Things That Reaffirm My Brief Existence

Duhks 3
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

A musical clinic like the one the Duhks put on at Schubas Thursday night. It was the perfect tonic to make the Bulls losing easier to swallow.

After the show I caught a train downtown and connected to the Orange Line for the trip home. But I closed my eyes once I settled in my seat and the next thing I knew, the train was pulling into Midway at 1 a.m. Luckily, the final train downtown was heading out twenty minutes later. Otherwise that would have been one expensive cab ride home.

Only in New York

Douchebag in Utero
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

When I read about David Blaine's plans to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, it reminded me that when I was in New York last spring he was immersed in a water-filled bubble in the middle of Lincoln Center.

I used this photo at the time for anyone who thinks hayseed behavior is limited to the flyover staes. Turns out its more an example of gapers block. We love a good accident, especially one we anticipate happening. Anyone remember what happened at the end of Blaine's stay in this bubble last year? He was supposed to hold his breath underwater for nine, ten minutes or something, and had to get dragged out of the bubble around seen minutes in, I think. I'm too lazy to look around YouTube for it, anyway. Besides, I'm trying to score an invitation to Joost and move past YouTube.

Not all Lefties are Dour People

A Moment of Levity
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

My bike cleats are still soaked from getting caught in the downpour yesterday. And, since I didn't have the foresight to pack rain gear yesterday in the event of rain, my waterlogged clothes left little to the imagination as they clung to me.

Is it too much to ask for a full night's sleep?

Making Nice With the Neighbors

Preaching to the Choir, originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

A couple houses down from where I live is this two-flat owned by a genial Italian man. He spent last summer rehabbing the home, and every spring he plants new blooms in the front planters, covering them when a frost sets in, watering them, nurturing them. He dotes on his grand-daughter, taught her how to ride a bike last summer. It's straight out of Rockwell.

His son, however, is a little bit of a hothead. I found out the hard way Saturday night.

It was an early night, and I was out walking Emmy just before midnight . She's sniffing around as the son and his wife are returning from a night out. He may have been drunk, may not have. It doesn't matter. What did matter is that he saw Emmy sniffing around and asked if I had a bag handy to pick up any mess she might leave. I allowed that I did, told him not to worry, and left it at that.

Or so I thought. we walked past the house toward the park, and he's still at the top of the steps. He asked again, "Do you have a bag?" I replied again that I did. He asked to see it.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Let's see your bag," he said.

Alright, now he pressed a button. I'm not some careless prick who just lets his dog shit wherever she wants. I understand the realities and responsibilities involved with owning a pet. So, seeing as how he wasn't going to drop it, I reached for my pocket, puled out the bag, and made sure he got a clear view.

"Satisfied?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

Now it was my turn to not let the issue drop. I said, "Good. Now go fuck yourself." And I walked off.

It was a dick move on my part, I'll freely admit. But I never expected him to shove his wife out of the way and chase after me screaming, "Come back here, you punk! Come back and say that again!" Emmy, sensing that I might be in trouble, turned and growled at him, stopping the son in his tracks. I called Emmy over to me and we crossed the street. The son, still needing to vent off some steam, picked up a traffic cone from another neighbor's lawn and hurled it at me. I looked at him like he was insane, reached for my cell, and readied to dial 911. The son started screaming, "Go ahead. I'll wait on the stoop."

Finally, I pocketed my phone and finally continued to the park. The son got in one last parting shot, saying "I see you come past my house again, I'll bash you in the head with a fucking bat!" So, after Emmy finished her business, I walked past the house again. I figured if I was going to get my ass kicked, I'd make the one kicking it work.

Yesterday morning, Emmy and I went for the morning walk, and the old man was out watering his plants. He motioned over to me. "Do you have a problem with my son?" He asked. I told him that I didn't, that what it was was an unfortunate choice of words that escalated a situation that should have been contained, and that I was sorry that he found himself in the uncomfortable position of acting as a mediator between my smartassed mouth and his hothead son.

"My daughter-in-law told me you said a bad thing to my son," he said. I didn't deny it, although I stopped short of actually telling him what I said. The old man then continued, "I tell my son you seem like a nice man, that you are quiet and respectful," in stark contrast to what happened the night before.

You can't expect to get along with all your neighbors. I remember a few years back when I had a neighbor who was another hothead, and a thug to boot; a short, stocky Mexican with heavy tattoos who loved calling everyone but black folks "nigger." His girlfriend owns a pet grooming boutique, and if her dogs were any indication of her handiwork, I'm glad Emmy only needs the occasional bath.

He got it into his head that I was a peeping tom, and the weekend they were moving out he got raging high and threatened to shoot my "fat ass." That night he made it rough, blasting B96 and WGCI at full blast. They were fully moved out by Sunday afternoon, but he kept coming back during the week to just let me know that he knew where to find me.

If I see the hothead soon, I'm going to make it a point to see if we can let bygones be bygones. It's nice to get along with the neighbors.

Spring Cleaning

Belly Up, originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

You'll notice that I finally switched to the new Blogger template. If you scope to the right, I also expanded and edited the blogrolls. Some things have changed, some have been removed, and there's plenty of interesting sites for you all.

eMusic Song of the Week


Although their relationship lasted a short time - from courtship to wedding to divorce, it was a little over two years - Betty Davis was the catalyst for Miles Davis' shift from post bop and cool jazz to fusion, from Armani and ties to velvet leisure suits and platform shoes, and from heroin to stronger heroin and hallucinogens. Betty introduced Miles to psychedelic rock and funk, and was the common denominator between Miles and Jimi Hendrix becoming friends (one of the reasons they divorced was that Miles suspected Betty of having an affair with Hendrix, an allegation she long denied). Still, she was an untamed force of nature that Miles correctly kept at arms length, lest he get fully sucked into her whirlwind.

After they divorced, Betty kept her ex-husband's surname and started a recording career of her own. Even for the sexually progressive '70s her frank lyrics and skimpy costumes were too much for the establishment of the time. She was as raunchy as early Prince, as calculating as Madonna in any of her incarnations, and at least ten years ahead of her time. Remastered versions of her first two records come out this Tuesday from Light in the Attic Records, and they're granite hard slabs of uncut funk. The albums are also available at eMusic or from the Light in the Attic website. After three poorly received records, her career fizzled. Today, Betty Davis is broke and living in squalor in Pittsburgh. This is the first time she'll receive proper royalties for her music on compact disc.

I'm sharing the lead track from her eponymous debut, recorded in 1973. For this record, she enlisted in the help of the rhythm section from Sly & the Family Stone, Larry Graham and Greg Errico (Errico produced the album), Santana's Michael Carabello, and both the Pointer Sisters and Sylvester helped out on backing vocals. "If I'm in Luck I Might Get Picked Up" is a five-minute gem of pure sleaze, Davis' lyrics bluntly conveying that she's looking to scratch that itch, as she rasps, "I'm wiggling my fanny, I'm raunchy dancing, I'm-a doing it, doing it. This is my night out."


Betty Davis - "If I'm in Luck I Might Get Picked Up"