Phone cam round-up

Lunch with buffalo at Fresh

Soul men and friend at Norton's

Come mister tally man, tally me banana

New friend encountered during this endeavor

Cleveland is Gotham, encountered during this endeavor

YING GF YOU ENTION

Yes, they were full; no I did not pick them up

Cries for help are sometimes very quiet

REMOVE encountered during this endeavor

Stairway to heaven encountered during this endeavor

Okay, I won't

Hola! from humble hostess and Goat

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Too cold in CLE?

Really?

Yup. Had to bring the beer in from the garage.

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Pershing and Broadway

Cleveland's Slavic Village neighborhood is as tough as it gets. This is an old old old section of town rooted in the deepest of working class sensibility. The tiny homes sit on postage stamp lots within walking distance of the once-mighty steel mills that fueled this town's fire throughout much of the 20th century.

Everything that goes wrong in neighborhoods like Slavic Village went three-fold wrong here. White flight, shuttered factories and general urban malaise all swirled into a terrible confluence; and then the housing crisis descended.

Slavic Village was nationally recognized as "ground zero" of the foreclosure/sub-prime loan debacle, which you don't really understand until you drive around East 55th, Fleet Avenue and the adjacent grid of streets. Boarded up houses are overgrown with vines. Others are stripped of their aluminum siding. "Condemned" signs abound. Vacant lots dot the streets like so many missing teeth.

As painful as the story of this place is, you'll find a different page in the book at the intersection of Broadway and Pershing.

Here stands the Bohemian National Hall, circa 1896, and when you step inside you won't need to hear about the memories; you'll feel them.

You just know that not so many years ago all of the little houses surrounding this great old structure were immaculately tended. And on every Saturday night, the families that lived in them came here. You can hear the echoes of the adults drinking and dancing and playing cards in the ballroom while the kids romped around in the basement rooms where the teenagers were in charge.

So that era is gone. So be it. What makes my heart beat out of my chest for this place is that the Bohemian National Hall is still here and the Cleveland Czech community has preserved this place and what it stands for.

The best part? Yesterday, Eric and I went to their holiday open house and bazaar. The joint was full up with Czechs eating schnitzel and strudel, washing it down with Pilsner Urquell, and admiring all things Czech: from finery to folk dancing.

If that were the whole story, it would be poignant and sweet. But oh dear reader, it is not--and it gets even better.

Right across the street from this nearly 120-year-old historic building sits something completely different, but every bit as unique. Behold a static tornado: The Cleveland Velodrome.

Yes, the local cycling community banded together and turned tragic fallow into a spinning reality. They raised the funds and raised the track and now Cleveland is home to one of those crazy giant pasta bowls in which Lycra-clad cyclists speed around, nearly parallel to the ground.

And they built it in a neighborhood void of vegan diners, Starbucks shops and "free WiFi" signs. They built it in a city that's cloaked in snow three or four months out of the year.

They just built it.

So yeah, dear Rest of the World, this here is Slavic Village in Cleveland and it is beat-to-shit. So what?  We've got so much heart in this town, it's spilling out right here at the intersection of Broadway and Pershing by way of a bunch of stalwart old Czechs who are here because of yesterday and a bunch of funky high-speed cycling fanatics who are here because of tomorrow. Most importantly, they are all here because of today.

Oh--and if you're hungry, the Fortyniner Restaurant is open on the other side of the street.

Cleveland, I love you, I love you, I do.

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Phone cam round-up with subtle beer theme

Button bonanza and I want a Stroh's Draft Light.

Glasses that make you think you're drunk even if you're only guzzlin' H2O.

Cultural relic on the road.

A snap for all the old guy's out there who remember the Hudepohl. It's still out there, boys!

Naked mannequin and cello.

This sign alone aptly describes the drinking establishment on the other side of the door, as well as most of its patrons.

"Turn over before going to bed" and I love Aunt Elisabeth.

Bonus to any northeast Ohioan who can peg this photo.

Wig army and I wouldn't mess with these chicks.

Ending note: an explosion of eye candy courtesy of The Cleveland Museum of Art.

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Lesson learned

Erin O'Brien (bottom left) and associates circa 1981 in the Cleveland Metroparks.

The first time a park ranger caught us drinking 3.2 beer, it went something like like this:

After driving by one time slowly, he pulled back around and parked next to our collection of Monte Carlos and Vista Cruisers and Galaxies. He got out, pulled up his trousers and walked over.

"I see 'em hidden there," he said. "I see every one of 'em. Now bring 'em out and pour 'em out, my little friends," he directed. "Every one of 'em."

We did.

"Next time," he said as we upended the last can, "you kids get yourself some plastic cups. You put the cups in the car. You put the beer in the car." He looked at each of us purposefully. "You want a beer? You go in the car. You pour your beer into your cup. You get out of the car and you go on with your party." Another pause. "I drive by, all I see is kids with cups and no one's got any problems. Right?"

"Right," we said.

And that's the way it was, my little friends, back then, when I was young.

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Phone cam round-up, January thaw edition with philosophy and fruit

This beer can perfectly represents the human condition. It is at once playful and dejected. It is the high life. It is the low life. It is all things behind us and all things before us.

I love this beer can.

The elusive Northeast Ohio Winter Bee.

Flower power.

Aha! A discarded Philly cheese container. Surely there must be a cheesecake around here somewhere. Watson, fetch my magnifying glass and fork.

Road-style fruit basket or Study in Orange and Eve's Demise?

Log on a wire (yes, really).

Peace, man.

The red ...

... the white.

The red and the white and the blue.

The Darwinian imperative, stymied. Possibly related to the beer can and road-style fruit basket in a philosophical sense as well as a literal sense.

Um, Watson?
 

Study in Giant Unidentified Gross Object, Athletic Shoe and Finger of Photographer.

Dood. Shit's over. Quit waving at everybody and go home.

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Important updates from Field Representatives

Dear Friends,

Just to give you some insight on the works that keep this Juggernaut moving, here are two items straight from the inbox this morning:

From Hal Perry:

I just met a beer guy in Burbank. A retired detective, drank beer straight from the pitcher. Die hard Laker/Dodger fan.

Put him in a wood-paneled basement and give him a case of Stroh's from the garage; start talking about the Browns (the OLD Browns) and give him a Cleveland accent.

MAN!

--I can smell the stale smoke and mildew in the basement. I can hear the twittering pzzzzt as the Schlitz and Blatz signs come on. And as for the accent, yeah, we've got that.

From Dan Brennan:

I had a dream last night, and you were in it.

You were on an ultra-long distance space flight with several other people. The ship used some sort of artificial gravity thing, so we could walk about relatively freely. The crew shared something that looked like a house, and there was an artificial environment "outside", complete with occasional rain/thunderstorms, night and day.

There was a Japanese guy dressed as Godzilla who roamed around outside as well. He took his mask off on two occasions, which was almost like getting to see a member of Kiss, sans makeup, circa 1977.

--Make it so, number one.

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Candy ass vol. three: flavored booze

I don't do your candy-ass flavored vodka, just your regular vodka that everyone can understand; and I don't drink vodka very often. When I do, I'll have a regular vodka martini with some olives, preferably stuffed with bleu cheese or Gorgonzola. (Admittedly a bleu cheese stuffed olive, or--heaven help us--a cocktail onion, floating in an icy pool of vodka makes me positively giddy.)

After having collected the following pix over a couple of years and watching this terrifying trend, I fear I'm becoming something of a dinosaur.

Absolut Citron was probably the first flavored vodka that hit it big in the United States back in the 1980's. So okay, you want your citrus flavored vodka, have your citrus flavored vodka.

But what the hell do you mix with strawberry flavored vodka?

And is there really a difference between orange-flavored Stoli and clementine-flavored Svedka? Not when you mix it with Diet Cherry Coke, sugartits.

Behold yet another nuance, your orange whipped vodka, which is just one selection in a positively terrifying line up that makes monstrosities such as a chocolate chip pancake martini possible.

Are you kidding me?

Liqueur used to be sophisticated, people.

You chose a Tia Maria, Drambuie or Benedictine, not some goddamn dessert. I mean COME ON. Pineapple upside down cake is not an after-dinner drink. It's something your Aunt Edna brings to the Memorial Day Picnic every year.

Well well well, straight to the whipped creme and bubble gum.

Bubble gum, eh? Really? All you booze hawkers need to take a look behind your backs. That there's Joe Camel grazing in the pasture, you rat bastards.

Do you candy asses want to have a goddamn drink, or a graham cracker?

I swear I should be in charge.

This is some sort of alcohol-infused whipped crap. No comment, just this:

Apparently this darling flavor trend is sneaking into the world of beer. Say Lime-A-Rita out loud. Go ahead, do it.

Is that bullshit or what? Lie. Muh. Ree. Tuh. GAWD.

But oh would you look at that ... talk about your pure Goat love.

Enough is enough. Happy Friday. I'm off to find a bottle of this.

Love, Erin


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