A few weeks ago I struck out on a random road trip, heading for quiet roads and woods. After a few miles, I started thinking about James, a gentle man, a lanky cat who rode with me out West in 1996. Long story short, a friend mentioned that James needed a ride to California. Without even knowing him, I drove to Ithaca, N.Y., to pick him up. Strange, maybe, but I was fresh out of college and ready to experience anything shocking.  

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.”  

“Chicken! Fingers!” Jen exclaims loudly, her finger jabbing the menu, as she glares up at our server. This is America, we speak American? No, this is Moscow, 1998. We speak … whatever the hell we want, apparently. We’re in the center of the city in a café so accommodating that each menu item is printed in Russian, German and English.  

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.  

My annual January visit to Santa Fe to cavort with Sarah, my best friend from graduate school, carried more significance this year. Not just because the sepia-toned landscapes, crisp mountain air and crazy-blue-bright skies excite and relax me at the same time but also because, following a riotous autumn, I had some answers I needed to torture out of my own treacherous heart, and that traitor required nothing short of extraordinary rendition.  

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."  

When it comes to docs, I can be one hard-headed mofo. Back when I had a wisdom tooth yanked, after I had a bizarro reaction to the numbing meds that made me feel like I was on speed, the super-hot dentist handed me a detailed sheet of aftercare instructions. It was well written, but I promptly threw it in the dumpster.  

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.”  

Once there was a middle-aged woman who found herself single at fortysomething. She joined Single Parent organizations, met people before the dawn of the scanner and picture exchanges and survived the resultant trauma.  

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.   

Who are you? I heard you singing. Even today, 14 years later, the strange tone of his ghostly voice still streaks across my mind. But this isn’t your everyday love letter. Come with me. Seattle. 1996. Within wet backyards, life was reckless and wild.  

Walking up Sixth Street in downtown Cincinnati on a cloudy January afternoon, I saw her standing there on the sidewalk. I was rushing to the bus stop while she was talking to a man I didn't know. I wasn't sure if she had noticed me or not, but a text message on my cell phone later that night told me she did. Her message saying "I miss you" hurt a little, but the reality is I don't miss her. I'm the one who walked away from the friendship.