Last year at this time I was madly in love with a former hippie who still liked Phish, and I made fun of his band obsession every chance I got. Damn, we'd kid and laugh. Inside jokes, 'Flight of the Conchords.' Tonight, I sit in a coffee shop alone. Unlike the movies, real love can be tricky.
Hell, it seems like only 52 weeks ago I was writing “Living It in 2008” for this column. Time really does fly when you’re having fun. Just like in 2008, you’ve gotten my always excellent, often brilliant columns just about every other week in 2009 while the rest of the time I’ve recruited (or begged) other writers to fill in this space
At the end of October, when we were getting ready to move our clocks back an hour, I vented about what I go through during this time of year — especially the holidays. Forgive me, but I have a few more things to work through. I hope you don’t mind playing my therapist.
One highlight of living with rheumatoid arthritis is watching a syringe puncture my flesh to extract blood or inject medication. No, I’m not a masochist, but those thrilling moments have increased my threshold for physical pain.
My friend and former co-worker Jim has invited me back to his hometown of Apollo, Pa., for Thanksgiving many times in the past, but I’ve always declined. Understand, I’m a smoker and none of his family smokes — but this year I decided, what the hell, I’ll go.
Last year, I went to the Cincinnati Entertainment Awards with a friend I'll call Jimmy. This year, on the night of the same event, I went to his funeral. His death was traumatic and shockingly tragic to many. I feel for his family. I feel for his roommate and best friend, a sweet, pale woman who picked out the clothes he wore at rest in the open casket.
If I were a betting man, I'd bet the approval of Issue 3 on Nov. 3 points Cincinnati in a new direction. I'd bet that a gambling casino at Broadway Commons makes this city a bit more progressive. And I'd bet Citizens for Community Values will try to keep us from using the casino.
I’m Lucy Plum’s boyfriend. Some weeks ago, you got to read her story in this space about being unemployed. It’s a difficult, if not devastating, situation to be in. I was there for almost two years, and she put up with me, and I’ve been trying my best to put up with her. Neither side is a bed of roses. Sometimes it’s a bunch of thorns.
This past spring, I had a book come out with the same title as this column. This was mainly because a lot of the material in the book first appeared here. This sparked some questions at book signings and in interviews as to how long this column has been around.
My car had been making a monster-like noise for weeks. I put on my Super Mechanic Woman Thinking Cap, so I knew it was steering or brakes, and I tried to ignore it, but I was getting worried. Finally, this past Saturday noise was too loud to cover up by cranking up the stereo. Of course, I picked a Saturday to freak out, and my normal garage wasn't open. So I headed to the closest place, a tiny tire joint I'd never even noticed before: Twilight Zone Tire.
I should probably make a note of it somewhere. This Sunday, we turn our clocks back an hour — you know, “spring forward, fall back.” I usually never remember to do it until days later while constantly being confused as to what time it really is.
School administrators herded us young boys into a room to listen to two men tell us we should consider enlisting. The images of national guardsmen stacking sandbags to battle against hurricanes and the words “Earn money for college” appealed to me.
At a convenient store on Main Street a few weeks ago, a guy was trying to buy a pack of cigarettes with some coin dollars. He had six of them. The cashier was giving him a hard time about it. The cashier told him he needed real dollars, not the “fake” coins he was offering. Frustrated, the customer threw down the coins, reached into his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill and a one.
Getting the news: 4:40 p.m. My manager stops by and says HR would like to see me. No real panic (yet), just curious. Maybe a promotion? As I sit down, a bad feeling comes over me. I hear the word "termination." I visibly shake. Fireworks go off in my head.
On that Friday afternoon, when the guy awkwardly climbed over the roped-off section to get to the outside tables in front of Knock Back Nat's on Seventh Street, I had a feeling we were in for trouble. Just a few minutes earlier, I had to step around the same guy at the Garfield Market just around the corner on Vine Street.