- From The Snitch, World Series: The Look-Alike Edition, comparing the visages of Vladimir Guerrero and Coolio, Mike Maddux and Frank Zappa, and Nolan Ryan and Mr. Potter (It's a Wonderful Life). But what about Tim Lincecum and Patti Smith?
- From the San Jose Blog, a list of places to visit for Halloween includes the World's Largest Haunted House, in San Jose (superlative unverified by KQED), the Pirates of Emerson, in Pleasanton, and Swank Farms, in Hollister, which appears to include some sort of scary cornfield maze. Or if you really want to experience something horrific down there, just get on the 101 in rush-hour traffic, in about an hour-and-a-half.
- From Oakland North: An interactive guide to the Oakland Mayor's race. Scroll your mouse over the image of each mayoral hopeful to get a little summary capsule of their candidacy. Ten candidates make for a lot of scrolling, so watch out for repetitive stress injuries.
- A Star is Shorn: From Berkeleywide, Chez Panisse loses its Michelin star. (That item is three days old, but I thought my headline was funny.) Here's a list of Bay Area restaurants that Michelin has endowed with one star or more.
- From MUNI Diaries, this poignant post called My Disability on MUNI. An extract:
Having a mobility impairment is hard anywhere. The hills and public transit system unique to San Francisco add further complication for those of us with broken bodies. I’m missing half of my right foot because of a motorcycle wreck. I have a skin graft, nerve damage, and phantom pains in tissue that don’t exist anymore.
I ride Muni every day. It’s important I get a seat–if I stand all the way from Taraval at Sunset to Van Ness, the rest of my day is ruined. 20 minutes of balancing on a mangled foot causes anywhere from 12 to 72 hours of pain. I use my cane every morning. When I can grab a seat, sitting in the handicapped seating is stressful.
I get on the train in the Sunset/Parkside district and ride it all the way in. My disability is largely invisible unless I’m barefoot or wearing a skirt that exposes my scar-covered right leg. I get dirty looks from older riders when I don’t get up to allow them a seat; I look like a perfectly healthy 22-year-old woman. I sit in the seat, repeat to myself “you’re handicapped and have a right to sit here” and stare at my foot-and-a-half while clutching my cane with white knuckles.
If someone asks, I explain that I am handicapped; that usually kills any discussion. Only once has someone decided to inflict themselves on me and made me “prove” my disability. After taking off my shoe and asking that my medical privacy be respected, the rider in question turned beet red and got off at the next stop.
Monday morning, I wasn’t able to get a seat. I spent the entire train ride being flung around by inertia. I fell into the person to my left three times. She yelled “Bitch” at me, then turned to look at me and saw my cane. She then muttered “oh, sorry” and moved 2 inches to the right.
I tipped into the able-bodied young man who was in the handicapped seating. He looked up at me, saw the cane in my hand, made eye contact with me and shrugged, then turned up his headphones and pulled his hood over his eyes.
Blog Beat: World Series Lookalikes (Tim Lincecum and Patti Smith?); Chez Panisse: A Star is Shorn
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