It's only natural for someone to have an affinity for their hometown. It's no different for me, and as a one-city-over transplant, I really realize how much I love and, in many ways, miss the great city of Lakewood. Big house, little house, double, condo, apartment, I've pretty much had the Lakewood Experience.
And what a town it is. Certainly my fair city is in transition now, aging housing stock against the backdrop of a limping economy, Lakewood's demographics are changing. But it retains the feel, and the elements, to be what it always has been; the tightest little city around.
Bordered by the great Erie to the north, a river and preserved valley to the west, a raging interstate to the south, and the urbanity and insanity of Cleveland to the East, it truly has a little bit of everything. From the palatial estates by the lake and river, featuring a stodgy club by the beach to all of the doubles and tightly packed homes in its body to the high rise condos in its northeastern corner, it captures aboding Americana, minus the farms (genuine shortcoming) and the McMansion developments (no loss whatsoever).
A house in birdtown versus a house by the Clifton Club illustrates the sharpest of divides. I lived, with my dear mother, in a one bedroom apartment on Birdville's outskirts. Many a day in my youth was spent with and in the residences of my big-house-having friends (thanks guys). The geography and the proximity bridges this divide, as literally and figuratively in Lakewood, you are never more than a short jaunt from the other side.
Only a couple of miles up and down by a few miles wide, Lakewood's density is at its heart. It's self-sustained and then some. Bar, barber, restaurant, cleaners, church, school, whatever- definitely within walking distance no matter where in Lakewood you may stand. How many cities can say that, and also have ample street parking?
It's river valley is a true gem, something I feel we take for granted. I've been to plenty of places that offer nothing close to the geographic (and in the case of glaciation carved Rocky River Valley, geologic) diversity that Lakewood does. Oh yeah, and it's a smooth ten minute commute from downtown via car, bus, or train (lookin right at you, Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights).
Most importantly, it is, and always will be, a true community. Sipping on some beers at one of the roughly thirty thousand bars in the 'Wood, standing with friends, I realized what our bond, our common thread, was. I'm a lefty nut-job, freely associating with right wing bankers. Connecting with the well connected, and the connectionless. Washed up athletes and aspiring artists, curved cap punkasses and buttoned up buttholes, homos and homophobes. They all, we all, share Lakewood.
L-dubs might look a bit weathered now, but I won't count it out. You shouldn't either.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Cavaliers, Appreciation and Revelation
Danny Freaking Ferry. The bridge spanning the two most recent (semi)-glorious Cavs eras has a terminus at one end that looks a whole hell of a lot different than the other. At the entry point is Ferry's belated and generally underwhelming arrival in Cleveland as the centerpiece of the Ron Harper trade. At the other end, still under construction, is the most proactive executive tenure in Cleveland sports since Dick Jacobs and John Hart muscled the Indians into a big-market mirage in the mid and late 1990's.
Let's start at the beginning. Who knows if the Cavs would have ever gotten past the beastly Bulls, but the group led by Mark Price, Brad Daugherty, Larry Nance, Hot Rod Williams, Harper and others was a bona fide once-in-a-generation team. Unselfish to the core, understated from the top down (Gordan Gund, Wayne Embry, and Lenny Wilkens; all class, no flash, limited composite eyesight), this group collaboratively created some of the most effective ball this town will ever see.
Magic's Lakers were of the 1980's were Showtime, unadulterated jazz and rhythm. Jordan's Bulls were Jimi Hendrix Experience with a little more staying power, hard charging and relentless riffs, defined by the singular greatness of their namesake leader. The overpowering beats of the Bad Boy Pistons, like Public Enemy and NWA in the rap game, brought raw and harsh in abundance, and changed the scene. The Celtics, though past their prime by the time the Cavs came of age, were still omnipresent and selling out arenas, like the Stones. The Cavs produced consistent tunes but never reached the commercial or critical success of their NBA predecessors or peers. They were like Van Halen. You didn't want to admit you liked them, you'd grudgingly admit their skills, and after David Lee Roth left, they were clearly missing something.
Of course, this makes Ferry my Sammy Hagar in this hastily built and meandering analogy. Ill-equipped to be the front man, but still often full of piss and vinegar, neither complimented their parts to a degree that would ever be considered among the greats.
Ferry plugged away and had a long career, playing in more games than anyone ever had for the Wine and Gold and Blue and Orange and Baby Blue and Black Cavs. He found a niche in the league as a nice bit player, a forward with big spot-up range, durability, and tenacity. He never was the scorer he was supposed to be, and his athleticism was generally below NBA standards. Late in his career he became Nate Dogg, you let him croon on a couple of your tracks, but you'd never ask him to carry an album.
Fast forward to now. Ferry has positioned this team (I'm writing this right at the trade deadline, moves may or may not be made but Ferry has been active during the entire process) to win NBA titles this year and next. His steal of Mo Williams, acquisitions of studs like Delonte West, management of delicate situations of talented if incomplete players such as Andy Varejao and Sasha Pavlovic, and remaking this team as an assembly of complimentary parts to LeGod has been nothing short of brilliant.
The fact of the matter is that Danny Ferry has made me believe, mere months shy of my thirtieth birthday, that the Cavs will win the championship that the city of Cleveland and I have been craving since 1964. Yes, I was negative fifteen in 1964, but I remember those days and all of the putridity and mediocrity that has followed. Don't try to figure that out, just believe me.
I believe.
Let's start at the beginning. Who knows if the Cavs would have ever gotten past the beastly Bulls, but the group led by Mark Price, Brad Daugherty, Larry Nance, Hot Rod Williams, Harper and others was a bona fide once-in-a-generation team. Unselfish to the core, understated from the top down (Gordan Gund, Wayne Embry, and Lenny Wilkens; all class, no flash, limited composite eyesight), this group collaboratively created some of the most effective ball this town will ever see.
Magic's Lakers were of the 1980's were Showtime, unadulterated jazz and rhythm. Jordan's Bulls were Jimi Hendrix Experience with a little more staying power, hard charging and relentless riffs, defined by the singular greatness of their namesake leader. The overpowering beats of the Bad Boy Pistons, like Public Enemy and NWA in the rap game, brought raw and harsh in abundance, and changed the scene. The Celtics, though past their prime by the time the Cavs came of age, were still omnipresent and selling out arenas, like the Stones. The Cavs produced consistent tunes but never reached the commercial or critical success of their NBA predecessors or peers. They were like Van Halen. You didn't want to admit you liked them, you'd grudgingly admit their skills, and after David Lee Roth left, they were clearly missing something.
Of course, this makes Ferry my Sammy Hagar in this hastily built and meandering analogy. Ill-equipped to be the front man, but still often full of piss and vinegar, neither complimented their parts to a degree that would ever be considered among the greats.
Ferry plugged away and had a long career, playing in more games than anyone ever had for the Wine and Gold and Blue and Orange and Baby Blue and Black Cavs. He found a niche in the league as a nice bit player, a forward with big spot-up range, durability, and tenacity. He never was the scorer he was supposed to be, and his athleticism was generally below NBA standards. Late in his career he became Nate Dogg, you let him croon on a couple of your tracks, but you'd never ask him to carry an album.
Fast forward to now. Ferry has positioned this team (I'm writing this right at the trade deadline, moves may or may not be made but Ferry has been active during the entire process) to win NBA titles this year and next. His steal of Mo Williams, acquisitions of studs like Delonte West, management of delicate situations of talented if incomplete players such as Andy Varejao and Sasha Pavlovic, and remaking this team as an assembly of complimentary parts to LeGod has been nothing short of brilliant.
The fact of the matter is that Danny Ferry has made me believe, mere months shy of my thirtieth birthday, that the Cavs will win the championship that the city of Cleveland and I have been craving since 1964. Yes, I was negative fifteen in 1964, but I remember those days and all of the putridity and mediocrity that has followed. Don't try to figure that out, just believe me.
I believe.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Initiation, Decadence
Welcome to my blog. My name is Matt Hagan, and I'm fairly mediocre at just about everything. I can count shelves at a library and quickly turn them into linear feet, that is the one thing that I do rather exceptionally. Other than that I'm talentless.
But I am curious. I enjoy writing, reading, sports, politics, and consuming large quantities of chicken wings. I hope to write blogs covering all of these subjects and more.
***
A topic that has recently piqued my curiosity is decadence. There is something about embracing decadence in this day and age that really appeals to my contrary nature. A life of flash and style is so much more compelling in times of crisis than one of substance and sense of duty. And in order to truly embrace decadence, one must actively sacrifice urges of frugality, sensibility, empathy, and reason. Instead, the decadent one gets HBO and Cinemax, lives alone in a four-bedroom house, and buys Delmonicos more often than butter.
It has been argued that entire societies have become decadent, and it you're reading this, or if I can picture you reading this, you are probably a member of one of those societies (as of this writing, I do not know any ancient Romans, although there was this old dude that used to watch our softball games in Lakewood, Ohio, USA, Milky Way, and I'm fairly certain he was around for the fall of the empire). The USA, Milky Way circa 1950-2008 was soooooo decadent.
But now it's not cool. We have this recession-depression thing (coincidentally or not, Lenin himself called this collapse of capitalism, which he decried as inherently decadent and not thriftily efficient as we've been taught to believe). And now we're forced to imagine no possessions (Lennon called this one), a world collapsing on its own gluttonous urges. This facade of a shatterproof imperialist society has shattered, and now in order to pick ourselves up, we all must walk on broken glass (Annie Lennox gets dibs on this tidbit).
After generations of decadence, have we turned a blind eye to our heritage of institutional smugness? And who, in this era, can justify the excesses of full-blown decadence (those in the financial and automotive industries get a pass, as much like Cincinnati, as Mark Twain once mused, banking and car execs are perpetually behind the times)? Now, does it seem that to be rich and full of yourself is not what we aspire to? I do know Shania Twain would say to such decadence, "that don't impress me much." We, as a society, are letting go of decadence and attempting to survive through utilitarian pursuits? I doubt it, and I'd imagine Kipling would doubt it as well, for he wrote that "never the twain shall meet." (Twain means two, jackass, and it's from the era where people wrote on scrolls and told stories about virgins having babies)
Who are these people with the ability to eschew the very real constraints that society places on such excess and selfishness? In order to be truly decadent these days, it has to be an act, executed with conviction worthy of an Oscar. You would also have to be a pretty wild dude.
"Decadence is the subordination of the whole to the parts," said by none other than Oscar Wilde.
Diggin it Oscar, and count me in. I gotta be me. So gimme some of that top shelf stuff. I'll pay for parking. And I'll let you know about it. Do I owe you money? Who cares, it's just money, I'm not gonna repay you. It's the importance of being earnest that matters, right?
But I am curious. I enjoy writing, reading, sports, politics, and consuming large quantities of chicken wings. I hope to write blogs covering all of these subjects and more.
***
A topic that has recently piqued my curiosity is decadence. There is something about embracing decadence in this day and age that really appeals to my contrary nature. A life of flash and style is so much more compelling in times of crisis than one of substance and sense of duty. And in order to truly embrace decadence, one must actively sacrifice urges of frugality, sensibility, empathy, and reason. Instead, the decadent one gets HBO and Cinemax, lives alone in a four-bedroom house, and buys Delmonicos more often than butter.
It has been argued that entire societies have become decadent, and it you're reading this, or if I can picture you reading this, you are probably a member of one of those societies (as of this writing, I do not know any ancient Romans, although there was this old dude that used to watch our softball games in Lakewood, Ohio, USA, Milky Way, and I'm fairly certain he was around for the fall of the empire). The USA, Milky Way circa 1950-2008 was soooooo decadent.
But now it's not cool. We have this recession-depression thing (coincidentally or not, Lenin himself called this collapse of capitalism, which he decried as inherently decadent and not thriftily efficient as we've been taught to believe). And now we're forced to imagine no possessions (Lennon called this one), a world collapsing on its own gluttonous urges. This facade of a shatterproof imperialist society has shattered, and now in order to pick ourselves up, we all must walk on broken glass (Annie Lennox gets dibs on this tidbit).
After generations of decadence, have we turned a blind eye to our heritage of institutional smugness? And who, in this era, can justify the excesses of full-blown decadence (those in the financial and automotive industries get a pass, as much like Cincinnati, as Mark Twain once mused, banking and car execs are perpetually behind the times)? Now, does it seem that to be rich and full of yourself is not what we aspire to? I do know Shania Twain would say to such decadence, "that don't impress me much." We, as a society, are letting go of decadence and attempting to survive through utilitarian pursuits? I doubt it, and I'd imagine Kipling would doubt it as well, for he wrote that "never the twain shall meet." (Twain means two, jackass, and it's from the era where people wrote on scrolls and told stories about virgins having babies)
Who are these people with the ability to eschew the very real constraints that society places on such excess and selfishness? In order to be truly decadent these days, it has to be an act, executed with conviction worthy of an Oscar. You would also have to be a pretty wild dude.
"Decadence is the subordination of the whole to the parts," said by none other than Oscar Wilde.
Diggin it Oscar, and count me in. I gotta be me. So gimme some of that top shelf stuff. I'll pay for parking. And I'll let you know about it. Do I owe you money? Who cares, it's just money, I'm not gonna repay you. It's the importance of being earnest that matters, right?
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