I think of my friends John, Amber and Anna. I also think of that man who wanted bus fare at the bus stop, the guy who tried to bully me for cigarette money and the woman who wanted to buy milk for her babies. Trying to put myself in all of their shoes, trying to understand why some people can find jobs even in bad times while others have to ask or beg for money and live off the streets, I’m having a difficult time wrapping my head around it all.  

I was watching some TV news channel or the other last week, and they were talking about what desperate straits were in as far as unemployment. Theres no question the shit has hit the fan and many people are in a dire position that no one could have contemplated only a few months ago.  

I haven’t been using my ATM card lately to withdraw money from my checking account. With this financial crisis, I’m afraid that one of these days the receipt coming out of the machine is going to read, “Sorry, you’re a day late. We had to spend your money yesterday to pay our utility bill.”   

It was damp and cold and my coat was thin, so I hurriedly scurried through Fountain Square. But when I saw the horse and carriage, I halted. My ears perked up. I'd never been on a carriage ride. Whenever I saw those horses, I thought about how they braved the Cincinnati streets, the concrete fields, no matter the season. I thought about leather harnesses rubbing against their coats. And the hard pavement, the steel bits. I thought about hooves cracking.   

As I started to unpack the box, my stomach was in knots. I knew what was inside, and I didn't want it. It occurred to me to simply throw the box and its contents in the trash. When a friend said he was going to ship the mandolin to me, I said, "Please don't."   

I have hearing loss. My right ear serves only for purposes of ornamentation. In 2005 I went into the Atlantic Ocean and came out with only my left ear working. I'm not alone in this condition. A colleague, a very able reporter in town, likewise went into the Atlantic off the coast of Florida and lost the use of his right ear.  

When my new friend Julie called me Wednesday night to see if we were still on for lunch the next afternoon, I wasn't sure. This was the week of the big snow, then ice, then more snow. I hadn't been out of my living space in days. I wasn't sure if I could walk on the stuff.  

On a recent Sunday night episode of 'Music from the Hills of Home,' the radio show I host with Wayne Clyburn on WNKU (89.7 FM), a listener brought up an interesting and timely question: 'How do you season an iron skillet?'  

I'll be meeting my son for lunch next week, and my daughter wants me to see her new place on Sunday. They never seem interested in leaving Cincinnati. I always am. But while I've threatened to leave many times, so far I've stayed right here. I've moved around a lot, but I always stay local. My road doesn't really go anywhere else.   

The Greater Cincinnati Coalition for the Homeless, where I work, likes to say it's an advocacy organization, distinguishing itself from agencies that provide direct service to clients. The distinction is valid, except for the fact that the Homeless Coalition offers some very important services: a place for homeless people to receive mail, to use a telephone, to have a cup of coffee or a drink of cold water. A place for homeless people to sit down for a few minutes in air conditioning or heat.   

When she walked into Buddakhan bar and restaurant downtown on New Year’s Eve afternoon, I wasn’t paying attention. Sitting at the far end of the bar, I was busy sulking while drinking a vodka and cranberry. I was thinking of my therapist, who tells me I shouldn’t let other people’s negative energy or behavior affect my mood.  

I didn't comprehend a word. 'What did you say?' I asked, except the words that came out of my mouth were completely slurred. What I actually said was, 'Laht di thoo thay?' I thought to myself, 'That's weird, I sound just like Dick Clark.' Then it hit me: 'Holy shit, I'm having a stroke!'  

For better or for worse, I usually end up writing most of the columns in this Living Out Loud space — and that was no different in 2008. Sometimes I think I’ll run out of things to write about, but something always happens. That something is life. If you’re living with your eyes open — or out loud — the well never really runs dry.  

Ramona was driving the 64 Metro bus when I first moved to Westwood in the spring. I have this habit of sitting in the front seat right next to the driver. I don't ever expect the drivers to talk to me, but Ramona did. At first it was polite talk about the weather and traffic and such, but after a while our conversations became more personal. Often times when I'd get on the bus I'd be the only person riding. Those were the days I liked the most. It was like having my own personal taxi driver.  

Bitter cold. The air seemed to be made of sharp, solid metal, slicing through pants and shirtsleeves with tiny saw-like teeth that chewed at the skin. Hello goosebumps. Dressed in layers, I headed to Sharonville to teach my regular noon yoga class.