Although he’s done his best to keep it under wraps, it appears Cincinnati Police Chief Thomas Streicher Jr. had a change of heart about his No. 2 man in the department. Either that, or the complaint filed by the police union forced him to reconsider. Responding to a public records request by CityBeat, a police spokeswoman confirmed that Lt. Col. Richard Janke, the assistant chief with the most seniority, has been given his old job back as Investigations Bureau Commander.  

Fantasy football drafts. Tailgating. Running your mouth. There are many great aspects to this narrow season between face-melting heat and bone-chilling cold called we call Autumn. In many ways sports come to mind when mentally tallying the good things about fall. What Thanksgiving would be complete without you and your weakarmed relatives throwing wobbly passes back and forth in the yard?  

Late on July 1, I was folding clothes at the Laundromat when my mom called, and I complained that there were no stories that night. It was quiet. Too quiet. I sat on top of a folding table, my feet dangling, when Mom and I got on the topic of kids. I told Mom that I wanted to adopt a little boy. “If I had a girl, I might send her back,” I joked.  

People tell me they like my bus stories. Well, I've got a million of 'em, and you're about to get another one. On July 3, the afternoon before the holiday, I was going to meet a friend downtown for drinks. Busing it, I waited for the 64 on Werk Road, allowing myself plenty of time to get there by 3 p.m. We were meeting at the Public Library downtown, where I could kill a little time before meeting my buddy.   

Nobody understands life’s cyclical, circular nature any better than Tinsley Ellis. After learning guitar at an early age and then joining The Alleycats in the late ’70s and in 1982 forming The Heartfixers, Ellis eventually felt the pull of a solo career when he realized he wanted to be a Blues songwriter, not merely a Blues interpreter.  

One Friday afternoon, I got a call from the head of security and met with him in his office. He told me someone was vomiting in the ladies restroom, located near the accounting office, every afternoon. The person doing the vomiting wasn’t cleaning up her mess very well and he had it narrowed down to one of two women who worked in my department. He asked me if I had any suspicions as to which one it was...   

When the world at large was first introduced to Colin Hay in the early ’80s, the chameleon-eyed vocalist was extolling the virtues of Vegemite and mugging shamelessly.  

I’m generally what they call a “late adopter.” I still don’t own an iPod or Blackberry or have a Facebook page. I haven’t seen Slumdog Millionaire — or (I swear) a single episode of The Sopranos. Oh, we did eventually get a Wii, but not until long after every other student in my kids’ classes had them (according to my kids, anyway).   

Halfway through the storm, it occurred to us that there was nowhere we’d rather wait it out than Wildflower Café. Maybe it was the warm yellow light, the wind blowing through windows no one had bothered to shut or the clanging and clinking of glasses and silverware from the 20-some diners next to us, all nestled together in one room.  

Somehow, I felt like I needed to pay my last respects, so I went to Bob’s funeral last Wednesday in Price Hill. I can’t exactly remember how we met, probably through a friend of a friend, but it was in the early 1990s. Throughout the years, we always stayed in touch, but I would often ask myself why.