Five Feet

Five feet can be a good or bad thing depending on the context. And even within the context of snow, it can be a good or bad thing. I remember when five feet of snow was a very bad thing while trying to drive from Billy's house to my college dorm. My roommate actually contracted a severe case of pneumonia that day helping idiots like me trying to navigate Honda's amongst the drifts. On Sunday five feet of snow was a very good thing. Kristin and I went snowboarding at Mt. Hood Meadows for our first session of the season. Last year at this time, Mt. Hood Meadows lived up to its name -- literally. Vignettes of butterflies, grass, and...no snow come to mind. This year the only butterflies were in our stomachs while gaping at a freshly white-coated Mountain.

We attempted at first to go up Saturday, but a series of unfortunate events pushed the trek to Sunday. But fate was on our side. Friday and Saturday shook snow out of the clouds with violent winds, but Sunday the clouds and winds relinquished to sun and lots, and lots of powder, or "sugar" as I like to call it. I had never seen such outstanding conditions upon Portland's most trampled playground. Mt. Hood was shining. We stayed as far from the crowds as possible, hugging the eastern flank most of the day. The scenery was indescribable. And to stay true to that statement I won't attempt to describe it beyond a few fleeting adjectives: Silver. Floating. Breathless. We were but vapor above the corporal Earth. If I had pictures, I would post them. But your imagination will probably suit the imagery best anyway; lenses have a knack for distorting proportions.

The end of the day brought with it a celebration of our new favorite length: five feet. With our feet emancipated from our plastic snow vehicles, we leaped into snow that crested our chests. The day was heavy, but our spirits were as light as ever. Snowboarding on that much powder can't be too dissimilar from flying; speed is the only tool fighting gravity. We were indeed, light. For those of not fortunate enough to experience Mt. Hood last Sunday, let me remind you of something that rang hollow only a year ago: it's only December!

Pumpkin Why?

Yes, the gluttony is over. Ssssssss...
My Thanksgiving went well -- at least much better than last year. Last year I was hobbling around from a serious bike injury to my leg. On top of that, there was enough personal life-drama for an OC episode (which I've heard is a popular television drama-O-rama...). This year there was no bike injury (save for the remaining scar...I mean "shark bite") and no drama. I cooked a couple delicious (I must say!) pumpkin pies and managed to sculpt some fresh whipped cream -- none of that Cool Whip B.S.! Ahh, pumpkin pie. The pumpkin pie, while a Thanksgiving cliche, is indeed a most delectable dessert. But why has the pumpkin been relegated to such infrequent and selected use? I suppose the fruit itself matures only under that harvest moon, limiting multi-seasonal use. And they look grotesque. I've seen some pumpkins that would make genital warts looks appetizing (sorry...). Sure there are the seeds, which are good but often caked in salt, and I've begun to see a couple pumpkin beers around that are actally to be pretty good (try the Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale). But come on! The pumpkin can make a killer pie...and that's it?! There's got to be other uses that rival the magic of the pie version. Pumpkin soup? -- actually I've had this and it wasn't good. Pumpkin bread? That sounds good. Caramelized pumpkin? Whoa, that sounds REALLY good. Pumpkin cake? Carrots are great in cake...I could think of these all night. I am beginning to wonder if a simple Google search would yield plenty of tasty recipes, some of which may even include a caramelized pumpkin. If so, American society needs to be informed. The pie needs to be evolved. I'll do my part for next year; I encourage you to join me. Mashed pumpkin and gravy, here we come!

KO

The pursuit of sleep; or rather, my lack of pursuit. I wish I didn't have to sleep. There are so many other things I would rather be doing, like writing blogs on sleep. I find it so interesting that human beings and most other animals need sleep. How could so many species evolve, yet maintain the need to be unconscious for 1/3 of their lives? I'm shocked that the animal that wasn't tired one night didn't eat all the animals that were tired, thereby dominating the evolutionary race. Now, I must confess my ignorance of the biology behind sleep and its evolution link. I'm sure good explanations exist. Maybe it isn't too dissimilar from the NRA's platform of "an armed society is a safe society:" as long as all animals are "armed" with the need for sleep, no animal can dominate. But think about how silly sleeping humans would appear to visiting aliens. There we are, just sprawled out with our mouth open making gurgling sounds, twitching our arms about like some sort of flagellum. And WE are the ones searching for intelligent life? I doubt science will eradicate the need for sleep in our lifetime, but trust me, they're working on it! If there are any group of people abhorring the need for sleep, it's scientists and medical doctors. In fact, there is a known positive correlation between the class ranking of a medical student and amphetamine abuse. Regardless, being unconscious seems to be so important that the intricacies of "why" will likely take decades to decipher. For example, rats that are deprived of sleep die after about two weeks. But die from what? Red eye? I haven't read the scientific papers with these details (assuming there are details), but evidently death is more likely to occur from not having sleep, than from being eaten by intergalactic hungry aliens.

Submit Best Costume!

Happy Halloween and Unhappy last day of Rock-Tober (OK, OK, all good things must come to an end)! It is always a bit problematic when Halloween falls outside of a weekend. Good parties need the weekend, but is dressing up on the Friday before premature? Not really, but then you end up dressing up again on Saturday and costume loses some novelty. Anyway you look at it, Halloween this year was less than spectacular for whatever reason.
Kristin and I tried, but all the parties were a bit "soft" despite our optimism. But we still had a good time at a local "raver" party in downtown Portland. Save for myself, which I'm not picturing for obvious reasons, everyone in our small group was looking festive. I was going to be my anti-hero, Brian Adams, but it just didn't come together. So I went as a failed "Dick Head" by dressing upside down...yeah, it was a stretch. But there was NO shortage of great costumes at the downtown party. My favorite, and possibly best costume I've ever seen, was a complete, flawless Star Wars Stormtrooper complete with gun. This "dude" passed me in the hallway and I thought for a moment that someone had drugged my water. The costume was impeccable and looked exactly like the picture posted above!

I encourage anyone reading my blog to submit this years' best costume in my comment section.

...and yes, I'm on my way down to the Lompoc brewery soon for one last pint of Rock-Toberfest brew.

Cheers.

A Title With No Puns!

Ok, Ok...it's been way too long since I've updated this because I know that millions of people check my blog everyday because my life is so much more interesting than anyone else's. I could blame it on a lot of things, namely the NSF grant I'll be married to this week. Ahhh....grants. This is my first of a long career writing to make my science sound interesting enough to have people throw money at me. Ok, so it doesn't really work like that; the American tax payers can breath a sign of relief that their money is not being thrown at a deranged burgeoning scientist like me, rather, your money is more likely being thrown on the dusty roads of Mideastern countries. But that's another blog entry. It doesn't help that Portland has been bathing in glorious October days. Last Saturday was truly the worst distraction to my work since the Legend of Zelda Gamecube release. Kristin and I did all things Rock-Tober that day, including a coffee-fueled drift through downtown, a couple of Oktoberfest pints at the Lompoc (yes, while working on my grant), and an evening with friends in the pun-adelic Amazing Maize Maze (I'll leave it up to you to figure that out). But today, it's cloudy! This is good news. I plan to stay indoors and distract myself as long as possible checking my e-mail, updating my meticulous iTunes playlists, and, of course, writing blogs.

Jacksonville's Bright Nights

After a solid seven days of listening, my review of Ryan Adams's latest, "Jacksonville City Nights," is ready. Jacksonville is up, down, left, and right, a country album; rather, it is a VERY country album. The late 90's experimental genre of "alternative country" has rightfully passed allowing Mr. Adams to dig deep into his southern roots. Surprisingly (at least to me), these statements don't automatically imply that the music is bad. Until recently I would have rather decorated my bean burritos with toenail lint than listen to a country album. But that highlights the genius of Ryan Adams, or at least his effect on me. Somehow, if HE does it, I give it a fair listen. I suppose a part of this reasoning is because I respect his omnidiretional -- if not schizophrenic -- talent. Not even two years ago the man released an album titled, "Rock N Roll," a three chord tribute to...well, rock n' roll. Yes, the irony is even ironical. But if you can swallow his irony, you'll see that Ryan Adams can write music. A lot of music. So when Ryan Adams writes a country album, I sheepishly put on my earphones. And listen I have. Week one: "wow, this is REALLY country -- GULP!". Week two: "Damn It! I'm at a stop light and I have country blaring...and "dude" over there is looking at me." Enjoying "Jacksonville City Nights" is like enjoying being a horrible bowler: the game gets way more fun once you accept that you suck. There is no doubt that Jacksonville is a good album, possibly a great one. The challenge is ditching the insipid expectation and letting yourself enjoy the album.

In addition to the music, there is the aesthetic to appreciate. Being a roots country album, the recording is rough. VERY rough. There are stray vocal harmonies, piano seat scuffles, guitar mistakes, et cetera. But all of these qualities (or lack of) are the difference between those green bananas loitering above your sink and Grandma's fresh banana bread. The magic is in the "how," not the "what". Furthermore, if there are any of my myriad albums to own on vinyl, it is "Jacksonville City Nights". The aesthetic is as warm as a 1960 Marshall amplifier tube; it is the kind of record that requires a glass of Cognac, a smoky fire, and a beautiful girl. The only disappointment I have are some of the songs' brevity. A great hook or slow dynamic build will tantalize, but then recede back out to sea as though it really did notice that zit on your nose. Songs like "Silver Bullets," "September," and "Withering Heights" are all excellent songs that seem to enjoy watching you beg for a kiss. Yet, others like the evanescent Norah Jones duet, "Dear John," the CMT blip "The Hardest Part," and the opener "A Kiss Before I Go" jump into your arms before you have a chance to know their name. Those points aside, there isn't a single song I skip on the disc.

Among the modern radio montage of musical inebriation, Ryan Adams could be the most sober musical icon out there. "Jacksonville City Nights" is about more than music, but at the same time it isn't not about the music (just say that one more time and it'll make sense). But it doesn't really matter anyway. Ryan has never been one for labels and will record whatever music his guitar sings him, whether country or rock n' roll. So I aptly give the album the a rating of an "H".

Happy Rock-Tober!

Feel that? That brisk autumnal breath is upon us, painting our landscape and skies with vigor. My good friend, Rock-Tober has arrived! I'm fortunate enough to live in a place exemplifying the autumn spirit, although I pine for those late Sioux Falls nights in my mom's backyard with good people, good beer, fire, and the watchful harvest moon. And Mike MaCock, of course (pictured below receiving plenty of love). I love reveling in that first seasonal taste of well-crafted, Rocktoberfest brews; having sweaters and beanies taped to our bodies; the crunch of leaves below; our primal fire swarming animated by a Chamberlain soundtrack. Ahhhhh....Rock-Tober.

October, contrary to social custom, is about life. It is a time to reflect on the year's passing as though to be reminded of the color amongst the brown. But unlike the leaves, the "Tober' theme became an immortal entity. What started as "RockTober" my junior year in college soon became "Mock-Tober" (in May), "Uber-Tober" (wow...don't even ask), "Re-Tober" (in response to the only rained-out Rock-Tober), "Cock-Tober" (again...don't even ask), and the sad, yet aptly titled, "Final-Tober" upon my moving to Portland. The stories and laughs that were had are shared by a select group of devout Toberites; and that is probably where those stories should remain. But fear not, the Tober theme truly is immortal. While home this summer, "Tom-Tober" was celebrated in honor of my best friend's marriage. And I suppose when all these laborious years in graduate school come to an end, "Doc-Tober" will be called upon.

But alas, there cannot be, nor there shouldn't be, any "Tobers" capable of supplanting the original Sioux Falls "Rock-Tober".

So in tribute, today is indeed Rock-Tober the 1st. I raise my glass of beautiful amber spirit to you all!

That Sweet Southern Air

Tomorrow my "boyfriend" releases yet another album, "Jacksonville City Nights." This is the second of three albums Ryan Adams is releasing just this year. I find that incredible. In this day of big business musicals, complete with tours, tours, tours, and tee shirts, music is rarely about the music. But that is what I love about Mr. Adams. His prolific, albeit quite heterogeneous writing is actually recorded, released, and transmitted along my auditory nerve. There are no strings attached. This truly is a modern anomaly. Great poets and artists have always been keen to express themselves in a sort of emotional supernova, choosing explosion rather than implosion. And in homage of that seemingly lost art, I credit Ryan Adams for following this artistic tradition despite it's dim financial prospects. But he has never been one to play the game of the music industry anyway. For instance, he honored his record company's request to record and release "Rock N' Roll" only if they would release what I consider his best album, "Love Is Hell". The man is no sell out. So whether this album is a jem or junk, a part of me doesn't care (although from what I've heard so far, I'm certainly leaning toward jem). Ryan Adams is a musician for music's sake. I look forward to "Jacksonville City Nights" and it's accompanying DVD documentary.

Check back soon for my review.

2005 NGP Retreat

Yes, neuroscience graduate school has challenged me. And I've complained in the past. But then we have retreats. Maybe the novelty will wear off being that the more senior classes have low turnouts, but I really enjoyed myself this year. The science was for the most part interesting, the people were great, we had a respected neurophysiologist from University of Washington speak, we had a bonfire and beer, and the weather was nice. I know I sound like I just got back from my best-est summer at camp, but it wasn't just a "fun" experience; it motivated me about my research in specific and biomedical research in general. This is a good thing. I've found myself staring at blank western blots more than once wondering why I care. When I attend seminars, I'm reminded of the perseverance required for results and the methodologies involved to obtain those results. In other, transcendental terms, I was enlightened; enlightened that IP3 may be one of the most important lipid signaling events in receptor physiology and that the Oregon ocean is much warmer if there is a keg nearby.

Ahhhhh.....It's Back!

This is returning to Portland tomorrow:

I'm picking it up at the airport (evidently it doesn't have wings) at 7PM. I would like to welcome it back to "Beertown" with...well, a beer. $2 Tuesdays happen tomorrow at the Hedge House (3412 SE Division). Come celebrate it's return to Portland and OHSU!

****special note: please keep all $1 bills away from it

That's Not A Bunyan!

It's official: Christina has camped. She slept on hard, cold soil amongst worms and things with more legs than her; she ate granola (actually I can't verify this, but camping in Oregon must at some point involve granola -- or at least the mention of it); she saw lights in the sky that were not construction cranes; she swung a hatchet toward woody plants with the rage of Mr. Bunyan himself; she consumed generous volumes of Mirror Pond ale. Yes, the woman was camping by most standards. And she was warm, poofy, and purple at the same time -- if you don't believe me, just look at the pics.

Saddle Mountain camping last weekend, a.k.a. luxury camping, was spectacular. We had the entire forest to ourselves. We had volumes beer. We had volumes of caffeine. We even had volumes of beer that had caffeine in it. While these facts were unfortunate for most nearby ungulate creatures, the inner non-hoofed mammal in us was emancipated. As an added bonus, the weather cooperated nicely. What looked to be a soggy night turned toward our favor, giving way to starlight. Levity was in the air, as the fire flickered, stories were told, and songs were written.
We were blessed to be amongst the genesis of a new camping classic, "The F**cking Buffalo," that will soon supplant Kum By Ya at Weebalos outings across the globe. And speaking of Weebalos, a new animal species was characterized (soon to be published in the "Journal of Experiments") that may be proof of the genetic chasm between the common buffalo, "boofus maximus," and the Oregon Beaver, "beavage oregonius". This new species, the "Beavalo" -- or "boofus beavage" -- is, as you can imagine, a medley of hair (no, that's NOT fur), claws (no, those AREN'T hooves), horns, and large gnawing-like teeth. The animal is rather benign to primates, save for it's raptor-like caterwaul, pounding tail, and stampedes (which are thankfully brief due to numerous trees in Oregon forests). Stay tuned to TheAstroSite for updates on this fascinating creature!

To those that missed this magical moment amongst the rough, fear not. Christina has been seasoned, so to speak, and there are more nights not too dissimilar to this one in our future. Next time, however, we may attempt to ditch the cars and earn our camping site with a hike. Thanks for playing!

Buck Naked

There is a special favorite of mine in the Oregon Cascades. It's name: Buck Lake. After careening through a network of fire service roads, a short half mile hike yields a precious lake with clear -- yes, CLEAR -- waters and makeshift campgrounds. Kristin and I stopped by over Labor Day to forget as much as we could about trace amine receptors and cyclophilin D. The water was brisk, but aggressively refreshing (if that's considered a temperature). And at night: a celestial peppering of the finest ground stars.

...Walt Whitman, kiss my ass.

Cramping

Christina wants to like camping. But it's her hair that gets all cramped up. A solution? Camping with me. I'll gladly cramp the camp. Hair. enough to make a mule's ass look stylish. I do this about once a weekend anyway, so why not. Another solution? Organize a "damn! Classes and rain will start again soon so we should all go camping." Trip. Jonathan and I visited "Saddle Mountain" last weekend and, save for relegating ourselves to car camping, we enjoyed it -- especially the views.
Just check out the photos we took. An easy three mile hike yields (at least on a clear day) the best view I've seen in Oregon. To the west: The Pacific Ocean and Coastal Range; to the east: the Cascades and even Mt. Rainier; to the north: the Columbia River and Astoria; to the south: umm...i don't know, some mountains, clouds, and shit.

Saddle Mountain is a quick 60-90 min. away (+/- traffic), right off Hwy 26 about 10 miles before Hwy 101. The turnoff heading 7 miles north from Hwy 26 is paved. Parking is at the trailhead. There are ample campsites with firepits at the trailhead. No reservations are needed. There are very clean bathrooms. There is drinking water. Therefore, we should go. The minor caveat: good days to do this are numbered. We have the new student barbecue coming, graduate program retreats, and of course, less sunny days. So after some talk with a couple people, we are thinking of Friday, Sept. 9th. Some of us can leave work early and get there in the afternoon; others can show up whenever since it isn't that far away and it is easy to find. The student barbecue is the next day, but that doesn't start until 4PM -- which I think is plenty of time to make it back, chill out, and uncramp the camp. Hair.


In Summary:

What: car camping at Saddle Mountain
When: Friday, September 9th
How to get there: http://www.oregonstateparks.org/park_197.php
Cost: Sites are $12, each accommodating up to two tents.
NOTE: Since there is no need for reservations, we can cancel at the last minute if the weather is looking to leave us with Saddlebag Mountain

Post a comment to this blog if you're interested so all the tent/gear arrangements can be made. My tent, bags, and air mattresses will be claimed, but I can bring a nice stove with pots and pans. BYOF(ood). BYOB. Carpool. Capeesh?

...Let There Be Site

I have always thought I should keep a journal. This plan has never materialized. Instead, my thoughts and reflections have been exclusively captured in lyrics, song, photos, and conversation. "The Blog" offers me a new chance. Hence, "The AstroSite" is born.

An interpolation: the blog name is a tribute to neuroscience in general and the astrocyte in specific, those mysterious and abundant cells in the brain that provide the atmosphere for the neuronal storm; in other words, a brain without astrocytes is like (this is a very loose analogy...) a supercomputer running on Windows 3.0. - the circuitry is there, but there isn't sufficient means to run at capacity. Interestingly, Albert Einstein's brain was shown to have a significantly higher glia:neuron ratio (astrocytes are a subcategory of "glia") in some parts of his brain, thereby formulating the hypothesis that Mr. Einstein's genius could have been the result of his ability to "fuel" his neurons. Einstein was shown to have a normal number of neurons. End Interpolation.

Anyway, feel free to post opinions, critiques, or any comments. I will post to the blog intermittently with what will likely become an eclectic cyber journal of my sometimes interesting life. An added advantage will be my ability to share photos without clogging up e-mail inboxes. If the last year is any indication, check for less-than-dignified photos. I also plan to use this blog as an info source for the frequent OHSU "extracurricular" gatherings and activities - with postevent photos, of course. So to close on topic, my neurons are requesting a nice, frothy Portland-crafted microbrew. Until next time, "Iechyd da"!