Saturday was my lucky day. Kroger had chicken liver on sale. Lightly breaded and packaged in a plastic container, it cost me less than a buck for 24 chicken livers. As I put the container in my cart, I told myself chicken liver is good for me. Whether it is or not, I haven’t bothered to check.
Donald (or that's what I’m going to call him here) is an older guy and a Vietnam War vet. To his way of thinking, we should have just blown that country up and started it over. "Death's a part of life," he said as I was speaking with bartender Laura about a sick mutual friend. "You just die — no fun, but you just do it."
Believe me, I never thought I’d be writing a column about divorced parents Jon and Kate Gosselin, but strange things do happen. I’ve just about had enough of these two idiots. There isn’t a week — and sometimes not even a day — that goes by that I don’t read something about Jon and Kate Gosselin.
On Feb. 18, I wasn’t standing at a bus stop on Queen City Avenue. I was standing in a driveway that had been cleared of snow. Waving my arms like hell, I was hoping the bus driver would take notice of me. The bus stopped. When I got on, I thanked the driver. “Hey, I don’t expect my passengers to wait at bus stops in conditions like this,” he said. “People wave me down and I stop for them, don’t want anybody to get hurt trying to get on a bus.”
In Jami Attenberg’s second novel, Catherine Madison is in her truck heading to Las Vegas. She’s leaving her small Nebraska town, her husband and her dysfunctional family. What she’s keeping is a suitcase full of money. From the start, we realize Catherine is running from something. She’s paying for motel and hotel rooms in cash and signs her maiden name in an attempt to cover her tracks.
I can’t say I know this person. She’s really just an acquaintance I run into every now and then. but apparently she feels like she knows me well enough — or more likely had enough drinks in her — to send me some text messages.
Walking up Sixth Street in downtown Cincinnati on a cloudy January afternoon, I saw her standing there on the sidewalk. I was rushing to the bus stop while she was talking to a man I didn't know. I wasn't sure if she had noticed me or not, but a text message on my cell phone later that night told me she did. Her message saying "I miss you" hurt a little, but the reality is I don't miss her. I'm the one who walked away from the friendship.
Jan. 6: The first major snowfall of the winter season is predicted for tomorrow, and I'm ready. I tell myself I live in the Midwest because I like the change of the seasons and snow can be beautiful. When the snow comes, I'll build a snowman. I always liked doing that when I was a kid. Jan. 8: Alright, it can stop now.
Springfield, Ohio, is on my mind, and I don't know where Erin is. In the fall of 1993, I moved to Springfield. This was a location transfer from my employer, and in my head I thought it was going to work out fine. I was separating from my wife and looked at Springfield as a fresh start. Erin helped me start again.
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