My Facebook status on Jan. 8: "I drove home calmly and safely, keeping the RPMs low as I navigated the steep hills. I stepped into enormous silence, so brilliantly alone, with the snow moving, but seeming so still all around me. I opened my mouth to taste and to let out a deep laugh. A perfect moment: I am grateful for this solitude."

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.
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It was a time when politics were upside down, when elites were rarely mentioned and a backlash had already occurred when Richard Nixon was elected president in 1968. It was a time when college campuses were battlegrounds, when the angriest voices were found there and on urban streets and had faces and names.
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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.

Last year at this time I was madly in love with a former hippie who still liked Phish, and I made fun of his band obsession every chance I got. Damn, we'd kid and laugh. Inside jokes, 'Flight of the Conchords.' Tonight, I sit in a coffee shop alone. Unlike the movies, real love can be tricky.
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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
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At the end of October, when we were getting ready to move our clocks back an hour, I vented about what I go through during this time of year — especially the holidays. Forgive me, but I have a few more things to work through. I hope you don’t mind playing my therapist.
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One highlight of living with rheumatoid arthritis is watching a syringe puncture my flesh to extract blood or inject medication. No, I’m not a masochist, but those thrilling moments have increased my threshold for physical pain.

My friend and former co-worker Jim has invited me back to his hometown of Apollo, Pa., for Thanksgiving many times in the past, but I’ve always declined. Understand, I’m a smoker and none of his family smokes — but this year I decided, what the hell, I’ll go.

Last year, I went to the Cincinnati Entertainment Awards with a friend I'll call Jimmy. This year, on the night of the same event, I went to his funeral. His death was traumatic and shockingly tragic to many. I feel for his family. I feel for his roommate and best friend, a sweet, pale woman who picked out the clothes he wore at rest in the open casket.