The Magic Cow

I had the pleasure of attending the tenth annual UNC Real Estate Conference this past week, and by "pleasure" I mean "obligation." An associate principal at my office--a UNC business school alumnus, and thus the dead-center target audience for this conference--had gotten the firm to foot the bill for his attendance, then was dispatched to Baltimore on more pressing business. Rather than let the firm simply eat the conference fee, he thought it would be better to have them eat five hours of my completely unapplied time, too.

I had never been to the Carolina Club; it probably would have been useful to equate "Carolina Club" on "Stadium Drive" in "Chapel Hill" with the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, in the campus of which the Carolina Club occupies the dead center. Because I was unable to assemble these important nuggets of data into a cogent thought, though, I was at the mercy of a printed Google Map to lead me to my destination. It was only when I wound up in a residential neighborhood on the far end of Chapel Hill that I decided to expend some energy on figuring this all out for myself. Go ahead and check for yourself--type "Carolina Club" into Google Maps and see where it takes you. No, really. Go ahead. It must be some lonely suburban dining room with a barbeque club sandwich on the table. Nice neighborhood, though.

Thankfully, I'm always a half hour early for everything, so I was able to reverse course and still make it to the campus when any normal person would have. There's no building at UNC actually called The Carolina Club, though. That particular institution is INSIDE of the alumni hall, which any MBA alumnus would know without even thinking. I was only pretending to be such a person, so finding my destination involved a number of three-point turns in the path of indignant UNC students. My associate principal had given me almost no information about the event to help guide my travels. (Later, viewing the web site for this event, I determined that even pre-meditated research would only have gotten me as far as the campus and would have been no help in directing me to parking, or to the Carolina Club door for that matter.) I was finally able to zero in on the conference by the sweeping tide of navy blue suits that coalesced at the alumni hall. I fell in amongst the suits and was soon at the registration and name tag table.

It was clear that I had shown up for the wrong party. I was wearing my black & white herringbone sport jacket with a sharpie-markered name tag (because I was an unexpected guest) while everyone except the infrequent female attendee was in full Wall Street business attire of either a dark navy, charcoal, or black, with a cleanly laser-printed name tag on his lapel. It was obvious I was not going to run into any familiar faces here (actually not true, but more on that later). I would have done better to print my associate principal's face out on the back of a paper plate and wear it like a mask; if for no other reason, at least people would ask me what the hell I was up to. My normal strategy in such circumstances would be to retreat to the far corner of the room and feign interest in something--the ceiling? The placesettings? But now I THANK GOD for iphones. Nothing has facilitated the enduring of my social failures more than having a little pocket computer that can make me look busy when, in fact, I'm just a scared social misfit. Judging by the prevalence of smart phones throughout the conference audience, I was not alone.

In an act of courage, I gravitated towards the middle of the room to find a seat at one of the standard ten-seat banquet tables (though I had a nagging suspicion that they were actually eight-seat tables that had been pressured into a higher level of service). I wandered around the tables for a while, looking out over the room of networking real estate professionals--an impotent act given that I was assured to know no single person there--then back at my iphone, which was running no applications, and then back at the floor or the ceiling. I did about three laps of the conference hall and adjoining hallway in this fashion before the conference attendees were called to seat themselves... then again two more times when no one in the room took their seat but instead continued to network.

Once the crowd had finally settled after continued encouragement from the conference emcee, it was clear that the other nine gentlemen at my table all knew each other in some way--some from their common past at UNC, some through their business dealings, and even two guys who apparently knew the same person in Orlando but otherwise had no discernible connection. They were all joined, though, through the pursuit of real estate development (and I would later find through the bloodlust for something called "return"). And there I was, puny, inconsequential, well-intentioned architect with no business being at a real estate conference, no business being at UNC, in Chapel Hill, or even outside of the office for an afternoon. But someone was going to have to eat this already-paid-for catered lunch, goddammit, so I had to push through until at least dessert.

Sensing my dread, two of my table neighbors tried to ease my self consciousness by engaging me in conversation. Bless their hearts, they didn't know that the only thing that makes me more self conscious then awkward silence is awkward conversation. I tried to keep up with them and not totally destroy their opinion of my employers while I eagerly awaited the beginning of the keynote address and therefore the necessary conclusion of the conversation. Having an excuse to shut up is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

The string of speakers that followed really proved how useless was my presence at the conference. Having just attended a (mandatory) 401k quarterly review back at the office a few days before, I was able to follow some of the "big picture" economic handwringing, but when it came to... I can't even remember the acronyms and abbreviations that these people tossed around like it was kindergarten level vocabulary. I'm no dummy, but the speakers could just as easily have been giving their presentations in Italian for the amount of information I was able to glean. It was all disturbingly vacillating line graphs, negative numbers, and inconfidently optimistic tones. It was actually hard to NOT pay attention because it was so bewildering... how could a conference about real estate development be so foreign to the sensibilities of an architect, planner, and urban designer? Isn't this a related field? Kinda?

That's when I realized that this conference had very little to do with building buildings or neighborhoods or places, even for profit. Not a single utterance of the conference speakers was about making cities or buildings because someone might, you know... like doing that? It was entirely about real estate as a machine for generating return. Money goes into the machine and five or ten years later, much more money comes out. How much money, when, and why were the topics of discussion. Not how to create responsible, marketable developments. Not how to sustain a neighborhood for more than a decade. Not anything about the role of designers, architects, and builders in adding value to real estate. None of that. If one of the speakers had gotten up and told the crowd that he had a magic cow back on his ranch that when you fed it quarters it pooped $100 bills, and this is the best return for their money in today's market, it would have ceased immediately its existence as a real estate conference and would have turned into an agricultural fair. Those people dressed in their dark suits with cleanly printed name tags were no more real estate developers than they were cattle ranchers, and cared equally about both. If I can feed money into one end and get lots more money on the other, then damn, that's what I'll do! And I'll pay some peon to pull all those benjamins out of the cow flops and wash them up nice.

Despite my complete reluctance to attend the conference and total lack of comfort throughout the afternoon, my experience was revelatory, not because my fears were confirmed but because I saw that there is room for an alliance between architects and real estate developers. Developers. As opposed to investors. Investors are just shrewd people who look for the magic cow to feed; that's what they expend all their energy toward. To them, that's their creative act. And finding the magic cow before everyone else does satisfies them personally and professionally. Real estate developers--I want to believe--are actually interested in this PARTICULAR magic cow and want to husband it and grow with it. They enjoy running the ranch, building new pens and barns, and watching their little barnyard ecosystem grow. They may often have a hard time seeing the value in what architects and designers bring to their ranch, but the goal of creating and cultivating something is shared. Let's have a real estate conference about that! Maybe that's next year's conference...

Seriously?

Seriously? It's been over six months since I last blogged? This format doesn't seem to work for me at all!

But, the odometer has rolled another year in the new colony, so I feel obliged to make an effort. Actually, the three-year mark was a couple weeks ago, but I had better things to do, like watch Twin Peaks on Netflix... finally. And read a little. And get my bike ridable so I can lock it back up for another year and ignore it. Important stuff.

I don't know that I'll ever describe myself as a North Carolinian, except for maybe in an official and obligatory sense--driver's license, jury duty, taxes, insurance. Other transplants rarely describe themselves as Raleighites or North Carolinians, even though some have been here for decades. In fact, I hear a lot of people say they "just moved" here when further investigation reveals that they've been permanent residents for well over five years. ("Just" must have a different meaning here in North Carolina...) But there's a steady stream of actual "justs," too--people who literally moved a few months or weeks ago and are in the same position I was back in August 2008, looking for some new friends and a volleyball game.

Can you believe the economy has been in the shitter for that long?

A common icebreaker in Raleigh is "where are you from?" because there's an overwhelming likelihood that a person here is from somewhere besides here. Massachusetts, New York, and New Jersey are obvious; Florida is understandable. But California? Based on my experience, there is a pipeline bringing folks here from the West Coast. I suppose it's a Silicon Valley/RTP thing, and honestly I never found California that alluring myself, so I shouldn't be surprised. But if North Carolina is drawing the masses from not just the East but the West, too, we are woefully unprepared for the shitstorm of humanity that needs housing, schools, roads... and actual urbanism. If all these people decide to live out on the edge of town, this place will be unattractive in no time. I guess that's the natural balance, though, right? Grow and grow until you're surrounded by shit, and then no one will want to move here anymore. I think we may run out of unshitty places soon.

As I've probably noted in the past--I don't know because I refuse to actually read my blog--things seem to be coming to realization/traction here. With my new planning certification and my not-as-new licensure, it's hard to deny I have SOME sort of qualifications. I have my hands in a number of groups and committees that expose me to people I need to be exposed to if I want to build a real life in this town. Teaching may be on the close horizon. Opportunity is latent. And having the freedom to choose what I do instead of slog through what is available is just coming within reach...

Now if I could just finish off these last few episodes of Twin Peaks and the final third of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, I'll be on my way...

Obligatory year-end wrap-up

I just scrolled down the blog and found last year's December 31st post... it couldn't get any worse, right? Right?

Wow, how optimistic and excited we all were about 2010 in the hours leading up to New Years Eve dinner... and how HORRIBLE the night turned out after that. We waited literally for hours after our reservation to be seated to dinner, and in the meantime had to endure the crush of New Years Eve bar mobs. When we were finally seated at 11:30pm, the service was attrocious and I believe we were finally served food after midnight (the kitchen staff were pressed into service for additional time). It was amazing foreshadowing of 2010... gritting teeth trying to hold back supremely self-righteous anger.

2010 will join 2009 on the reject page, at least for awhile. Some great things did happen--I got my professional license, I got to fall in love, I got to be a part of important groups with significant connections... The roots are pushing through the pine straw and thin gravel to find the soil. It's sad that my brain can take those amazing things and just bury them. That's Psychology 101, though--people feel loss more severely than gain. I am people. I just tend to dwell on stuff much longer than most. Every injustice is a personal trauma. Every wrong must be righted.

2011, be good to me and I'll be good to you. Don't be like your older siblings and I won't roll my eyes at you when I see you on the gas pump. Let me tell my grandkids how 2011 was the watershed year that stopped this hideous decade--The Shitties--in its tracks. The economy grew! Unemployment sank! Wars concluded! The check engine light turned off by itself! We all fell in love and it was a GOOD thing! Someone invented a calorie-free Krispe Kreme donut! Be THAT year, 2011--be cool, and I'll catch up with you and be cool too. Mmmkay?

Who am I? Why am I here?

Poor Admiral Stockdale. At his debut vice presidential debate opening in 1992, he said those seven words that, the following morning, would be used as evidence of his senility. Little did he know that 18 years later, his geriatric croak would resonate in my head during every drought of confidence--"who am I? why am I here?"

I've heard people say that you are who you are. Your personality is as much a part of your being as your brown eyes or your hairy chest. Sure, you can always wear colored contacts or wax your chest, but in the end, you're just a brown-eyed person with colored contacts or a hairy person who's been harvested and is waiting for the new crop to grow in. And so with your personality; changes are either pharmacologically-inspired or based on good acting skills. You are who you are.

So what happens if I don't like who I am? Physically, a person can go so far as to change their sex, but are they ever anything more than a post-op transgender? Does anyone really believe that, beneath her many layers of facial plastic, Joan Rivers is ACTUALLY good looking (or for that matter, above her many layers of facial plastic?). So if I'm profoundly unsatisfied with my personality and emotional outlook, am I stuck? I may find a pill that makes me awesome, or I may be able to project an air of awesomeness. In the end, am I just a "modified" unawesome person?

My Lost Autumn of 2010 has gotten me to reflect on who I am, which is all the more difficult because I've been on psychological medications since... high school? Without my meds and strong desire to win people's affections, I can only imagine the pile of couch-sprawling spasmodic goo I would be right now--is that me? Is that the unadulterated Paul Lipchak? Is that the are that I are? Have my achievements, successes, relationships, and fuck-ups over the past 15 years been some sort of artificial affectation fueled by body chemicals reacting with out-of-body chemicals in an environment of high social pressure?

There are things I want to change about my personality. Things that are obstacles to happiness, success, satisfaction... I want to be more easy-going. I want to have more self-confidence. Be riskier. More spontaneous. I want to be less intense. Less cynical. Less shy. Content. Fulfilled. Grateful. Charitable. For real. Not post-op happy. Real happy.

Is it too late to become who I want to be?

Back for More

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my home town... no, wait, that's not me...

It's funny to look back and see that July 3 was my last post, because it was only the next day that life here in the New Colony took a pretty dramatic step in a new direction. Since the night of Independence Day I've been at both the highest and lowest since first recovering from the anxiety of moving my life to North Carolina. I've realized a fantasy and nearly immediately fumbled it, tragically. I've gone from the relative comfort of consistent but fairly easy-going work to staring down a potential layoff through 55-hour weeks. I've learned a lot about myself in the process but found many aspects of my personality that just can't continue unchecked.

The height I reached was fleeting but amazing. Being loved, admired, and adored by someone for which I had such intense reciprocal feelings was my fantasy come true. I had been single much too long by the beginning of the summer, without any of the feelings of liberation that most bachelors enjoy. I was blessed to find a woman to share my time, and for once I made a conscious effort to pay attention to the great times we had in the moment. At the closing of past relationships, I was haunted by the loss of memories of fun and love--they were overwhelmed by the strain of separation, of having tried so hard to be the right guy and missed the mark. This time, no good memories were taken for granted.

The dissolution of the relationship, however, was a mess in its own right. My psyche had been changing, exaggerating my obsessive, paranoid, jealous, and tempermental side. It was a transition I had not noticed--certainly not soon enough--and that I now link to a concurrent change in my anxiety medication. It feels unrighteous to lay the full responsibility for my "descent" on chemicals, so I sidestep the actual symptoms and take responsibility instead for a complete lack of awareness of my behavior despite a number of obvious clues. When your girlfriend says that you're always angry, and that you're not the same person she started dating, you need to pay attention. When you start getting comments on your attitude from coworkers who are themselves notoriously ill-mannered, you should take a hint. When your sleeping and eating patterns change dramatically in the span of a few weeks, you need to be asking questions about yourself.

Through the month of October and into November, my emotions and behaviors became completely undocked from my thinking. Yes, I know that emotions and behaviors operate differently than reason and intellect, but usually your mind has the ability to square them up--I acted this way because of this belief, I had this emotion because of this expectation, etc. For several weeks, my emotions and their resultant behaviors were unsquarable with what I was thinking. Perspective and proportionality were lost. A minor issue would become an outrage. A snub would become a melodrama. A mere task would become an ordeal. And all the while I was not able to see how different this was from normal or feel how it might be affecting other people.

It took lying in bed awake one night, staring at the ceiling, for my intellect to put the pieces together... I'm thinking one way, but my emotions are off on their own. This may be normal for a short duration, but not for almost two months. What changed in September? In the end, I was lucky to hit upon something--a solid, plausible reason--to help draw the pieces together. Whether or not it is truly a factor, linking my increased anxiety meds (possible side effects include hostility and aggression) to what was happening gave me focus. I regained perspective. And initiative. I resolved to address these issues, not just pharmaceutically but also through counseling.

The pressure isn't off. I hang by a thread in a number of ways, personally and professionally. Stress at work has not abated but rather has just been lengthened for more weeks. When this project has finally been pushed out to sea, there's no guaranty another one is waiting at the dock. But in general, I feel hopeful about the future in a way I haven't in some time. I will get better, and I will find a way to get happiness back in my life.

Two Years in a New Colony

Once again it's time to commemorate an anniversary of Southern living. Three years ago tomorrow was the first time I visited Raleigh, and a year later I was in a car with my tranquilized cat heading south on I-95 for my new home. Today I sit in my Raleigh ITB apartment with the french doors wide open to the much maligned Juliet balcony while an improbably comfortable and dry July 3rd graces the courtyard below. Free tickets to the Durham Bulls game tonight thanks to Freelon, some understated celebrating tomorrow with friends, road trip to the beach next weekend with other friends... if complaining wasn't a biological imperative of every cell of my body, I'd be an idiot to start now.

I still get surprised looks when I tell people that I simply chose to live in Raleigh without any ulterior motives. Work did not bring me here, nor a spouse or family. I set out my desires and criteria and found a match that made my Excel spreadsheet happy. After all, if you only went places you knew intimately, you'd never be able to go anywhere. So there were no guarantees of a successful match, and to be honest, there are often times that I agree with the bewilderment of my colleagues. Raleigh is not a glamorous place. All of North Carolina is not a glamorous place. It is not at the end of any roads, it is not a frontier, not a center of great wealth or political power, and although naturally beautiful, it has neither the best beaches nor the grandest mountains on the East Coast. Aside from some notable exceptions--banks in Charlotte, technology in RTP, and college basketball--North Carolina seems almost devoid of superlatives. North Carolina is that girl in high school that was pleasant and everyone could be friends with, but was not the valedictorian, cheerleading captain, track star, French Club president... just a good decent friend who you had to look up in the yearbook decades later because you could never quite remember her name.

North Carolina lacks a compelling story. And Raleigh, as its capital, fares no better. But the reason why I continue to find this place attractive is because of the narrative that is as latent as the humidity--there is a story emerging here. Today the story lacks definition and it suffers from the obscurity of the people and places that contribute to it. But every day it seems to come closer to the surface, becoming more organized and more accessible. Much as California captures the imagination of the world today as both utopia and dystopia, North Carolina is in the process of becoming the next crucible for America's dream. Imagine moving to the empty and hot Los Angeles basin before it became America's western metropolis, and that is the feeling that keeps me here in Raleigh today. Things will happen here, ideas will be tested, mistakes will be made, and ultimately this place will be a completely different heaven or hell than the purgatory it is today. As long as I keep feeling that potential energy coursing through this place, I'll be here watching it.

What was my password again?

As a testament to my blog neglect, it took me about ten tries and two Recaptchas just to log in with the correct e-mail address/password combination. Considering I have four addresses and three passwords I use consistently, I guess ten tries still beats the odds. No, wait. It doesn't. Math.

I've fallen victim to the blog paradox; when life is full of stuff worth writing about, it's too full to blog about it. This is my first Sunday in a while that I don't have better things going (by choice), so now I can recap the last two months:

Took final Architecture Registration Exam March 15 --> Found out I passed April 1 --> Final application for registration approved by the State April 9 --> was upgraded to Architect membership by professional organization April 11 --> received single lump-sum bonus from work April 30.

Was told by landlord that the condo I rented was being put on the market January 2 or so --> Got fed up with landlord's and Realtor's lack of respect for my privacy and possessions and bitched about it continuously through January and February --> was given 60-day notice late February --> Found nearly reasonable rent at Oberlin Court in early March --> moved March 27 --> got full security deposit returned April 27 --> landlord's condo still on the market today.

Started working on psychiatric hospital project at work in early December --> 50% DD deadline in... late February? --> work like gangbusters for last two weeks to make 100% DD deadline --> DD deadline pushed off at (literally) last minute --> ???

played volleyball Tuesday nights at Y and some additional nights indoors or outdoors --> still going

Christmas with Mom & Steve in the keys --> visit to Virginia family early February --> visit from Benj's family late February --> visit from Agurkis family late April --> meet up with Dad & Maryann in Virginia literally the next day --> heading back to Mass for a Memorial Day visit and meeting first step-nephew Owen

There's been other things--mentoring at NCSU, students' ULI competition team winning the national award, a few First Fridays, lots of drinking, AIA committee stuff, etc. etc. But let's consider ourselves sufficiently caught up and go from here, mmkay?