Two Truths and a Truth

If you're anything like me, your life is forever spent trying to find a fitting soundtrack. Either you hear a song and it perfectly aligns with and folds into something that is currently happening (think Sigur Ros, "Se Lest" at the very moment of a downpour in San Marino on a tuesday morning, for example), or you hear a song and its sentiments echo something that practically screams at the goings on (though not at this very second) of your real life ("Not About Love" by Fiona Apple comes to mind).

Either way, as much as I'd like to think that the music I resonate with most is complicated, wounded, erratic, or dissonant (think Radiohead. Or PJ Harvey), the truth of the matter is, on the spectrum of musical depth, I, sadly, float somewhere in the creme-colored realm of Coldplay. Soaring melodies. Sensitive, poetic lovelorn lyrics. Mostly executed in the Jim Adkins-and-the-Goodtime-Gang's-favorite major key.

I'm a puppy-faced, sad sack, heart-on-the-sleeve sap, alright? No two ways around it. For me, the best type of music is the kind that calls to mind images of stars, of sky, of sparkly things and floaty things and hair blowing in the breeze. Call it what you will (I call it painfully cliché, but that's just me) but nothing quite snags my heartstrings like the summer-vacation-first-love-first-crush-first-kiss-first-krispie-creme-doughnut kind of sonic sentiment.

For those moments, those soaring emotional highs and dripping emotional lows, and for every calm, contented stretch in between, here are my picks for this week.

Explosions in the Sky, The World Is Not a Cold Place (especially the brooding, soaring, heartwrenching "Your Hand in Mine")
The Wrens, The Meadowlands
Sun Kil Moon, Ghosts of the Great Highway (Wandering, nostalgic, like a memory you never quite had)
Stars, Heart (This album in particular is for the lover in us all; the hopeful, the cynical, or the wounded. It is the aural equivalent of a car ride, windows down, vocals rushing like nighttime air over bare skin)

Go ahead. Make a fist and embrace the eyes-closed-rose-colored romantic sap within you.

Ballad of the Oil Refineries That Glitter Mysteriously in The Distance

Rain here is rare. When there are so many days marching row after row, and every day looks the same as the last—cloudless, 75 degrees, sun—is rain less of an anomaly and more of a phenomenon? I realize that to many people rain is rain; no inherent profundities to be extrapolated there.

So rain is just rain. But even in its lack of bravado, I hear music every time the sky clouds over and releases its burden—and the stuff just falls, hellbent for the ground, straight out of the ether! Rain, like Time (capital T), and so many other Things I Don’t Understand (again, all caps): it’s the physical embodiment of so many thoughts. It rushes, unfurls, froths and spits—a maelstrom, taking me with it.

As I drove home tonight, skirting the edge of America’s folkloric West Coast, with its serene, waveless shore munching on thousands of reflected lights, I thought,

Do our hearts search for something they can never find?

A friend of mine recently was a hop, skip and a jump away from ‘The Other Side,’ and now he claims to know how to love. Or at least has gained a clearer understanding of what love is. Or maybe that’s just my foolish interpretation of what he was really trying to say while everyone was congratulating him for ‘making it.’ But it was there, barely audible, barely a whisper: “Tonight, I want what all the other lovers want—sweet dreams, and the chance to fall deeper in love. My heart is getting harder, I think.”

And I think he could be right; it’s what we all want. But sometimes I find myself staring hard into the long, plaintive gaze of the City of Angels, backlit by a neon whorl of sun, a city forever reaching out and grasping at the fringes so as not to be left behind—and I hope desperately that my heart never gets hard.

I hope that rain is always exciting. I hope that I don’t become the never ending 75-degree beacon of unconcerned sameness.

Most of all, I hope to never flirt with the saccharine nuances of a country singer or a movie filmed in soft focus that asks the really tough questions with the un-ironic naïveté of a girl who likes to bake a lot. I fear I’ve tread those waters tonight, and so I’ll take one for the team and stop while I’m ahead.

Maybe, at the end of the day, rain is just rain.

The Loving Girlfriend/Boyfriendship of A Ghost Is Born and Being 22

I read a review today (and I realize that reading a review for an album that is five years old is a bit like exclaiming, "Did you see that crazy twist at the end of The Sixth Sense coming?") for Wilco's A Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. While the guys over at Pitchfork gave Yankee a whopping 10 out of 10 in the tradition of an Oksana Baiul-pink-feathered-goldmedal-triumph, they were less enthusiastic about A Ghost is Born.

While anyone is entitled to their opinion, I couldn't help but stupidly feel a little bit offended and a little bit hurt that Ghost received only a 6 and a generally unenthusiastic review. As I guffawed and rolled my eyes at every maudlin claim that Wilco had somehow fallen short of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot excellence, I replayed Ghost in my head, and instead of songs and notes and choruses, all I could remember was the summer I spent in a mawkish daze, spending too much time trying to understand every-little-thing.

People who think too much don't like Ghost. Likewise, people who tend to define themselves based on the music they consume or the lyrics that somehow simplistically encapsulate the complexity of their lives are deeply in love with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. It's baffling, really, and yet Yankee, in all its rock-record perfection, manages to do just that--surmise the human experience--without actually pinpointing anything that anyone under the age of 16 could possibly understand. In fact, Yankee has a way of eluding me lyrically inasmuch as I completely understand what Jeff Tweedy cracks and moans over, and yet, I only relate on a superficial level because after the closing notes of Reservations there is absolutely nothing I understand about life according to Tweedy.

A Ghost Is Born isn't something that can be explained any more than Jeff Tweedy can only sometimes commit to a verse-chorus-verse structure. And unlike Wilco's previously sparkling rock crit darling, Ghost isn't an album that you can idly "like" in the same way that people who don't want to admit they don't know what you're talking about "like" a particular song they're only marginally familiar with.

When I hear the pacing guitar in Muzzle of Bees, I am not just listening to an album. I'm driving down the 210 freeway, lost in the long gaze of the Los Angeles vortex. When that same middling guitar finally explodes in a spastic electric gasp I am standing alone in my empty apartment, wondering how to make sense of a life I'm convinced I had only a marginal part in choosing.

And that's the thing with A Ghost is Born. Much like the hazy confusion of being in your early twenties, Jeff Tweedy & Co. weave a tapestry of sonic noise and undulating guitar riffs that, at first, can seem like getting lost in a fog--everything is pale and haunted and monochromatic. But like being a twentysomething, there is only so much analyzing that can be done before you realize the futility of finding an explanation for every little tiny emotional hurricane that befalls you. It's much less about catchy verse-chorus-verse popisms, and perhaps that is why people seem to struggle so much with it. While It doesn't meddle in nihilistic Radiohead-esque incongruity, there seems to be a transcendent level of understanding between Tweedy's raspy pleas and Thom York's paranoid yelping.

Amidst the aural texture Ghost creates, Jeff Tweedy somehow managed to craft an album that, in spite of its esoteric abstruseness, made so much effing sense. It completely encapsulated everything I didn't understand in a way that made post-college profundity something I could relax within. And for that reason, when I hear a critic blast the album for its "impenetrable, unnecessary 10-minute noise squall," the only rebuttal I have is that you just don't get it, man.

You just don't get it.

Keep Portland Weird

This should be the epilogue to what is going to be a monumentally long post, but nonetheless, it serves as a precursor:

It was one of those days that sort of stands on its own in memory--a day that, when pushed against the terrifying whir of memories rushing right out of our subconscious every single second, sort of halts the process, and itself remains unchanged. I was on a boat passing under a looming bridge--a bridge whose bowels and organs were comprised of rusted steel--flat and intertwined. The day was so hot I could feel water evaporate from my skin like a griddle. The boat picked up speed for a moment and the air rushed over my face, pressing against my closed eyes. The 'captain' of the boat eased up on the throttle and spun the boat halfway around, creating a massive wall of white water. It pounded us, soaking us to the skin and even further still. It was so cold I gasped and sucked a gulp of air into my lungs. Jet boats on the Willamette River. I glanced at Portland, glittering and twisting and melting in the sun--102 degrees today. Probably the hottest day of the year. The boat picked up speed again and I closed my eyes.

I realize that I promised I would lay off the lists until at least April, but I feel that the pertinence of this list will forgive its premature presence on my blog.

I shall call this list The Hippies of The Field Will Clap Their Hands, or, Paradise Found In The Unassuming Form of Concrete and Rain.

10. Donald Miller mentions the Bagdad Theater & Pub in Blue Like Jazz: "I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. After that I liked jazz music." Aside from the jazz on the street, the Bagdad is good for a few other reasons as well: movies cost a couple of bucks, and the theater serves beer and pizza so you can dine and watch at the same time. (3702 SE Hawthorne Blvd. 97214)

9. After the movie, walk down to the Red Light (3590 SE Hawthorne, 97214) and dig through the vintage goods. An expansive men's section as well as women's, where I scored a pair of Chuck Taylor blue-on-blue high tops and a Dior top for twenty bucks. (Also in the vicinity is a rather large Buffalo Exchange and an American Apparel store if you have money to blow)

8. This actually happened. For my grandparents' umpteenth anniversary (50th? 70th? 10th? who even knows?), we acknowledged our German roots (I'm not sure there are any) by reserving a room at the Rheinlander (5035 N.E. Sandy Blvd., 97213). After noshing on fondue and that oh-so-heavy yet oh-so-good authentic German fare, our table was serenaded by one of the many strolling musicians. Not to be outdone by the accordion, my cousins reached under the table and pulled out their own instruments. Soon all the German singers and the accordionist were accompanied by a harmonica, a fiddle, and A CELLO. Even without the Von Trap Family Singers that is my family, you can still enjoy an authentic German meal at the Rheinlander.

7. This summer I reclined against a chair on the sidewalk and took a long, slow sip of my mojito. If heaven were a place you could walk to, and instead of harps you were given a dessert, Papa Haydn's would be on cloud eleven. You cannot visit Portland without eating dessert at the westside Papa Haydn's location (701 NW 23rd Ave, 97210. I'd recommend the Boccone Dolce: "Swiss meringues drizzled with semi-sweet chocolate, layered with fresh fruit and chantilly cream." Oh, heaven.)

6. Speaking of Papa Haydn's, the westside branch is located on NW 23rd Street. Tree-lined and usually dripping wet with rain, NW 23rd Street is a mecca for cool stores and even cooler patrons. For pre-dessert (otherwise known as dinner) stop by August Moon (405 NW 23rd) for Chinese. If there is a wait at Papa Haydn's, duck into Music Millenium and browse their selection of new and used albums--they boast a pretty extensive collection. It's no Amoeba, but it has the same vibe for those who like to "keep Portland weird."

5. This summer I went on what can only be described as a voracious book-buying-binge. My mind was a vacuous cavern that could only be satiated with the likes of Hemmingway, Keruoac, and Faulkner. The only place on God's green earth that could possibly fill the literary void of Summer '05 is Powell's City of Books (1005 W. Burnside, 97209). Four floors. Sections color-coded for easy browsing. An entire city block of independent book-hawking, burning with literary knowledge (and titles--over a million) and packed from floor to ceiling with both new and used, paperback and hardcover. If Powell's doesn't have the book you're looking for, maybe you were cut out for TV.

4. Although my lineage is nearly as fragmented as an antique shop after an earthquake, I do know that lurking somewhere amidst the indeterminate Scandinavian origin is a shot of Irish blood. Even if you don't have a lick of Irish in you, though, you can still gulp down a pint of guinness and no one will think the less of you at Kells (112 SW Second Ave, 97204). In addition to the raucous atmosphere, Kells boasts a cigar bar and a huge selection of single-malt scotch and Irish whiskeys. (Another good option is Jake's Place--8039 SE 17th Ave, 97202)

3. I'm fairly certain that if the spectrum of the right brain/left brain was a flat plateau, I'd be teetering off the edge of the right-brained side, convinced that all science and math is gobbledegook dreamed up by evil tyrants who just want to keep the artists from succeeding. However, I'm also aware that I could be alone in this sphere of ideas, and if you're even just a tad more even keel than I am, you will enjoy OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science & Industry, 1945 SE Water Ave. 97214). Although it is geared toward kids (and as a kid, I was always convinced that the Zoo--4001 SW Canyon Rd., 97221--was more fun), pretty much anyone who ever enjoyed a science class in school could find something to do at OMSI.

2. Growing up, a trip to the coast (it's not the beach, crazy Californians, it's the coast, so just get the beach-talk out of your systems now) meant a few things. First, it meant a drive that wound through the coastal range: undulating curves flanked by trees that created a narrow slit of the sky, allowing just enough sunlight through to remind you that it wasn't nighttime at 1 in the afternoon. Second, it meant a romp in the ocean.

But this was not a bathing suit and towel sort of affair.

No, a 'romp in the ocean' meant taking off the boots (mine were generally some form of moon boot growing up), rolling up the jeans, popping the collar of the double-layer Columbia fleece and charging, face against the wind, into the water. After about twenty minutes, the tingling, stinging, altogether unpleasant biting cold subsided as our skin--now red and blotchy--was numbed to the temperature of the water. We would then splash and laugh and frolic while the rain assaulted our face and the wind whipped our hair into a matted whorl of sandy dreadlocks.

This is the real coast, and if you can take it like a real Oregonian, the views are breathtaking and worth the drive--if not, at the very least, to buy a bag of authentic saltwater taffy at one of the numerous candy stands dotting the coastline, or stopping at Camp 18 for a cinnamon roll the size of the moose head hanging on the wall. And if you're anywhere near a Mo's, God himself will strike you down if you don't stop in and have a bowl of their legendarily, scarily, ridiculously amazing clam chowder. (Camp 18, 42362 Hwy 26, Seaside, 97138, Mo's 657 SW Bay Blvd, Newport, 97365)

1. If the lush greenery, eclectic persona and small-town-in-a-big-city vibe haven't won you over already, then cram in the following to your itinerary and start looking up real estate and job listings on Craig's List. Kennedy School Theater & Pub (a renovated elementary school that is now a hotel, restaurant, theater and pub. 5736 NE 33rd Ave. 97211), Pioneer Square (Portland's outdoor living room--excellent for people watching and getting an authentic taste of Portland hippie culture. 715 SW Morrison St., 97205), and Waterfront Park (right along the river, 1020 SW Naito Pkwy, 97204).

Waist not, want not

I should title this: We're getting freaky like it's 1894.


Apparently tired of forever alienating the ever-growing sect of Colorblind individuals, fashion designers at New York's Fashion Week had unanimously decided to reach out to those who are ocularly challenged.

Eschewing any sort of hue or shade that might slightly resemble a primary color (or permutation thereof), designers have instead chosen their color palate inexplicably from the murky Los Angeles skyline.

Varying (and infinite) shades of tan, brown, taupe, khaki, dust, sand, nude, chocolate, espresso, cappuccino, dirt, soot, charcoal, gray, grey, asphalt, black, almost-black, and almost-nearly-black abounded on runways from Calvin Klein to Zac Posen. Even Vera Wang and Carolina Herrera's frocks looked sewn with a heavy hand. Not only is the color palate a downer, but the fabrics and silhouettes echo a general consensus that staring at the ground is the only place to gather inspiration.

Also conspicuously missing from the runway was visible skin. Whether swathed in duchess satin, tweed, chiffon, gloves, or hosiery, it seemed the only visible epidermis was on the face (and the faces, I might add, were dour, sour, and lifeless--no doubt a reflection of the dowdy clothes).

Waists are nipped and tucked, but shoulders are square and boxy--to fend of the Color Police, undoubtedly. In fact, aside from the occasional leather belt, the over all silhouette of most runways reflected a utilitarian ideal that your clothes should grow with you--even if you happen to grow five sizes or more.

It leads me to believe that designers are returning to an earlier time, a time when communism threatened to invade Austria. A time when fraulein Maria danced and skipped and sang about her 'favorite things,' (and in this case, it is the drapes from which designers in New York fashioned their entire lines). A time when the garb of the sisters at the convent was as nipped or tucked or scandalous as you'd find this side of the Alps.

As they always say, waist not, want not.



Monique Lhuillier


J Mendel


Pamella Roland


Proenza Schouler

*all images courtesy of nymag.com

I moved to Long Beach.

In the grand tradition of social hierarchy in southern california (and, perhaps, in any metropolitan city), Long Beach is defined by its neighborhoods. Like the pseudo city-lines of such überhip establishments as Los Feliz, Silverlake, Echo Park, et al, Long Beach is comprised of such 'hoods as Belmont Shore, Belmont Heights, Carroll Park, Downtown, Bixby Knoll, Bluff Heights, Naples, etc.

I fancied the idea today of discovering exactly where I fit within these ephemeral boundaries, and after searching a myriad of google maps and websites, I discovered that my specific location--while surrounded by every district or 'hood imaginable--is not contained within the confines of any such neighborhood.

Freed from the constructs of neighborhoodial hierarchy, I resolved to give my new Neighbornation a proper neighborname. Mariquita is the street I live on, and my dad offered his explanation that Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" was simply miss-spelled and what Mr. Buffet was referring to was, in fact, my little enclave of Long Beach society--Mariquitaville.

In honor of that, I have deemed my sovereign Neighbornation the name Buffetville.

So I invite you, lost immigrant, to visit the shores of welcoming Buffetville any time you like. You won't even have to marry me to get your green card.