I've never considered myself much of a pack rat. Furniture, clothes, dishes, books — I've never had any trouble selling, throwing out or giving away things I don't want or no longer need. They're just material processions. Most of it isn’t important to me. There are some exceptions, however. If you would walk through my living space, you'd probably notice a few things that wouldn’t appear to have much material value at all. Some would call it just stuff that needs to be tossed out, but it's stuff I can't bring myself to part with.  

Last week I wrote about how The Most Miserable Man in Cincinnati has moved from downtown to my neck of the woods in Westwood. After our bus ride together, it got me thinking it’s time to move. Bus rides with Lee are something I don’t want to make a habit of. Thinking about moving got me thinking of Clifton.  

I’m not in the mood to deal with Lee. I haven’t seen him in almost a year. He lives in an apartment building downtown close to the CityBeat offices. I and other CityBeaters who smoke are more or less forced to listen to his ignorant, often racist remarks as we puff on our cigarettes outside on the sidewalk. I’ve often referred to him as “The most miserable man in Cincinnati.”  

When I was diagnosed with diabetes more than 10 years ago, I was also informed that I have neuropathy — nerve damage in my legs and feet, one of my side effects of being diabetic. I had some numbness in my feet, but I didn't have a difficult time getting around. Not any more.  

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.