Being Ernie Krivda

“Play me something” says the tenor master during our first lesson together. I squirm uncomfortably in my socks, having left my shoes at the door of the immaculate if modest music studio.

2015-03-17T09:25:47-04:00March 17, 2015|

Steel Grit

The year was 1976. I was a college student going down to US Steel to apply for a summer job. I had never been there before, but it was one of those places that lined the Mahoning River, over which I had driven a million times.

2015-10-25T09:21:32-04:00March 12, 2015|

Cincinnatus

When we set about assembling The Cincinnati Anthology, we were looking for all different impressions of the city: the loving, the brutal, and the honest.

2015-03-11T08:27:58-04:00March 11, 2015|

There’s Always Next Year

My father was born in 1949. If you’re a lifelong Indians fan, his birth year is significant. Chances are, you’re shaking your head in sympathy or smiling ruefully right about now. My long-suffering father has never seen his beloved team win the World Series.

2022-04-07T14:36:55-04:00March 9, 2015|

On The Rouge

Of all the fathers and sons I know, I’m fairly certain my dad and I are the only ones who would spend part of a hot spring Wednesday afternoon peering into a sewer grate. However, this is not just any sewer grate.

2015-03-21T11:26:48-04:00March 5, 2015|

SGS Presents: Behind The Sign, Episode #2

At first glance, West 65th Street, between Clark and Denison, tells a story of neglect. There were once kill plants and cattle yards, then came a box store and strip retail that supplied landfills with furry plastic and leisurewear;

2015-02-18T12:12:19-05:00February 17, 2015|