Lucky 1952 is right.
From the creatures of Mucho’s Gusto and Le Fina Taqueria comes another delicious concept of a restaurant, this time in the form of a 50’s Burger joint.
Just down the street from campus on 13th and Pearl sits a brightly lit restaurant.
If you pay close enough attention on the outside you will realize that the mural painted on the outer building that surrounds the restaurant matches the checkered tile flooring inside.
The menu is simple yet vast with the combinations of items you can achieve with the perfect order.
They offer garlic fries to substitute, rings too. Chili on the side…chili on your burger, chili on your fries, oh yeah chili on your hot dog….chili tops just about everything you can think of, and I don’t think its a bad thing.
Lots of toppings for your burger that is served on home baked egg rolls that are grilled prior to serving. Bacon, caramelized onions, mushrooms, a mushonion combo, bacon. And alll kinds of cheese, American, cheddar, Swiss, blue cheese, even pepper-jack.
The fries are hand cut and double fried in 100% canola oil. Oh yeah the beef is all organic and vegetarian fed and stuff for you animal people. You can even substitute your patty for a veggie if that’s your thing.
So besides having burgers, they have hot dogs as well, and chili in a bowl or cup. Its served with melted cheese, onions, green onion and a dolop of sour cream.
Don’t forget the shakes and ice cream with mix-in’s either.
It blew me away that the same people that can make us mexican slop can aslo craft such a lovely and delicious burger.
Go Dickies!!
The Avett Brothers, dukes of the 21st century bluegrass revival, play McDonald Theatre this Wednesday. Come watch them burn down our most historic barn. Also, if it turns out that the Avett Brothers were the only band-dudes you wanted to see at Sasquatch, see them for $19 (advance) instead of $80. What a steal! Accordionist Jason Webley opens at 8, and there is a good chance he will play that cute song about his coffee percolator.
On 4/20 at the WOW Hall, a Sublime-cover-band called 40 Oz. to Freedom performed in celebration of the counterculture holiday. A faint cloud of reefer smoke hovered above the audience as the band played from the Sublime songbook. The crowd cheered whenever marijuana references came up in the lyrics. 40 Oz. to Freedom, comprised of four Sublime-obsessed San Diegans, perfectly recreated the original band’s sound (down to the police dispatcher sound-bites), and their performance exceeded my expectations by far.
I couldn’t help but laugh at their character. Every five songs or so, the band members would down shots in unison. In between songs they would engage the audience, especially the females. The bass player once shouted, “Women above 18, raise your hands.” I reveled in their sleaziness. The lead singer later questioned, “Where the after party at?” but there was no response.
I thought that my tastes had elevated above bands like Sublime. There’s nothing subtle or artistic about it, I told myself. Sublime’s self-titled 1996 release was an essential part of my middle school experience. So as 40 Oz. to Freedom played songs that I had once loved and memorized, I was transported back to my rebellious adolescent epoch, and I rediscovered why Sublime (and ska music in general) is brilliant.
There’s nothing pretentious about Sublime. They wrote songs about what they knew: sex, drugs, and riots. And it’s incredibly accessible: reggae-influenced punk-pop driven by a strong emotive singer. It’s catchy yet grungy, heavy yet melodic, angry yet irie. I get it.
Happy belated 4/20
Thanks to everyone that submitted. We can hardly keep the print copies around. Congratulations everyone. Issue 3 is on the way.
Wednesday, May 20th
Reservations begin at 10:30 a.m.
Pick-up starts at 11:00 a.m.
Heck yes!
Hopefully, we have all heard the buzz already about the dank-ass waffles down in the Whiteaker neighborhood. On 7th and Van Buren sits a delightfully charming new waffle house. They serve two waffles, the original or the special. They are amazing, and have little pockets of pure caramelized sugar gold. Secret recipe not included. Their weekly specials have included blueberries and feta and nib-tella, hazelnut spread made from Nib local chocolates. They also barter for payment and have a book exchange.
There’s another story just beyond the amazing waffles. The two sons are trying to start a movement for the spread of bartering. They want to create a social networking website, a hybrid of facebook and craigslist, for bartering where one person post what they are looking for and what they can offer. People can search databases and see what’s going on in their community.
So go to Off the Waffle and check the shit out!
Nobody here blogged about the Dark Dark Dark show last week. I could pull something out of my grab-bag of missed deadline excuses (you know how hard it is to find the internet these days…?) but there was no good reason to neglect proper reverence for Nona Marie Invie and her sweet band of gypsies. A whole week has passed since I walked away from Stonehenge, and I still have that naggy feeling I get when I actually have something nice to say.
While curled up against the band’s ancient, monolithic amp at the front of the crowd, I developed two valuable quandaries.
First: you can pay more than Oregon’s generous min. wage at a fancy-pants Portland venue to hear music better suited for a dive bar with a 3-dollar cover (Dear Builders and the Butchers: I am bitter). The heeled patrons crowding your view will add to your irritability. Or you can be a stingy, wallet-forgetting college student and get all soppy and mesmerized for free. Your proximity to the artist, and your hands on the rug, will remind you of those lovely, pre-jaded days when you discovered Simon and Garfunkel while sitting in front of the speakers on your parent’s living room floor– but, this time, the music is live and your friends have whiskey!
Second: If you always love to folk, you will always be forced to endure the standing vs. sitting debate at seatless venues. I’ll never forget Joanna Newsom’s meek attempt to dissipate concert rage over this very topic during her ‘06-’07 tour. It might have been the first time a harp inspired riotous behavior. Invie gave a similarly timid reminder that her music wasn’t for dancers, and I was happy with my decision to sit. Her melancholy accordion and thoughtful lyrics expressed nostalgia that made my limbs useless. I’m never the wallflower with pocketed hands; I love to bust a move–but last Wednesday I was totally puddled. The isolated soul gyrating in the back of the crowd seemed rather out of place, especially when he waved his arms around and demanded that people join him (incidentally, I saw this same, enthusiastic fellow at a beer-hookah sort of party the next night, and he was still out of place, this time with a rogue bottle of raw goat-milk.)
Dark Dark Dark: You made the best of a rainy night. I’m sorry I forgot my wallet.
Blogosphere: Dark Dark Dark is in Salt Lake City right now. You probably missed them…
The Fast and the Furious carved a testosterone-drunk early teen out of a soft-bodied child. It showed me a world of cars, girls, girls that drive cars, and Ja Rule, pretty much the picture I anticipated of my own early adulthood. Things that dramatically cooler than my at the time interests of Dragonball Z and Magic: The Gathering.
And through the years, it stuck. From late night family sedan races to my ambivalent relationship with Tokyo Drift. I was there for all of it, and the franchise had one more gift to give.
On Sunday night at Regal, Vin Diesel was back to influence my choices. I read the news: Biggest opening Car-themed movie ever, biggest opening of a Universal movie ever (take that Jurassic Park: The Lost World), blowing away the ridicule of many critics who just didn’t understand. My roommate and I had to go be a part of the magic.
And then there was Watchmen. At the box office we debated on what to see, Watchmen has its own story of dorm life and personal apocalypse. We weighed our options and went with Vin, middle school, cars, girls.
Hooray for not being scarred for life:
Thanks, Vin.
Usually, I’m Noah DeWitt, age 18. Last night, however, I was Max Neumeyer, age 22. The security guard at the Someday Lounge didn’t think twice. I paid him my five bucks, flashed him my dubious ID, exposed my wrist for him to stamp, and entered the crowded club event Filmistan, a set composed solely of songs featured in Bollywood movies. Filmistan is put on by DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid, a Portland pair who have been DJing Indian and international parties for the past 8 years. On Friday, I met Anjali (aka Anju Hursch) and the Kid (aka Stephen Strausburg) for an interview, where they shared their thoughts on the interaction between the music of the African Diaspora (reggae, dancehall, hip-hop, house) and the Indian diaspora (bhangra, classical, filmi). Andaz (every last Saturday at the Fez) and Atlas (every 2nd Saturday at Holocene) are their monthly efforts to “resist sonic monoculture.”
At Filmistan, vintage clips of outlandish Bollywood dramas looped on the projection screen behind them. DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid took turns spinning song after song of vibrant, hypnotic Bollywood techno. The crowd was diverse: whites, blacks, browns; hipsters, hippies, businessmen; old folks, twenty-somethings, minors. What did they have in common? They were looking to get down! An Indian mother wearing traditional attire displayed quirky steps and graceful hand movements. “Her” song came on. One bearded fellow had exemplary moves, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite emulate them. A circle formed and individuals grooved their ways into the center to show off their skills, one at a time. Thanks to DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid, my first experience up in da club was completely insane.
They also do weddings.
Apparently, while the venerable ?uestlove practices deadpan rim shots for Jimmy Fallon’s new late night show, he and the rest of the Roots surround themselves with a dense web of management bureaucrats to prevent the scheduling of interviews with cute student-run publications. I don’t know how many uninformed people with telephones they need. I’ve never been transferred so many times in my life. I couldn’t even finish sentences. ROOTS, CONCERT, EUGENE, STUDENT-RUN, STUDENT, RUN! I just may have talked Jimmy Fallon.
Eventually, someone gave me an email and of course it didn’t work. Got another one and it did. They’ll see this when they’re vetting us, but oh well. I bet it’s not this hard to talk to Max Weinberg.
Anyway, The Roots 4/11/2009 McDonald Theatre
