Two years ago I was renting a shitty, overpriced, one-bedroom apartment with a hole in the ceiling in the Clifton Heights area. Ever since I had moved out of the dorms, I had been weary of the neighborhood. I heard about my friends getting in fights for no reason while walking home and people getting their cars broken into. I never thought people could be so cruel to one another. I was naive.  

In the mail and on the Internet, the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) is all over my ass. This started about six years ago when they learned that I had turned 50. Since then, their communication has been constant. The AARP wants me to be a member.  

When it comes to sex and friendship, I think it’s better not to mix the two. It’s not a good idea to start out as friends with someone and then decide you want to sleep with them. If you want sex, date someone or just have sex with someone else for the sake of having sex. Don’t let it get in the way of real friendships.  

There is a responsibility and a joy that comes with living in a place that has a modicum of freedom. At a time in which lines are being drawn in the sand and decades-old regimes are being overturned in pursuit of it, we should perhaps show our solidarity by celebrating ours. This attempt begins in an unfortunate manner years ago: One afternoon I awoke to find an unsealed package addressed to myself sitting on the stoop.  

I consider myself a lover of all animals and that includes birds, but more and more I find myself annoyed with all the damn pigeons downtown. I know they’re simply part of urban life, but these flying rats are starting to get on my nerves.  

My name is too hard to pronounce for a 2-year-old, so when my niece calls me she says, “Noo Noo.” This was an improvement from my previous family nickname, which was “Nana.” I suppose even at a young age I displayed the temperament of an Italian grandmother. Naturally the coolness of having such a nickname spread and caused jealousy within the family.  

Through medication and therapy, my depression got better. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to visit Phoebe at my son’s place. I thought for sure she now hated me. I didn’t know how I would react to that, but after my son bought his house, I knew I would need to pay a visit. I wanted to see his new home and, in turn, it was time to see Phoebe.  

I stared at the clock. It meant little to me, only that there wasn’t much time left. Dave was asleep. Or dead. I didn’t care which. It seemed immaterial. It was immaterial. So, I propped my elbows back up on the windowsill and watched the spaceships attempt to complete their circle overhead. It was dark now. I got up to use the bathroom.  

Walking around this winter in the snow has been a bit tricky at times. With that nerve damage in my feet, I can’t feel the snow on the ground or on the sidewalks where I travel. It can be very scary, but during these winter months I’ve noticed something: There are people out there who have my back.  

At the core, I long for both sides — the practical and the soulful connection. No, I don’t expect this all of the time. I am realistic as well. The mountain woman, sure, she saw other people, and I was a mess, but how she often brought out the joy in me. The driveway man, sure, it was a one night stand. I guess I could see it like that. But he shook me up, pushing me to write, and I’m still at it.  

I don’t know for sure of Goodie’s sexual orientation — don’t know if he was gay, straight, bisexual or something else. What I do know is that 40 years ago, southern Indiana wasn’t exactly a hotbed of sexual freedom.  

I wondered how long she had waited until she didn’t hear any more footsteps. I wondered why she was the one they had robbed. I wondered if it could have been as scary as she made it seem, and I also wondered why I didn’t care.  

I was doing some Internet surfing the other day and came across a Web-based talk show called Wake Up and Get Real. It features Kelly Cutrone, a fashion publicist, and actress Justine Bateman. The show is kind of like The View with the lid off. I don’t know much about Cutrone. Apparently she’s also on a television show called The Hills, which I know nothing about, but I’m very familiar with Bateman. She played Mallory Keaton on Family Ties.  

I’m up shit creek with a full complement of paddles, but only one arm with which to row: two days before deadline, three days removed from shoulder surgery, lost in a haze of Oxycodone while wearing a space-age sling and stockings sans garters for anti-embolism purposes.  

Last month, the Living Out Loud column started its eighth year in CityBeat. That’s a little amazing to me, but maybe it shouldn’t be. Those who write here are observers of everyday life. If you’re paying attention to that life, you’re always going to find something to write about.