The 5 Most Embarrassing Architectural Failures Ever

Frank Gehry is one of the most prolific architects of all time. His designs range from wavy and crazy-looking to ... well, just wavy and crazy-looking.

Via Thearttree.me
Back in college, they called him "Ol' Wavy Building Guy." They weren't very good with nicknames.

Naturally, really thinking outside the box while building your giant boxes is going to lead to some problems, some of which have historically included a building that constantly dumps snow onto passing pedestrians, one that eats women's high heels and one that accidentally fires heat rays at anything nearby.

Via Britannica.com
This will be the last great fortress of man when the Ant Wars come.

The Embarrassing Failure:

As you can tell from the above photo, the building in question is very shiny, and while shiny things are all sorts of pretty (by virtue of their shininess), they also tend to reflect light. If you concentrate that light onto a single area and angle it just right, you get a crude laser. If you're a comic book supervillain, you might use that knowledge to burn your name into the moon. If you're the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, you set your sights a little lower: maybe just heat up some neighboring condos, like the Promenade Towers, by 15 degrees or so. Or nearly blind some drivers at nearby traffic lights. Or, hey -- just see how hot you can get that sidewalk (the answer is a ridiculous 140 degrees). Unluckily for humanity, Frank Gehry gave a building an uncontrollable death ray. But luckily for us, it was more on the terror level of a kid with a magnifying glass than Chairface Chippendale.

Via Toucheandchange.com
And by "us" we mean "the people who have never been near it."

The problem has since been fixed, when workers sandblasted the outside of the trouble areas in order to reduce glare. But hey, if you really want to stay in a building capable of hating you, there's always that one in Las Vegas that shoots a heat ray into its own pool.

Via Ditii.com
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Except for skin cancer. That shit follows you.

The Embarrassing Failure:

For any communists, aliens or alien communists that happen to be reading, the primary mechanic by which the sport of baseball works is the ability to hit the ball as high and far as you can. Everything else in the game is built around that very, very simple fact. So it's kind of important that you don't play it in a place with a lot of airborne obstacles, like a forest, a hot air balloon festival, a flock of furious birds or Tropicana Field.

Via Wikipedia
"Just ... tell everyone to bunt. Problem solved."

That's because there are four catwalks that hang directly over the outfield there. Countless hits that should have rightfully been home runs have instead just thudded off a support structure or landed on a catwalk and rolled off into the waiting glove of an opposing player. And that's if they ever come down at all. Oh, and because the lights are up there, too, the catwalks also occasionally rain superheated glass down on the players below. But hey, we all played with obstacles as kids: the fence posts out past third base, those odd holes in the infield or the occasional ball-eating mastiff that ultimately brought us all together and taught us a little something about friendship.

When all is said and done, the catwalks really lend a kind of childlike charm to the stadium, which we guess is a fair exchange for costing the Devil Rays the pennant that one time.

The Embarrassing Failure:

The building liked to drop windows onto the pavement below. And these aren't your cutesy little house windows, but 5-by-12-foot, 500-pound slabs of aerial death. And it wasn't just a few of them, but hundreds and hundreds of windows hurtling to the streets below. The problem got so bad that whenever winds exceeded 45 miles an hour, police would close off the entire area around the building for public safety. During one windstorm in January of 1973, over 60 windows were knocked loose from the building's facade. By April of that year, more than an acre of the building's exterior was covered in plywood like the backwoods 'shine-shack of some hillbilly giant. They initially painted the plywood black in an effort to hide it, but that turned out to be like slapping a Band-Aid over a zit and telling everybody you got the injury in a knife fight. After a while, some wandering bladesman will doubtlessly show up at school to challenge your rep, and the other kids will find out the truth. In the end, it's better to leave it all out there in the open, embarrassment and all.

Via Gizmodo.com
"Windows? No, the windows are fine. We just have vampires working on the lower floors."

A team of engineers, architects and builders all got together to work on a solution to the problem, but their findings were kept secret (though eventually it was revealed to be some boring technical crap about lead solder bonding or not bonding properly, or otherwise playing by its own rules like the loose cannon of the periodic table that it is). In the end, the issue was fixed, but only by replacing every single one of the windows at the cost of $7 million. We're assuming somebody had to work in Hancock's garden every day after school until those damages were paid for.

Via Minnesota.publicradio.org
No joke, they actually nicknamed it "The Plywood Palace."

The Embarrassing Failure:

One day engineer Joel Weinstein was looking at the blueprints and noticed something odd: It was a damn skyscraper on stilts. After a few stiff drinks, he managed to mentally get past that terrifying fact and spotted something else of concern: Quartering winds (winds that strike the corners of the building, rather than the flat faces) would cause far more loading force than they'd initially thought. LeMessurier himself looked into it and discovered that instead of the wind joints being welded on, as he had ordered in the design, the plans were switched to bolts during the construction. Which, no matter how much chewing gum you plaster over them to "really stick 'em in there," is simply not the same thing. So how much difference could it make? Well, with the bolts in place instead of welds, experts predicted that on average, New York City was hit by a storm that could topple the building every 55 years. Should the tuned mass damper inside it fail, that rate drops to every 16 years.

Via Wikipedia
"We've been meaning to replace those brown buildings anyway -- just aim for those."

So then what? They ordered the area evacuated at the onset of every storm? Nope. They at least warned people of the impending disaster? Double nope. They sent out a press release stating that the building was in no danger at all, so shut up and stop worrying about it? Triple nop- oh, wait: That's the one. Hey, way to help banks shed their sinister supervillain images, Citigroup. To their credit, however, Citigroup did request that the Red Cross create secret emergency procedures in the event of a collapse. Yep, that's not evil at all: make plans to deal with all the corpses afterward, rather than work on preventing them beforehand.

Construction workers only operated at night (again, in order to keep it secret), hastily welding all the joints every evening, in a deadly race against the impending hurricane season. And they cut it pretty damn close, too: That year, Hurricane Ella headed right toward New York City. The storm would have absolutely created winds fast enough to topple the building, but by a huge stroke of luck, Ella made a last-minute turn back out to sea and the building was fixed without incident.

Via Classic.wunderground.com
"It appears the God of Storms has accepted our sacrificial offer of orphan blood and puppy heads."

But what if things had gone a little differently? What's the worst that could have happened? Citigroup is out an expensive building and maybe a few workers -- but what's a paltry few million and a couple dozen drones to a corporate bank? They can always hatch some more Foreclosure Consultants from the Vault Queen and then it's back to business as usual, right?

Ah, but remember, this building was in the middle of New York City. So if it falls, it's not going to do it all politely with its elbows tucked in. The Red Cross estimated the death toll at a staggering 200,000 people, with 156 city blocks taking further damage.

Via Wikipedia
"Citigroup. Taunting God since 1812."

That's basically the entire island of Manhattan, gone. And all because somebody used the wrong kind of connector. Just something to think about next time you catch yourself replacing that spring with a bent paper clip.

Special thanks to Erik Germ for coming up with the Citigroup entry!

For more ridiculous failures, check out 6 Natural Disasters That Were Caused by Human Stupidity and The 7 Most Disastrous Typos Of All Time.