SHOOTER'S TOUCH: Musical Chair

Leaving Your Spelling Skills in San Francisco

Here's another installment of my ongoing (and probably useless) series lamenting the decline of accurate grammar and spelling in our age of information downpour, especially on the Internet.

With this particular error, The Oregonian won't be able to keep the grammarians of San Francisco, um, at bay:

Top story on The Oregonian's website (Oct. 23, 2011)

It's sad, too, because Portland and San Francisco have so much in common: progressive politics, proximity to the Pacific Ocean and high vegans-per-capita statistics (based purely on observational and anecdotal data). For now, it looks like the two West Coast cities don't 'C' eye to eye.

Who knows? Maybe we'll soon see a story about "Portlin" in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Let The Good Times Scroll, Hero Edition

Nation!

Unfortunately, there's no tried-and-true method for achieving 15 minutes of fame. For 1.5 seconds, though, all you needed in 2011 was a small donation to Comedy Central funnyman Stephen Colbert's Colbert Super PAC. See the straight-faced satirist salute his supporters -- including yours truly -- in this silly Sept. 29 segment:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Colbert Super PAC - Ham Rove's Secrets
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

Fame is fleeting -- especially considering the Ministry of Internet will eventually remove this clip -- but don't put it on the ThreatDown just yet! Screen shots swoop in to save the day:

Image source: www.colbertnation.com

And hey, if it takes a character like Colbert to educate the American public about the seedy ways in which our politicians' campaigns are financed, so be it. His message this election season is an important one: Turtles don't like peanut butter.

PATTY DOWN: Suki's Bar & Grill

Name: Suki's Bar and Grill

Location: 2401 Southwest 4th Ave., Portland, OR 97201 (map)

Website: http://sukisbargrill.com

Angus Burger with fries at Suki's Bar & Grill

When you crave a good hamburger, you don't immediately think of heading out to a dive bar, let alone one that fills the space of a motel's basement.

But there's a nearly religious phenomenon that is happy hour in Portland, and it somehow transforms deal-seekers into explorers of the city's great gastronomical unknowns. For example, it drives a group of twenty-somethings to Suki's Bar & Grill -- which shares its parking lot with a dingy Travelodge -- for a Friday afternoon of cheap eats and fairly priced pints.

Suki's, south of downtown amid a web of busy one-way streets, doesn't seem to mind its less-than-desirable location. It offers weekly karaoke and open-mic comedy nights, and those are only two of the 30 reasons for an outing at the spacious den-like hideaway (free pool, anyone?).

Its happy hour menu should be No. 1 on that list. A third-pound Angus beef burger -- with fries -- for four bucks? That would be an acceptable deal for a bad burger. Granted, this is obviously a pre-made patty without much flair, and the fries are salty even by dive bar standards. Still, the food pairs quite nicely with a lemon-spiked Pyramid Hefeweizen, satisfying palates and wallets. You'll get for $7 what would easily pull at least twice the cash during regular hours at some other establishments.

Suki's is miles from patty paradise, yes, but its overall value means that it suffices as a satisfactory stop along the way.

THE SCORE: The Ecstasy of 'The Ecstasy of Gold'

It starts with a slow but powerful buildup, creating a sense of anticipation without revealing the central melody. Then it flows forth, like water after the destruction of a dam, with soaring notes that evoke sadness and hope -- simultaneously. There's somehow grace in its force, depth in its simplicity. Perhaps that's part of the explanation for the survival of "The Ecstasy of Gold," a classical composition that has found safe havens across generations and genres.

It was written by Ennio Morricone, a prolific Italian composer whose credits include hundreds of soundtracks over seven decades. The piece in question -- part of Morricone's score for "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly," a highly regarded 1966 film starring Clint Eastwood and set during the American Civil War -- accompanies a graveyard search for gold:

Ennio Morricone -- L'Estasi dell'Oro

By the early 1980s, "The Ecstasy of Gold" had become precious metal for Metallica, which injected the song with heavy guitars and pounding percussion (and, later, a full-fledged symphony. Exactly why the band decided to kick off every live show with the Marricone masterpiece is anyone's guess, but it's easy to see why the tradition still exists -- namely, because it is musical euphoria. It sounds something like the inner workings of Einstein's brain at the moment he finalized his theory of relativity:

Metallica -- The Ecstasy of Gold

The tune also made its rounds in the hip-hop world in 2002, when Jay-Z and Nas were engaged in a much-publicized series of spats. Unfortunately, Jay-Z trashes the epic potential of the "Blueprint 2" beat, peppering it with digs at his fellow New York emcee instead of turning it into a rap classic. (If there's any beat that should have stayed above the diss-track fray, it's this one.) Still, the Jay-Z joint is relevant because it reiterated Morricone's far-reaching legacy and inspired other rap renditions of the song. It doesn't complete the classical-to-classic cycle, but it's at least worth a listen:

Jay-Z -- Blueprint 2

Almost as Bad as the Dodgers' Season Itself

The Dodgers found their way into the news cycle for all the wrong reasons this season: the unthinkable Bryan Stow beating, the divorce saga of Frank and Jamie McCourt, the seemingly fitting bankruptcy proceedings, the slumping attendance, the overall on-field mediocrity (see: watching the playoffs from home).

Now, when the Dodgers finally have something to celebrate, the Los Angeles Times botches its online coverage with a grammatical nightmare in the subhead (below). You're killing me, Smalls!

Why Bill Simmons Gives Me The Manning Face

Well, it's finally here. Brewing for more than two years and brought violently forth as I slogged through The Book of Basketball was an all-in-good-fun tirade against Bill Simmons, the ESPN blogger extraordinaire whose Grantland website launched earlier this year. Now it's written, organized into a list of 33 reasons (the number an ode to The Sports Guy himself) and filled with the stretching-it analogies, random pop culture references and mindless footnotes for which he is famous. Plus, it'll serve as my gift to Simmons because it arrives just in time for his Sept. 25 birthday. And, best of all, its title is based on a popular meme, the Manning Face, that is often attributed to Simmons -- even though it was conceived by a reader.

So what, then, is the Manning Face? It's is a grimace of frustration, a look of angry dejection, an expression of utter hopelessness. It's how a quarterback reacts when his receiver drops a perfect pass with the game on the line, or what a basketball coach is thinking when his player calls timeout after all the team's timeouts have been used. It's also how I feel when I read Bill Simmons' work.

The anticipation is palpable, so here's the rundown (and I know you carefully process every word of Simmons' columns, so the length of this piece won't deter you at all):

33. I Think, Therefore I'm Right

That heading pretty much sums up Bill Simmons' philosophy on writing. Why? He hardly does any reporting, relying instead on other journalists and columnists for angles, stories and quotes. He is to sports what Jay Leno is to news: Leno sits back while journalists uncover the day's news, then takes their collective work and turns it into a humor-laced monologue. The Book might as well have been a copy of David Halberstam's The Breaks of the Game with Simmons' notes in the margins; that's how frequently he leans on Halberstam for the meat of his assertions. Yes, there is a space -- even a need -- for outside commentary in sports journalism, but it doesn't have to come from a guy whose son's middle name is Oakley.¹

32. When $h!t Hits The Fan

One of the supposed factors in Bill Simmons' meteoric rise is his fan-centric perspective; people enjoy reading his work because he, they say, is like one of us. But is he really? Maybe he was as the Boston Sports Guy, when his audience and ego were much smaller -- when he, too, was an outsider. Now, though, Simmons is a full-fledged media personality with an ESPN paycheck, easy access to the most prominent sports celebrities and connections to the most influential people in the sporting world. Which is all well and good, but let's face it: Fans don't get to interview David Stern or sit poolside in Las Vegas with Isiah Thomas. Fans don't get to direct and produce videos with the backing of the Worldwide Leader. He'd like you to think otherwise, but Bill Simmons is an insider parading as a fan.²

31. Pyramid of Failure

The funny thing about the conceptual Pyramid of NBA legends -- the driving force behind The Book -- is that Bill Simmons rarely follows the complex rubric that he rolls out during its introduction. We learn, eventually, that there isn't much rhyme or reason to it at all. For one, the player profiles are formulaic and bland: Each athlete was some combination of the greatest ever (in his era, at his position, considering his circumstances); or had unrivaled talent but didn't put it to use because of various maladies (drugs, injuries, woeful work ethic, bad timing); or wasn't all that impressive but is nonetheless remembered for one legacy (moment, move, style or off-court incident). Then, in the final segment of his Pyramid chapter, Simmons defends Michael Jordan as the greatest player of all time as much via personal anecdote -- Stop the presses! Simmons and MJ were once at the same upscale restaurant! -- as through memorable moments in the highlight-filled career of His Airness. It calls into question any grains of logic that existed between No. 96 and No. 1.

30. Tyranny of Statistics

The purpose of The Book -- to determine the best players and teams in NBA history -- is supposedly based on the premise that statistics cannot capture a player's essence like stories, anecdotes and colleague evaluations can. But what dominates The Book more than anything? Numerical data -- page after page after page of percentages, ratios and averages. In fact, The Book has more numbers than any book I've read save for Introduction to Algebra.³ True or not, it feels as though Simmons uses statistics to accomplish one of the following goals: support previously formed opinions; fill in where stories and anecdotes fell short; confuse the reader into buying a ridiculous argument; or maintain his status as an alleged research guru in the Google age.

29. D'oh! Excessive Homerism, Part I

Did you know that Bill Simmons is from Boston? (Of course you did.) Well, he writes his columns as if he's the protagonist in Memento and needs tangible reminders -- of his birthplace, his favorite teams and his most cherished sports memories -- to survive. His incessant doting on the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots and Bruins is hard enough to stomach, and he complements that annoying adoration with childish jabbing at the Lakers and other rivals. But karma, as they say, is a boomerang:

28. Attempted Persuasion Through Personal Anecdote

An early example of classic Simmons: "Once upon a time, the Boston Garden fans cheered [John Havlicek] for 510 seconds," he writes. "And I was there. I was in the building. I cheered for every one of those 510 seconds ... " (p. 25). It's composed as if Simmons' presence makes that moment more memorable to the sports world, when in reality it serves as an obstacle. Perhaps Bottom of The Barrel says it best: Bill Simmons "does not believe in the existence of dinosaurs. You know why? If Bill Simmons does not experience something firsthand, then that event did not happen ... " We'll call this the Bill Simmons Test.

Nowadays, Even Father-Son Time Has a Catch

Image source: John Wong Photography via AllPosters.com

I

t's one of those potentially perfect evenings in the middle of August, a darkening blue blanket chasing the sun toward the horizon, a warm breeze crawling gently through the grass. A father and son play a relaxed game of catch, not exchanging many words, not needing to. The child is perhaps 10 years old -- old enough to keep the ball from slipping out of his brown leather glove, young enough that he still enjoys the simple thrill of throwing a stitched sphere of cork back and forth.

The ball skies overhead in a towering parabola. Soon it will slam with a thud into the boy's well-worn glove. Soon it will zip eagerly back toward the father, each time carrying with it an intangible scrapbook of fond childhood memories. And soon the mosquitoes will have their turn to frolic about in the twilight air, and their would-be victims will sneak off into the night to fetch root beer floats at a nearby parlor.

The youthful father's next toss soars into the air, higher than the one before it. But the ball, not seconds ago a bonding baton, is now a distraction device. As the boy scrambles to get under it, the father reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a small contraption -- one that will put him in touch with people other than his son. The scene is a 21st century twist on a timeless tradition, a modern mangling of an otherwise heart-melting moment.

Words are sprayed calmly and carelessly into the phone, maybe to a wife, maybe to a friend, maybe to a business partner. The father holds out his glove, gesturing that he can still catch with one hand. His child obliges, returning the ball to what might as well be a catch-playing robot. Now, though, the ball lingers in the father's glove, his throwing hand busy holding the phone to his ear.

"Dad!" the boy hollers, at first sounding more eager than upset. He waits a few moments more, becoming slightly less patient with each moment his father's conversation doesn't cease. "Come on!" The father appears to hear his son's plea, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his throwing hand. His mind is still elsewhere.

Even against the beams of man-made light shining from the poles that surround the field, darkness reigns. The phone call ends. So does the game of catch. "Time to go," the father says quietly, not having to compete with many other sounds. "OK," the boy replies, removing his glove and heading toward the car as his father, with the benefit of longer strides, makes up for the distance that existed between the two during their game.

Car doors open and shut. An engine starts. The child is too excited about ice cream and soda to think about it, but somewhere inside he feels let down. Like a runner stranded at third base at the end of an inning, he's almost home, yearning for what could have been, his potentially perfect evening disappearing into a black web of mosquitoes and cellphone signals.

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: The Persistence of Reflection

photo by Jeff Goodman

The old-as-time clock that sits atop Jackson Tower in downtown Portland and watches over Pioneer Courthouse Square gets the Salvador Dali treatment in this photo, which turns a nearby building into a set of giant, manipulative mirrors.

Did You Know? Incredibly Awesome NBA Factoids

• In 1962, Bill Russell was named Most Valuable Player but was not a first-team all-NBA honoree. (The same thing happened to Dave Cowens in '73.) For Russell, that '62 snub probably felt as bad as this.
• Elgin Baylor played just 48 games during the 1961-62 season because of military duty but still managed to average 38 points, 19 rebounds and five assists per game. And, for the record, he made the league's first team. (Baylor never won a title, though, which is why he was such a great fit for the Clippers' front office.)
• In the first round of the 1984 Playoffs, Isiah Thomas scored 16 points in 94 seconds (not a typo) to force overtime against the Knicks. Yes, his Pistons lost that deciding Game 5, but still -- it doesn't get much better than this:

• In the 1984 NBA Draft, Sam Bowie was selected ahead of Michael Jordan. And Portland, it seems, is still reeling.
• After MJ won his first championship in 1991, he was interviewed by Bob Costas amid chaos in the Bulls' locker room. A moment of epically hilarious proportions ensued:

British News Scandal Surrounds Inanimate Object

Or at least that's what the front page of the Los Angeles Times website led me to believe Wednesday night with this shocking headline:

Was a hearing aid embezzling money? Was a first aid kit making unethical phone calls? This could be an interesting read! Oh, wait -- it's about an aide? Why didn't you say so?

It appears that the writer of this online headline, not David Cameron, needs the aide. Then again, I guess they invented alternative spellings for a reason.

PATTY DOWN: The Ram Restaurant & Brewery

Name: The Ram Restaurant & Brewery
Location: 515 12th Street SE, Salem, OR 97301 (map)
Website: www.theram.com
Twitter: @theRAM 

'All American' burger and sweet potato fries at The Ram

When it comes to food, locals usually know what they're talking about. You can read every tourism pamphlet, scan a few recommendations websites and ultimately Google your way to the good places. Residents, however, will point you to the great places.

That's how I ended up at The Ram in Salem, a family-owned brewpub that operates 17 restaurants in five states. The one in Salem, approximately 50 miles south of Portland, is situated along Mill Creek, making its outdoor patio the perfect place to soak in a summer evening.

The Ram serves standard but well-executed pub fare, including sandwiches, deluxe fries and buffalo wings as well as steak entrees and enticing desserts. The menu is not unlike one you'd see at Chili's or Applebee's, but it doesn't make you feel like you're filling the pockets of a shrewd chain restauranteur.

What immediately stands out about my selection, the All American burger, is the massive bun. Looking at it is like seeing an especially interesting movie trailer on TV and just knowing the movie itself will live up to the hype. All American? They should call it The Breadwinner. It costs $9.59 including fries, and it's worth the dough.

As I learned later, the hamburger buns are specially made for The Ram. They're sweeter than sourdough, fluffier than kaiser rolls and much softer than ciabatta bread. They don't have sesame seeds, and they don't need 'em. Even a knuckle sandwich would taste good on these brilliant baked creations. So many burgers are satisfactory but not memorable; this bun -- and, therefore, this burger -- will be hard to forget.

I know, I know, man does not live by bread alone; he needs a side dish and a drink as well. And yes, the rest of the meal was tasty in its own right. Lettuce, tomato, onions, ridged pickle chips and ketchup came along for the ride, as did delicious sweet potato fries and Buttface Amber Ale. The Buttface (no joke), which is described as a malty caramel beer with a smooth, slightly sweet finish, was easily one of the most enjoyable pints of my drinking life. The best ever? Hard to say. Memorable? Definitely.

So thank you, Random Salem Resident, for the restaurant recommendation. Now I can pass it along.

(Also, bonus points for restaurants with gargantuan overeating challenges that aren't just created to nab spots on food TV shows. The Ram dares its customers to conquer the BeHemoth Challenge, a 5-pound mountain of a burger couple with a pile-sized batch of fries that must be finished by one person in a single seating. If you're able to clear your $24.99 plate, you win a free T-shirt!)

The Greatest Joke of All Time, Perhaps

So, there's this guy named Jim, and Jim loves baseball (although we'll never know why). He probably goes to  four or five games each season, usually with his friend Frank. This time it's a beautiful summer afternoon, and Jim and Frank are seated in a sunny section on the third-base side. Perfect day for baseball, as they say.

A few innings in, Jim gets thirsty, and he doesn't feel like waiting for a vendor howling "Cold drinks here!" to come down the nearby aisle. So he asks Frank if he wants anything to drink -- he doesn't -- and makes his way to the concession stands. But things have changed since Jim's last trip to the stadium.

He learns as much after talking to one of the food cashiers: Now, instead of selling drinks at the various food stands, the stadium has a separate line for each beverage. So there's a Sprite stand and a Coke queue, a lemonade line and a Barq's booth. There's even a line for Full Throttle energy drinks because, let's face it, you need energy drinks at baseball games.

Slightly puzzled by the new arrangement, Jim heads toward Refreshment Row. He walks slowly behind the dozen-or-so lines of people, analyzing each beverage option, but nothing's jumping out at him. He doesn't really like Coke. He's not in the mood for Sprite. The lemonade line is two innings long. For whatever reason, Jim just can't make up his mind.

So he ambles back toward the food stands without buying a drink, stops at the drinking fountain for a few sips of water and approaches the cashier who told him about the weird new setup.

"Sorry to bother you again, but I was just over at Refreshment Row and couldn't decide what to get," Jim says. "Are there any other choices?"

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: The Moment of 'Inception'

Burnside Bridge in Portland, open -- er, closed? -- for business

No matter how often you've been warned about this commonplace event, it will still catch you off guard when you see it in person for the first time.

It throws your brain for a loop. It scrambles your perspective, however briefly, as if you've entered an alternate universe that Dominic Cobb would appreciate.

A horn sounds. A light turns red. A city stops. The pavement becomes downtown's newest skyscraper, defying gravity as it cranes upward, casting shadows on helpless masses of metal below.

And to think -- all of this so one lousy ship can continue its path down the Willamette?

Once you've stopped worrying that the whole procession is holding up traffic and making you late, though, you have an epiphany: This is downright awesome!

The Curious Case of Soccer in America

The stands are packed for a soccer match ... in America? (photo by Jeff Goodman)

It's about as predictable as an announcer's lung-testing wail after a goal: Any time the United States is remotely relevant on the international soccer scene, the national public discourse revolves around the future of the sport in the Land of the Free.

Is it stagnant? Is it growing? Is the ever-increasing coverage a sign of burgeoning interest in "The Beautiful Game," or is it merely reflective of technological advancements in the age of Twitter and 24-hour news? One barometer: If the pundits are still having the "Has soccer taken off in America?" debate, it probably hasn't taken off yet.

Indeed, the centrality of futbol in the lives of average American kids has a somewhat puzzling trajectory; it begins with AYSO and soon becomes "Eh, so?" Youngsters go from playing soccer every four days to watching soccer every four years. It's as if soccer teaches them to run ... and then they run away from it.

Like clockwork, however, they return as spectators for international competition, much as they did for the 2011 edition of the FIFA Women's World Cup. It was, by many accounts, a precious moment for both genders in the nation's soccer movement. Ratings were up. Sales were up. Marriage proposals for not-currently-single Cal alumna Alex Morgan were up. Even after losing the final to Japan in penalty kicks despite leading 2-1 with three minutes left in overtime, the U.S. women's national team was lauded -- mistakenly, in my opinion -- for its awe-inspiring effort. (It should take more than losing to advance a sport's status, shouldn't it?)

Jeld-Wen Field in Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

But maybe that unconditional praise speaks to the reason -- namely, patriotism -- Americans tune in to international soccer in the first place. Because let's face it: are they really watching in droves because they love soccer? The game, at its core, isn't visually pleasing to the untrained eye. In some ways, it's like watching an invisible puppeteer as he struggles to untangle his dolls. In other ways, it's like watching a painfully inept pinball player for 90 minutes straight. You could shell out 40 bucks -- or pounds, or euros, or whatever -- and never see the scoreboard change!

And yet, millions of people around the world are drawn to soccer matches each year. Just this week, Jeld-Wen Field in Portland was packed for the Timbers' exhibition against Argentine club Independiente. The Timbers, who recently joined Major League Soccer, have developed an impressive local following in a city that could probably fill a stadium with rain before it could with people.

These aren't just fair-weather fans, either. They came out in full force to sing the national anthem for the team's home opener in April; their now-famous cheering section, the green-clad Timbers Army, chants everything from "You are my sunshine" to "Burn, destroy, wreck and kill!" Regardless of whether these examples say more about the loyalty of people in Portland or about their passion for the game, you'd never know by attending a Timbers game that soccer is the No. 5 sport in the States.

Certainly, it feels like there's more to soccer in America than Volvo-driving moms and viral videos of fake injuries. At least for now, though, the relationship between country and sport is less like a successful marriage and more like a prolonged game of Footsie. When the two do decide to get serious -- that is, when soccer scores in the U.S. -- we'll know about it. Because there will be a hoarse announcer sharing the news with the world, shouting endlessly into his microphone: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

So Many Bad Grammar, So Few Time

News flash: Grammar is going the way of the, uh, newspaper.

In an age of information when speed trumps accuracy, it's no surprise to see unforgivable errors in sentence construction, spelling and punctuation across the media landscape. But while many of these gaffes are probably the results of innocent typos, some of them suggest a more pervasive trend of linguistic ineptitude in places where English proficiency should be expected.

For instance, there was a story Wednesday morning about bombings in Mumbai that zoomed into the lead space on the Los Angeles Times website. It was grave news, especially for a city that is no stranger to terrorist attacks. However, it was hard to ignore the glaring mistake in the headline:

"Series," as the headline writer surely knows, is the subject of the headline, rendering incorrect the usage of "kill" in this case. Of course, there is a scenario in which the above headline would be correct; indeed, if there had been multiple series of blasts, "kill" would be appropriate. (After all, the word "series" is the same as a singular or plural noun.) But a quick scanning of the story made it clear that Mumbai had endured one set of blasts, not more, and that the subject-verb agreement was out of sorts.

Essentially the same mistake was seen the following day in The Daily Californian, the independent student newspaper at UC Berkeley. Alas, the frustration that should have been directed at the news of another hefty tuition increase was instead pointed at an avoidable grammatical error:

Now, the Daily Cal is an excellent publication. It even has a copy blog of its own. And hey, everyone makes mistakes. But what made this particular blunder so outrageous was the fact that the grammatically correct version of the same headline could be found a few inches below the gaffe in the breaking-news banner. Hermes does not approve.

PATTY DOWN: The Original

Name: The Original
Location: 300 SW 6th Ave., Portland, OR 97204 (map)
Website: www.originaldinerant.com
Twitter: @theoriginalpdx

Burger at The Original in downtown Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

There's a small Oregon town roughly 70 miles south of Portland, a place that only a few hundred people call home. It's a city whose post office was established more than 150 years ago, a city whose official area is less than one square mile. A city whose main street is called Main Street.

That pea of a place -- Scio, Ore. -- isn't exactly an economic juggernaut. But it can take credit for exporting at least one delicious product: beef. That's because it is home to Highland Oak Farm, a family-owned business whose mission is to "produce the finest and most nutritious beef possible in a responsible, sustainable fashion." Highland Oak, a hormone-free farm, provides quality meat to about a dozen Portland-area restaurants.

One of those restaurants is The Original, a self-described dinerant where restaurant-quality food is served in a sleek, modernized diner setting. It offers comfort-food favorites with gourmet-style twists, like the hamburger with shallot aioli ($9.95 including fries).

At this point, it should go without saying that the highlight of the burger is the meat. (That probably sounds silly, but too many restaurants engage in sly games of cover-up.) It is thick, juicy and flavorful, prominent in every bite. It's almost a blessing in disguise that the aioli is surprisingly weak; the patty does just fine with its closer friends (shredded lettuce, tomato, pickle chips and a couple onion slices). If anything, the aioli acts as eye-catching menu fodder.

The fries, meanwhile, are not oiled-into-your-brain memorable, but they aren't at all bad. They're tasty, carefully seasoned and uniquely presented in a waxy paper bag -- almost like a snack you'd eat while walking around at a county fair.

And the fun doesn't stop there. For instance, The Original dares its customers to finish a 5-pound basket of fries -- topped with cheese curds and gravy -- in 30 minutes or fewer. The downtown restaurant also features adult punch during its happy hour, Froot Loops pancakes on its brunch menu and a Pecan Waffle Sandwich on its dessert menu.

For its last trick, The Original uses a squeeze bottle -- one that would normally contain ketchup, mustard or mayonnaise -- to dispense soap in its bathroom. Wait ... was that surplus shallot aioli?

THE SCORE: Drops of 'Drift Away' in Her Hair

There are only so many appealing chord progressions in music. Even with synthesizers and other technological developments, artists often find themselves navigating through sonic waves that were staples of their predecessors. And so, as time passes, it seems inevitable that contemporary songs -- subconsciously or not -- borrow from ones that were written decades earlier.

Take the Offspring's seemingly effortless (and decade-old!) radio hit, "Why Don't You Get a Job?," whose similarities to the Beatles' "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" did not go unnoticed. To be sure, there are probably hundreds -- if not thousands -- of examples. There's even a cleverly satirical performance by stand-up comedian Rob Paravonian about the almost-unavoidable recycling of classical music.

Here's a juxtaposition that can be added to the proverbial list, although it should be noted that other listeners have heard the connection as well:

• Dobie Gray -- "Drift Away" (1973)
• Train -- "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)" (2001)

Not surprisingly, the chord constructions in the corresponding choruses -- (B-F#-E) and (C-G-F) -- are essentially congruent. But, as is audible below, the resemblance is more obvious than letters on a screen might suggest:

Dobie Gray didn't write this classic, but his version is perhaps the most famous:

Nearly 30 years later, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" dominated the charts for months:

When you put them together, it comes out something like this ... sort of. Give him the beat, boys.

The House That Jackson Built

Jackson Tower, formerly the Journal Building

Buildings, inanimate though they may be, are like nostalgic grandparents; they too tell the stories of yesteryear. They spin tales with each detail, bringing forth history with every layer of brick, steel and paint. Before I go all Ted Mosby on you, though, I'll continue with what really matters about buildings:

They weave worlds together.

These thoughts swirled in my head as I walked through the glass doors on one of my first days of work in downtown Portland, admiring Jackson Tower's classic touches: its aging clock tower, brass trim and analog elevator displays. Inching toward its 100th anniversary, Jackson Tower stands above Pioneer Court Square as an aesthetic and historical icon, a tribute to this city's past.

For instance, the glazed terra-cotta structure -- located on SW Broadway just south of Yamhill Street -- is a testament to a time when the newspaper industry wasn't crumbling. Indeed, it was known for many years as the Journal Building because it housed The Oregon Journal, a now-defunct publication that rivaled The Oregonian.

That fact was enticing enough considering my interest and experience in the field. But what really turned this building into an embodiment of the is-this-fate-or-is-this-a-coincidence question was the ever-present legacy of the former newspaper's owner and editor, Charles Samuel Jackson. The Virginia native journeyed west and became a prominent publisher, donating a large plot of land on Marquam Hill to the University of Oregon medical school.

Except now, the land that was once the University of Oregon medical school is now Oregon Health & Science University -- the reason my girlfriend and I live in Portland in the first place.

And so, in closing, a quote from Barney Stinson about architects: "Think about it; you create something out of nothing. You're like God. There's nobody hotter than God."

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: Grampa Simpson Goes to Rome

The Fourth of July is a day to honor America's everyday heroes -- like Abraham "Grampa" Simpson, for instance. He's a war veteran. He eats the same mashed food as his baby granddaughter. And, well, he managed to raise one of our country's most easily identifiable cultural icons.

We'll honor him this Independence Day with a photo of his likeness that was taken at the Colosseum in Rome in 2008:

Who's more American than Grampa Simpson?

Happy Fourth! I'll leave you with a piece of classic Grampa dialogue from a 1993 episode called "The Front": [writing a letter] "Dear Mr. President, there are too many states these days. Please eliminate three. I am NOT a crackpot."

Which three? I'm sure they're in Grampa's will.

PATTY DOWN: Burgerville

Name: Burgerville
Location: 3432 SE 25th Ave., Portland, OR 97202 (map)
Website: www.burgerville.com
Twitter: @BurgervilleUSA

A fast-food chain -- with compost bins?

It sounds strange, yes, but these Pacific Northwest hot spots serve their meals with a side of sustainability and an extra helping of everything else you probably wouldn't expect at a drive-through diner.

The food is fresh. The meat is hormone-free. Many of the ingredients are locally grown. The chain's slogan -- "Fresh, Local, Sustainable" -- is emblazoned on in-store merchandise. It almost feels uncomfortable at first, as if these two worlds were meant to be mutually exclusive. Sit down with a Colossal hamburger, fries and vanilla shake at Burgerville, though, and ... hey, no wonder this place has been around for 50 years.
 

Colossal Burger, fries and vanilla shake at Burgerville

The burger is served with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles as well as ketchup on one side of the sesame seed bun and the restaurant's special sauce -- likely some combination of mayonnaise, mustard and diced pickles -- on the other. It was a nice touch on an otherwise straightforward sandwich (one that loosely resembled an onion-less and gastronomically lighter version of the Whopper at Burger King).

Burgerville is often compared to In-N-Out, the California-based chain known for its cleanliness, tastiness and simplicity. I would probably choose Burgerville's fries over In-N-Out's; they're plumper, firmer and not quite as salty. The shakes are similar in that upgrading your soda to a rich, cold treat is a wise move at both establishments. (For what it's worth, there's something about In-N-Out's burger that, at least for me, would give it the nod in a comprehensive showdown.)

One thing that might give Burgerville a few bonus points, however, is its rotating cycle of seasonal specialty items: fried asparagus spears, fresh strawberry shortcake and Oreo mint sundaes, to name a few. And to think -- "asparagus at a fast-food restaurant" was once used as a synonym for "flying pig." Perhaps pigs fly now?

Nutritional information on the Burgerville receipt

Speaking of pigs ... The discourse on obesity in the United States, it seems, always centers around the evils of fast food. Burgerville's solution: including your meal's nutritional information on your receipt, presumably to force you to evaluate your diet as your wait hungrily for your food. The lesson, apparently, is that "fresh" and "sustainable" should not be blindly associated with "healthy." Indeed, the receipt is an unintentionally quizzical marketing strategy because it ironically suggests, "You probably shouldn't be eating here."

Don't let the receipt spoil your meal, though. Just put it face-down on the table and throw it into the recycling bin on your way out. And remember: Almost all of the other remnants of your meal belong in the compost receptacle.

Even Towels Can't Find Work in This Economy

The gym locker room is a fragile place, an intersection of the public and private domains and thus a potentially awkward setting for otherwise common activities.

Showering. Changing clothes. Looking in the mirror to make sure your eyes are still aligned properly.

Normal stuff.

It could be considered a hub of efficiency, and there's usually a certain standard of decorum that reigns in the locker room -- at least on the men's side, to make a gross generalization. Conversations, if they exist, are short. So are the showers. For whatever reason, that's usually how it goes.

But not everyone subscribes to these unwritten rules.

Case in point: After a 30-minute battle against the treadmill earlier this week, I walked into the locker room at a 24 Hour Fitness gym to use the bathroom. I then moved into the main room (where the sinks are) and found an elderly man standing in front of an electric hand dryer. His hands, however, were not under the air duct; they were holding a gray towel around his presumably unclothed waistline, creating a makeshift dormitory for his Congressman Anthony.

The situation induced mental head-scratching as I proceeded to wash my hands. There were six sinks, three soap dispensers and two hand dryers, meaning the one not being used by Dr. Breezy was suddenly a hot commodity. I rinsed hastily.

More striking than my own scenario, though, was the logistical conundrum: How could this behavior be considered acceptable? It wasn't just that this man was hogging the clean air -- he already had unimpeded access to a towel (which, despite our technological advances, is still considered a drying device)!

I felt kind of sad as I walked out of the locker room, hands mostly dry. The towel basically got laid off and still had to kiss its former employer's behind.

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: Piled Higher and Greener

A sample of what Portland is like when it isn't raining:

Cerf Amphitheatre at Reed College (photo by Jeff Goodman)

Laurelhurst Park in Southeast Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

Shooter's Touch is an ongoing series of cool photos. For other installments, click here.

The People in Portland Are Ridiculously Nice

Maybe it's because I've spent most of my life in Los Angeles -- the me-centric capital of the world -- but there's something about the way people interact in Portland that makes a transplant feel awkwardly unkind. A few examples on a list that undoubtedly will grow with time:

• Imagine a portrait of a stereotypical bus driver: gruff, annoyed, persistently unhappy and unforgiving. Then hop on a bus to the largest city in Oregon, where the caricature takes a wild turn. One afternoon at a major intersection in southeast Portland, a bus driver who had made a normal stop to pick up and drop off riders began pulling away from the curb for the green light. Just then, a young pedestrian darted toward the bus in a parallel crosswalk, hoping to catch it before its departure. In other cities, he would have waited for the next bus and blamed himself for being late. Not here. Here, the bus driver, instead of zooming into the distance, drove through the intersection, pulled toward the curb -- blocking a lane of traffic in the process -- and opened the front door as the young man raced back across the crosswalk to board. Just like that. It wasn't even sunny out.

• The gas station cashier doesn't just give you directions to a tricky freeway on-ramp. No, he walks around the counter and takes you outside, pointing precisely and smiling all the way. Like it was his job or something. Plus, the guys who fill your tank -- self-service gas pumping is illegal in Oregon -- are also friendly. They should all consider moving to L.A. -- they'd make great tips.

• Homeless people aren't exactly known for their friendliness. Written off as lazy misfits or unavoidable byproducts of metropolitan life, they are often greeted by pedestrians with uncomfortable neglect -- if not scorn. Adding to the list of sweeping generalizations ... Portland seems different when it comes to this dynamic. Although the issue persists in Portland, so too does the city's apparently undying warmth (figuratively speaking, of course). The homeless people offer "Hello" and "Good afternoon," even initiating pleasant conversation. Oh, and in some cases, good luck finding the Cup o' Change.

 Stop being so nice, Portland!

PATTY DOWN: Triple Rock Brewery & Alehouse

Name: Triple Rock Brewery & Alehouse
Location: 1920 Shattuck Ave., Berkeley, CA 94704 (map)
Website: www.triplerock.com
Twitter: @TripleRockBeer

Come for the beer. Stay for the burgers.

That's how Triple Rock could market itself, not that the brewpub really needs to advertise. Students and senior citizens alike crowd its classy wooden interior seemingly throughout the week, especially when the 8.0% alcohol-by-volume Monkey Head arboreal ale flows from dark bottles each Thursday night.

For all of its homemade beer and enjoyable ambiance, though, Triple Rock's third rock might be its food.

Mill Grinder burger at Triple Rock

When you start getting hungry, you don't have to leave to find a restaurant with quality grub. Just ask for a menu and order the Mill Grinder ($7.25), a half-pound hamburger served with lettuce, tomatoes, onions and a paper-thin layer of mayonnaise.

(Note: You're out another $1.50 if you want to replace house coleslaw with fries, which is a pretty ridiculous concept. Burgers come with fries. This is America. How about serving them standard at $8.75 and giving a $1.50 discount to patrons who choose to sneak around a longstanding cultural icon?)

The burger, although a tad undercooked on the inside for a "medium-well" meal, delivered on most fronts. It tasted fresh, didn't fall apart with toppings heaped above it and was large enough for Triple Rock to serve it with a fork and knife. (As usual, those went unused.) It hit the proverbial spot.

The downsides were found in the details. The fries, nonetheless worth the $1.50 upgrade, were somewhat overcooked and slightly too salty. They actually did well on the burger (as they almost always do), where the salt seemed to fade into the rest of the flavors. Also, what good is a pickle wedge to a burger plate? Its presence put me in a pickle about what to do with it. For what it's worth, it should've been sliced into disks for convenient stacking or omitted entirely.

Triple Rock, apparently one of the country's first brewpubs, surely can thank its food for some of its longevity. And while a markedly better burger at Barney's is just five blocks away, a hand-crafted beer is within arm's reach here ... or should be, anyway.

Patty Down is an ongoing series of burger reviews. For other installments, click here.

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: Rockin' in the Tree World

Tilden Regional Park

If Berkeley wore a tall and flowery hat, it would be called Tilden Regional Park.

Perched in the mountains just north of the bustling University of California hub, the sprawling expanse of nature provides visitors with beautiful views of the Bay Area and a welcomed sense of short-term separation from the urban world below.

A day trip to the park is on the bucket list of many Cal students, who somehow manage to neglect the opportunities there -- hiking, biking, horseback riding and springtime picnicking, among others -- despite their proximity to the 2,079-acre reserve.

Tilden, however, isn't some sort of town secret. Tourists and residents in the region can be found enjoying the space in harmony. Cyclists, joggers and dog-walkers share the numerous trails, including the Nimitz Way path (pictured) that starts at Inspiration Point.

A leisurely stroll offered the accompanying landscape, a well-blazed trail paralleled by a path of sunlight above. The balance, shadow patterns and dominating greenery made this a memorable image -- even with a point-and-shoot digital camera.

So, saunter through the park and soak in the scenery -- it's free. Just don't forget a camera, a friend or three, some PB&J sandwiches and, even if there's some cloud cover, a hat.

Amble on!

Shooter's Touch is an ongoing series of cool photos. For other installments, click here.