kelvin calls me a charcoal genius.
...riiiiiiiiight.

It was 330 in the morning. I was helping a friend print stuff. I was bored, and found my WAAC "class picture." I didn’t like it. So I changed it.

I dunno. What do you think?

It’s an axonometric section. Kinda. I dunno.

First of all, let me proclaim that Say Hi To Your Mom is one of my new favorite bands. Not only do they put on a badass show, but the lead singer is a cool guy.

All Nada Surf did was complain about the lights, sound equipment, etc. Plus, they didn’t sell pins.

THAT’S OFF TOPIC

It is about 418AM right now. I just finished drafting this kinda crazy drawing, of which I am strangely proud. I am the only one awake in this building.

I went over to the other building to make a photocopy, and there is one other person awake - a guy who has the table next to me. Why is he awake, and in the wrong building? He tells me his roommate is "busy" in his room, and he is wandering around, wasting time, until he thinks his roommate will be through.

Honestly, how much does that suck? 4 AM, and you are kicked out of your room so that your roommate and their sex pal can have the room to themselves. If I were in that situation, would I have compassion for my roommate and their partner? Nope -- in fact, I think I would strive to make the situation more awkward. That way, not only would my roommate never speak to me again, but he sure as hell wouldn’t bring anyone else over.

I don’t care who you are; that just sucks.

I am having a difficult time figuring much of anything out right now.

In that spirit, here are some pictures of work I am doing.

The not winning entry for the Building Museum competition.

The concrete project. (Click image for large view)

My map of DC’s Eastern Market area.

Good times.

Disappointment and I are like best friends by now.

He pays the cover. I buy the drinks.

This post is long overdue.

But not so long as to cause great alarm.

Things are going better. I was worried at first; the metaphorical dookie was hitting the fan, big time. But not so much dookie now!

First, the concrete project. A group of three of us Poly students designed a bench made of concrete. We entered a school-wide competition, and came out as one of the winners. In fact, we rocked so hard that one of us (me!) gets to go to a design charette at the National Building Museum. Top prize is something like 2500 bucks. We are going to be put into teams of folks from across the nation. Rock.

Second, I am working on a parking lot. Designing it, actually. They are going to be re-paving with precast concrete slabs, and I get to make the design of the slabs themselves. That doesn’t make much sense, I know. I will put up the design later.

Things are moving so slowly here... I really want to get into the swing of things, but have not as of yet. Who knows; I still have 12 weeks to get my act together. (Yeah -- 12 weeks... maybe 11... I can’t remember).

Holy crap.

And I’m running, and giving up alcohol.

Hot damn.

And, I sweat a lot because it is muggy as hell sometimes, and I look really creepy.

Eww.

So, things here are going well enough.

One of the Germans that I live with thinks that there is some sort of cleaning service / door to door maid that picks up refuse. I cannot think of any other explanation why he does not take trash from the trash can directly to the dumpster. Instead, he leaves it in front of our front door. How charming.

Another one of my Germans got a job at the office to which I applied. So, right now, I am just waiting for the letter of rejection from the firm. It is fine; I have been turned down by better. I suppose it is just irritating.

I stayed up until 5 working on a concrete project. I woke up at 930.

I read a lot. I mostly have free time, so that is how I spend it. I guess I could be a TV junkee.

I have also really been into Bjork’s Hyper-Ballad lately, from "Post." That might not be a great sign.

Anyway, please leave me a note, as I want to hear from you. Or email me; that would be nice as well.

It’s 5:30 here. Pretty exciting.

I dislike small talk. Everyone loves small talk.

"Nice weather."

Yes, it is.

"Where you from?"

California. You?

"Virginia Tech."

Oh. Interesting.

I was told to make people talk about themselves. That is part of the way you get people interested in you - make them talk about themselves. Logically, it almost seems perverse, but it works.

I don’t know. It is a nice place and all that jazz. I am learning, which is good.

I just don’t know.

Pretty prison?

So, yeah. Things are new.

Done with my job. That’s nice. Leave for Virginia on Thursday, which is also nice. Trying to decide what my first project there will be. Right now I am leaning towards a sustainable prison in a highly visible area. A pretty prison. That might be fun.

A good friend of mine from grade school was involved in a swimming accident. He may be paralyzed from the arms down. I have been trying not to think about that. I have to think about it at some point. Right now I can think about this.

Wouldn’t that be nice? A pretty prison.

Funny. You surround yourself with noise. That drowns out anything you want it to. Any insecurities, fears, even hopes; everything can go away.

Pretty prison.



These are shots from a model I have been building. Only trouble is that my machine went into the shop, so I have no computer except for the one in the office.

Been listening to the Eels "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations." Good happy.

I don’t know. I need to get going.

Talk to you all in Virginia.

The next time you are in a Raley’s or like grocery store, know that someone, somewhere, referred to the little food islands on sets of architectural drawings as "Fresh Meat Island" and "Frozen Coffin Meat."

OR: A Lesson in Learning Your Place



So, today was going to be a normal show day at KCPR, or so I assumed. Nothing too unusual. I got a tarinee. She is nice.

Anyway, I am sitting in my little commander’s chair, the one next to the microphone. I spy, through our window facing the doors of the station, a group walk in. A group of people. Scary people. Tattooed people. People wearing all black.

"Oh, shit," I remark.

My trainee agrees.

A young woman walks in. "Hi!" she exclaims happily. "I’m with this band, called Infernal Legion. We met a DJ at some local record store yesterday, and he said he could get us on the air!"

Um.

So, I chat a little with this lady. She says she is the band’s booking agent / photographer. Fine. Whatever. I agree to interview a band member, as I feel that, if I do not, I will be shanked with a shiv made of a human skull.

Let’s call this dude Chad. Chad the drummer. (I forgot his name). "Hi, Chad!" I say happily. "I hear you’re with Infernal Legion! What sort of music do you play?"

"Um, death metal," says Chad, in a monotone voice. "We are gonna drink beer and worship Satan."

"Great!" I exclaim. I cut an Eels song short and play track 2 from their CD (the one with the Bible in flames -- oh, you know, those wacky devil worshippers!).

...

Five minutes later, the song finally ends. The vocalist has been singing in that scary voice that death metal singers use -- the one that makes them sound like they are a two-hundred year old chain-smoking mummy. That one. He practices while the song plays. He has dredlocks.

The band finally leaves. That makes me happy.

I find out later that a punk trainee (who is not technically yet a KCPR DJ) was the one who tipped the band off in the first place. This makes me not happy. It was not his place to drag a band of stereotypes into the station. Do not promise people things you cannot deliver. In addition, if you are a peon, do not try to exercise what limited rights you think you have.

Oh, it was hilarious -- the band, that is. But damn, was I pissed at the stupid trainee.

Anyway.

INFERNAL LEGION BLEARGGJVGBEKWGVCJHWGCKHqcxvVLJKGSWVKCHG VDKJCQWC!!! :(

UPDATE
Reading through the ever-so-wonderfully crafted lyrics, I feel the need to punch myself in the face.
One swing of my axe off with your head
Add to my collection of heads and spines
...lame. Is all death metal this idiotic?

So, I am getting a sense of how bad I was at the low point in my career.

None of the Germans like changing the toilet paper rolls. When they do, they leave the old roll on the floor of the bathroom. They also do not take out trash. At all. Or do dishes.

I must have sucked.

BUT! But - here’s the kicker.

Tonight, I came home late, and wanted to work on my paper. I switched on the light. Because of the layout of my house, every sound is audible, every light is visible from just about anywhere in the house. The second I turn on the light, he complains and asks me to shut it off.

This is the thing: whenever he comes home late, the first thing he goes for is the light. He leaves it on for a good 15 minutes, at full intensity, and then switches on the television. Not but last week he turned on the light and radio, and then just left without switching them off while I was sleeping.

No more rants. For now.

Having a bad roommate makes you even more fully appreciate how bad you must have been. For Ben, the only one with whom I have lived, to whom I was crappy, and who knows what a jackass I can be: I am sorry.