I'm a lasagna boy!

In which I pack it up

... I should point out that this video is the reason I am rocking out to De Stijl and speeding 'round town on a fixie. For crying out loud. During a weekend bike-ride not one but two pedestrians pointed out that we cyclists stopped for traffic controls. The second, along the Great Highway, actually crossed the street, came back to the intersection shaking his head, and said, "I don't think I've ever seen a bicycle stop at a red light."
Rdiing a track bike does entail a full-speed-ahead mentality (see video, above). I ride a fixed-gear, which has some old-man sense built into it.

In which the freeway melted

Roadway to Bay Bridge collapses after tanker fire explosion:

"The dispatcher said eastbound Interstate Highway 80 to eastbound Interstate Highway 580 collapsed after heat from the tanker explosion on the westbound Interstate Highway 580 at Interstate Highway 80 rose and melted the upper roadway." (emphasis mine)

UPDATE: Burly video of the conflagration, although not of the aftermath traffic snarl. A Google Maps widget shows the section of roadway what collapsed. As usual, they Keyhole BBS has the scoop.

In which we are driving through Nevada

Thanks to the New York Times for pointing out that track bikes are the hipness, especially at King Kog in Billberg. The shop (and its propriertor, whose voice narrates the multimedia feature in the Times) does nothing for me with respect to fixies (powder-coated rims? five-spoke wheels? coloured 1/4" chains? Not for me!), but does remind me of the exuberant "uh-oh, I got a little problem" song by those wacky guys from Louisville.
30,000 fixed-gear frames sold in the U.S. last year; I swear, all of them wound up in San Francisco's Mission District. Or in "certain neighborhoods in Brooklyn":

Riders of fixed-gear bikes are as diverse as bike riders in general. Messengers are big fixie aficionados, but more and more fixed-gear bikes are being ridden by nonmessengers, most conspicuously the kind of younger people to whom the term “hipster” applies and who emanate from certain neighborhoods in Brooklyn. You see these riders weaving in and out of traffic without stopping, balancing on the pedals at a stoplight and in the process infuriating pedestrians and drivers alike.

In which we rouse the rabble

A movie showing NYPD harassing cyclists.

UPDATE: The video is available on YouTube as well, so I have updated the link. The old link, remains (hobbled). It's a higher-quality video, but not on as humungous a pipe as YT.

In which we tip the hat to xkcd, again

In which I am superstitious

I took it as auspicious that the first song that played off my new, headless iPod was "Cruisers Creek" by The Fall -- almost certainly the most buoyant, cheerful song I know.

In which I have a leaky memory

What was the name of the good-natured fellow who put up messages each day outside the San Francisco Airport Clarion Hotel? The hotel's sign faces Highway 101, and I fondly remember folksy wisdom and friendly messages from the signboard -- but can't remember the name of the man responsible, although he enjoyed some celebrity back in '98 or thereabouts. Those were the days before my carpool gave up the ghost.

In which this duck could not dance

... because he had two left feet. Not the past tense, but he's still a lucky duck. "He's now only got three legs and a stump which means he's Stumpy by name and stumpy by nature."

In which we have coffee and doughnuts

Well, how about that! Voodoo Doughnuts are open continuously! That explains why my eyes are chocolate-glazed.

In which the food will eat itself

The Suicide Food blog captures mascots, logos, and spokesanimals that will shortly be on the menu.

bowyer

What fascinates me about bowyer is not its meaning ("one who makes bows"), but its root: "From Old English boga, ultimately from the Indo-European root bheug- (to bend) that is also the source of bagel, buxom, and bog." An online edition of the American Heritage Dictionary provides more detailed eytmological information.

In which he is comfortably tucked up inside

Cute cat, that.

In which I take delight in sharing

Thanks to the Creative Commons licence, I see works building on my photographs on flickr: a snap of elephants at the Buenos Aires Zoo turned in to a political cartoon; American Express used a photo of a boutique in Paris to illustrate a print and online publication; and random snapshots turn up in blogs 'round the world, near and far.

In which MUNI fails to intersect

Again, I wonder: why does MUNI insist on constructing adjacent, but not overlapping, platforms for different lines? Just as the N and J nearly intersect at Church and Duboce, the J and T come frustratingly close to each other at Fourth and King -- and this is the apparent cause of this week's MUNI tomfoolery.

Rubin Caslow

Brooklyn-based maker of excellent whitefish salad Rubin Caslow died. The Associated Press sez:

Rubin Caslow, the chairman of the largest producer and distributor of smoked fish in the country, has died. He was 86.

Caslow, whose Acme Smoked Fish Corp. in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, sells certified kosher smoked salmon, herring, whitefish and pickled lox, died Sunday at his home in Roslyn, on Long Island, his granddaughter Emily Caslow, said Wednesday.

The business had modest beginning, with Caslow's grandfather, Harry Brownstein, selling lox and chubs to small stores from a horse-drawn wagon in the early 1900s. Brownstein later opened a smokehouse, at a time when there were hundreds of them in Brooklyn.

Today, Acme sells more than 7 million pounds of smoked fish around the country to such food specialty emporiums as Zabar's, Balducci's, Barney Greengrass and Russ & Daughters, among others.

It operates out of an 80,000-square-foot facility in Greenpoint that includes tanks for brining and a huge forced-air smoker.

In 2000, the privately held family-run company added the Blue Hill Bay brand, a preservative-free, dry-cured line of nova, gravlax, hot-smoked salmon, cold-smoked yellowfin tuna, brook trout, and jarred herring fillets.

Caslow, the son of Russian immigrants, grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn.

He is survived by his wife, Charlotte, and sons, Robert and Eric, who took over the business several years ago, seven grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren, Emily Carlow said.

The funeral was in Great Neck on Tuesday.

Copyright 2007 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed

How do you like me now?

Although the apology from MUNI director Nathaniel Ford now turns up a "Not Found" error, the vigilant mattymatt at SFist has a copy of the published apology. To understand the struggles leading to MUNI's latest fiasco, one should look at the data for scheduled versus actual arrival times for the much-heralded and now much-reviled T-Third MUNI line. If San Francisco had a tabloid, its screamer would be a 48-pt "T stands for Trouble!", (keeping the tradition of having a verb in every headline).
From the Chron article: "Mechanical breakdowns, power failures and streetcar bottlenecks inside the Market Street subway tunnel and near the South of Market Caltrain station -- while train operators and passengers are still getting used to recent route changes -- have resulted in maddening delays."
I love the Market Street Subway, the single point of failure for all of MUNI. Several years ago, Mayor Willie Brown famously humiliated MUNI by walking Market Street downtown faster than any MUNI train could have carried him. To remind myself that San Francisco is not the only city saddled with transit woes, I offer the Second Avenue Subway project in New York.

oche

Although Google does not offer a definition, oche is a legitimate word, not mere jargon. Denoting "the line behind which darts players stand when throwing", the word has a mysterious and murky origin (and, when properly pronounced, rhymes with "hockey"). Flemish? rhyming slang? ale-laden linguistics fail us here.

Hail Mary and Paternoster

Named because it resembles a massive, mechanical rosary, the Paternoster is a continous elevator device; although it was most popular in the third quarter of the twentieth century, some still survive and operate in Britain, Scotland, and those islands. A related device carries weary cyclists, pram-pushers, scooter-riders, and sundry up a hill in Trondheim, Norway. Alleluia.
UPDATE: What do you know, this was on BB today as well. And with this additional explanatory text. And this nice photo gallery.

In which yes, it is recognizable

You cannot have a revolution without babies, you cannot have a revolution without bloodshed, and you most definitely can not have a revolution without Che.

UPDATE: After receving remonstration that this post was useless without the photograph, I added a link to it. I also saw the Guerilla Drive-In project on BoingBoing.

In which I have a new toy

My new messenger bag is far from a toy: it's quite practical, in fact. But it brings me the same sort of delight, with its details and bright colours. I ordered it through Zugster Bags, a one-man shop in San Francisco, after my Timbuk2 literally fell apart at the seams (Timbuk also declined to repair the bag, from which a compression strap had detached, the stabilty belt ripped off, and the bottom seams separated. This has nothing to do with their new, shabby, not-made-in-SF-or-even-in-the-US, manufacturing process; I had the bag for more than eight years).
The Zugster Bag has pride in the gorgeous details: the glow-in-the-dark thread in the shape of a "Z"; the straps that tuck neatly everywhere; the "Double-D" chest strap; the mass of inner pockets, some with velcro, some without; and the front flap design. All the work is custom, and lovingly hand-made by Adam.

On getting from Burrito Bordeaux to the Jersey Docks

I am not a burrito connoisseur, nor even an aficionado, but reports on the Alameda-Weehawken Burrito Tunnel do get the hunger a-panging (Question: can pangs pang? Answer: Yes).

shiv, part II

Both a New York Times crossword clue and the David Mamet movie Heist use "shiv" to mean "a switch-blade knife", a denotation I had not heard before.

Dance Dance Dance

Billed as the sequel to Murakami's "A Wild Sheep Chase", "Dance Dance Dance" follows the same, nameless, virtuous character through an exploration of mortality, individual responsibility, and contemporary Japan. As new buildings replace old overnight, and money buys almost anything, the protagonist meets character after character who have almost oracular presence in his life. He needs to interpret their messages and fit each into his life, while avoiding the supernatural world he discovered towards the end of A Wild Sheep Chase.
The actors and their conversations are pensive, yet not plodding; the narrative is plot-, rather than character-driven. Murakami strikes an amazing balance between the eccentric characters and the haunting images that accomany their quotidian activities. I found that the conclusion arrived unexpectedly, and I needed to trace back to falling action, which was itself fraught with anxiety and the promise of more convolutions in the story.
Dance Dance Dance is more frenetic than its predecessor, and also less beautiful; the plot is joyful and captivating, and makes the book a pleasure to read. It is a very different pleasure from A Wild Sheep Chase, however.

In which we hear a good bed-time story

I have heard various versions of this gag, some with a serious tone, others completely comical. Snopes has the scoop.

In which we are struck

I was struck by the media message on the MUNI bus that struck and killed a woman earlier this week:

Sure, MUNI stops for cheese (and perhaps other tasty snacks). But does it stop for pedestrians?

On Costly Coffee and Concerned Cyclists

HOWTO Crash your browser while watching dumb videos

For above result, visit this Modern Humorist page using the Firefox web browser. Yo.

In which people, yr author included, act like jurks

I do things like this, but mostly I sit with a few weeks' worth of junk mail and sort into three piles: items with my name or other identifying information (address, SSID, ...); business-reply envelopes; and other. I discard the first pile, filing it into the cross-cut shredder; I stuff the last pile into the second, and feel good that I am keeping postal-service employees ("the mailman") in business, although they probably don't deserve it.

Critical Smash vs. Critical Mass, now replete with "parade rules", in Manhattan. Comments on Leah Garchik's blog about the latest SF Critical Mass tend to the vitriolic.

On setting up a Mac again and again and again

When setting up a new Mac (which I have to do with alarming frequency! alas!), I rely on my cheat sheet, dashboard widget notes, and a few other notes. I also found LockTight, and Visor (once again, props to the folk(s) at Blacktree!).

Part of the reason that I so wanted a hotkey for screen-lock is that the screensaver sometimes decides that it no longer requires the password to unlock, and this aggravates me no end. A workaround for that:
% cd~/Library/Preferences/By Host/
% rm com.apple.screensaver..plist file.

You then must reset the Screensaver Preferences to again enable locking.

In which the truth will out

The LA Times has a story on the experience of having a bicycle-theft taken seriously, a story which the esteemed Mr Aram Shumavon brought to my attention. I often bitch about bicycle theft.

In which MUNI moves at half-speed astern

I appreciate capital improvements to transit as much as the next guy, but remain nonplussed about the T-Third. It has been operating for about three months after its "soft launch" and still manages a whopping 5 mph over its route, which means that a jogger, unicyclist, or parent with an all-terrain stroller could probably make the trip in about the same time.

"What I heard from friends is that the train is slow,'' Tyler said Thursday morning as she waited for the bus on Third Street. "But Muni says it will get better. I hope they're right. People out here have waited a long time for this.''
Completion of the project was more than a year behind schedule and ran more than $150 million over the original cost estimate. It has been in the works for more than 20 years ...

I did get to ride the T-Third on my most recent birthday, its opening day. Underwhelming.

Antonio Branduzzi

Antonio Branduzzi of Il Piccolo Forno in Pittsburgh died in January.

April 26, 1949 - Jan. 9, 2007

Wednesday, January 10, 2007
By Bob Batz Jr., Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Antonio Branduzzi, a Tuscan immigrant beloved for his sweet personality as well as the tortes and other treats he made at his Strip District bakery, died yesterday at St. Clair Hospital. He was 57.

The cause was complications from heart failure he suffered on Dec. 20, said his wife, Carla.

Mr. Branduzzi, of Scott, was co-owner, with his wife, of Il Piccolo Forno, "the Little Oven," on 21st Street in the Strip. The bakery/pasticceria was next to and open to La Prima Espresso, making for one of "the" gathering spots in the city. One of the main, warmest ingredients was Mr. Branduzzi's personality, which his wife summed up in one word: "Embracing."

Coffee shop regulars yesterday morning were somberly quiet in tribute to the man who was anything but.

Leaders of Slow Food Pittsburgh and other foodies lauded him as a force for good food. But Mr. Branduzzi was more than that. The moustached, bald and round-bellied baker -- with sweat on his brow, flour on his apron and a lot of Italian in his speech and gestures -- was one of the distinct characters in the daily drama that is Pittsburgh.

As he told a visiting and hungry National Geographic writer in 2003, "I came here from Lucca, Italy, 17 years ago, and I felt right at home. Maybe because a lot of Lucca was already here."

His wife, born and raised here, met Mr. Branduzzi on a trip to her father's village near Lucca. When her father returned there to die, Mr. Branduzzi comforted her. As she told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette in 2005, "I felt it was my destiny to marry him."

While the couple lived in the village, their first-born, Domenic, was born. But they wanted him to grow up in Pittsburgh. So while she started cooking at a local trattoria, Mr. Branduzzi, who had worked as a craftsman making picture frames, became a baker's apprentice.

When they moved here in 1987, they put their new skills to work at the Common Plea restaurant, she as a line cook and he as a sommelier, before he started working nights as a baker at La Normande.

It was around 1991 that they started making mele, or fruit turnovers, and other pastries for La Prima Espresso. The goodies were such a hit that owner Sam Patti suggested they set up shop in the back. In 1992 the couple moved next door and opened Il Piccolo Forno bakery, where in recent years they also sold soups and salads and pasta for lunch.

The sauce of the day was up to Mr. Branduzzi's whim. When it was gone, it was gone. But he wanted customers to savor it, and so many did.

"You know how some people can play a musical instrument by ear? He could play food by ear," said Mr. Patti, who described his friend as "a gentle, gentle soul."

The bakery's menu brochure noted one of the rules he'd learned in the Old Country: "Fare tutto con amore" -- make every recipe with love.

His friend, Larry Lagattuta, summed up Mr. Branduzzi's way as, "Never telling. Just doing."

He recalls spending a night baking with Mr. Branduzzi at home and all the things he learned, including how Mr. Branduzzi loved American rock and soul music. Mr. Lagattuta also learned that he himself wanted to become a baker, and went on to open Enrico Biscotti in the Strip. "Here is a guy who, with his gentle way, literally changed my life." He shared everything from baking "secrets" to stories with many others in town.

"His hands were connected to his heart and his brain, and people felt it," said his friend and fellow baker Ray Werner, who frequently was comforted by Mr. Branduzzi's trademark "Hey, what you gonna do? It's OK."

Mr. Branduzzi made regular trips back to Tuscany, where he enjoyed hunting -- everything from birds to boar to porcini mushrooms. He also loved playing poker when he could, which wasn't much, since he went to work at 3:30 a.m.

Mostly, he cooked. He and his wife always made food for gatherings of the Associazione Lucchesi nel Mondo, Pittsburgh Chapter, where he was a board member.

Mr. Branduzzi and his wife also helped out at the restaurant their son, Domenic, opened in the spring of 2005 in Lawrenceville, Piccolo Forno.

With his work ethic, passion for real ingredients, conviviality and generosity, Mr. Patti said, "He just embodied everything food is."