Sammy's Donuts has amazing, light and fluffy rasied donuts. A previously-impossible combination of Chinese food and donuts (ubiquitous in San Francisco's Nob Hill, especially this unnerving stretch of Hyde St.), Sammy's sells delicious donuts. 70¢ in a light and clean corner shop at 6th Avenue and 12th. The coffee actually accompanies the donut well if served black. I wish I'd eaten more than one (chocolate raised), but earlier in the day a flirtatious pushcart vendor had foisted several cake donuts on us.
Earlier this week: I bumped into a colleague as we were both rushing to and fro in the busy hallways at work: he asked me, briefly, to stop at his desk. When I finally did, he couldn't remember why. And then he cocked his head and asked: "You always carry a camera, don't you?" and said that he wanted a photograph of himself to send to his mother. I obliged, and wondered when he had last seen her. "Oh, about 8 years ago." (According to his mother, who just looked at the photos, it was more than 10!)
In the always-connected circles he and I run in (bluetooth! tri-band! jabber! two-way pagers! macstumbler!), ten years of not seeing someone, not even a photograph, seems an impossibility. I was very very happy to take that photo.
Well, the wings were not deep-fried, but dinner at Little Star was nonetheless outstanding. After all, we were there for the pie. After weeks of anticipation, I waded into both the Chicago-style deep-dish and the New York-style thin: each was yummuy, with really good crust. And the wings? Although baked, they were hot and spicy, just not dripping with Durkee's and butter. I think I'll stick to Burger Meister for their wings, quite probably the best in town.
The atmosphere at Little Star was overwhelmingly cool: a mix of retro-80s pop and current hipster tunes on their jukebox, four great beers (including Racer 5 on tap a nd obligatory PBR in $1 cans), and found-object art on the walls.
In this fawning article, entitled "Four Bike Heroes", Larry Gallagher stumbles on a very good reason to bike or walk through San Francisco: In this stretch, one stands an extremely good chance of inadvertently witnessing someone either injecting something into or extruding something from his or her body. In a car, one is exposed merely to the constructed problems of congestion, freeways, and toll plazas (cf. the Examiner's current series on traffic).
My faithful correspondents filled me in on the latest in old-fogey rock and/or roll:
The Fall are releasing a six-disc anthology of their Peel Sessions, and Carsickness' Chris Konigsberg has finally posted some mp3s.
Greg was good enough to give me a ride home through the rain, and kept up a constant stream of The Fall ("two CDs of their Rough Trade singles!") on the car stereo. We mused over which bands we'd like to see reunite ("Did you get tickets for Gang of Four yet?"). I actually do not care to see Gang of Four, unless you can transport me to a seedy club in Leeds, ca. 1979. Ditto Wire, Talking Heads (well, not Leeds, but CBGB or something), The Smiths. The Fall I don't mind seeing, because they're as current as they ever were.
The Examiner started its series on congestion in the Bay Area. The first article deals with the maze, the maze, the ever-beloved maze.
Last night Jay, Jimg and I chewed the fat on making congestion worse: slow down car traffic, increase congestion, and demonstrate the value of public transit. Jay pointed out Market St, Geary Blvd, and Van Ness feature no disincentive for drivers other than congestion.
John De Lorean has died, just as the futuristic car he developed in the 80s sees a resurgence in popularity.
I first heard his name when my third-grade teacher, Dr Martin, announced that one of the fifth-graders (Jason Galbreath? John Galbraith?) had won a DeLorean and a year's subscription to Playboy by correctly answering a tricky math question (or it may have been a DeLorean filled with Playboy bunnies).
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* stainless steel