Something From Nothing

There's nothing like reclaiming the most depressing song I've ever made with a little overdrive. And so I present, Nothing From Something, the "Oasis vs. Opus Dei version".

...now if I could just find those leather pants...

Merry "Rest"mas

Ah, the Christmas season. While this is the first year since I was born that I will not be with my family for Christmas (save for my brother who now lives in Portland), all is not surrendered to longing and loneliness. Already I feel a quiescence that I may not if I was about to pinball through America's airport system, as well as through a labyrinth of friend and family "Hello, how are you?"s. Every year since I've moved to Portland the Christmas season is both too short and too long. I embark home in anticipation of noshing about Mom's cooking, imbibing about friends' deleterious habits, and lounging about Nintendo games and bad movies I've seen sixteen times before. Yet, it never quite happens like that. Even with a ten day sojourn, which I greedily hoarded last year, I still don't get to see everyone and do everything I planned...in South Dakota no less, a place where one wouldn't think there would be too much to do, especially in December. At the same rate, I contemporaneously develop ennui after about five days, feeling like I've slipped behind in my research, music writing, or whatever "n" number of endeavors I entertain. The result is always a pleasant Christmas experience, yet somehow an incomplete experience nonetheless.

Alas, this year is different. I have erected a hideous Christmas "tree" in my apartment that is decorated with fallout from a recent holiday party; I have plastic-wrapped Christmas treats slowly evaporating their Mom-made savory in my barren refrigerator; I have USPS-delivered presents littered about my wooden floor; and the only frost on my window sills is that from my humble sigh hoping for snow. Yes, maudlin, but not melancholy. I'm truly excited for a "Portland Christmas" this year if for nothing else, for its simplicity. I'll be relaxed, playing guitar, actually reading something that is not a scientific journal article, and slowly sipping tepid totties among the winter aire. This Christmas will most certainly be a "holiday" in every right.

As for specifics, my brother and I have modest plans, including a "South Dakota Christmas Eve" with other SD transplants, as well as a Christmas morning feast (and probably binge) at a good friend's house. After that, we may just park my Saudi-powered sleigh and walk about Portland's living room in Pioneer Square -- which I should add is aptly equipped with a forty foot decorated Douglas Fir. Yes, I will be "home" for Christmas after all. In this regard, I realize I now have two homes: one in South Dakota that my family and friends built, and one right here in Portland that I'm currently building. So there is really no need for longing after all. Many people on our lonely planet live and die without a single home, while I have the luxury of two. And that is certainly a gift worth unwrapping.

(...yeah...maybe that was a little cheesy. sorry.)

Heterosexonomics

No, I’m not gay. Really. No really, I’m just not. Even though I may be an iconoclastic challenge to our culture’s rigid stereotypical social corrals, that doesn’t equate to “therefore I must be gay”. Importantly, I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality. In fact, sometimes I wish I was gay so at least I’d be able to appease the social anxiety and downright threats I seem to pose to the general populace; plus, I evidently would have no shortage of dates if I was gay. But alas, just as I’m not Yugoslavian or Muslim, I’m not gay. Yup, I know, unbelievable:

I notice when a guy purchases new boots that compliment his aesthetic: gay! I bought my last pair of jeans because I liked the unique, coruscating sheen of the fabric weave: gay! I use articulate vocabulary in bars: gay! I’m not interested in the untouchably hot girl at the bar because she’s actually an idiot: gay! But I do think that the guy talking to that untouchably hot girl has nice eyes: gay! I don’t want to go home with the girl grabbing my arm and practically licking my ear because she’s drunk and gross: gay! I don’t gaze at flat-screened athletics flickering above the bar while I’m in the middle of a conversation: gay! I notice when a girl comes back from the bathroom wearing new lipstick that accentuates her hair color: gay! I’m sensitive and write songs about my feelings: gay! I enjoy refining my palate with 72% cacao dark chocolate, French-pressed Panama Estate Stumptown coffee, and microbrewed India Pale Ales with moderate I.B.U.s: gay! I critique my palate with qualifiers like “72%,” “Panama Estate,” and “I.B.U.s”: gay! My apartment has more candles than light bulbs: gay! The light bulbs I do use in my apartment are C7 bulbs with installed dimmer control: gay! My haircut is “artsy,” I get my haircut in the Pearl District, and my haircut LOOKS like I smear a tablespoon of product through it (even though I don’t use any): gay! I am secure about my identity, including all of the above mentioned traits, and continue to walk about my life with an unapologetic gait: gay!

But alas, I’m exclusively sexually attracted to women: NOT gay! Clearly this is an issue that has been simmering deep within the cauldron of my psyche for some time. At first it was flattering since most gay men (yes, I’m being a tad stereotypically here) are rumored to be the quintessential desired “man” by many women: well-dressed, sensitive, and secure (see above!). But when women themselves are confused about my sexual preference, I’m left with surmounting frustration. Some have argued that I ask for it by being the way that I am. Yes, my “problem” would immediately end with a buzz cut, a basketball jersey, some shitty hip-hop music in my iPod, and adding the word “tits” to my social vernacular. But that is the same obtuse logic that would suggest reducing racism by asking Spanish-speaking people to...stop being so Mexican. Hence, my knack for being tagged as gay lies with our xenophobic culture, not with me. And, interestingly, the culpable may not be solely heterosexual men, but also the women that submit to chauvinism and insipid personalities. To be completely phlegmatic, there is a microeconomic sexual analogy where price and quality are determined by supply (men) and demand (women) in this case -- and I think it’s about time the market advantage is leveraged towards the demand.

All too often I see “Dude” play the dating game like he plays his fantasy football league to ‘win” the girl. But what shocks me is how often the girl metaphorically shrugs and follows suit, thereby reinforcing the “supply” status quo. His identity is manifested through a projected image of her, not his own projection, which is likely so absconded that he wouldn’t recognize it if it was a ticker tape along the bottom of his flat-screened facade. But to be fair, she probably wouldn’t recognize her own beautiful projection because she’s never been invited for a viewing. And so we are left with two insecure cyclones vortexing into one perfect storm of social stagnancy, all the while relegating me as the “gay” satellite to capture images from afar.

I understand and appreciate that there is a plethora of interesting, engaging, and attractive women that object to such linear economics -- many of which I have as friends; and I’m not boasting that I’m some investment boon either, as I have plenty of my own insecurities and undesirable traits like everyone else. But when I get passed as gay by men (which is an interesting topic all in its own) and women greater than 50% of the time, and I’m not gay, then there is clearly a problem with our culture’s expectation of what defines a heterosexual man.

The real issue, I think, is confidence. I can’t speak much for gay men (since I’m not one), but I can imagine that it takes a great deal of confidence to be publicly gay in our society, even in Portland, Oregon 2007 A.D. The personal, familial, and social scrutiny, ridicule, and risk accompanying gay expression demands admirable commitments to self confidence. Musing upon this point, I can’t recall meeting many flaky, disingenuous gay guys. While I’ve met plenty of ridiculous and annoying gay guys, at least they’re usually unapologetic and sincere about their attitudes, no matter how undesirable. This certainly isn’t to suggest that any actions are excusable as long as they’re genuine, I just wouldn’t place insecurity at the top of the character traits for outwardly gay men, whereas i hesitate to do the same for the greater heterosexual male population.

I’ve had 27 years to refine my personality into the eccentric, neurotic, but hopefully charming anomaly it is today. Paging back through my rather dense volume of life chronicles, my personal traits listed above have been conspiring since my childhood in -- important to mention -- South Dakota. I started greasing my hair into strange shapes in first grade; I gave up all forms of sugar when I was eight years old because it was “bad” for me; I fashioned Airwalk shoes and Goodwill shopping at the age of eleven; I was a vegan in high school (again, in South Dakota); I decorated our house for Christmas one year by plastering abstract shapes of lights about the outside siding instead of tracing the gutter and window lines; I chose to bring Guiness to college parties because, unlike Bud Light, it actually tastes good (not common in 1998, let alone South Dakota); I still tell my best friend, Josh, that I love him because I do; and so on... I don’t deserve accolades for these things, rather, I’m simply illustrating that I’ve always been one to require adept security among a hostile environment, and that this sense of security may be what is unfortunately confused as “gay”. Sure, I may be emotionally volatile, self-centered, and needy at times, but I’m comfortable in my neutral shroud of negatives and positives. ...Therefore, I’m clearly gay? I think this is absurd, as would most people that take the time to ponder these circumstances. Yet, I continuously -- and I do mean continuously -- am assumed gay, when I am not. Consequently, my frustration has peaked. And so I propose a challenge to our current economic recession: “demand,” get with it! Seriously. If there is one thing the “supply” certainly deserves to be insecure about, it’s their worth without demand.

Renege

Sorry...consider it a three-part series or something. San Diego was great, and I hope to post something about it soon "in between" my grant writing (no, it never stops), but evidently I just keep writing songs that I feel like I need to share -- not that I should or anything, but damn this moody loneliness of mine! Seriously though, this time I mean it: last song post for a while.

A Letter Home

I realize that the past three entries have been completely self-absorbed, personal, musical B.S., and I promise I'll get back to more important topics like Macroverses and ...beer, but first I feel the need to post one more melodic creation of mine. It seems my music has (thankfully) taken a bit of a new course since Songs For Ghosts, yet evidently I can't help but sing about a girl; although this girl didn't break me, rather, I broke her. As autumn wanes, the chill of winter rears a home-longing I didn't realize I had, possibly because I know this holiday season I won't be seeing my girl, "Miss Midwest". And while she can be a moody gal, she can also be summer sweet. Alas, from the Murph Studios (yes, I'll try to figure out how to decrease that hiss sound), I present my song for those that understand the love-hate relationship that is the inescapable gravity of their existence: home.

And while you listen in enjoyment, indifference, or disgust, I'll be basking in that ultraviolet Southern inferno known as San Diego, California. I realize that tens of thousands of neurosceintists in one place may not seem like much of a party, but it will at its least be a story -- one for The Astrosite, perhaps? ...sigh...the pun...

Songs For Ghosts

I have just completed a project that I've named, "Songs For Ghosts". You can download all the music and artwork files for free HERE

If you enjoy Songs For Ghosts and would like to make a small donation, you can do so via your Paypal account to dchordpdx@gmail.com

I encourage comments and critiques.

The Murph Studios, L.L.C.

I'm excited to report the establishment of "The Murph Studios" located in a charming 1910 Victorian apartment complex in northwest Portland, Oregon. So far I have a nonpareil inventory consisting of....uhhh...one Samson CO1U USB-ported condensor microphone and v2.0.2 GarageBand software circa de 2005. Yeah, so "nonpareil" might not be the right word. But it is my first purchase of the sort, thereby taking one small step away from complete denial of calling myself a "musician". I have a lot to learn, a lot to record, and probably a great deal of school to be late for in the near future.

The dawning of The Murph Studios was catalyzed by the need to add a few finishing touches to a work of music I'm calling "Songs For Ghosts," recorded adeptly by Mr. E. LeShane, and due "out" very soon (to the 5-6 people that actually might want a copy...Hi Mom!). Finishing this rather solemn - if not bludgeonly depressing - caterwaul will provide much needed closure to the enervating emotional saga I've evidently been frozen in for nearly nine months. Yes, it's an egocentric pitty-party, no doubt: guilty as charged.

Therefore, I'm excited to initiate a new chapter in my emotional psyche, although the motto appears to have simply shifted from 'the wrong girl' to 'no girl'. But alas, The Murph Studios has already begun to nurture my next musical endeavors. Yes, the lyrics and mood are certainly still bathed in blue hues and candlelight, but the sound of the new songs I've attempted to record are something I'd like to explore...once I figure out how to use my new toy. Below you'll find an **extremely** rough demo of my clusmy tinckering. Importantly, "Portland" played the rain track, which couldn't have been more apt. It's no LeShane recording, but it sure beats using the stock-issued micorphone in my computer to record everything from my guitar, to my hard drive spinning, to my "You've Got Mail" message. And so I present the first recording from The Murph Studios:

But first thing's first: "Songs For Ghosts" will continue haunting me until I can finish it, which will happen very soon...

Oh, and of course: HAPPY ROCK-TOBER 1st!!!

Rock-Tober-F'-Yeah!

If Team America World Police could could party harder than a Hummer spin through a hookah shop, they'd pick Rock-Tober 2007. Let autumn regin as the new seasonal superpower! (click to image enlarge...naturally)

Eat Your Vegetables

Billions and billions. Such numbers approach comprehensive absurdity, residing somewhere beyond the finite boundaries of human consciousness. Numbers within this exponential corral evoke a sense of bewilderment and colossal imagination. They are undeniably very big numbers. But as though on a mobius number line, “billions” can quantify the inconceivably small, as well as the large. The atomic universe counts its own billions in terms of nanoseconds, reactions, collisions, orbital probabilities, and so forth. This “nanoverse” is like an insidious shadow of our much larger “macroverse,” reflecting familiar images, although in a cryptic, even taunting manner. And so in the dialogue of billions, the small is as enthralling as the large (and that’s not a pun).

The faculty of the small may be best tamed by exposing its similarities with the large, which is what we are more comfortable observing on a clear, moonless night. As far as we know circa 2007 A.D., there is one universe in which we conduct our relatively menial existence. This “Uberverse” commandeers both the macroverese and the nanoverse under the auspices of physical “laws” by which everything (yes, take that loosely) must obey. These are the fundamental forces that really smart people have conveniently deduced into four disparate forces -- well, at least until Steven Hawking decides that cameos on The Simpsons isn’t the fast track to the Grand Unifying Theory. Therefore, the family of forces that prevent precious Earth from a kamikaze trajectory into the sun also function to prevent electrons in my layer VI neuronal mitochondria from an annihilating trajectory into their adjacent protons.

It is from this perspective that one is then left to ponder the universe within. As galaxies dance about the celestial canvass, so do electrons about the atomic canvass. Unless life truly is but a dream -- and therefore unless you think Rene Descartes is one thought bubble too obtuse -- we are but the stars of matter and energy. The continuum of “billions” is at work coordinating every action potential of my neurons, every stroke of my keypad, and every radian that I spin so aimlessly around our favorite star. Simply put, we are but what are we, The Uberverse: a concert of harmonious exponential energy.

But if one is to imagine the “billions” comprising our Uberverse, a paradox presents itself that the Uberverse is pondering itself since my conscious mind is no exception to the Uberversal legal code. In other words, how is it that the Uberverse can ponder its own existence which is in itself the fruit of its own existence, just as the atoms that comprise my neurons function to ponder the nature of my neurons (as I do in the laboratory every day). The answer to the latter question may be that neurons do not “ponder,” rather, they are the vehicle by which the Uberverse has chosen to ponder, much like a radio is the vehicle by which radio waves are translated, not transmitted. But thanks to a fellow that wrote “Albert” on various name tags, the paradox may find some resolution in an elegantly simple mathematical formula equating energy and mass (insert iconic, if not trite equation “Here”). And so we are left with yet another continuum, although ironically, if not appropriately, the same continuum mentioned above that I will call the “mobius consciousness”. This is a continuum where the tangible electricity of action potentials, the intangible electricity of consciousness, and the intractable electricity of the Uberverse exist, if not at least because they coordinate to ponder that they exist. So let’s hear it for my main man, Descartes. Whoop, whoop!

And so the Uberverse is within us as much as without us. Everywhere. Every Move. Every crying moment in candlelight. Every quiescent moment in someone’s arms. We are but are we. The continuum of our mobius consciousness; a yin and yang of matter and energy, macroverese and nanoverse, love and hate, war and peace. But as is evident in even the most insipid newspaper, our existence isn’t quite so black and white. Quantum mechanics can take “Hello, My Name Is Albert” one step further to stir up an eddy of control among a torrent of Uberversal tyranny: probability. To predict the precise behavior of the nanoverse is to predict the impossible. Likewise, the Uberverse, by which we exist, answers to its own boss with the distinguished title, “Hello, My Name Is Probability, C.E.O.”. And so the paradox grows in dimension, although hopefully less than Brian Greene’s 26, in that an additional law of the Uberverse is that there can be no law of precise prediction. Is this the physics of free will? Am I able to choose because my neuronal nanoverse is unable to absolutely decide? And if this is true for my nanoverse, shouldn’t that also reign in my more familiar macroverse? The questions easily approach 1,000,000,000, and therefore any answers easily approach absurdity. But this perspective (which I admit is narrow) begs the possibility -- ahem, the probability -- that the choices we make, whether macro or nano can transpire to conspire among the nearest atom, as well as the nearest cosmos. A stellar butterfly effect perhaps, but an effect nonetheless.

Despite this cosmic significance, it remains evident that we are frail, helpless human creatures, so much so that one can’t help but wonder if the Uberverse accidently burped our/its consciousness out of a billion-to-one probability. Yet, we exist because we can ask if we exist; from atom to energy, we must exist. And therefore the energy by which we bestow can consequently effect the matter that we receive, and vise versa. Acoustic energies can reorganize synaptic circuitry, just as light and pressure can achieve the same. For scientists such as the one I pretend to be, it is fatally arrogant to discount energetic relations to matter as “witchcraft,” “religion,” or other tabloid adjectives. On the Uberversal continuum (which I suppose is the same continuum as all the others), matter and energy, big and small, love and hate... they all effect each other, just as the matter it requires to amass neurons to believe they effect each other -- or don’t effect each other -- also effect the energy which generated the inquisition in the first place: us. And so it appears that grandma may have been right about becoming what you eat. She just happened to leave out the probability, although infinitesimally small, that I might also eat what I are.

i no how to right and tipe reel good.

Evidently "very well-written" grant proposals don't get funded because it's just inconceivable that a student could sythesize such an "outstanding document" without their mentor having a "very hands-on role in putting this reasearch application together":

"The research plan itself is by far the strength of this application. It is very well-written and 'tight,' it is an interesting and important topic, and there are simply no major flaws. The quality of the application, and in particular the writing style, is somewhat difficult to reconcile. . . It seems evident that the sponsor played a very hands-on role in putting this research application together."

I can't win.

So You're Leaving...

Of the voluminous library of songs I've heard in my life, this remains as one of my favorites. I've needed it more than once.

"If You Have To Go," by Geneva:

Hi Blog.

Hi Blog. How are you? It's been such a long time since I've been able to talk to you! So...how are the kids? Fine? Gooooood, gooooood.... oh, I'm fine. I've just been really busy lately, but you know how THAT goes -- ha, ha, ha, ha.... Oh, you know, I've had retreats to attened, a stready stream of family visiting for the past month, and of course the experiments haven't stopped. But, yeah, you know, that is the life I love to live. Ohhhh....yeah. huh...what's that? ....oh, I miss you too! We'll spend some quality time togther soon, I promise. 'Tell you what, let's get together next week before the camping trip. How does....say.....oh, I don't know....any time before Thursday sound? Good? .....yeah? OK, let's "touch base" soon and try to hammer out some really profound hubris! Yeah, well, you know how well we seem to do that together! And it's been just SOOO LONG since we've done that. So what do you think?! ...uh-huh....yeah.....mmmmm..... well, In the mean time, say hi to all those visitors you get and let them know I'm alright and doing well. Oh, and I'll be sure to visit some of your friends and give them a hello as well.

OK, well, nice talking with you. Take care and give little Johnny a kiss for me....he's so cute. Alright...uh-huh....real good now....OK....yup....alright, bub-bye now. mm-hmmm....

BSBF 2007 Final Results!

Please see link below to download the Excel file. Post any reactions to the results below by clicking on "Comments". Note that the error bars in the graph are standard error. Feel free to render any other interesting comparisons and post them here. BSBF 2007 was good fun; thanks to everyone who helped make it happen. If you haven't yet had your fill of shitty beer, you can look forward to BSBF 2008 in only 11 more months. In the meantime, I'll be anticipating a most unshitty beer best at the Oregon Brewers Festival along the Portland waterfront park July 26th through July 29th. I'll be volunteering somewhere among the hops and barley Friday the 27th, so stop by (likely at the Rogue stand) for an extra-special pour from yours truly.

My What A Busy Week (of BSBF stats)

I need to take a moment...a moment from ^KL(*#$&DJKHNDFCNVKJ#E* and type nonsense onto my blog. Ahhh... It's Memorial Day, and it is absolutely lovely outside. As placid as peacetime, I suppose. How ironic. Politics aside, there is indeed more ^KL(*#$&DJKHNDFCNVKJ#E* ahead this week, as I have been pushing for some fancy new data for my committee meeting, I play some guitar on Wednesday (with a debut of "The Cougar Song"), and then I turn a yellow 27 on Sunday (and probably age an additional year during the inevitable debauchery Saturday night). Yes, a busy week that will likely be conquered, but alas, not without a pyrrhic victory.

Somewhere among the clutter I've began deciphering the cryptic gustation documented last weekend at the Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007. Complete data will be published here soon, but a victor has emerged: Miller Light. Not an exciting underdog by any means, but somehow the Miller Brewing Company managed to package a relatively sapid delight among all that water; Labatt's Blue was a close silver medal. Now for the losers. These results have much more flair to shout about. We have a triad competing for the bottom of the toilet bowl, but Sharps Non-alcoholic TIED with Stella Artois the worst shittiest beer. Yes, at $9 a six-pack for Stella, you may as well drink Sharp's NA. That is something to shout on a mountain top. What's even more thrilling than that result, you ask? ...by a mere THREE points total (3% higher score), Steel Reserve TIED with Heineken for the second shittiest shitty beer. Need I comment more? Interesting personal caveat: both James and Oyer consistently bucked that trend by ranking Sharp's and Heineken toward the top of their personal favorites. And what's better, they also ranked Stella highly. So the next time either of these two blokes saddle up to the bar, order them a round of Sharp's!

...more complete stats to come soon...

BSBF 2007 A Success!

The Best Shittiest Beer Fest of 2007 has been completed and the results are being tabulated...well, they're actually sitting on my coffee table until I have time to crunch the numbers, which will likely be this coming weekend. But statistics aside, I think there were some ostensible losers. First, "Sharps," which is Miller's attempt at a non-alcohol beer, was clearly the worst beer at the Fest. Ever. That shit was shitty! Furthermore, I'm happy to report that Heineken -- the beer some people think is good just because it costs $8 a 6-pack -- was not much better than Sharps. That is NOT a compliment. It will take a little more numerical articulation to determine some beer winners, since there were a few that were "not bad". I ranked Old Style up near the top for both rounds, which I was proud of since that was the beer I brought as my sure-fire champion. Stay tuned to the AstroSite for the complete stats as they become available.

Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007

Well, that shitty time of the year has come again. You know, the one that makes your tastebuds weep and your stomach seizure. Yes, kids, Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007 is upon us. Need I say more? Same concept, same location, same time, same antacids. But remember: we are looking for the beer you THINK is good, but your friends may tell you otherwise. This isn't a picnic for Rogue or Deschuttes -- it's been overwhelmingly demonstrated that those beers are both tasty AND expensive; rather, this picnic is to find the least offensive beer for your buck. There is a very special, important exception to that rule: expensive shitty beer. I am tired of people being duped by savvy marketing or conditioned learning. Is Corona, Heineken, or the like REALLY worth that $8 tab? I willing to bet my $4.78/6-pack of Old Style that they 'aint shit. BRING. IT. ON!

***I encourage you to select either classic BSBF favorites or beers that remain unchallenged in previous BSBFs. You can see what beers were chosen in 2006 "HERE"

REMEMBER TO POST A COMMENT BELOW WITH YOUR BEER CHOICE!
The flier and instructions are below. Click each image to enlarge them.

Where The Sun Never Sets

I recently returned from a rather surreal spring break trip to visit my uncle in Manhattan Beach, California. Having not paid meticulous attention to the movie Blow (important note: Manhattan Beach is featured BEFORE the cocaine!), my only expectation was to relax and spend time in the sun. Both of these expectations certainly came true, but what unfolded in my ephemeral 96 hour sojourn proved to be an indelible, incredible experience. Manhattan Beach is in many ways like the quaint NW Portland neighborhood in which I live, only with more sun, a Pacific shore, and what has to be the highest concentration of beautiful women on the planet. Hmmm...OK...so maybe it isn't too similar to my neighborhood, but Manhattan Beach and NW Portland certainly share a strong sense of identity and community. The tight social network that links people, places, and ideas reminded me very much of my northern neighborhood, as did the appreciation for foot and pedal power -- yes, this appreciation actually exists within Los Angeles County! And to add to the similarities, I was pleasantly surprised to discover the Manhattan Beach Brewing Company near the pier, serving me delicious pints of chocalate porter and blonde ale as an homage to Portland's eminent domain. Yes, Manhattan Beach was in many ways the 30-something reflection of my 20-something NW neighborhood.

But then there is the "scene". This scene -- or maybe "seen" in the L.A. lexicon -- is one of the most aggresive displays of social and sexual feathers outside of a horny peacock (see picutres!). Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, but it was certainly something that heaved me into unfamiliar territory. Money weaves through every conversational stitch, while sex seems to be a nervous fidget to avoid even the slightest hint of boredom. In a sense, the gain on this system is maxed, turning the lows somewhere near hell, and highs near heaven. Naturally, any system like this can easily distort, leaving the listener (which would be my child-like self!) running to Mommy with their hands over their ears. For fairness, Manhattan Beach is a few insulation pads removed from it's younger hedonist neighbor, Hermosa Beach. I actually found myself stone-cold sober in the corner of a club completely nonplussed at the human spectacle before me. Shock and Awe, indeed. But since I truly was nonplussed, I will have to shy away from any description. I do, however, remember thinking, "Even the Roman Empire eventually fell". I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it was somehow perfectly apposite.

Ahem. Back to Manhattan Beach. A blissful bubble from rainly Portland and certainly from ___(insert negative adjective here)___ nearby Los Angeles. I watched a crimson sunset from my uncle's deck every single night, attempted surfing (but not without a possible broken rib...don't worry, I'm fine), rode bikes up and down the Pacific rim of the South Bay, gawked at some of the most incredible bodies I've ever seen (albeit mostly "fake," if you know what I mean), listened to 1960's records on my dad's original Klipsch Cornwall speakers, sped through the Malibu hills in a sun-gleamed convertible Porsche, and, most importantly, reconnected with an uncle that I share more in common with than my genes can probably transcribe. Yes, the experience was "intensely relaxing," a phrase that was still an oxymoron only one week ago. Yet, upon departing from this fantasy land, I realized that I needed a vacation from my vacation. The seduction of Manhattan Beach is not one to flirt with for too long, at least not for an aspiring Ph.D. student such as myself. But, like a dirty secret, it's enticing to know that Manhattan Beach is always whispering for another date -- a date that I'll gladly accept in the future.

Someone To Remember

The name to remember is Matt Hales, not Aqualung. Matt hales, “The Man” behind the Aqualung curtain, has nothing to do with the Jethro Tull album, Aqualung, but has everything to do with beautiful music that Coldplay, U2, and Radiohead wish they would have written for their next albums. But comparing Matt Hales to the Britpopithon champions does a disservice to the unfeigned talent documented on Memory Man, Matt Hales latest and greatest musical effort.

For the unintroduced, Aqualung came onto the British charts in 2002 with the lusciously-wet ballad, “Strange and Beautiful,” which was later usurped by Volkswagon to sell cars (yeah, a slight bummer, but easily forgiven). The Norwegian Invasion aside, Matt Hales was not in good timing to catch the ear of Americans already saturated with Blood Rushing to Their Heads, Beautiful Days, and Hailing Thieves. But then Matt released the song “Brighter Than Sunshine” in 2005 and the U.S. could no longer ignore Aqualung. Matt’s first two British releases were combined, pruned, star-spangled-wrapped, and sold as the album “Strange & Beautiful” in the U.S. The result was an elegant archive of a piano wunderkind coming into his own. Memory Man, released last month, is this wunderkind maturing into a bona fide, indelible musician worthy of accolades -- of which I’m about to deeply exhale. While there are no songs that deserve the double-arrowed digital skip button, I will focus on just a few of the tracks in observance of “The Whole Brevity Thing,” your Dudeness.

The opening track, “Cinderella,” wastes no time getting to the point of Memory Man: this album will be edgier and more ambitious than the Aqualung of the past. Aside from being one of the best opening tracks I’ve ever heard, joining the ranks of U2’s “Where The Streets Have No Name” and Fugazi’s “Waiting Room,” Cinderella showcases a complexity that I equate to a falling dollar bill: unpredictable, yet gracefully directed. Trying to catch this dollar bill left me pleasantly frustrated (which is possible!), so I decided to surrender to Matt’s tenacious grip on the musical wheel. There are chord changes and song structure psych-outs that are impossible to predict upon the first few listens. These qualities are truly rare on pop albums and set the stage for what Memory Man has to offer. But Cinderella may be Matt’s own surrender to influences like U2, Bjork, Radiohead, Travis, and Coldplay -- influences that persist throughout the album’s entirety. Every suspended twist of Cinderella is an ephemeral nod to some of my generation’s greatest. Yet, with help from masterful production prowess (more on that later), Matt finds his own ground to stand on, an unclaimed plot of the musical landscape comfortably disparate from more hackneyed territory.

You may have to pause the tracks briefly to allow loading time

Cinderella is followed by “Pressure Suit,” a glossy, yet jagged (think icebergs) pop song, and likely the first single from the album. In fact, Pressure Suit may be a “Perfect Pop Song”. Some may cringe at such a distinction, but, again, I have to surrender: Pressure Suit is an undeniable feat of pop brilliance on par with the best. The song is catchy (OK, extremely catchy), symmetric, yet complicated enough to avoid austerity. Yes, a perfect pop song.

“Something To Believe In,” the third track on Memory Man, seamlessly continues Matt’s audacious sound experiment. This song begins with a stripped-down electronic tap that builds like a slow-motion flower bloom, showing you the sonic core only during the final verse. Like Cinderella, this song showcases a heavier, aggressive sound that is a new direction for Matt. But Something To Believe In proves that this new formula works. The edge of the drums, swirling guitars, and distorted vocals in the final moments provide a fitting gusto to secure Matt’s beautifully frail voice. It is precisely this sort of symmetric elegance that takes Memory Man a step (or two) ahead of Aqualung’s previous albums.

Last but certainly not least, “Outside” is -- simply put -- a tune that sounds like U2 should have thought of for their next single. But apparently Matt Hales thought of it first (Doh!). The staccato guitars that ring through most of the track are just screaming for The Edge to rip in his 2(thousand) cents, while the chorus taunts Bono to float his raspy yodeling. But alas, Matt is restrained enough (or maybe cocky enough) to comfortably claim this song as his own. Like “Pressure Suit,” “Outside” is another perfect pop song, leaving you humming the chorus for days and feeling those goose bumps as the song moves out of its bridge and into its weightless chorus. So take that, Bono.

Obviously I love Memory Man. In fact, I doubt I could write a more glowing review. But how is it deserving of such accolades when my review is littered with references to other musicians? What about originality? Enter Ben Hales, Matt’s brother and the mastermind puppeteer that makes Memory Man a success. The production on Memory Man is incredible. What were undoubtably single-track piano tunes were differentially expanded to make one of the most textured, three dimensional sounds I’ve heard on a pop album. Not everyone appreciates this style of mega-production, and being a Ryan Adams fan/stalker, I have utmost respect for a raw recording. But, unlike Ryan Adams, Matt’s song writing may best resemble a bird in a vacuum: gracefully talented but without a medium with which to fly. Ben’s production provides the sweeping air currents with which Matt’s melodies can soar in originality. The result is one of the best recordings I’ve heard in years that is the Memory Man. And that is both Something To Believe In and something to remember.

Aqualung will be playing May 14th at the Wonder Ballroom in Portland.

Like Two Lovers

I don't "punt for the other team," so to say (and this is despite the fact that I like dark chocolate, fitting -- NOT TIGHT! -- tees, candle-lit rooms, and French press coffee), but Grant and I are once again spending a fare amount of time together, hence the rather infrequent blogging posts lately. However, this time around Grant isn't quite the vociferous beast he seemed to be only five months ago. No, once I got to know him, a gentle, droopy-eyed child appeared from behind that formidable facade. Like two lovers, we now burn the midnight oil together (yes, sometimes in candle light), talking science, and sharing coffee and the occasional pint. I'm not sure where our relationship is heading, but hopefully him and I can start something serious because indeed, I am ready for a long-term relationship with him -- at least for the next two years. But in the meantime, Grant, please know that I regret all those awful things I've said about you in the past. It was me, not you. I'm a changed person now. You've taught me so much: patience, perseverance, the nature of Bax and the mitochondrial permeability transition pore in neuronal cell death, the absurdity of NIH instruction packets, and honesty in dealing with my emotions. Grant, you're a star, whether you choose me or not. I just hope you feel the same way about me. Think about it; I'll be right here waiting.

***

In other less creepy, more serious announcements, a more-than-just-a-good-friend of mine has recently received her Master's in Behavioral Neuroscience degree. This is an extraordinary achievement that deserves showers of accolades for both the degree itself and for the ownership of her life that it represents. The road behind her is now solidly paved in accomplishment, and may the unchartered roads ahead lead you to enlightenment, happiness, and love -- love for yourself, the world around you, and the people that can make "life" an adjective. The tears behind my eyes weep out of happiness and out of sadness in your imminent departure. Godspeed, my true companion.

If Oranges Could Fly, Then I'll Be Friday

(click on image to make it larger, assuming you even care to do such a thing)

The Third "I"

The Album Leaf: "Broken Arrow"

I sit here alone looking through the glass from one of Northwest Portland’s trendiest new watering fountains, “North 45” -- which by the way, MUST be uber-trendy-cool because the name has numbers in it (just like Blink 182 and 3 Doors Down!), and the name means absolutely nothing in a totally nuevo post-post-post modern existential way (the address of North 45 is 517 Northwest 21st street). Places like these are forgivable though because, well, these places define Northwest Portland’s persona: the Hippster Mecca for the (often) over-educated, possibly bored, caffeinated, alcohol-soaked twentysomethings of America...well, at least the caucasian over-educated, possibly bored, caffeinated, alcohol-soaked twentysomethings of America. Not that we’re a segregative bunch by any means, but for whatever reason(s), Portland in general and Northwest Portland in specific, is largely a homogenous off-white hue, much like hockey. Right. Anyway, my cozy cell within this buzzing hive is uniquely positioned between the solid pearly whites of the Pearl District and the solid surly nights of the pub-laden 21st and 23rd streets. A vague memory of a childhood tennis lesson comes to mind about the necessity of avoiding “No Man’s Land” -- I was never any good an tennis, so naturally, this is precisely the locale I did not avoid when looking for an apartment. It is as though I’ve sequestered myself into an identity crisis, wanting both nothing to do with and everything to do with the “Uberness” of Portland’s ever-buzzing Northwest quadrant. Like Grandma’s beautiful-strange casserole, Northwest Portland is somehow better to poke from a distance than to actually consume.

And so is the case for so many things in my life. I dabble in music, art, outdoor adventure, and, yes, even science, my chosen career path that deserves more than just “dabbling”. Or does it? Ambivalence, if used adroitly (and not to suggest that I do so), can be an excellent vehicle for objectivity. In the case of Grandma’s casserole, do I poke to avoid consuming or being consumed? Our private and public relationships can become voracious monsters, devouring our objectivity with a heavy garnish of human frailty, that is, the frailty of feeling alone. It seems as though we easily surrender our individuality, and therefore our objective, impressionable Tabula Rasa, to the hunger of our gregarious, albeit human subjectivity. We are indeed social beings, but rightfully so as this trait has paid dividends to our evolutionary success. But even evolution is at the reigns of input-output thermodynamics in that every process, including the molecular collisions orchestrating our emotionally dynamic brains, must in the end demand as much input (“cost”) as is expected for the output (“reward”). Throw in some inevitable heat loss dictated by entropic thermodynamics, and a physicist could argue that we inevitably lose more to social subjectivity than we can possibly expect to gain from individual objectivity. But physicists aren’t real humans anyway, so what do they know?

The rain has picked up again outside and a small group of smokers has moved under a nearby awning, gravitating together like weak magnets -- products of their environments in so many ways. As am I as I pay North 45 $3 (which includes the minimum $1 Portland-mandated tip, of course) for an espresso that caters to a snobby, refined taste, perfect for someone sporting Diesel shoes, Urban Outfitters’s dark-washed jeans, an Express felt jacket, typing with “it’s soooooo not your Dad’s operating system” OS X Tiger-powered computer, and listening to “it’s soooooo underground, it’s above ground on the other side” The Album Leaf -- yes, a product of my environment in so many ways.

The challenge is to recognize that we are largely our own consumer, continuously in danger of autophagy among artificial, subjective facades that designate supposedly important social cliques. Is it possible that we are so easily consumed by our social networks that the "I"ndividual within us becomes the scariest person we could ever encounter: a raw, unadulterated, yet beautiful fingerprint chiseled into our consciousness by the Universe’s Architect? What social sutures have sewn us down and stymied our curious peregrinations toward enlightenment? Diesel shoes and rain drops? Possibly. But The Architect was forgiving, as he chose malleable materials to build our fleshly machines. The environment that surrounds us is the same environment that composes our cells, our proteins, our atoms -- our consciousness. Therefore, we are at liberty to change our environment as much as our social rain drops are at liberty to change us. Injecting individuality into social networks may be the best recipe to satisfy both the hunger of our social appetite and the hunger of our largely undiscovered "I"ndividual appetite. So, to completely exhaust all analogies to Grandma’s beloved casserole, "we are what we eat" as much as we “eat what we are”.

A New Sunrise?

I suppose after about 12 days it is time to take my previous post off the front page, but obviously updating my blog hasn't been a keen priority lately. In a brighter, south-southeastern light, I have, thanks to my precious friends, successfully moved from the "The Castle" (see October posts) to...well, not a castle, but a fine residence nonetheless. I loved my previous home so much that it has been difficult to find a new apartment without the thick haze of melancholy obscuring my perspective. (and for those of you that can't quite follow what is going on here, my previous residence in The Castle came to a premature end in favor of a new owner evicting everyone for "major renovations," possibly a legal guise for a condominium conversion).

After precariously balancing my belongings down The Castle's dilapidated fire escape, it was time to open my new front door. And as though I had never seen the place before, I realized that...it really is a nice apartment. It's no castle for $485 a month, but it has ample natural sunlight (something very valuable in Portland!), a sliver view of downtown and the West Hills, a Murphy Bed to pull out for guests (I don't even want to begin with the name jokes on that one, but mark my word: there is not, nor shall there ever be a Murphy sleeping on my Murphy Bed) ...ahem...there is ample storage space, numerous public balconies with barbecue potential, and for the first time in my rental career, there is space -- oh, glorious space to stretch my legs, space to run in circles and bark at my tail, and space to realize that I'm a dude that obviously doesn't spend his money on furniture.

I soon realized that one must look for a place that can become a home, not a place that already is a home. My new apartment -- now aptly dubbed "The Murphy," or just "The Murph" if you're into the whole brevity thing -- can indeed become my home. And because of that, I will sleep soundly among the unfamiliar new sounds and shadows.

I hope to post pictures soon. And an uber "Thank You" once again to my friends for their slave labor; a "Murph" warming party awaits you all!

How Do You Keep Love Alive?

Lord, I miss that girl
On the day we met the sun was shining down
Down on the valley
Riddled with horses running
Crushing them with flowers
I would have picked for her
On the day she was born
She runs through my veins like a long black river
And rattles my cage like a thunderstorm
Oh my soul

What does it mean?
What does it mean?
What does it mean to be so sad?
When someone you love
Someone you love is supposed to make you happy
What do you do
How do you keep love alive?

When it won't
What, what are the words
They use when they know it's over
"We need to talk," or
"I'm confused, maybe later you can come over"
I would've held your mother's hand
On the day you was born
She runs through my veins
Like a long black river and rattles my cage
Like a thunderstorm
Oh, my soul

What does it mean?
What does it mean?
What does it mean to be so sad?
When someone you love
Someone you love is supposed to make you happy
What do you do
How do you keep love alive?

When it won't
How do you keep love alive?

-- Ryan Adams