I'm a lasagna boy!

Duct-tape voodoo.

Miss Mona is the name of the duct-tape artist whose art decorates the walls of Voodoo Doughnuts, a crazy little hole-in-the-wall snack-food-junkie purgatory of donut concoctions (and wedding chapel). Stoked with a pint of the best java, I picked up a pastry box with a dozen of their best (including an applesuace donut, but not an Arnold Palmer, the dough of which is made with powdered iced-tea and lemonade mixes.) Their hours, which I strongly suspect to be irregular, are 10 in the pip emma to the same in the ack emma. Wonderful! Perfect for a donuteria.

This took place after an exxxtended evening romping over bridges and under flyovers, from one happy hour to the next: first at Kells (before the drunken singing begins), then on to Red Star, and thither to Billy Reed's, where we heard the soul cover band Cool Breeze. They started off their second set with "Billie Jean" and "Word Up". And wings were available in quantity at each of these stops. Leaving Billy Reed's at a high rate of speed, we turned up at the no-longer-sordid White Eagle Pub but quickly left because singer-songwriter night had the place packed. We relocated to Lowbrow, had mini corn dogs and tater tots against a scene of phosphorescene and black light, and then discovered that we could obtain the doughnuts. Had we but thought to get married ...!

Get me unto here.

Not only does Portland have tasty late-night tapas and cocktails, but they know how to sign their roundabouts.

What a good name for a city!

As I was thinking fondly of PDX, was thrilled to receive a phone call from Justin. He shares my high opinion of The Kells, where happy hour extends to tasty burgers, plates of oyster, and Jameson's-battered wings. Sitting out front, one can watch bicyclists heading home.

Walking after midnight.

Downtown in the Civic Center, faced with the task of getting home, I decided to walk rather than take the bus (or F Market).

Walking past fighting couple, each sitting on separate stoops, smoking cigarettes. Another woman on the intervening stoop, talking on a mobile. People chatting at the bus stop. The warm night air, San Francisco's indian summer.

Get me away from here.

Installing the wrong sign in the new traffic circles doesn't help matters:

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2003/09/08/BA176360.DTL

And some motorists think that now that some intersections have pseudo-roundabouts, they can blow through stop signs elsewhere. Last night a car loaded with three young bucks blew past the westbound stop sign on Haight at Scott and came within inches of hitting me. I could hear them gunning the engine at me.

The Stoop Report.

Unlike anything else, the stoop provides a respite, my place. This morning I stepped outside and as I stood looking up and down the street, Stan the UPS man drove by and waved; three women with strollers and ambling toddlers walked by, smiled and said "Good Morning"; Kilby the real-estate agent drove past and waved; and the old man with a cane -- who always sits on his stoop on the next block of Scott -- recgonized me and smiled.

Joy comes from the stoop. Merriment flows. And sitting on the stoop makes me quite happy indeed.

Neighborhood relationships and the pleasure of knowing the faces around me --

A toast.

While eating rice and beans at Justin's a few weeks ago, he suggested drinking some 2-for-$1 pounders of Night Flight (cheaper even than Night Train) and watching South Park in French (superbly well-done, especially the songs).

That got me started on a South Park kick (that, plus everyone at work started naming servers after the show's characters). Butters stutters. Heh.
But mostly it's details like Cartman singing Sheena Easton while pedalling his big wheel round a mountain pass.

I like the show: it's funny, absurb, and brutally crass. But most of all, it's animated and has lots of physical comedy. Between the thrice-weekly reruns on Comedy Central and the early-morning Looney Tunes theme shows, I'm certainly getting a good fix of animated mayhem.

Today, another weekend spent as a shut-in, I took occasional scotch-on-the-stoop breaks and two cartoon breaks (one for SP, one for LT).

Oy, this caused a stir.

Another episode of speed-eating: almost 200 oyster in 3 minutes. The previous world record from the Irish town of Hillsborough was under 100. The Water St. oyster dealie doesn't really count as an oyster-eating contest.

Here's a tidy little Flash slideshow on eating contests. Most of the pictures are of an American (duh) wing-eating championship, where ample and pasty men are crowded by lingerie-clad women. Compare to the young and good-looking Irish contestants.

Iron-stomached Norwegian gulps down oyster record. 07/09/2003. ABC News Online

[This is the print version of story http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/s940545.htm]

Last Update: Sunday, September 7, 2003. 5:49am (AEST)

Iron-stomached Norwegian gulps down oyster record

A Norwegian man has annihilated the world record for eating oysters by downing a stomach-churning 187 of the slippery molluscs in three minutes before polishing off a few pints of Guinness.

Rune Naeri said he felt "fine, wonderful" after shattering the previous official record of 97 at the annual Hillsborough oyster festival in Northern Ireland.

Local favourite Jim Glackin of Belfast, who beat the previous world record by eating 100 oysters during an unofficial practice run earlier this week, failed to keep up with the impressive Norwegian.

Despite managing to scoff 168 oysters, he trailed in fourth against the international competition when it really mattered.

Looking forward to a late dinner, an unflappable Naeri said "I think I'll probably have something fishy".

-- AFP