On May 4, 1970, National Guardsmen fired into a crowd of students at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio—killing four, wounding nine, and igniting campuses across America. It was a grim defining moment for a generation. And if you think it’s history, think again.
It’s not just a stage: With two books under her belt and a third on the way, Cincinnati-born playwright and screenwriter Theresa Rebeck is a novelist now, too. Roll over Trollope, and tell Dickens the news.
I’ve had some of the best times of my life in our parks. Fully clothed, of course.
Did a Walnut Hills church close in anger, or was it a bullied pulpit?
Editor’s Note: This was originally published in the May 2010 issue. 1796—Numbündnumber: The city’s first locally brewed beer as well as its most popular one for over 70 years, this pilsner’s not-so-secret ingredient was a judicious dash of clove oil, which anesthetized a drinker’s tongue and taste buds, thus making it the perfect accompaniment/antidote to […]
When I was in high school and college, there was a drinking game called Thumper that, I must confess, I rather enjoyed. As drinking games go, it was pretty physical, requiring quick wits more than dexterity. The set-up: A group gathers around a table. Each person has their own unique “sign”—basically a gesture that was sometimes obscene but more often just absurdly complex and utterly meaningless. The game started with everyone pounding their hands on the table like it was a giant bongo drum (hence “thumper,” I guess) and shouting a series of arcane rules: “What’s the name of the game?!” Thumper! “How do you play?!” Signs! “What kind of signs?!” Dirty signs! “How dirty?!” You get the idea. Then somebody started by gesturing their own sign followed by someone else’s as fast as possible. You lost if you missed your cue, mistook someone else’s sign as your own and jumped the gun, or just stood there, bleary, dumbfounded, and/or oblivious to the fact that someone had just invoked your sign. Losers had to take a drink. Everyone lost at some point.
In addition to being a perennial student of the culinary world, yoga has also been a defining path in my life. I’ve been practicing yoga since I was a teenager, and teaching classes and individuals for the past 13 years.
Gaetano Williams is working the room, looking natty in a double-breasted chef coat and a traditional tall, starched, pleated toque, he moves from table to table throughout the dining room of his five-month-old bistro greeting each and every customer sotto voce, inquiring about dinner, his hands interlaced behind his back and departing with a “thank you” or a “very good,” occasionally adding a half-bow here and there.
Concerning restaurateurs and sadomasochists: I don’t question whether sados make the best restaurant owners or whether owners simply tend to be sado. All I’m saying is that until I had experienced the killer Sunday brunch at Take the Cake (TTC), I considered the occupations indelibly bound. But now, after eating steak and eggs prepared with 100 percent real love, I realize my miscalculation.
You just don’t find enough restaurants with good arrowhead collections anymore. You used to see them everywhere. Didn’t they used to have an arrowhead collection on the wall at Olive Garden? Maybe I’m mistaken, but Doris & Sonny’s Homelike Restaurant keeps up this tradition with not one, but two fascinating arrowhead displays, along with their fine collection of cow memorabilia.