Zogby is polling Obama over Clinton in California and elsewhere, contrasting with other pollsters.

With great dismay I read today of the death of Sheldon Brown, a cycling icon whose humor, encyclopedic knowledge and grace pervaded every bit of his website. He was as much an influence of my decision to cycle across Japan, ride brakeless, and roll steel over aluminum as anyone I’ve [never] met. I only wish I could have paid a visit to Boston to correct that.

Jose Gonzales or Justice?

This morning’s ride up the Headlands and subsequent burning forearms and calves was a simple reminder why endorphin is my drug of choice. I look forward to ride two.

From the appallingly-fucked-up dept: Student sentenced to death for using the internet. There’s also a petition to free Pervez Kambaksh.

(via The Independent)

One feeling that was absolutely reinforced with blazing clarity by traveling was how much I actually love living in San Francisco. Here are my friends, topography, water and within 5 hours of [nearly] every climate. I’ve tried to take advantage of that in the three days I’ve been back, enjoying the Pacific coast via motorcycle as well as the Sierra Nevada via snowboard—with a dozen friends. Moments include excellent baggage claim, eating turns and Hoth stormtrooper action in Kirkwood.

Also, good food. Oi. Tip hat to Sue, Vadan, Lex and whoever created Hyphy.

Oh, so good. Spontaneous Tahoe trip with Xispo, Sue, John, Beau, Case, Whitaker, Erin, Vadan, Stacey, Clive and Lex. Snow + friends + Zwack = formula for success.

Er, now that Edwards is gone, and the Republican race is less murky, the frontrunners are playing nice—aiming their respective barbs at the GOP instead of each other. But really, what this campaign season needs is more Prop Joe.

Edit: The Wikipedia entry for Proposition Joe has a spoiler in the first paragraph. Lame. Lame. Lame.

Two things have been smacking me over the head on my visit to Her Majesty’s shores. One: the sheer comprehensiveness—or at least perception thereof—of surveillance via CCTV cameras. Two: the overwhelmingly common affliction of paternalistic language in advertising. How you’re allowed or permitted to do this, if you pay your taxes or tariff, top-up or submit to thus-and-so. It’s Orwellian and fucking scary, and I can’t help but think of the metaphor of the boiling frog.

Yesterday marked the 50th anniversary of the Lego brick. This brings a warm feeling of whimsy and satisfaction, as Lego was such an integral part of my childhood. Many hours were spent constructing and deconstructing, fashioning tiny simulations of complex machines, buildings and living things.

Its core activity can be described as quantizing reality into discrete plastic pieces—a tidy analogue to the digital medium, substituting pixels and vectors for bricks. Unlike pixels, and in the absence of unlimited funding for new bricks, it is also a microcosm of reality: resources are limited. Scarcity is the mother of invention, and to create something new, something must first be destroyed.

Where other toys were quickly forgotten (oh how I wish I’d saved those first-edition Star Wars figurines from the early 80s), and a discovery of computers, software and writing games—I’d never abandon completely the little plastic atoms, occasionally pulling out the bags of bricks, dusting them off and tinkering again.