Random Photographs, Thoughts, and Tales | December 2025
Random photographs, thoughts, and tales acquired at the end of the year that didn’t necessarily have a place in a larger story or post. Also: I finished up “the list” back in November and decided to not do one for 2026.
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Downtown Cincinnati, Early December:
Main St. The space on the right used to be the historic Dennison Hotel building.
St. Francis Xavier is the patron saint of surface parking lots.
Main St.
Main St.
Pancoast Alley.
W. 6th St.
Fountain Square.
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Greatest bathroom in the greatest Indian restaurant.
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There’s nothing good for sale or going on at the downtown Dollar General.
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“‘Keep it Twisted’ this Holiday Season:”
The Christmas mantra of my friend Will who asked me to shoot his Christmas card.
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9th St, Downtown Cincinnati.
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Pedestrian bridge. Evanston, Cincinnati.
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Walnut Hills, Cincinnati.
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The Rt. 1 Metro through Mt. Adams.
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Corner store. Downtown, Cincinnati.
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My two favorite people.
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You can’t sneak by without stopping for a treat. Egypt (and Steve) always know.
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Bellevue, Kentucky.
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Downtown [Northside] Photo Walk:
Joined up with the good people of Northside Photo Walks when they came to visit downtown, but I kept getting distracted and wandering off. Was still great to meet so many talented people, though.
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The Annual Holiday Rant and/or The Quest for an Honest Cheeseburger:
I don’t have any real, coherent train of thought to this—and perhaps it’s all just several misanthropic themes lazily composed into one pseudo-story during a time of year I dislike—but the general idea surrounds the notion of “a burger.”
The “cheeseburger,” specifically.
It’s the closest I’ve ever coming to understanding the concept of “comfort food.” My personal go-to—a solid bet that’s not just reliable, but more often than not: decent.
However, before this diatribe goes any further, I want to be clear about two things:
The first is that I realize I’m very fortunate to have a life where my next meal isn’t a concern. I’m not stating this in order to gain performative, progressive points, but rather—I’m simply trying to underline that in the grand scheme of things, I do recognize and appreciate what I have. People, however, are products of their environments and circumstances. So, what follows is just an honest reaction to navigating the time and place wherein I currently exist.
The second thing is: I’m not a “burger guy.” My particular fondness for this specific food is in no way part of my identity. I just like burgers. And yes, there are occasions where I will order one at a place that may be better known for other types of cuisine. I don’t do that to be ironic, picky, cheap, and/or rude. The truth is simply that both steak and seafood places can also make a great burger, and I often prefer one of those over signature offerings. This particular attribute of my personality has been offensively perplexing to both my Nana and a former, almost-mother-in-law. However, I think it’s best summed up this way: “I don’t like Waffle House, I like a specific Waffle House.”
I hope that makes things clear.
I used to joke with my former co-worker and current friend, Tyler, about television kids always making plans to “grab a burger.” Whether one was looking in on Lanford, Bayside High, Chicago’s 8th Precinct, or Port Washington—this supposed social activity was usually nothing more than a common throwaway line in an “after school special” script. Essentially the dramatic, teenage equivalent of “having a beer.” Even in our youth, however, Tyler and I could sense that this was some Happy Days horseshit.
Sure, he and I had shared many a post-work tirade both under the lights of fast food parking lots and around the high tops of various Applebee’s Neighborhood Grills & Bars—but plans were never initiated by the proposition to “grab a burger.”
“Wings?” Sure.
“Beer?” Eventually.
“Pizza?” Maybe.
No one’s ever “grabbed a burger,” though. Not without some sitcom-style, ulterior motive. Even the easily-duped graduates of Facebook’s “school Of hard Knocks” would question such an invitation. In my presumably definitive opinion, seeking out a “burger” is typically a solo experience. A journey of the self. And what I’m most often looking for is not some Boy Meets World-esque “burger” to move the plot of life along, but simply: an “honest cheeseburger.”
As I’m sure someone on Reddit could tell me: it is easy enough to make a cheeseburger at home. However, no matter how much you love your dad, appreciate your friends, or believe in yourself—you know that whatever comes off a personal grill could never compare to what’s available while on a break from a job you hate or at some random diner in the middle of the night. Nothing truly hits quite like the cheeseburgers that manage to warm your heart when you have little to your name and even less to lose—the kinds of sandwiches that have seemingly retreated from ubiquity only to become reborn as commodified rarities. A truly honest cheeseburger is a break, a reprieve, and in some cases, presumably, a proper last meal. And here in December 2025: an honest cheeseburger is hard to come by. Especially in Downtown Cincinnati.
Now, the Red Fox Grill easily boasts one of the most honest cheeseburgers in my neighborhood. The place isn’t just a no-frills, cash-only diner staffed by friendly folks in the heart of the city—it’s also one of the last of its kind in the Central Business District. I assume everything on the menu is good, but I’ve only ever ordered the double cheeseburger served with fries and a soda over crushed ice for a more-than-fair price. It’s a meal that can be enjoyed on the best, worst, or most mediocre of days.
According to Wikipedia: “The red fox (Vulpes vulpes) is the largest of the true foxes and one of the most widely distributed members of the order Carnivora.” The animal is so common that its conservation status is listed as being a matter of “least concern.” I’m not sure how the Red Fox Grill got its name, but there is a fox printed on the menu and John Elroy Sanford used two d’s in his stage name so I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a tribute to the late comedian. Unlike its apparent, ubiquitous animal namesake, however—opportunities to dine within this wonderful restaurant aren’t as prevalent.
One often finds themselves on the outside looking in when they need an honest cheeseburger down here.
And, look, I get it—Downtown Cincinnati is a challenging place to make money outside of weekday, lunchtime hours. I would love for the place to be an always open diner where I could go sip coffee and spin a yarn at any time, but such notions are now just nostalgia in cities like this one.
The honest hospital burger.
I may not work in a hospital, but I often dine in one.
Not trying to imply that I’m caring for a sick relative or regularly finding myself in need of serious medical attention, but rather: the rehabilitation hospital cafeteria is the only lunch place within walking distance of my day job. And no matter how one of those days may be going, that place’s honest cheeseburger is usually worth the saunter across the sun or salt-soaked parking lot. Like the Red Fox, though—the hours don’t usually line up with when an honest cheeseburger is needed most. Sure, the alternative is plenty of “speciality” options near where I live who’s operational hours extend slightly further than the business day lunchtime, but all the flowery marketing language in the world couldn’t make $20+ for a basic cheeseburger, fries, and a drink “honest.”
The same goes for delivery.
Burger King and I are always in each other’s orbit.
I don’t really have anything against Burger King. Not gonna offer them the same slightly-impassioned defense that I’ve been known to give Arby’s—but I do watch the numbers and occasionally roll the dice. If you find yourself at a time when the stars of fee, time, and tip are properly aligned—the King can occasionally deliver (both physically and metaphorically).
In the end, though, it’s all just the original ska band who did “Keasbey Knights.” You know that the lukewarm Double Whopper with Cheese that eventually arrives 25 minutes past the originally estimated time will look nothing like the pictures. It’ll still get the job done, but there’s no way it was worth the final price (both physically and metaphorically). Even if you had gone to get it yourself and not bribed some poor bastard to do it for you via DoorDash—it’s just something to get by on and in no way a cheeseburger you’ve come about honestly.
And that’s really all I wanted for Christmas this year: an honest cheeseburger available for a fair price at the times when I find myself needing it most. Something simple and decent to be enjoyed in a rapidly declining world at the worst time of year.
Never been a fan of the holiday season or winter in general, but this year’s seemed to have arrived with a particularly vengeful belligerence. Even when it got unseasonably and refreshingly warm—or when the sun managed to pop out for a bit—all I could sense was the underlying, gray bleakness of our present reality. Just another day in the inane apocalypse.
The temperature had risen high enough that the police were out and about, zipping around on their “Trikke’s.” I was on my way to run an errand when a patrol flew past; the brick sidewalk no obstacle for their electric, three-wheeled tactical vehicles. They were headed for the commotion up ahead where one of their drones was flashing its lights and hovering above a crowd of people sitting on rentable bikes. And of course, the standoff was happening directly in front of the place I needed to go—lawmen and outlaws, each atop their steeds, squaring off in front of the old general store. I had no idea what was going on and didn’t really care. There was some shouting, but everyone seemed calm enough. I just needed to get in and out quickly—a daunting task at the downtown Kroger even when there’s not some drama brewing out front.
“Never a dull moment,” the private security guard giggled as I squeezed between him and numerous shopping cart with their “anti-theft” wheels locked in place.
I smiled and nodded. You gotta be careful with those guys and stay on their good side. They’re just a third term away from knocking down doors. I’m not sure what Kroger pays those dudes to dress up as gravy seals, but no regular store employees are paid enough to care about their job and it’s well known that the union isn’t much help either. Still, you’d think the store located right next to the mega corporation’s global headquarters might be staffed a bit better, not still decorated with stolen content, or at the very least: stocked relatively well. The disconnect between those at the top and those in reality is at an all-time high, though. And nowhere is that more on display than at the downtown Kroger. It’s evident as you ring out your own groceries, see the ever-rising prices, try to pay, and then wait, and wait, and wait, and wait some more for someone to come verify that you’re not trying to steal an extra onion.
When I finally got out—the standoff had ended, but the drone was still lurking above. As I sat to wait for the train, two locals joined me on either side of the bench. Neither of us really knew the other, but we’d seen each other around enough to say hello. For some reason, both felt the need to impart their supposedly well-earned wisdom upon me—sharing holiday lessons learned and concepts I just couldn’t possibly understand until I was “older.” Neither man listened to the other—which was a shame, because if they both hadn’t been talking over themselves in an attempt to get my attention, they probably would’ve had a lot in common and I could’ve been left in peace.
I was hoping that the train, which had taken its time to get there, would break up our little trip down memory lane—but it followed me on board along with the two gentlemen. The scene was like a bizzaro version of A Christmas Carol. As if two ghosts of Christmas future had become lost and confused, latching onto me instead of their intended targets. And look: I often love a random conversation with my neighbors, but I didn’t need it on this day and it all quickly became too much. So, I made up an excuse and hopped off after just two stops, content to continue in solitary silence to the bar.
Nearly there, a Honda Civic jumped the curb and parked itself hallway onto the sidewalk. The flashers came on and a man in a ragged, neon yellow vest with an Amazon logo on the back hopped out. He dropped a package on the sidewalk in a place where it’d be on borrowed time if its intended owner didn’t soon claim it, but that wasn’t the driver’s problem. Nor was it mine. We’re all guilty of just trying to get by within a flawed system where nothing’s truly good, everyone’s a thief, and everything’s a scam.
Even at the bar, I couldn’t escape it such cynical thinking.
Ol’ Lammi was there, but so was some over-served man who’d loudly mistaken the place for his LinkedIN profile. The kind of doofus who posts stuff like this without irony…
…not realizing that he is “we” and that the AI slop fed to him comes from an account registered in Belarus.
I finally headed home while staring down the rest of the year and retreating through the purgatorial, midwestern darkness—ready to get past the damn holidays and their obligatory nonsense that often makes other anxieties feel particularly frought. If ever there was a time where I needed an honest cheeseburger, this was it.
Zaha.
Zaha had always been reliable with gyros—a decent place where those willing to give it a chance could find affordable sustenance at a good price. Walking up on this night, however, I noticed something I’d never realized before: they advertised a burger. Granted, I’d never seen a burger on the actual menu and the place still displayed tons of pictures of its short-lived sandwich options that were briefly available when the place had once also been a pseudo-deli/knockoff Subway (long story). So, such a photograph was far from confirmation, but it gave me hope.
“Yeah, I can make you a cheeseburger!”
And my friend made me the most goddamned honest cheeseburger I’ve ever had:
Far from a Christmas miracle, but I’ll take it.
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Brent Spence Bridge approaching Covington, KY from Cincinnati.
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One of these cows is named Wilhelmina.
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Travis was able to use these just in the nick of time.
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Happy New Year to you, yours, and all aspiring indoor football teams.
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