Given my status as a college student, supporting myself by working three days a week at a part-time job, I don’t have the time or money to try many of the upscale dining spots Cincinnati has to offer. So consider this the fantasy meal for the working (er, barely working) man.
The first big stakes will be driven into the ground in May, but the real support structure for the summer of 2009’s attempt to propel the industry’s dreams of box-office glory just might be a scattered collection of projects that could bring niche audiences under the big tent.
To most, Interstate 74 is the highway that starts in Northside and works its way northwest through rural southeastern Indiana. It’s the best way to get to Indianapolis and cheap flights. From Indy, though, I-74 goes on to Davenport, Iowa, connecting to cross-country Interstate 80.
In his editorial Bad News and the Media (issue of March 18), John Fox wrote about a frustration my wife and I have experienced since moving to the city almost two years ago: a lack of positive news from local media. Where we used to live, watching the news was part of our morning ritual before work.
Call it a bad omen. As I traveled along I-71, I saw it, creeping out of the horizon in a butterscotch mass of grizzled fur: a cocker spaniel in its final resting place along the side of the highway. The family dog probably. Surrounded by medians, he must have fallen out of a car. That doesn’t happen in normal times, I thought, eyes wide. In normal times, you watch him just a little bit closer.
Bailouts, cash infusions and unemployment lines. These are scary words for scary times, and scary times call for … comfort food. We’ve just been through a season of belt-tightening and the new year looks like we might need to take it in another notch, but I had an epiphany over a plate of potato gnocchi and veal and ricotta meatballs.
There are few things that get me in the Christmas spirit like an old historic building or city block decked out in its holiday fanciest. There’s just something about the twinkling lights at dusk and miles of pine roping neatly adorning some fabulous architecture that ignites the sentimental holiday sap in me.
Proponents of the First Amendment and freedom of the press might want to think twice the next time they're considering popping into their corner United Dairy Farmers store for a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread.
When President Bush, one of Karl Rove's best friends, gave Rove the nickname of "turd blossom," it spoke volumes about both men. Just as the name implies, a turd blossom is a flower that grows out of a pile of shit. Specifically, it's a desert wildflower in west Texas that flourishes among cow droppings.
I don't believe I've written a restaurant review while I was still eating, but it's the perfect indicator of how fast our world moves. Going to It's Just Crepes (39 E. Court St., 513-63-CREPE) downtown was a big reminder of that: This place really caters to our busyness.