I Love a Scoop

And you can read it right here.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

The cover story to Wednesday's Sun-Times food section is all mine and is about Growing Home Inc's Wood Street Urban Farm in Englewood. The garden also serves as a job training program. It was easily the most fulfilling assignment I've had the opportunity to write for the Bright One. Check it out.

"I Pinned Him! I Pinned the Army Man!!"

More "Arrested Development" goodness via Hulu. All three seasons of "Arrested" are now online:

A Hearty Breakfast

Creepy Elf
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

>a href="http://www.melicafe.com/">Meli Café and Juice Bar makes quite possibly the best skillets in Greektown. All that's missing is the middle-aged career waitress to nonchalantly drop it on the table in front of me while ashing her unfiltered Pall Mall into it and I would have felt at home.

Next week I lead people to Polo for the Eggs Benedicto XVI. That has to be seen to be believed.

"You Are Campaigning As If Barack Obama Were the Democrat and You Were the Republican"

Once again, Olbermann nails it:

Thirty Miles Down

Riding The Verrazano Bridge
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

Christ on a stick, are my legs like rubber right now. The bike, fresh out of the shop, purrs when I get it up to speed. And boy, did I get it up to speed tis morning.

I covered the fifteen miles from my apartment to the law office in Evanston in just over an hour (65 minutes, to be exact). Part of it was fear of running late for work (I left the house at 7:45 a.m. and just barreled down the street). I made it into the office in time to change clothes, wash up, make coffee, and get to work.

The return trip? Not so good. Left Evanston at 5:10 p.m. and got to Bridgeport at 6:30. I'd like to blame the west wind whipping, but the fact is I hit the wall around Wrigley Field and couldn't get over it until I reached North and Clybourn. Then, at Halsted and 18th I cramped up something fierce, the last twelve blocks were a fight. Emmy was very understandable when I only walked her long enough to do her business.

My legs are like rubber now, but I'll be doing the same thing tomorrow. I figure that as I build up strength and endurance again I should be able to shave off twenty minutes from each leg, easily. A 20 MPH clip is not out of the question, even on my Schwinn. If I had the Raleigh up and running, it becomes moot. But I always lean toward the Schwinn; it's been there through thick and thin. From the AIDS Ride through my first Bike New York, it's been the go-to bike.

"The Last Thing This Country Needs is That Woman Near a Phone"

Larry David on the "3 a.m." ad. Read back-to-back with Evan Handler's take on the Clinton's dirty pool leading up to and after Texas and Ohio.

Of Gutter Twins, Cock Rings on Strings, Sage Advice from Best Friends,

DSCI0117
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

First, I can't wait to read Tankboy's review of the Gutter Twins show Friday night at Metro. My Cliff's Notes on the show? The lower half of my body became a simmering cauldron of hormones ready to explode.

Met up with another old HotHouse friend Friday night at Raw Bar, who was meeting a girlfriend for drinks. 'Course, once I drop in and order a beer, my dumb ass greets them by throwing the Shocker. It turns out the friend used to work at Raw Bar years ago; we might have even run into each other. And yes, it was run by gangsters back then, too. Only they were Persian, not Russian. But both have the same female bartender archetype: pneumatic, deep tan, and "blonde."

Anyway, after leaving Metro I had to top the serious ours of Maker's Mark those bartenders were serving. So it was on to the Wrigley Field Taco Bell. All I can say is that I hope the staff there is getting hazardous duty pay for manning the Fifth Circle of Hell on a weekend.

The following morning I got a call from Sue at 9, telling me the memorial service for her friend Earl started at 11. I cleaned up the best I could and met her downstairs. The service was in Gurnee, which meant that I was driving, so the mocha came in handy.

At the service there was a woman who was walking around with a necklace that looked like a cock ring knotted on a shoelace. And it might have been, for all we know. Haven't you ever convinced someone to wear something that wasn't its original intention?

The service was amazing, with lots of funny stories about Earl from friends and family. Then we drove to Kenosha for food and drinks at Earl's last job. Four words: Bell's Amber on draft.

The ride home was spent with the two of us just talking, as we do. Sue and I are like siblings, and her advice is usually spot on. So I finally laid out my anxiety of dating again to her. You know, just stupid kid shit like refreshing the e-mail program to see if a message came through, or waiting until a week or so to place a call.. And it felt like a relief when I was reminded that that can be normal, but that doing something like getting blitzed at Metro the night before was a good thing to remind me to have fun in the meantime. Not that I wanted to dump on her, but she usually knows what to say and the two of us don't bullshit each other. Then we ripped on cock ring lady some more.

I dropped Sue off with her boyfriend and drove her car back home. Heading south on Milwaukee, I stopped behind a PT Cruiser with vanity plates. Strike one on the plates. Strike two: the plates described the driver's career. Which is all well, but if you're an editor, you might want to get a vanity plate that spells the word correctly. Otherwise, when I see a plate that reads "EDITER" I have to question just how solid of an editor you are. At the very least, it shows a lack of objectivity.

I just find vanity plates to be, well, vain. When I bought my first car while in school in Florida I applied for vanity plates that read "SMEGMA" as a joke. I almost got 'em, until someone at the Florida DMV picked up a dictionary and decided that driving around in a Mazda 323 with license plates embossed with the medical term for dick cheese might not go over in the Bible Belt.

Random Phone Calls

Friend: Do you know when in March (mutual friend's) birthday is?
Me: No. I thought it was around this time.
Friend: Could you call (mutual friend's husband) and find out?
Me: Okay

(place call, leave message)

Me: Alright, I left a message. Second one this week I left for him.
Friend: what's going on with those two?
Me: I don't know. Maybe we should just surprise (mutual friend) with a cake that reads "Happy Birthday - we think is around this time of year - to you."
Friend: "PS: Also, how old are you? Really?"

The Guys Night Out: Sola

Monday night. Sola. Badass truffle parmesan fries. Brady's back from China. Kicked back and just enjoyed the conversation. Brian gifts me with a Mrs. Miller cd I couldn't sit through listening this evening.

Line of the night: "I'd like my first communication with her to be sort of informal. something like, 'So how've you been since I ruined your life?'"

"You Can't Roll a Doobie On An iPod"

Low Hanging
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

Shelby Lynne, who's new record Just a Little Lovin' is a killer tribute to Dusty Springfield, gives her two cents to her love of vinyl on Huffington Post:

"Now, I have an iPod and I admit they are genius especially for travel and convenience. But they aren't really any fun. I don't call up my friends and say 'Hey why don't y'all come over and bring your computers and let's have a party'? Hell no! I say bring pot, wine and vinyl. That's sexy."

Scenes From The Weekend

Liza: Finger Lickin' Good
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

So I went with a few others to a party Friday night where the host was rolling these obscenely fat joints. I mentioned to Peg more than once that they looked like the types of joints white dudes roll when they hit Jamaica for the first time. I swear they were as thick as lipstick tubes or giant pens. Yesterday, as the fog lifted from my head, I started to realize that those things looked like the kind of joints you see in anti-drug videos. Either the kind of joints straight people imagine stoners smoke, or the ones you see in stoner comedies. But these were real and packed tight with sweet leaf.

They were also so thick - and so many of them being rolled - that I'm fairly certain that everyone who didn't puff still received a pretty sizable contact high. More than once I had to retreat to the back porch, where we met this woman in the picture.

Her name was Liza and when I was formally introduced to her she was regaling Voit with stories of how she used to party with Prince and tearing into a tub of cream puffs that were on the porch ('cause you need a lot of munchies when you're rolling obscenely fat joints). The host of the party hired a band to play in his living room, and Liza would interject her vocals during the sets. I'm not certain what she sang, but I was guessing it was improvised, and it did sound good.

Recovered

Man, have the past three days been a killer. We're long past the point where four hours of sleep in two nights was enough to function. But they've been worth it.

Someone e-mailed me this week asking if the title photo on this here site was from Stan's Drive-In on Archer. It indeed is, thanks to a little bit of photoshop magic it makes a nice header, don't ya think?

Well, gotta run. I have to go pay the kid walking Emmy and get to my haircut appointment at Nancy's.