Saturday, September 4 at 2:00 PM Ink Tank will be at the Contemporary Art Center where members of the Writing Salon, Poetry Salon, and Drop Inn Center  will be reading.

*I opened my eyes and immediately felt a trickle down my side. I peeled the nightgown from my chest and realized how hard it had gotten to breathe.  The half-rolled sleeping bag was so slick with sweat I had to roll off it to get to my knees. 

I stopped. I listened. The only sound heard through the drywall was the ticking clock hanging on the wall above the console in the living room.  Slowly the closet door rollers bumbled back and I crawled out to the welcoming invite of the air conditioning. 

Peeling away more of my nightgown, I made my fingers like a comb and used them to remove my wet matted hair from my face.  I pulled up the gown’s edge and peeled away the elastic of my panties to let my skin breathe.  

This had been a bad one.  My room was nearly pitch-black but I could still make out the door handle.  I bit my lip hard and slowly turned the knob gently cracking the door open.  Mom was snoring in her bedroom finally having cried herself to sleep.  I hated that she always slept with her door open.  I stood up, slid out the cracked door, and padded my way across the hall to the bathroom.  I would flush when I was done cleaning up the kitchen because I knew it would wake mom up; but she would just assume I had gotten up to go to the bathroom. 

The kitchen bathed in the moonlight, thankfully making it easy to locate the trashcan beneath the kitchen sink and avoid the broken dishes strewn about the floor.  I again tugged very carefully to unhitch the latch without making noise and lifted the can from its post.  Surveying the minefield, I decided the best plan of attack was to begin at the sink and make my way toward the hutch on the other side; I would check under the table last.  

When you pick up broken shards, you must be careful to use your index finger and your thumb to avoid the edges and get in the middle of the piece.  You cannot just throw them into the trashcan; our cans were always empty and a broken dish piece makes a “plunk” sound the same as a stone when hitting deep water.  The pieces have to be placed in the can. 

I moved around the small kitchen slowly, the barely padded carpet leaving red marks on my knees while trying to move my nightgown.  Gather gown in hand, crawl two steps, drop nightgown, move can. Use other hand for prop.  Pick up piece, hold breath place in can.  

I made it all the way to the hutch when the florescent blinded me overhead.  “What are you doing?” I froze.  How did she wake up? I had been quieter tonight than ever.  I looked up into her war torn face and frantically searched my 8-year-old brain for the right words to string together.  “Go back to bed.” “Uh….” My eyes darted to the black plastic bin.  I had no idea what to do with the trash can.  She sternly grabbed it.  I leapt from my kneeled position and dashed from the room halting in front of my bedroom door.  I still needed to flush.  I glanced around my shoulder; she had moved to the kitchen sink and if I could not see her then she could not see me.  I flushed and quickly tiptoed my way back to the safety of my bedroom: as the door latched, I could hear her running the vacuum.  She could not scold me for ‘forgetting’ to flush. 

I was still a little drenched from falling asleep in the closet and opened up my underwear drawer.  “Be nice to change,” I thought but peering at the rows of neatly folded cotton underwear made me realize that she would know I had worn an extra pair, which would out my secret place in the closet on my sleeping bag.  I loved that bag.  I used it for Girl Scouts.  I pushed the drawer shut.

 My closet door was still open; she would notice that in the morning.  I carefully pulled the door shut and laid down on my bed.  I silently ruminated to my teddy bear.  What had I done to wake her up?  What mistake had I made?  How could I be so stupid? 

I had done everything correct – waited until the shouting started before getting in the closet.  They cannot hear me move around when they are shouting.  I waited to hear the dishes before covering my ears. I waited to hear the rising voices until Dad slammed the side door in leaving.  I waited to hear mom crying in her room.  Only then did I fall asleep.  I knew I would wake up to go to the bathroom; I never worried about the closet.  I rolled up the bag the way it was supposed to be before she went in when I needed it for Scouts.

 Somewhere in the game, I had made a mistake.  I felt my eyelids droop as I went over the steps again and again.

*Fictional account based on true events

 Saturday, August 28, 2010 is the first annual Cultural Heritage Festival in Price Hill.   The Enquirer and Soapbox Media ran articles on the festival but I wanted to give a small plug for it here as well.

I’m a member of the Art Community Action Team headed by Price Hill Will’s Kara Watson-Ray and can attest firsthand how much time, sweat, and anxiety have gone into putting this together.  The ArtCAT team is all-volunteer the work of calling bands, submitting applications, getting the call out to the art community, promotion through hundreds of networks and neighborhoods, food vendors, street permits and a thousand other details and to-do items were done by volunteers mostly living in Price Hill giving their time.

The Price Hill Will staff have worked their butts off to turn this into a reality and come Saturday sitting down to a Chai Latte at Corner Bloc Coffee Shop/ or Refuge Coffee Bar is definitely in order. 

Cincinnati is experiencing a renaissance but the city is only as good as the sum of its parts.  All of Cincinnati neighborhoods must experience the same push as one sees in Downtown and Over-the-Rhine.  Price Hill, one of Cincinnati’s first neighborhoods, has long languished with crime, poverty, blight, and lack of pride.  My partner and I recently purchased a home in East Price Hill based on the work of Price Hill Will.My partner grew up in Price Hill and wanted to return there.  I wanted to be close to downtown and both of us wanted a home with character that could withstand time and weather.  Price Hill offered all of this plus a spectacular view.

Price Hill Will is a co-lead agency of Place Matters, a partnership of Xavier, United Way, and Xavier’s Community Building Institute.  Price Hill Will’s 3 main program areas are Community Engagement, Economic Development and Housing Redevelopment.  Such programs as Good Guy Loitering and the Summer Concert Series are some of the initiatives PHW has begun. The housing stock of Price Hill is beyond outstanding.  PHW has been working with the federally funded Neighborhood Stabilization Program to purchase homes that are in foreclosure and/or vacant, rehab them and sell them back to the public. 

This festival means a great deal to the people of Price Hill Will.  Those of us who live here are working class, family-oriented citizens who are seeking to make their community into something of which they can be proud.  If you can, come to the festival this Saturday and support their efforts.

All the homes pictured above are for sale on Realitor.com

Divorced, broke and scared was how I started my new life in Cincinnati.  It was the best thing for me but it was damn frightening.  I felt I knew no one; I had never had a social circle but had found I was adept at meandering my way around on line.  Woxy.com and Cincymusic.com were my lifebloods at battling fear.  Looking back on my journals, I was mostly just terrifically afraid – not lonely as so many warned me about.  I did not write of loneliness and do not remember even feeling very alone; in fact, I felt adventurous.  I was also enjoying my new body.  I bought new clothes (mostly thrift store but new to me) and saved up money to splurge when I could.  I went out dancing which I had never done, took myself to the movies alone and had my first dates in 10 years finally meeting a romantic, vastly intelligent man who would put with my shenanigans.

However, I was still so afraid.  The fear that I really could not take care of myself, that I would not be ok was so pervasive in my life; I just could not shake the old programming that girls from my side of the tracks  just don’t do well.  I watched my calories but standing on my feet all day in retail negated working out.  I iced my swollen, aching feet and calves every night.  I kept the weight off for 4 years but the little black rain cloud slowly came back as I struggled to get out of retail and back into what I thought was a more professional role.  It would take me from 2001-2005 before I finally was able to beat my way back into education.  Looking back 4 years really was not very long but it was far longer than I had anticipated.  I still wanted a Master’s degree and the longer I slaved in retail the more my body seemed to break down and the further I watched my small dreams slip.  I was aching all over – standing all day on hard floor is exceptionally hard on one’s back, hips, knees, and especially the feet.  I knew if I did not get out of retail soon I was headed for health issues and I made so little money I could not afford doctors’ office visits.  Retail is legendary for poor health insurance.

I was out one night right before I accepted my position back into education.  I was wearing a skirt and blouse combo I had worn many times before without thinking about it.  A girlfriend commented that I looked very “J Lo”.  I knew she meant I had gained weight…and that was it.  I stopped going out, began eating again and fell back into my old thinking patterns.  I had gained about 15-20 lbs and probably weighed what I weigh now (about 150) but when you are on a downward spiral, you do not recognize that.

From 2005 – 2009 I negotiated a 39% pay increase for myself from my first gig, obtained my long dreamed about Master’s degree, bought and moved into a house, took a higher paying job…. and gained 70 lbs.  It was only after losing my job in 2009 and taking my new position back in Cincinnati (I had worked in Dayton), that something once again snapped.  I looked at myself and saw my mother.  I was 39 and I did not want to move into my older years fighting the same health problems she was fighting.  I also desperately missed the thinner me and I decided to lose the weight.  I had done it once; I was sure as hell I could do it again.

And I did.  In six months the 70 was off.  I went back to my 1000 calories per day diet to the screaming and yelling of my Woxy.com community; found a whey protein powder and used that to keep my calories down.  I started a weight loss thread and doggedly posted daily about the small victories and defeats that come with big weight loss.  The Woxians thought my calories were too low but I knew I needed to kick-start myself because if I did not see quick success I would not stick with it.  Went back to the 1 gallon of water per day and visited the bathroom every 20 minutes for the first 2 months.  For my cardio, I rowed and for my weight training, I designed a series of body resistance exercises.  It was amazing that the weight dropped off me as quickly as it had the first time. 

Discipline, willpower and self-control are in the grasp of anyone but in small doses then you must take a break so I did that this summer.  I watched my calories carefully not overeating and without exercising, I kept the 70 off.  I have recently started my workouts and I find I really do miss them – struggling a bit with the calories especially in the evening.  However, I believe I can lose the last 15 or so – I do not know whether I can get back down to 130 as I am now 10 years older than the first time.  My stretch marks are more noticeable and I have more wrinkles around my eyes but I was able to lose one more thing along with the weight this time around that makes me think it is permanent:  The fear. 

The fear I have carried around with me since I was 9 years old is gone and for the first time in my life I know I will be ok.  I no longer hold my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I honestly and truthfully believe I will never gain the weight back. 

When I started graduate school in 2006, I received a new label.

Want to permanently change your life?  Change your label.  Who knew?

Stare into the face of evil, it’s name is Cimex Lectularius. Commonly known as the bed bug.

These hateful vermin are spreading everywhere across the nation it seems. Rosemary Black, reporter for the NY Daily News, brings us this lovely bit of news:

More people than ever before are calling exterminators to deal with the pests, resulting in a 57% increase in calls in the past five years, according to a study from the National Pest Management Association and the University of Kentucky. Of the 519 exterminators surveyed, more than 95% said that in the past year, they had dealt with at least one bedbug infestation.

Some 20% of the exterminators surveyed said they’d handled more than 100 bedbug jobs this year, a more than threefold increase from 2008. And 7% of the exterminators handled more than 500 bedbug jobs in the last year.

“Most cities have bedbug problems today,”  Michael Potter, a University of Kentucky professor of entomology and one of the co-authors of the study, told msnbc.com. “Any place you have a lot of people, or a lot of movement of people, you have bedbugs.”

The bedbug population in the U.S. has jumped by 500% in the past few years, reports Congress’ “Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite Act of 2009.”

Wonderful stuff to hear when the nasty little varmints’ resistance to poisons is rapidly and dramatically increasing. In New York City they have become so tough that it seems they are taking over. Things there have gotten so bad that NYC has officially declared war on them.

The reason I’m so hot on this subject is I’ve been having my first encounter with them and eff-ing horrible is probably the politest way I can describe it. From what we’re told there are an amazing array of possible vectors, and no real sure way to identify which one it was.

From initial discovery, very early on I’m happy to say, it has been a delirium of pesticides, organic remedies, vacuuming, steam cleaning everything in sight, and sleep deprivation. All seasoned with a bad case of stir craziness. During this plague of hexapeds we have refused visitors and refused to go anywhere else for fear of being plague bearers.

In short, it sucks. A lot.

Our scorched earth campaign against the alien invaders has been fueled by a large amount of Internet research. Websites like the Central Ohio Bedbug Task Force have been invaluable in planning our red hot vengeance upon those who would suck our blood. Who do they think they are, politicians?

Much as I hate to admit it this is one reason posting has been thin lately. Time not working has been spent on constant repeated sorties against the enemy. Our efforts are proving effective, but I won’t feel comfortable again until we’ve had two more weeks free of them.

Wish us luck.

-Loki, CIncyVoices Founder and Publisher

image by WonderFerret, used under its Creative Commons license

As you may have noticed our tagline is “Handing Cincinnati a Megaphone.”  During an exchange with a local podcaster on twitter earlier it was drawn to my attention that some clarification is needed.

This blog exists to give a platform to voices in the Cincy area that I believe deserve one. For example, our ongoing series of guest posts, Voices of Cincy, is designed to introduce our readers to the bloggers and other voices here that I believe are deserving of notice. Our regular contributors are drawn from the local blogosphere and are hand picked by me based on their work.

While the writing presented is predominantly liberal, filling what I perceive as a huge gap in the discourse up here, that does not mean that you won’t see some conservative contributions occasionally. Our sister site in New Orleans has had several Libertarian contributors over it’s five years online. Again, this is completely my call.

You will never see Palin supporters or members of that branch of Republicans known as the Tea Party as contributors here for instance. Even if I agreed with their stance, which I most emphatically do not, they are well served by many other publications and media properties. CincyVoices is about bringing the underserved voices and perspectives to our readers wherever possible.

One thing that you will not see here is prejudice. If you want to share views that denigrate someone due to race, sexual preference, nationality, religion or any other generalized BS then you will not be asked to contribute. The podcaster I mentioned took issue with this, saying it is hardly the “voices of Cincy.” I disagree.

The conversation occurred because I took issue with his Biblically based stance against homosexuals. Sorry, but that is prejudice pure and simple. You can throw out all the Old Testament quotes you wish, but I question your Christianity if you do that rather than recall the instruction to “judge not lest ye be judged.”

Views of that nature, ones that denigrate people for their ethnicity, sexuality, or belief system are wrong. Period.

-Loki, Founder and Curator

Image: Skpy on Flickr / License: CC 2.0

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Photo by Jason Bechtel

I’m sorry this is coming to you all so late, but over the past couple of weeks I’ve been one busy busy mascot.  I’ve had weddings and holidays and funerals…oh my!  But, I couldn’t leave you all without a season ending post from your ole’ friend Wooly Bully.

The final home game of the season happened back on June 19th, and as always, there was a little bit of butt kicking going on.  And, let’s not forget that Mayor Mark Mallory declared this day Cincinnati Rollergirls Day.  The Silent Lambs took on the Demolition City Dynamite Dolls, and although the Lambs lost 79-52, they had a great home season…and I was proud to be at every single bout.

(#19) The Black Sheep took on the (#25) Brew City Bruisers, and destroyed them by almost twice the points (139-71)  Bringing their record to 8-1 for the season. Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?

Photo by Angie Livesay

In my direct position with the Cincinnati Rollergirls I don’t technically get to watch as much derby as I’d like, but I can’t even explain how much fun I had this season.  Before the first home game in March, I’d never been to a derby bout.  I’d heard from friends how much fun it was, but I’d never seen it for myself.  And, as I’ve said before, once I saw it, I was hooked.

I couldn’t have had more fun as the mascot this season, and I want to thank all the people responsible for giving me the opportunity.  Much oblige to all the Rollergirls.  With a special thanks to Nik Jagger, Miss Print, Tank, Snotty XYL and most of all Jungle Lacy (Who made Wooly Bully from scratch.)  You are all the coolest, and allowed me to have a blast this season.  Thanks for accepting me as part of the team!

And, last but, certainly not least…the fans.  You all are unbelievable! To hear you all cheering for me when I walked out onto the floor is a feeling I’ll never forget.  Besides getting married (And, I’m saying that because I know my wife will read this) being in front of all of you was one of my favorite times EVER!  I can not wait till next season to see you all again.

Photo by Angie Livesay

I don’t know if I’ll write much before next season, there seem to be a lot of people out there writing about the rollergirls right now.  But, if I come up with anything, or anything new happens, I’ll be sure to let you all know.

And, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for an amazing season…I’ll never forget it.

-Scott Livesay (The ma-Scott)

Seriously?

Over the past few months I have met a whole heck of a lot of new friends. The majority of them I’ve actually taken to the next level, the “second base” of friendship, some more than others. A select few I regard as close as friends I’ve known almost my whole life. I feel accepted. They accept me. We have our differences, some similarities, but mostly we just enjoy each other’s company, enjoy each other’s humor, definitely enjoy each other’s booze and grub, and generally respect each other for who we are and our individual choices of lifestyle, however alternative. This is the opposite of xenophobia. Coincidentally, this is also the result of Twitter.

Rewind to two years ago. My wife and I are in the midst of a spiritual and emotional 180, trying to undo a generation of straight-and-narrow thinking and assumption-based philosophy. We found ourselves in a place where we were very afraid but willing to go to, to open our minds to questions, reason, and insight not explored often enough – and in some not-too-rare cases, not allowed – in our past lives. The smallest belief was tore down, dissected, and partially reconstructed in agonizing and humiliating introspection. This may seem glib to you, but it was huge to us. I know much more about myself now than I ever wanted to before. Believe me, the lady and I have had plenty of awesome, ripping good fights over our battling egos, but ultimately have been each other’s compliment through it all. In summary, our fight was one of a philosophical transition from “I know a lot of things” to ” wow, I really don’t know anything.” Profound, huh? It was. Like a kick in my big dumb head. But believe it or not, in this new found self-awareness, it turned out to be social suicide for the both of us. Gradually, we lost a lot of old friends, as if we were never friends to begin with. It was heartbreaking, and a bit revelatory. I mean who really wants to be friends with the walking dead, the zombified personification of discontentment? Not many do. But some people did, mostly because they understood, but more likely because they may have been going through the same I-don’t-know-jack-shit scenario that we were. Those turned out to be the defining friendships. Quality over quantity.

What you can’t decipher from text on a screen is the intonation and intention. I cut up a lot and I excel at leading a crowd. You may see the guy making penis jokes, but when you look, actually look in his eyes, you’ll see the conflict behind the mask: a man limping from years of being hidden from truth and reality, repressing his childhood, feeling responsible for his parent’s faults, favoring the gathering of friends for fear that moments of solitude would force him to look in a mirror and see himself. Alone. Afraid. Lately the mask has become a lot thinner, but it’s still there. The difference now is I see the conflict, and rise above it with pride: I’ve screwed up and people still like me. I’ve faced my faults on my own cognizance. I actually am comfortable when I’m alone. I can actually let people see my imperfections and survive.

I don’t take myself so seriously.

My and anyone else’s emotional complexity can’t be translated to Twitter, a meaningful social experience but ultimately a glorified text-message conversation. But it’s a means to an end, the end result being real people with real lives and real voices who have thoughts, a sense of humor, and compassion, and yes, imperfections. So my minority viewpoint is this: in this narcissistic, aggressive, self-deprecating bubble that is my freethinking world, I have managed to arrive at the conclusion that it is better to first handle other narcissistic, aggressive, self-deprecating people with some semblance of finesse, empathy and compassion. Of course if that fails, then it’s obviously time for them to become a responsible, contributing adult like everyone else. Especially if it means walking away from some meaningless talking points stand-off on a computer screen.*

I’m a self-inflated, over-analyzing snob that some people tolerate and a select few actually don’t mind being around. Most, not all, but most of these weirdoes have a bunch of shit they drag in from their lives or past lives too, but everyone is cool with it. Sometimes, though… myself included… we can potentially be dicks. If you screw up royally, apologize sincerely and people will eventually move on. It’s not worth it, because it’s not what matters. What does matter are the real conversations, not defining yourself or others within the confines of 140 characters.

So come join the circlejerk. Some chaffing is inevitable.

#iheartboobs

*Note: paragraph edited. Some words were too inflammatory and childish, but more important, not constructive to the goal of reconciliation.

Two big parades in Cincinnati this weekend, the Northside 4th of July parade and downtown the Pride Parade, something for everyone.
If you couldn’t find something to do with yourself over the weekend well, like Mojojacob would say, “just go ahead and punch yourself in the face”

Northside

Pride

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