Back in 1993 Jered told me to look for the joy in life every day. He said life is too short, so try and make each day count. He said if changes in my life weren't working out, then find other ones that would. He said he'd be there to help me find the joy. Years later, I sometimes wonder if he knew this encouragement, especially on that Christmas at the airport, would get me through.
I couldn't believe Andrea was putting more salt on her French fries. We were having lunch together at the Frisch's on Glenway Avenue. She got the Big Boy platter but paid more money and substituted onion rings for the cole slaw. I had the salad bar that features, of course, iceberg lettuce.
I think that bartenders are like therapists for some people. You say things you wouldn't normally tell anybody else. That was my case with Laura. Over the three plus years I've known her she's seen just about every side of me. She listened to my ramblings and babblings beyond when she probably could stand it.
When taking walks in my neighborhood in Westwood, I see political signs for U.S. Rep. Steve Chabot all over the place.
I’m currently living in what’s considered a Republican and conservative community, but apparently we have a few Democrats here too. It does my heart good to see Steve Driehaus signs scattered here and there.
I like the Driehaus television commercials. He often ends his TV.ads by saying, “Steve Chabot’s not a bad guy. He’s just been in Washington too long.”
I'm sitting at the bar in Buddakhan restaurant at 713 Vine St. downtown. It's late Thursday afternoon, and I'm having my usual vodka and tonic. I'm starting to feel more relaxed, less grumpy. Maybe the surroundings have something to do with my improving mood.
I moved to Westwood this past spring, and I like it just fine. That feeling didn't change on Sept. 14, when the electric power went off. As of this writing, it's still off. I guess we have Hurricane Ike to thank.
My head’s killing me this morning. I have a headache because I’m thinking too much about same-sex marriages and all the judgmental crap that goes with it. I have Gary and William, my gay friends — indirectly — to thank for the Tylenol I’m taking. I met them in the fall of 1994.
Herbert Gold is a Buckeye, born and raised in the Cleveland area, but he's lived in California for many years and is one of the last of the San Francisco beatniks. This memoir on his life is smart, crisp and feisty. Perhaps he's a bit all over the place, but that's part of the fun.