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!