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.