I consider myself a lover of all animals and that includes birds, but more and more I find myself annoyed with all the damn pigeons downtown. I know they’re simply part of urban life, but these flying rats are starting to get on my nerves.
My name is too hard to pronounce for a 2-year-old, so when my niece calls me she says, “Noo Noo.” This was an improvement from my previous family nickname, which was “Nana.” I suppose even at a young age I displayed the temperament of an Italian grandmother. Naturally the coolness of having such a nickname spread and caused jealousy within the family.
Through medication and therapy, my depression got better. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to visit Phoebe at my son’s place. I thought for sure she now hated me. I didn’t know how I would react to that, but after my son bought his house, I knew I would need to pay a visit. I wanted to see his new home and, in turn, it was time to see Phoebe.
I stared at the clock. It meant little to me, only that there wasn’t much time left. Dave was asleep. Or dead. I didn’t care which. It seemed immaterial. It was immaterial. So, I propped my elbows back up on the windowsill and watched the spaceships attempt to complete their circle overhead. It was dark now. I got up to use the bathroom.
Walking around this winter in the snow has been a bit tricky at times. With that nerve damage in my feet, I can’t feel the snow on the ground or on the sidewalks where I travel. It can be very scary, but during these winter months I’ve noticed something: There are people out there who have my back.
At the core, I long for both sides — the practical and the soulful connection. No, I don’t expect this all of the time. I am realistic as well. The mountain woman, sure, she saw other people, and I was a mess, but how she often brought out the joy in me. The driveway man, sure, it was a one night stand. I guess I could see it like that. But he shook me up, pushing me to write, and I’m still at it.
I don’t know for sure of Goodie’s sexual orientation — don’t know if he was gay, straight, bisexual or something else. What I do know is that 40 years ago, southern Indiana wasn’t exactly a hotbed of sexual freedom.
I wondered how long she had waited until she didn’t hear any more footsteps. I wondered why she was the one they had robbed. I wondered if it could have been as scary as she made it seem, and I also wondered why I didn’t care.
I was doing some Internet surfing the other day and came across a Web-based talk show called Wake Up and Get Real. It features Kelly Cutrone, a fashion publicist, and actress Justine Bateman. The show is kind of like The View with the lid off. I don’t know much about Cutrone. Apparently she’s also on a television show called The Hills, which I know nothing about, but I’m very familiar with Bateman. She played Mallory Keaton on Family Ties.
I’m up shit creek with a full complement of paddles, but only one arm with which to row: two days before deadline, three days removed from shoulder surgery, lost in a haze of Oxycodone while wearing a space-age sling and stockings sans garters for anti-embolism purposes.
Last month, the Living Out Loud column started its eighth year in CityBeat. That’s a little amazing to me, but maybe it shouldn’t be. Those who write here are observers of everyday life. If you’re paying attention to that life, you’re always going to find something to write about.
Sometimes I believe a person can't control his or her own thoughts. As Christmas approaches this year, my mind is on my father and our relationship. It's much too late to change anything now. My father is dead. I'm going to take you back to a Christmas that happened close to 20 years ago. This is what I remember. This was on a Christmas afternoon eight months after my divorce.
Mom called to tell me Uncle Roger had died. When someone says a person’s death is a blessing, they had people like my Uncle Roger in mind. He was diagnosed with Huntington’s chorea shortly after his retirement. It is a slowly progressive genetic disorder that affects coordination and leads to mental decline and dementia.
I consider myself a pretty decent guy. With people that I see and meet, I try to be nice and polite. I make the attempt to treat other people the way I want to be treated. But let me be honest here. Maybe I am a horrible person. When I pay attention to the people around me, so often it leads to questions I want to ask but don’t dare.
Most of the leaves are off the trees now. In walks that I take in my neighborhood, I watch neighbors rake up those leaves — a job I haven’t done in years. However, I remember the last time I did, and it always brings back memories of an old friend. In the early 1980s, my then wife and I decided we wanted a puppy.