I sometimes feel that a typical Clevelander would complain to the God that Saint Peter didn’t open the Pearly Gates fast enough. (Choosing to make that a Catholic reference instead of a hick reference is another sign of my growing Clevelandesqueness).

I first noticed this on the day of the Dragon Boat Festival (and in the ensuing post). It was a great time, but I was all, like, focusing on having to drive all over since the bridges were out of service, getting a splinter, no first aid kit, or whatever. Gotta cut that out, because negativity is the only thing I know that can survive by feeding off itself.

Cleveland has changed me in other ways, I’m much more cosmopolitan than I was when I moved here as a fresh, real-world-ignorant, college grad back in November of 2003. By cosmopolitan I mean, eager to seek out and appreciate the other cultures in what has become my town; less ignorant about gay folks, Jew folks, black folks, Hispanic folks, and more aware of how different sorts of politics are immersed in every aspect of daily life, learning to choose my battles, how to battle, how to navigate without taking sides, how to treat women, what confidence means (more on that later), how to take a metaphorical punch and keep on truckin’.

Basically, Cleveland took the raw stock of my upbringing and education, smithed it, tempered it and gave me whatever I have that approximates an edge.

This has been a year of introspection for me, and as I continue to become Cleveland, I’m sure there are aspects of living here that I’ll reject as equally as certain parts of speech and attitudes, but fewer things are more Cleveland than becoming Cleveland on your own terms.

Or whatever.

• The first thing is one I’ve always wondered about: Why is the Yellow Freight Company’s logo orange?
• I saw a big billboard with a bald eagle and American flag that said “America — Bless God”. This doesn’t make any sense. America can’t bless God because God is from whom all blessings flow. The top 3 hits for the phrase could generate no end of cultural criticism writing. I could go on, and would really like to, but I’ll spare everyone.
• It took over a year, but I’ve now trained myself both physically and psychologically to eat smaller portion sizes. That means, on the occasions that I pig out, I’m actually just eating what Americans consider to be normal portions. My weight fluctuates between 178 & 182, and since whenever I try to dip below that, my appetite goes into overdrive, I figure that’s right where my body wants to be.
• Picked up this sweet piece of furniture for $70:

I collect stuff, not a lot, but stuff nonetheless. It used to be baseball cards, then Tolkien books, then good science fiction in general and now beach glass, good movies, and local music paraphernalia. I used to collect things as if the things themselves were precious. Benjamin would call this the aura of the art object. He posits that original works of art have greater value than reproductions. That’s the kind of reason that people go for mint first editions, signed copies, &c. There’s nothing wrong with that. I would still love to get my mitts on a first edition Starship Troopers with the awesome dust-jacket, but my collector’s criterion has changed over the years.

I no longer collect things as if the things themselves were precious, I collect them because of what they contain. So now when I’m at Half-price Books, and I see a hard cover of LeGuin’s Lathe of Heaven with the original dust-jacket cover art, I don’t care that its just the book club edition, I care that it is hard-bound and therefore more durable than my paperback version. The durability matters because it protects what is really important about the book, the story itself. So I’ll pick up an Asimov omnibus and get rid of my ancient paperbacks (which are worth more than the omnibus) because the omnibus will last longer.

I don’t mind that my Egon Schiele came from All Posters or that the Death of Marat in my bathroom (which never fails to make me act disgustingly smug) came from the same. If my art selections are considered a collection, I have what I have because I like it, not necessarily for its extrinsic value. I try to collect experiences, emotions and moments of communication now, not every last edition of the Lord of the Rings. (Although if you want to hook me up, I won’t complain).

Cleveland and LeBron should be two, responsible, consenting adults, and if it is time to move on, the last thing Cleveland needs to be is the co-dependent, I’ll-debase-myself-if-only-you’ll-stay, undignified, crazy ex.

I’m not going to debate the merits of whatever decision LeBron makes. That’s up to him. What I’d rather talk about is Cleveland’s behavior regarding his decision. Fremdschämen doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Pinging the Problem

Connie Schultz wrote a column touching a bit on this, and the 20/30 Club members quoted by her get a bit closer to the point, but still miss it. I figure the best way to root at this issue is to take a couple of ideas from the column and point out where they get derailed.

Mike Gruss thinks that “instead of spending all this money and effort to keep LeBron, local leaders/celebs/billboards [should be] focused on stemming brain draining [sic] and keeping other people under 30.”

Good thought, but money isn’t the issue and keeping folks younger than me isn’t the issue.

Then there’s the folks from the 20/30 Club who say attitude matters.

That’s the first step! But then, it suddenly the 20/30 Club point morphs into waiting for political leaders or the City of Cleveland to come to them. Derailed!

A Flanking Maneuver at The Big Fix

All the talk about LeBron being a necessity for this City, and the hyperbolic “he’s the only thing keeping this town from going ghost” is systematically symptomatic in the Cleveland zeitgeist. This town always looks for The Big Fix Silver Bullet Solution™. Roldo has been beating this drum for longer than I’ve been alive. LeBron James, The Medical Mart, Gateway, are the three that come to mind most easily. All are/were supposed to save Cleveland from Certain Doom™, right?

Big fixes aren’t the answer, or just a band-aid, or any other crummy analogy. What happened with Katrina, the Haitian earthquake, Deepwater Horizon? Thousands of people rushed to the sources of pain like white blood cells after an infection. Thousands of individual solutions to the same problem, working simultaneously, but not necessarily in concert.

The Real Problem

Sports fans think the Big Fix is keeping LeBron, the 20/30 Club thinks the Big Fix is getting politicos & power players to pay attention to the 20/30 Club, other folks think throwing money at this or that is the Big Fix.

Cleveland doesn’t need a big fix, because Cleveland ain’t broke. What’s broke are the attitudes of the folks who live here. It is easy to come up with ideas that spend someone else’s money, it is easy to say that no one in power pays attention to you. The Real Problem isn’t with Cleveland, it is with the folks who think that Cleveland is the problem.

A Possible Solution

If there is one thing I’ve learned in this town, it is that you can’t wait for others to give you permission, to come up with ideas, or to implement them. You take initiative. Cleveland is a place where you have to do things yourself; a true American city. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of talk, but not much follow-through. What Cleveland needs are the hundreds and thousands of young people mentioned in Connie’s column, plus the hundreds and thousands of everyone else to have a good attitude about this town, to realize that Cleveland ain’t broke, and to do their part to make it a bit better anyway.

Attitudes matter, and Clevelanders have to stop feeling entitled to savior athletes, entitled to attention from those in power, and entitled to cash money. People haven’t been flocking to Portland, OR, or Austin, TX for years because of their star athletes or convention center facilities but because the people that live there are passionate about living there.

You get what you work for, not what you beg for. So instead of begging for LeBron to save us, and paying folks to stand on street corners holding placards that cheapen the meaning of the words Home, Commitment and Mission, we should love Cleveland because it is home, and be committed to the mission of our community; thousands of people with their own solutions, working for each other, not themselves.

The begging is just plain embarrassing.

I took Bram to Train Day today. I intended to take him to the Cuyahoga County Fatherhood Initiative’s day at the zoo, but a timely Facebook tip as we were heading out the door changed my plans. Abraham pretty much woke up demanding trains today, so I was happy to oblige.

The Cleveland Metroparks Ohio & Erie Canal Reservation is part of the Towpath Trail and is amazingly picturesque. Pretty much right in the heart of Cuyahoga County too.

The event reminded a bit of the Old Time Music Festival that I took Bram to in Metamora, IN last year. The whole of Metamora is still historic, and they’ve got an old big black steam engine and a canal boat that you can take rides on. It’s even got a functioning water-wheel-turned grist mill. The Ohio & Erie Canal Reservation has the canal, but no boat or train. There was old-timey music though, and I sang along to The Wabash Cannonball twice.

Train Day had no up close and personal actual trains, but lots of model trains, a hobo trail with real live hobos, a completely awesome Lego train exhibit, and the chance to get right up close to a marsh and spy on some blue herons. Abraham had almost as good a time as I did. My good times always exceed his because seeing him have a good time increases my enjoyment exponentially.

We ate an apple with with a hobo named Apple Annie, sat on a bench and ate chocolate fudge ice cream, colored a button and looked at trains six ways from Sunday. It helped that the trestle had CSX trains running across it every half hour as well.

Unfortunately, I have no photos or video because, although I brought my camera, my memory card was elsewhere.

All in all, a good Father’s Day weekend, so far. The dude conked out on the way home from Train Day and is currently snoring on my bed. Being a dad is the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done.

In college I walked on to the fencing team, worked my ass off, and mostly due to the benefits of having teammates of world class, Olympic caliber, was good enough to beat those opponents who didn’t have the opportunities and access that I had.

I’ve always considered myself more cooperative than competitive. I still am, but I’ve come to a different understanding about what it means to be competitive. I used to think being competitive meant getting really upset at losing; wanting to win so badly that losing is anathema. I think I’ve realized where I (and other folks) have gone wrong. Being competitive can also mean reveling in the competition, no matter what the outcome. Sounds like a rationalization from a guy who’s used to losing, right?

What keeps me in the game then, if I’m such a loser? It’s the competition, the striving, the testing, stupid! I enjoy it. Trying to win does not mean having to win. The mindset is sort of zen with a lower-case z. Would you rather be competitive as a test of your own ability or that of your team’s, or be competitive because you enjoy beating your opponent? If the latter, why is beating your opponent so important? Answer that question and you’ll know what fuels your competitive streak.

I’ve pretty much always been good at trash talk. I’m mouthy. I’ve been known to play games with my own goals in mind. I used to play chess by trying to see how many pieces I could take before losing. I used to have a Magic: The Gathering deck which could pretty much not ever win, but would make the process of winning as absolutely miserable and drawn out for my opponent as possible. The sadistic psychology of competition lives in this kind of trash talk, and asymmetrical strategies. But like the two types of competitiveness I’ve created, there’s another type of trash talk, too; sportsmanship.

What?

Taking the high road is always a win. My friend Chas is a huge Pitt fan. Being a Domer myself, we’ve got an understandable rivalry. Chas loves to talk smack. I’ve not talked to him in a few years, but it used to drive him absolutely crazy that I wouldn’t rise to his bait, and would instead compliment Pitt whether they won or lost. Graciousness and class can be just as effective at unsettling your opponent as anything else.

I guess this boils down to the following: The stereotypical competitive streak, and the accompanying trash talk & other behaviors seem to reflect such a strong need to win, there’s got to be some lack driving it. For folks who just rejoice in sport, however, winning and trash-talking aren’t necessary (although both are quite fun in different ways), just being in a position to strive, and having the ability to do so is enough. At the same time, that zen-with-a-small-z state of mind can be just as effective a tactic as telling your opponent that you’re sleeping with his girlfriend.

The inexperienced teacher, fearing his own ignorance, is afraid to admit it. Perhaps that courage only comes when one knows to what extent ignorance is almost universal. Attempts to camouflage it are simply a waste, in the long run, of time.

If the teacher is slow of wit, he may well be terrified by students whose minds move more quickly than his own, but he would be better advised to use the lively pupil for scout work, to exploit the quicker eye or subtler ear as look-out or listening post.

[…]

There is no man who knows so much about, let us say, a passage between lines 100 to 200 of the sixth book of the Odyssey that he can’t learn something by re-reading it WITH his students, not merely TO his students. If he knows Guido’s Donna Mi Prega as well as I now know it, meaning microscopically, he can still get new light by some cross-reference, by some relation between the thing he has examined and re-examined, and some other fine work, similar or dissimilar.

I believe the ideal teacher would approach any masterpiece that he was presenting to his class almost as if he had never seen it before.

Ezra Pound, ABC of Reading

A part of this viewing list: Criterion Collection Spine #28: Paul Morrissey’s Blood For Dracula.

Blood for Dracula is little different, in essence, from it’s partner, Flesh for Frankenstein. I guess if I had to pick, I’d say I enjoyed this movie better, mainly due to the ridiculously gratuitous nudity, hot lesbian make-out scenes and a scene that reminded me of the Black Knight from Monty Python & the Holy Grail. Shlock has its redeeming qualities, as long as you’re not concerned with maintaining a certain level of snobbery.

Blood for Dracula stars the same folks, in virtually the same roles. Udo Kier is Dracula instead of Baron Frankenstein, he still has the same creepy assistant (more kempt this time around), and Joe Dallesandro remains Joe Dallesandro, fucking anything with a pulse. This film was shot back-to-back with Flesh, so it probably wasn’t hard for any of these actors to stay in character. (If you can consider Dallesandro to be capable of acting. He doesn’t even try to feign an accent. Probably no point.)

There’s quite a bit of heavy-handed proletarian revolutionary talk in this film, and the fact that Dallesandro as stableboy cum stud ends up owning the manor with a harem of three nubile sisters who’d love nothing more than to spend their days shirtless outdoors and nights watching each other get porked by Dallesandro, and, well then.

The high aristocratic body count is Warhol-generation wish-fulfillment, only 36 years later, Joe Dallesandro’s character appears just as morally bankrupt as everyone else. The film remains as a good record of what a certain group of people thought about at a certain time, but with age has become no longer compelling.

Tangentially, all three films since I’ve started back in on watching the Criterion Collection have all had some messed up sexual politics going on. I’m ready for a change-up.

Supplemental Materials

• Criterion Collection essay by Maurice Yacowar
• Not Coming to a Theater Near You review
• Trailer:
• Opening Credits:
• First Bite Scene: