On most mornings while at the bus stop downtown to catch a Tank Bus over to Kentucky, I see this guy. Before he gets on the bus, with his hands, he makes the sign of the cross. I'm smart enough to know this is a Catholic ritual. That's all I know. One morning, I got curious about what he was doing. I asked him why he went through this ritual.  

I must have been on some kind of list of people to notify when she died. I didn’t know the person who delivered the sad news. A few days later, on a Wednesday morning, I took a bus up to that funeral home on Glenway Avenue where she would be laid out. I wanted to show my last respects.  

I’m the kind of guy who usually comes around to modern technology sooner or later, but most of the time more later than sooner. I resisted e-mail for years, wasn’t all that interested in the Internet and was one of the last people on the planet to get a cell phone — still I came around to all of it. Thing is, modern technology doesn’t stay modern forever.  

Weeks after this chance encounter, I'm still shaken by it. Sometimes memories of people from my past don't need to be updated with their current reality. On Race Street downtown some weeks ago, I was standing at an ATM taking $40 out of my checking account. I heard a voice I vaguely recognized.  

Standing at the bus stop at Dixie Highway and Commonwealth in Erlanger to get back to Cincinnati was becoming torturous. It was mid-afternoon, hot as hell and the bus was late. When it finally arrived, it was crowded. In fact, standing room only. When I put my change in the slot, the bus driver noticed my walking cane.  

There's this gas station at the corner of Werk Road and Glenmore Avenue I walk up to sometimes to purchase my cigarettes. I told the girl behind the counter what brand I wanted, and she pointed to the rack behind her. "This one?" she asked. "No," I said. "Go to your left." She went to her right instead. "No, to your left, the other way."  

Outside of the words I'd prepared, I remember very little of what I said on stage at York Street Cafe in Newport last month. I do remember, after realizing I was totally screwed, saying, "I'm totally screwed," but that's about it. I thought I more or less knew what I was getting into that night. I thought I was prepared. I can be pretty stupid at times.  

I have a few stories I'd like to tell about some of these friends of mine. There's the man in the minivan, the treasure seeker, the bartender, the closeted lesbian, the chronic dater, the asshole and even an volunteer for Stop AIDS. Despite their quirks, I think I'll keep this bunch.  

"I mean, I have to buy all my gas at BP now." "What?" I said. "Yeah, it's costing them a fortune to clean that mess up," Andrea says. "I gotta do my part to help them out." My mouth is hanging open now, but the good news is that our food has finally arrived.  

My daughter had a birthday last week and my son last month. With both firmly now in their twenties and lives of their own, I don't see them together that much anymore. That's why I like it when those birthdays roll around. It means we'll do dinner somewhere. It means we'll be together.