One More Flaming Hoop

After approximately 2 hours of cross-examination, I have successfully earned my "Ph.C." -- which is none other than, my "Candidate of Philosophy" degree. It won't get me a faculty position outside of Bob Jones University, but it will get me a subtle, yet refreshing $40 / month raise and a nod of approval within the Vollum Fraternity...I'm sorry, I'm meant to say the Vollum Faculty (yes, that's just a joke). Anyway, now all I have to do are the laborious experiments that I so laboriously defended to my committee for the past 2 hours, after which I just may upgrade my alphabet soup to a "D".

SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM!!!!...oh, yeah....

To Touch The Intangible

There are times when I'm faced with regrets. These are common feelings in our human experience, yet some of the most difficult to assuage. The reason for regret may be evolutionary pressures favoring altruism as a means for species survival, or it may simply be a question of spiritual evolution, of which I do prescribe despite being a self-proclaimed corporeal rationalist. Religion has certainly staked its claim in this question as evidenced through rituals of sin forgiveness and asceticism. Here, "God" lifts the weight of regret. I prefer to directly deal with my regret -- which usually involves wronging someone I care about – by acknowledging my mistakes and openly apologizing. But no matter the method of lifting regret, we inevitably crumble toward chaos like everything else in this universe, and make the same mistakes again and again. This is frustrating. I could not count the number of times I’ve said “I’m not going to do that again,” or “I’m not going to be like that anymore,” only to let myself down again by bearing the same regrets.

So why, then, is regret a weight in the first place? One could argue this from a purely biological perspective in that, as mentioned above, distancing ourselves from one another through wrongdoing does not promote species survival. Regret would then be a mechanism that motivates us to fix tarnished relationships and learn from our mistakes to improve success in the next relationship. This perspective isn’t limited to relationships either, as I could easily “regret” attempting a backflip off a large rock that would dissuade me from ever trying it again, thereby improving my chances for procreation. The problems with this perspective, however, are numerous. I have met plenty of people that are by no means pleasant to be around, yet procreate like roaches. At the same rate, I wouldn’t say regret would motivate me to improve my relationship with Matt so we can procreate – which may actually be God’s motivation toward preventing the birth of the anti-Christ. From a spiritual perspective, regret motivates growth of our intangible inner selves. Of course, this has problems as well, starting with “our intangible inner selves” being a nebulous entity at best. Nonetheless, there is a certain simplicity in the spiritual perspective that can provide just as much motivation as the biology perspective to encourage us to maintain good relationships with other people.

So what is my motivation for writing this blog entry? Could it be that I have regrets? Doh! Guilty as charged. Importantly, there isn't a particular recent faux pas precipitating an AA-style telethon for forgivness; rather, as is usually the case for the AstroSite, my entries are but a falling leaf from the sky. But since this my blog, I suppose I do have the podium; whether I have anyone’s attention is a different supposition, but alas, my prefrontal cortex can't win all of the time! The largest regret I have is something I’ve carried since I was that feisty little child refusing to go football practice (I know, tough to imagine I would object to FOOTBALL practice). But I was so adamant about not going that it was the first time (and only time, thankfully) that I told my mother that I “hated” her for making me go. This of course, is absurd, but I’ve regretted it ever since and it highlights my most frequent regrettable offense: I am, and have always been, very sharp-tongued. Often, the lacerations I inflict in someone are invisible to me at first, as arrogance is a permanent trait of my personality. But in time I realize the damage I caused, regret takes hold, I apologize, I scold myself to “tone down the F’n rhetoric, dude!”, and a week later without realizing it, I rip through someone I care about again. And again. I think part of my struggle is that passion is certainly another trait of mine that will never – and maybe should never – be silenced. But my passion, despite its best intentions to champion all that is “righteous," can recruit my arrogance, and usurp my mouth to mince the thickest of skin. This is something that has caused endless regrets.

Yet, I continue to be blessed with the undying love of an amazing woman, I am surrounded by friends that even Shakespeare couldn't accurately describe, and my family, despite my frustration with it at times, remains an inspiration. How can this be? I realize that I probably have enough good, non-regrettable experiences with people that a few sharp words are easily forgiven; I also realize that we are all human, and therefore we share a handful of regrets. In the poetry of Bono, “we hurt each other, and we’ll do it again”; while Brian Transeau replies, “all that makes us human continues”. Yes, indeed. Somehow. Musing upon these axioms, a paradox presents itself: how can someone regret regret if regret is what motivates us to become a better person? Ah, the gray shade of the truth once again bleaches the black and white. But whether a result of biology, God, the inner self, or my fake veggie bologna sandwich, the purpose of regret may be irrelevant if the consequence of regret is growth of our intangible inner selves. And so I offer my apology to those that have been, and will again be victimized by my arrogant, passion-sheathed tongue. But please trust that I will learn and grow with the healing of your wounds.

Good, GREAT Riddance

Sorry, Grant. The time has come to spend time with a REAL friend.

But in case you'd like to meet him (come on, he really needs a friend...he's...a nice guy, but just needs to meet that special "someone"),

"Hello, My Name Is Grant"

...plus my family is always asking "what is it that you actually do?"; I couldn't think of a better way to answer that question...in 10 pages or less.

All....Most....Done....

...as long as I just follow the instructions

Excuses.

My, almost a MONTH since my last post. That's disappointing. Yes, "Grant" is about to overstay his welcome (actually, he was never invited now that I think about it...), but I'm about ready to deliver his notice of eviction. All those faithful Astrosite readers out there (OK, probably just my mother, but I like to pretend) have probably given up on me! "Where's the input, Johnny 5"?! Well, bear with me for just...a....little...longer. Believe me, I look forward to musing upon the moon, tall trees, homeless people that growl (that was last night), and just about anything in life with color -- most unlike the black and white lines engraved across my veiny eyes. Soon, my binary friends, soon. Maybe I'll try to make up for the dearth of postings with an especially risque, succulent posting sure to keep your midbrain satiated. Until then, I'll leave you with a completely arbitrary, yet favorite photograph (which technically isn't true since it's digital) taken recently by my brother. Feel free to post your initial feelings about it, as perplexing, silly, arbitrary, or stoic as they may be. Remember, feeling nothing is still feeling something -- just as 'a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day'.

Grant's Womb

It is an absolute relief to write this blog entry today. Not necessarily because writing in my blog is so cathartic, but because writing in my blog is not writing about the mitochondrial permeability transition pore, or "mPTP" for you ignorant, ignoramouses (insert deep, echo-y hallway laugh here). As weak of a segue as that may have been, let me introduce you to my new friend, "Grant". Grant is one of those tiny people who appear frail, but when pushed, can leave a shark bite in a shark. Sounds like an asshole? Well, lately Grant has been just that. Never happy, always taciturn, and inconsistently cantankerous. But the more we get to know each other, the more we get along. I'm not going to say we don't have our fights (partly because he has kept me from my good friend, "Beer"), but by September 5th, he should be (ahem...WILL BE) mature enough to live on his own, and then I can get back to spending more time with Beer. Simply put, I am but a temporary womb for Grant, providing him with nutrients, time, encouragement, and occasional anecdotes to remind him of the little parasite that he his: the Ruth L. Kirschstein National Service Award, a.k.a., the "NRSA".

Yes, I should be working on my NRSA grant right now. But I've got 30 minutes until I meet with my advisor about my "Specific Aims" page, so what better window do I have to procrastinate and feed my soul to the binary universe. Since my last post, I have repeated an entire set of experiments in four days (which, of course, consumed a weekend), I spent quality time with my girlfriend's parents visiting from Tennessee, which included a four-day stint near Crater Lake, I chased down my ex-dog that ran away in southeast Portland while on a move with my "Ex" from Sioux Falls to San Francisco (yes, that is a little odd, but "Petey" was found), I am scheduled to "volunteer" this weekend at the 2006 Portland International Beer Fest (yes, I get to hang out with Beer briefly. And his friends), I have been sweating like hell under a magnifying glass, courtesy of the world's automobile addiction, my aunt from Dallas, TX flies into Portland today with Lance Armstrong (yes, also a little odd), there is a farewell outing tonight for Matt (*see earlier post...or don't), who is leaving tomorrow for a month-long neuroscience ed-you-kashon in Wood's Hole, MA...

And I've been working on my F*&%-n' grant. Except for right now. Yes, it's a busy time for Dustin. And that won't likely change anytime soon, as Grant is sure to overstay his welcome as my brother arrives for a 10-day Pacific Northwest sojourn on August 8th. But my brother's visit will provide a nice intermission from all the writing, especially our planned camping trip with about 8 other friends. Alas, to live busy is to be alive. "Wow, that's so deep, Dustin; so profound! Ghandi couldn't have said it better. You should really spend more time writing with such elegant words, especially about science."

Thanks, Grant.

...asshole.

An Ode To "Your Nastiness"

Finally. Last weekend I found some time to escape those nebulous, invisible binds that had ever-so-slyly constricted my serenity. I was gasping for mountain air! Summer is typically skewed in the Pacific Northwest, with July signaling the start of a three-month blue sky marathon. As you can see from the photos, I found plenty of unbounded, blue canvass (click on the photos to make them larger).

The trek began last Saturday afternoon while looking for that perfect, untrampled, new locale. I, along with my good friend, Matt, careened up a network of boulder-laden fire roads to Wahtum Lake in the Mark O. Hatfield Wilderness. Having never been there, I didn't know what to expect except, obviously, a lake. Of course, our travel to "Point B" was less than linear (for those of you familiar with Matt's keen sense of direction), eventually taking cue from some burley men pouring black liquids into roadside trucks -- you know, the people that probably know every tree in the forest. "Wahtum Lake? Why would you want to go there? That's a nasty little lake," they replied as we asked for directions. Eventually we convinced them that we really did want to go there, despite it's "nastiness," and they referred us to a turn-off 180 degrees and two miles behind us, precisely where Matt assured me that "he would have noticed if that sign had said 'Wahtum Lake'". After turning up this avenue (where the sign most certainly did say "Wahtum Lake 10 miles"), we were greeted with a new sign reading, "Warning, Storm Damaged Road". I was expecting some potholes and downed branches. What the sign SHOULD have read was "Warning, enormous bolders all over the road and teetering from above, just waiting to jump on top of your car, in combination with sheer cliffs that, for some reason, have no guard rails -- oh, and don't pay any attention to Mt. Hood, because if you look to admire its awesome presence, then the bolders don't matter because you'll drive off the cliff anyway". I realize that would have to be a pretty big sign, but somehow "Storm Damaged Road" seems a little terse.

We rolled into the campground, immediately grabbed our packs, and hiked the short quarter-mile trail down to the lake. And let me tell you: I have NEVER seen such a nasty little lake. With one look, you would swear that you've discovered where all the US Congressional legislation ends up -- along with that missing gaggle of bucolic bulls. Wahtum Lake is indeed the nastiest little lake I've ever seen. Just look at it! But we decided to stick it out since we had finally found it, and I was finally feeling those constricting binds relaxing. Despite a crowded parking lot, the trail and campsites (which were nothing more than padded grass and a circle of ash-covered stones) were rather empty. We claimed a nice piece of lake-side real estate and decided to contaminate the lake further with our beaded sweat and dirty nailbeds. YO! So the lake isn't just nasty, but COLD! I suppose snowmelt from Mt. Hood is a few degrees below room temperature, but...alright, I'm not complaining. Maybe "refreshing" is more apt than "cold".

Now that we were refreshed, it was time to hike. Somewhere. Uhhhh...that way. Trusting my keen sense of direction (and Matt's keen sense of smell), I figured we had a good chance of finding our way to Chinidere Mountain AND our way back to camp. This two-mile hike was steep and full of obnoxious trees EVERYWHERE! I swear, if it wasn't nasty lakes, it was obnoxious trees blowing in the wind, dropping nuts and things...and growing...but again, we made it this far so we figured we should check out "Point C." Now it's time to lose the hyperbole for just a moment, because "Point C" was remarkable. Unforgettable, to be more precise. In my nearly three years as an Oregonian, I have yet to trump the view atop Chinidere Mountain. I was able to count five mountain peaks of the Northern Cascades, including Seattle's mammoth, Mt. Rainer. There, unlike Bono, I did find what I had been looking for: a solace sojourn apart from data, qualifying exams, and my life of heresy some call "Science." I was -- now in agreement with Bono -- simply, "one". And then Matt made a cell phone call. Partly because he wanted to share the moment with his lovely, yet absent girlfriend, and partly because "I just switched to Singular and they're so awesome, dude, I mean, look, I get three bars even in the forest!". Yes, somehow, we all still love Matt for those moments, despite any mountain mantras being interrupted by the incessant rattle of his rock drum sticks against his rock snares and rock toms. Anyway, hiking makes me hungry. Back to "The Nastiness"!

Somewhere between Matt deciding whether to eat an entire pound of beef or just 2/3 pound, I cracked open the first lake-chilled Deschuttes Twilight Ale and began my usual nuts-and-berries feast. Two vegan pizza burgers and a half-bag of trail mix later, it was time for my staring contest with the fire...that we didn't have. With Oregon on our side, we quickly found enough wood (ahem, small trees) to ignite some moonlit flames. There were beers drank, a bottle of wine imbibed (by...the bears!), 46 songs of jazz and blues critiqued (iPODs + Camping: who could have guessed such a harmonious marriage?). All we were missing was Ang Lee for the sequel. OK, OK...there were NO sheep, I promise!

The sun came knocking loudly on my tent the next morning and the lake, in all its nastiness, was begging for companionship. DAMN that's COLD! I mean, "refreshing". I later devoured some delectable eggs and a cup of non-bleach filtered, micro-roasted Z-Beans, French Roast, slow-drip coffee. The rustic woods never tasted so good! Before uprooting camp, I explored neighboring campsites to consider returning to Wahtum Lake with my friends and brother this August. It took little consideration. After another hair-bending traverse back down the "Storm Damaged Road" and a "minor" problem with Matt's breaks smoldering to a near-fire, we reached "Point D," which looked exactly like "Point A," but somehow felt like an entirely new place -- a place where I could breath. I attribute that effect to the charm (and polluting, toxic hallucinogens) of "Wahtum Lake, Your Nastiness".

South Dak-Oregon

There is strange trend I’ve noticed since August of 2003: South Dakotans moving to Portland en masse. It wasn’t long ago on this very blog that I was welcoming a long-time friend to Portland, Billy. And now, not even four months later, I am welcoming two more old friends to this great city, Kari and James. Both are moving to Portland for reasons that many South Dakota expatiates share: to attend school, to pursue a fresh change in lifestyle, and to live among friends in a most “livable” city. While Portland is seething with twenty-something free spirits from all over, there is something uncanny about the high percentage of South Dakota’s youth moving specifically to Portland. South Dakota is a small state with a total population of roughly 650,000 people. If “people from South Dakota” was a somewhat normally distributed statistic, one would expect that I may run into one or two people in Portland that call South Dakota home. But by the end of this week, I will know twenty South Dakotans – by name – that live in the Portland area. That is not including the people I know in other parts of Oregon, or friends-of-friends that happen to be from South Dakota. So, assuming I know 200 people in South Dakota by name, that means 1/10 of those people now live in Portland. That is remarkable. The statistics are even more absurd considering that there are likely people here that I don’t know or know of that live in Portland. And then there are the people that have moved to other cities – Minneapolis, Minnesota, Austin, Texas, Denver, Colorado… There is clearly an exodus of people in their twenties moving out of South Dakota. There could be many reasons for this, reasons that I won’t contemplate here. But if I were a state politician, I would curious, if not concerned; I certainly haven’t met anyone that is moving to South Dakota.

Aside from making local pub visits seem like a high school reunion, it is a privilege to have so many old friends in a new city. I acknowledge the rare opportunity I have to continue friendships and experiences with people that have already contributed to my friendships and experiences; excuse the cliché, but it really is a new chapter in an old book. Furthermore, friendships can expand as people connect via a disparate network of scientists, musicians, baristas, lawyers, and significant others. If my personal network was mapped, the nexus would currently be in Portland, Oregon. Granted, there is some bias due to the type of company I’ve been fortunate enough to keep. As mentioned, my friends are a disparate group, but we share a penchant for travel, liberalism, music, and the outdoors, all of which make Portland an obvious stomping ground. Regardless, the world is a shrinking place, both metaphorically and literally – we are connected by our technology, by our shrinking global resources, and by our exploding population. Solutions to these problems require a special network of people with myriad ideas, expertise, and skill. While “saving the world” may not be a conscious agenda among our small network, we are a people that inject respect for one another and for the potential of the human “experience” (Ahhh, here I go again; I could write about my macchiato and somehow steam a cosmic muse into the foam!). For these reasons I'm confident that Portland will welcome you as it welcomed me: with open arms, challenges, and a nebulous slice of destiny. Welcome to your new home, Kari and James!

To Half Or Not To Half? That Is Not The Question.

I spent the larger part of Sunday, June 4th, 2006 remembering Saturday, June 3rd, 2006 – my 26th birthday. One would think that after 26 years of experience, a birthday would become monotonous. To some degree this is impossible in American culture due to seemingly continuous rights-of-passage, e.g. 18 = voting, military draft registration (if you call that a “right”), and smoking; 21 = alcohol; 25 = decreased insurance rates and the “right” to rent a vehicle. American culture or not, there surely must be an age at which the birthday hourglass becomes half-empty and begins counting down to “death day”. Pardon the macabre muse, but Sunday, June 4th was the first time I wondered if my birthday hourglass had indeed started counting down instead of up

This, or course, is not likely true as I’m far from the median life expectancy age. Yet, as long as I am 100% convinced that I’m alive, I am 100% convinced that I will die. And I’m afraid of death. Saturday, June 3rd, 2006, however, was about life. I woke up on this day with no agenda until 7:00 PM, mulling about the sunlit cafes and ateliers of Portland. I refused to read a scientific paper, talk about a scientific paper, or even read the news. I let the world spin on its own, and the world let me spin on my own – just for a day. “Is this life,” I wondered? Am I so busy trying to “live” every day just to avoid dealing with the fact that I’m slowly dying? But that is a question about death, and June 3rd, 2006 was a day about life.

At 7:00 PM I was among friends. I was regaling in drink and conversation at a local favorite of mine, the Rogue Brewery. Here, there were conversations about life; conversations about what people were doing with their time, like getting engaged, shopping for new cars, studying for exams, and moving to new cities. There was an appreciated simplicity, even relief, that these are the things people do. And they do them everyday. Travels to Spain or travels across Portland, somehow it all seemed so novel. At 7:00 PM, June 3rd, 2006, I was celebrating life.

At 8:00 PM, we walked to Bridgeport Brewery to continue and expand the celebration. 26 years of age or 6 years of age, certain elements of a birthday party remain the same. There is food, drink, conversation, songs, candles, laughing… Birthdays have energy, a very positive energy. But this has been the case since I turned 6 years-old. How could this not be mundane? Could it be that I sensed everyone around me to be truly alive? If so, this is something that could never be mundane.

At “Don’t Ask Me” O’Clock, we moved to the last location for the night, “Slabtown”. If NW Portland could have a dive bar, Slabtown is it – an apt place for a night to land. Here there were only unfeigned, jovial smiles. My drinks slowly diluted to pure water (life’s true medium!), and the night eventually walked me home with a gentle hand. I, along with a handful of great people, had celebrated my 26th birthday.

***

A few daggers of crimson light escaped the Coastal Range cloud barrier to frost just the upper limits of trees. June 4th, 2006 was about to be an ephemeral memory. Poised against an apt, if not metaphorical, half-lit moon, I was wondering if my 26-year-old hourglass was half-empty. It was a feeling as though I had died, likely because I felt so alive just the day before. But if I had died, was I in Heaven or Hell? Speeding through uncharted canals of NW Skyline Drive, my mind was floating where both ecstacy and melancholy exist as one. This is a strange Universe were a 7-10 split is a strike and where every trench has a view. And that’s precisely the place where both life and death also exist as one: to live 100% is to die 100%. I then realized that I am frightened of death because my 26 heavily-textured years are so valuable to me. It is as though I’ve borrowed so much from the life bank that I’m going to owe big when death collects. But if there was no such thing as death, why, then, celebrate life on June 3rd, 2006? All I would ever know is life. Is that even a “life” at all? With the sun now buried deep in the Pacific Ocean, I accepted that death is the currency of life; without death, life is a worthless piece of painted paper. Shopping for cars, taking exams, getting engaged, getting un-engaged, laughing and crying…these, paradoxically, cannot be the wealth of life without death. On June 3rd, 2006, I was among a wealth of good friends and great memories. There was life. Because there was death. This Ying and Yang is something that wills me to live through June 5th, 2006, June 6th,2006, my 27th birthday, and my 72nd birthday, all the while still being allowed to fear death; it is a Universe where my hourglass can be both half-empty and half-full. For this, I thank all my friends and family for filling both of those halves to make the whole that is me. You give me life.

And The Best Shittiest Beer In 2006 Is...

Michelob Ultra. Yes, it makes my heart ache. But apparently not my stomach. I don't want to believe it, but indeed, Michelob Ultra wins as the best shittiest beer in 2006 -- but barely. Click the link below to download the Xcel file with raw data, statistics, and graphs. There were some interesting finds, including one that may help explain how the HELL Michelob Ultra won the contest. Ultra was the beer that gained the most points from Round 1 to Round 2, indicating an increased appreciation for its benign, if not banal flavor. Comments like "water" were written on the scorecards, which was evidently a good thing because "at least it isn't #3 (Round 2)," which was, of course, this year's abysmal loser, Rolling Rock. Rolling Rock was the only beer that was given below-zero scores (which I reinterpreted as the lowest possible score of a "1"), and Rolling Rock was also the only beer that was WORSE than Steele Reserve, an abominable malt liquor. As for the statistics, if you're a stats fiend, you'll find little in this data worthy of your Nature publication. I discovered that people's palates differ enough to make our seemingly large sample size statistically insignificant. To account for this, I compared the cumulative scores of each beer's "taste," "aroma," and "overall" from both Round 1 & 2 to reach a sort of "integral beer score" for each insulting ferment. Importantly (at least for Portlanders), PBR Light came in a close second place as the best shittiest beer for similar "not enough taste to taste bad" reasons; PBR Light was also a beer that gained significant points in Round 2 with, again, comments like "water" on the scorecard. Interestingly, PBR "regular" came in just one burp better than Steele Reserve. ...PDX, don't hurt us! We didn't mean it! ...we just...we didn't know...look, we like the "Light"...really!

Feel free to submit any of your own interesting statistical maneuvering to the AstroSite. I look forward to the responses, further findings in the data, and a repeat of "The Best Shittiest Beer Fest" in the future. Thanks for playing, it was great fun!

Some Findings:
PEOPLE WITH THE SAME FAVORITE BEER BOTH ROUNDS -- Oyer: PBR Light; Erik: Coors Light; Evan: Steele Reserve
PEOPLE WITH THE SAME WORST BEER BOTH ROUNDS -- Jeff: Steele Reserve; Victoria: Steele Reserve and Olympia; Kurt: PBR; Kirsten: Bud Heavy; Erik: PBR; Ian: Natty Ice; Billy: Fosters, Natty Ice, Steele, Rock Lght, Bud HeavY
MOST CONSISTENT BEER BETWEEN ROUNDS -- Kokane, with a total StDev of 2.0 is a consistently "decent" shitty beer
LEAST CONSISTENT BEER BETWEEN ROUNDS -- Keystone Light and Michelob Ultra, with a total StDev of 3.2. This makes Keystone Light the least consistent "decent" shitty beer, and Ultra a least consistent, but "best" shittiest beer
PERSON WITH THE PICKIEST PALATE (lowest total scores given) -- Billy, only 141 total points given
PERSON WITH THE LEAST "REFINED" PALATE (highest total scores given -- Bridget, with a generous 279 total points given
MOST INCONSISTENT DRINKER (highest variance between round 1 & 2 -- Bridget, 10.9 point variance. It sounds like Bridget will drink anything inconsistently!
MOST CONSISTENT DRINKER (lowest variance between round 1 & 2 -- Erik, 1.4 point variance (Billy was 2nd at 2.8)
BEER WITH THE BIGGEST COMEBACK IN ROUND 2 -- Michelob Ultra, possibly after people realize that it was a beer that had no taste, thereby not repulsive
BEER WITH THE BIGGEST LOSS IN ROUND 2 -- Rolling Rock and Miller High Life (cans), possibly after people realize, "oh yeah, I remember that one, and that was about as bad as Round 1 got"
BEER WITH THE MOST COMMENTS WRITTEN ON THE SCORECARD -- Rolling Rock, with comments like "urine" (Katie), "-1" (Christina)

CLICK HERE! for the Results of the Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2006