My workaday routine has morphed into a workaweek routine, so gloriously predictable if unsettling and unstable it is. Work during the week, sprinkle in a softball game or two, assault my liver, decency, and all sensibility on a Friday or Saturday night, golf on the weekend mornings, and channel the 50 year old WASP in me by taking in the tennis or golf tournament du jour Sunday afternoon.
So it was the same this past week, the Ohio State library one week closer to opening its doors, the softball squad picking up another couple of victories, firing an extremely mediocre 99 at Legacy golf course, and ensuring the Kenilworth stays open by washing down jukebox tunes with bottles of finely aged Bud Heavy. Yet the sameness of it all was rendered memorable by seemingly the most mundane element of my routine; watching golf on Sunday.
Tom Watson, only a month or so shy of turning 60, was one putt away from turning the Open Championship, golf's oldest event, into a coronation and celebration of defying age and inactivity through determination, focus, and religion-less spirituality best described as faith in one's vision of self, surroundings, and experience.
Watson was one of golf's greatest champions, a contemporary of Jack Nicklaus and Greg Norman and Seve Ballasteros and Nick Faldo. Eight major championships to his name, five British Open titles (though none since 1983), and all of the accolades and admiration rightfully associated with such preeminence were his. But at 'ol Turnberry, in July of 2009, he stood on the doorstep of what I believe would have been the singular greatest sporting achievement of all time; winning the big one for the fogeys, and claiming the Open for the sixth time at age 59.
For 71 holes, he danced the dance of serenity and "dude, I got this." With winds whipping off the Irish Sea and the undulating fairways and greens frustrating golf's best in the world (the Tiger himself missed the 36 hole cut), Watson presumed his experience and game plan would carry the day. No matter the English bookmakers had punters betting on Watson at one thousand to one odds against him winning, he believed.
And his silky swing, though robbed of some of its violent superiority, was as steady as the Scottish thermometer was skittish. He hit almost every fairway and green, running the ball off the mounds and over the hills, dodging the pot bunkers and overgrown rough, and sinking improbable putts from all over Ayrshire. He was truly the eye of the hurricane, individually calm amidst turbulent chaos circling about. He was an old freaking man, about to tame one of the game's most challenging beasts.
And then came the 18th hole on Sunday. Needing a par to win, his drive was pure. His second shot looked perfect, but was just too much, rolling dangerously off the back of the green and onto the lip of the rough. To the hack like me, when I hit an eight-iron pure and straight and it bounds off the back, I'm happy with my swing and curse the result, which will invariably be double bogey. But Tom had to have a plan, right? Just get up and down, a chip and a putt, or a push putt and a putt, or something.
His first putt crept dangerously beyond the hole, leaving a testy eight footer for it all. And at that moment, the serenity left his soul, and history left the British Isles. His putt looked like the putt of a 59-year old man with the weight of history on his shoulders, or the putt of a 30-year old project manager with the weight of a $25 bet on his neck. He pussied it, never gave it a run, left it short and allowed it to veer off line.
He tapped in for bogey and forced a four-hole playoff, but the epic story that had been all but written was reduced to a woulda-coulda-shoulda rough draft, crumpled and sky-hooked into the wastepaper basket of too-good-to-be-true along with all the other fables that just don't quite sync with reality.
The playoff was an anticlimactic foregone conclusion. Stewart Cink, an affable man with scary-good golf talent and a likable disposition, was gonna eat him up. Though Cink had stared history in the face before, and not only blinked but threw up and pooped a little bit on himself (he choked away the 2001 US Open with a series of blown putts, including an unforgivable two-footer on 18), this was different. He was the wrestling heel, Drago in Rocky, the guy that in this moment was just too good, too now, too ready to even think about letting it slip away again. He realized he was the villain in this movie, and was all too content with it, as long as he, in his words, "got the girl in the end." And he claimed what was, as it turned out, rightfully his.
For 17 holes on Sunday I couldn't help but think of my uncle Jim. Like Watson, he is a middle-aged going on old man, still trim and fit and blessed with enough spunk and guile to run with the kids-- hell, in Italy, he was outdrinking and homoerotically out-thrusting his decades younger nephews, but that is a troubling story for another day-- and for a while, he did. Uncle Jim dusted off his Manny Sanguillen swing and subbed on my Sunday softball team, doubling his first at-bat and going five for his first six at the age of 62. But the dog days of summer wore on, and the cramps in his thighs didn't subside. I still got it, his eyes said, but your asking me to give it just a little too much.
And so it was that Tom Watson has still got it, but all of us asked for him to give it for just one hole too many.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Self v. Whole, Micro v. Macro, Fairness v. Necessity
Alternately titled, "Adult Challenges in a Fucked Up World"
I received some disconcerting news at work today, which should come as no surprise considering the economic climate as a whole and what I know of my own organization's financial dynamics. Without getting into too many specifics, I'll be making ever-so-slightly less than what I was making.
The pill becomes difficult to swallow when one feels, as I do right now, as though they are performing better professionally than they ever have before. Leave it to a stubborn contrarian like me to produce like Japan in the eighties when my company and the rest of the economy is floundering like Guatemala in every decade. So I understand. I get it. It still sucks.
By nature and by nurture I've been raised on principles of social fairness, pacifism, and equality. By circumstance and-or genetics I've gravitated towards thought-by-profit, competitiveness, and justification via my main man Darwin for anything that can be justified through said main man.
So here I am, looking people dead in the eye, telling them they can't work for me anymore. It's a business decision, I say, and I ain't lying. But my inner-bleeding heart still can't help but fight the slightest sensation of nausea, knowing that I just took a chicken breast out of the freezer or an ounce of weed out of the bong (disclosure: I hire mostly college students, which mitigates the dire nature of my decision making... somewhat).
And I step away, knowing, er, thinking, um, hoping that these decisions pay off for the organization, and pay off for me, the new-aged capitalist with a soft spot for the afflicted and a genuine longing that all of this is justified in the end to meet some as-yet-to-be-determined end. But the doubt lingers.
What the hell am I getting at? In order for me to continue to have make money, I have to make less money, and I have to tell some people that they are done making money for me. Ouchie. But there is no other way, I tell myself, and I'm getting closer to believing it, as I brush off resentment like dandruff and swallow pride like it's ecstacy at a gay Austrian rave.
And I have to keep producing. I have to run my jobs. I can't let my original, years in the making, carefully crafted facade, that of the overgrown college kid that can be your friend but is still your boss, the dude with a mind for logistic creativity and an affinity for big words out of context that sometimes lands the big contract, I can't let that facade crumble. Even if the inside is screaming and crying and getting all passive-aggressive on that ass, the outside must remain steadfast and firm and funny. The paint job that is the three-day stubble and one-size-too-tight t-shirt must not chip or peel, revealing the conflicted mess within.
It would be unfair for me to cry foul now, not when my old bosses have been laid off and my co-workers had their hours and pay slashed and my higher-ups are dealing with my same set of challenges, yet to people with families and mortgages and all that jazz. What is fair is not what is necessary, what is necessary is certainly not always fair. It wasn't fair for me to make $800 a weekend five years ago when working in a similar capacity I mauled a company job based on inexperience and ineptitude. It probably wasn't necessary for a transportation company to hold on to a loose cannon with a DUI when his division went oh-for-ten on proposals last year. It might not be fair that I am looking at myself and some of my compadres treading water in the face of one of our largest, most prestigious, and profitable (in the micro-sense) gigs. But fuck it. I know it's necessary.
After all, I am a team player (ask my softball team after I slide head first into home just to tie the score against Kenilworth, ask the guys I play hoops with- the best YMCA game I played all season long I played the whole game, took two shots, and defended and rebounded and set picks- we won). And I'm a socialist, too.
Back in 1995, I only led my baseball team in one category: sacrifice bunts. I'm laying another one down, but this time I'm gonna try to beat it out. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be safe, score the winning run, and the team will win in the end.
I received some disconcerting news at work today, which should come as no surprise considering the economic climate as a whole and what I know of my own organization's financial dynamics. Without getting into too many specifics, I'll be making ever-so-slightly less than what I was making.
The pill becomes difficult to swallow when one feels, as I do right now, as though they are performing better professionally than they ever have before. Leave it to a stubborn contrarian like me to produce like Japan in the eighties when my company and the rest of the economy is floundering like Guatemala in every decade. So I understand. I get it. It still sucks.
By nature and by nurture I've been raised on principles of social fairness, pacifism, and equality. By circumstance and-or genetics I've gravitated towards thought-by-profit, competitiveness, and justification via my main man Darwin for anything that can be justified through said main man.
So here I am, looking people dead in the eye, telling them they can't work for me anymore. It's a business decision, I say, and I ain't lying. But my inner-bleeding heart still can't help but fight the slightest sensation of nausea, knowing that I just took a chicken breast out of the freezer or an ounce of weed out of the bong (disclosure: I hire mostly college students, which mitigates the dire nature of my decision making... somewhat).
And I step away, knowing, er, thinking, um, hoping that these decisions pay off for the organization, and pay off for me, the new-aged capitalist with a soft spot for the afflicted and a genuine longing that all of this is justified in the end to meet some as-yet-to-be-determined end. But the doubt lingers.
What the hell am I getting at? In order for me to continue to have make money, I have to make less money, and I have to tell some people that they are done making money for me. Ouchie. But there is no other way, I tell myself, and I'm getting closer to believing it, as I brush off resentment like dandruff and swallow pride like it's ecstacy at a gay Austrian rave.
And I have to keep producing. I have to run my jobs. I can't let my original, years in the making, carefully crafted facade, that of the overgrown college kid that can be your friend but is still your boss, the dude with a mind for logistic creativity and an affinity for big words out of context that sometimes lands the big contract, I can't let that facade crumble. Even if the inside is screaming and crying and getting all passive-aggressive on that ass, the outside must remain steadfast and firm and funny. The paint job that is the three-day stubble and one-size-too-tight t-shirt must not chip or peel, revealing the conflicted mess within.
It would be unfair for me to cry foul now, not when my old bosses have been laid off and my co-workers had their hours and pay slashed and my higher-ups are dealing with my same set of challenges, yet to people with families and mortgages and all that jazz. What is fair is not what is necessary, what is necessary is certainly not always fair. It wasn't fair for me to make $800 a weekend five years ago when working in a similar capacity I mauled a company job based on inexperience and ineptitude. It probably wasn't necessary for a transportation company to hold on to a loose cannon with a DUI when his division went oh-for-ten on proposals last year. It might not be fair that I am looking at myself and some of my compadres treading water in the face of one of our largest, most prestigious, and profitable (in the micro-sense) gigs. But fuck it. I know it's necessary.
After all, I am a team player (ask my softball team after I slide head first into home just to tie the score against Kenilworth, ask the guys I play hoops with- the best YMCA game I played all season long I played the whole game, took two shots, and defended and rebounded and set picks- we won). And I'm a socialist, too.
Back in 1995, I only led my baseball team in one category: sacrifice bunts. I'm laying another one down, but this time I'm gonna try to beat it out. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be safe, score the winning run, and the team will win in the end.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Back to School, But Did I Ever Leave?
The internal clock propels me out of bed at 6:40am, ten minutes before the cell phone override alarm blasts some imitation Bach telling me it's really time to start the day. After this morning workout (sit-ups, one set, one rep) I cool off by walking to the bathroom, where I stand nude in front of the mirror at my uncle Jim's old house in Grandview, the years forcing the slow descent of my eyelids into the realm of my great-grandma Hagan, gravity weighing heaviliy on the outside, delusions of gravitas bouncing about on the inside.
I pluck the grays that line my beard and temples diligently, each singular pull revealing two more offending whites. The strength of my will and the longing for a youthful facade are no match for these insurgent foreshadowers of old age. After about a dozen pulls, I retreat from this quixotic battle.
My chest is covered in the most exotic of furs, the Irish-Italian brunette blend, a curly confluence of testosterone and genetic freakiness. The years have not left well enough alone, as they view my shoulders, back, and ass as fresh pulpits in which to spread their gospel of folicle proliferation. (Go ahead, mix your metaphors, bitch, and I'll mix mine.)
I'm still relatively trim and debatably fit, the body giving little outward indication of the self-inflicted and outsourced abuse it has absorbed over three decades. But my knees crack with every step, my right shoulder has limited range of motion, and my wrists, ankles, and feet occasionally scream, "you fucked me over too!"
One thing I've learned is that these "ailments" are very minor and will only get worse. Such is the joy of aging. So for now, I give the mirror one last "hi and howarya?", and unleash a snarl-sneer-wink combination that still melts my inner-Narcissus. Brush the tizzlers, slap on some deodio, and let's attack the day.
Work takes me to college campuses all over the country, and now I'm doing the Ohio State Thing (I WILL NOT CAPITALIZE "the" in the Ohio State University until my alma mater is renamed "The Muthafuckin Ohio University" or "The Shit"). The kids I hire have remarkably similar interests and maturity in relation to me, though I fear that this is more of an indictment on my hobbies and sources of joy than it is a vindication of America's Youth. They are burdened with the triviality of youthful circumstance, and only by glancing in the rear-view do I realize how innocent and endearing these problems are. Your girlfriend left you? Sorry bud, at least you're not on the hook for a $1200 a month house payment. You're missing your bestie's birthday bash for a family obligation? Sucks for you, try spending five consecutive birthdays of your own in five different states, just so you can pay that Lowe's bill for the dryer, ceiling fans, and lawn mower.
Lest I sound woe is me, this is more woe is old. I still get down. I don't have any kids, so my rueful rants will undoubtedly ring hollow for those with children and-or those with a preponderance of gray hairs on their head.
And so I stare at the blonde girl browsing books in the stacks, not a stare that will put me on some state-wide database with my picture on it and require the county to send a mailing to my neighbors letting them know that a guy like me happens to live in your community, but a gentle stare of longing and appreciation. The human form, in full. The bloom of youth, freaking blooming.
My journey today has taken me from the bed to the bathroom to the workplace, and not many tangible locations in between (other than KFC). But Introspection Boulevard has a plenty of points of interest on it, and I know I've been on that all day.
And then it happens, I catch eyes with blondy. I give her a slight snarl-sneer-wink combo. She smiles back. Maybe she likes me. Or maybe she's just intrigued by the descending eyelids on the bearded old guy. Or maybe none of it matters and she is being awkwardly polite in a "don't put me in an unmarked van and force me to live at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse outside of Coshocton" sort of way. I'll guess we'll never know. But still...
Where are my tweezers? I've got grays to pull. I'll be in the bathroom if you need me.
I pluck the grays that line my beard and temples diligently, each singular pull revealing two more offending whites. The strength of my will and the longing for a youthful facade are no match for these insurgent foreshadowers of old age. After about a dozen pulls, I retreat from this quixotic battle.
My chest is covered in the most exotic of furs, the Irish-Italian brunette blend, a curly confluence of testosterone and genetic freakiness. The years have not left well enough alone, as they view my shoulders, back, and ass as fresh pulpits in which to spread their gospel of folicle proliferation. (Go ahead, mix your metaphors, bitch, and I'll mix mine.)
I'm still relatively trim and debatably fit, the body giving little outward indication of the self-inflicted and outsourced abuse it has absorbed over three decades. But my knees crack with every step, my right shoulder has limited range of motion, and my wrists, ankles, and feet occasionally scream, "you fucked me over too!"
One thing I've learned is that these "ailments" are very minor and will only get worse. Such is the joy of aging. So for now, I give the mirror one last "hi and howarya?", and unleash a snarl-sneer-wink combination that still melts my inner-Narcissus. Brush the tizzlers, slap on some deodio, and let's attack the day.
Work takes me to college campuses all over the country, and now I'm doing the Ohio State Thing (I WILL NOT CAPITALIZE "the" in the Ohio State University until my alma mater is renamed "The Muthafuckin Ohio University" or "The Shit"). The kids I hire have remarkably similar interests and maturity in relation to me, though I fear that this is more of an indictment on my hobbies and sources of joy than it is a vindication of America's Youth. They are burdened with the triviality of youthful circumstance, and only by glancing in the rear-view do I realize how innocent and endearing these problems are. Your girlfriend left you? Sorry bud, at least you're not on the hook for a $1200 a month house payment. You're missing your bestie's birthday bash for a family obligation? Sucks for you, try spending five consecutive birthdays of your own in five different states, just so you can pay that Lowe's bill for the dryer, ceiling fans, and lawn mower.
Lest I sound woe is me, this is more woe is old. I still get down. I don't have any kids, so my rueful rants will undoubtedly ring hollow for those with children and-or those with a preponderance of gray hairs on their head.
And so I stare at the blonde girl browsing books in the stacks, not a stare that will put me on some state-wide database with my picture on it and require the county to send a mailing to my neighbors letting them know that a guy like me happens to live in your community, but a gentle stare of longing and appreciation. The human form, in full. The bloom of youth, freaking blooming.
My journey today has taken me from the bed to the bathroom to the workplace, and not many tangible locations in between (other than KFC). But Introspection Boulevard has a plenty of points of interest on it, and I know I've been on that all day.
And then it happens, I catch eyes with blondy. I give her a slight snarl-sneer-wink combo. She smiles back. Maybe she likes me. Or maybe she's just intrigued by the descending eyelids on the bearded old guy. Or maybe none of it matters and she is being awkwardly polite in a "don't put me in an unmarked van and force me to live at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse outside of Coshocton" sort of way. I'll guess we'll never know. But still...
Where are my tweezers? I've got grays to pull. I'll be in the bathroom if you need me.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Dispatches from Remedial Driving School
(On location- from the Blackberry- expect spelling and grammar errors)
This brisk May Saturday morning finds me sitting in a makeshift classroom on Lorain Road in West Park, taking one of my last steps towards reclaiming the privelege of being a licensed driver in the great state of Ohio.
Before class begins, for which I was of course unfashionably early, I stood outside and watched the cavalcade of suspendees enter the storefront. John Edwards, when he wasn't banging that frumpy TV lady who was still way less frumpy than his super-frumpified wife, often spoke of "two Americas," and I think he was speaking of class division, the rich and the poor, that stuff. I'd like to revise this notion of two Americas, and since I'm not banging anybody and instead am thinking very deeply right now, I believe there is retarded America and other people. And I don't mean this as a dig at the fine people afflicted with mental retardation. I'm speaking of the retards that got DUI's and find themselves in this class.
Alas, that includes me.
The first woman enters the classroom on her cell phone, speaking to (presumably) her boyfriend, or (possibly) her pimp. "Hey stupid ass how coulds yous let me drives to this motherfucker. Yous was sposed to wakes da fuck up." I would say that she was somewhat attractive, if not for the fact that she was not attractive at all, and had a tattoo of a rose on her neck.
After registering, I am greeted by the grizzled veteran of suspended license driving class, and it's already clear he has more war stories than Oliver Stone. His license has been suspended for 17 years. He tells everyone that enters the room that his license has been suspended for 17 years. In case you were wondering, this bad ass former marine with a musclebound son has been driving on a suspended license for 17 years. His name is John, but it might as well be Suspension. It seems as if he's found his niche in life, as that of the guy who tells stories about his license being suspended for 17 years. I feel like he'll be akin Brooks from the Shawshank Redemption when he got out of the pokey. Life is too crazy on the other side, john, just stay suspended brother, you're home. "Either get on with driving, or get on with suspendeding."
Fast forward several minutes and I think the class is fully assembled. Lots of visable tattoos. Ooh, there's a well-crafted pencil beard. Hey, nice blue nail polish. Well what do we have here, it's an actual decent looking woman that my GEDar indicates most likely graduated from high school. Sit next to me, tootsie. She sits one over, one up. Close enough.
20 people are taking this class. At $60 a pop, that's a cool $1200. I estimate $1000 a month to rent this storefront, $500 in utilities and maintenence, and $500 grease money to the state of Ohio so they can mutually maintain this racket. That's $2800 left to pay $300 a day perhaps to the instructor. There's still $1600 left over. I like this business model, I may be opening Haganational's Remedial and Retarded! Professional Driving School soon.
Organ donation video time. If Johnny Suspended man was worth a shit, he'd be recycling the Henny Youngman line, "take my wife, please," right now. He's letting me down. C'mon, children of the Greatest Generation. I know Tom Brokaw would have come through there.
Now this video exercise has me thinking, what organ would they take from me? I feel as though I'm like the Pondorosa steak that's in the picture when you walk in the door. I look pretty good on the outside, but you can be fairly certain there's a lot of crap that's gross on the inside.
OK, Matt, keep writing this blog and refrain from staring at the one educated looking lady to your right, one seet up. She's taken off her sweater, revealing a large back tattoo. I will not change my initial diagnosis, this woman has a minimum of a high school diploma, can hold court on politics and sports, has a fine sense of humor, and will be a fantastic mother to our children... Here's my first organ donation baby, I give you my heart... Fuck, it's only 10am and I am going crazy already.
The attention span, collectively, of our group is very poor. I would hate to be a teacher in any class that has such sub-human vermin. Of the roughly 200 questions asked of the instructor lady, two of them sounded smart. These questions were asked by immigrant natives of Syria and Kenya. The other 18 of us from the US of A aren't bringing much shine and floss to this great land of ours with, "so you mean if I don't take the test, I won't get my license?" Is that a question or a confirmation that you are a complete idiot?
And just when my faith in the general population seems irretrievably shaken, cutie with the back tatty quotes "The Breakfast Club," and in context! She is my ice cube in the hottest recesses of hell.
Break time is approaching. I wouldn't let most of us drive either. Despite feeling terrible about driving on work priveleges for a year, I'm begrudgingly willing to admit that they've probably got it right for most of us. The BMV should be renamed Beauracratic Automotive Darwinism, the BAD.
Video 2: "the backseat is the safest place in the car." That is kind of awesome, because I've had a recurring dream that I've had to drive Dave Gifford's old Cadillac from the "bitch" position (center-rear) behind the bench seat. I wonder if my Toyota dealership can retrofit America's car, the Camry, so that I can drive it from the rear... Hey you, magna cum back tatty beauty, I'd like to drive you from the rear... My devolution continues.
If I'm doing crystal meth and giving handjobs for $10 when this class is over I will not be happy with myself nor the BMV-BAD.
Well, it's only like 11:05 eastern, and while I'm sure the next six hours will be action packed and filled with informative lessons re: life, love, and defensive driving, it is time for me to bid you adieu.
The two most glaring morals of the story are apparent, however. Number one, don't drink and drive. Number two, baby doll with tat-back is a lovely woman and we'll soon be honeymooning in a Swine Flu-less region of the tropics. Just when life puts on the brakes, the muscle car of Americana redeems itself in such fine fashion!
Goodbye license suspension, hello white-trash love!
This brisk May Saturday morning finds me sitting in a makeshift classroom on Lorain Road in West Park, taking one of my last steps towards reclaiming the privelege of being a licensed driver in the great state of Ohio.
Before class begins, for which I was of course unfashionably early, I stood outside and watched the cavalcade of suspendees enter the storefront. John Edwards, when he wasn't banging that frumpy TV lady who was still way less frumpy than his super-frumpified wife, often spoke of "two Americas," and I think he was speaking of class division, the rich and the poor, that stuff. I'd like to revise this notion of two Americas, and since I'm not banging anybody and instead am thinking very deeply right now, I believe there is retarded America and other people. And I don't mean this as a dig at the fine people afflicted with mental retardation. I'm speaking of the retards that got DUI's and find themselves in this class.
Alas, that includes me.
The first woman enters the classroom on her cell phone, speaking to (presumably) her boyfriend, or (possibly) her pimp. "Hey stupid ass how coulds yous let me drives to this motherfucker. Yous was sposed to wakes da fuck up." I would say that she was somewhat attractive, if not for the fact that she was not attractive at all, and had a tattoo of a rose on her neck.
After registering, I am greeted by the grizzled veteran of suspended license driving class, and it's already clear he has more war stories than Oliver Stone. His license has been suspended for 17 years. He tells everyone that enters the room that his license has been suspended for 17 years. In case you were wondering, this bad ass former marine with a musclebound son has been driving on a suspended license for 17 years. His name is John, but it might as well be Suspension. It seems as if he's found his niche in life, as that of the guy who tells stories about his license being suspended for 17 years. I feel like he'll be akin Brooks from the Shawshank Redemption when he got out of the pokey. Life is too crazy on the other side, john, just stay suspended brother, you're home. "Either get on with driving, or get on with suspendeding."
Fast forward several minutes and I think the class is fully assembled. Lots of visable tattoos. Ooh, there's a well-crafted pencil beard. Hey, nice blue nail polish. Well what do we have here, it's an actual decent looking woman that my GEDar indicates most likely graduated from high school. Sit next to me, tootsie. She sits one over, one up. Close enough.
20 people are taking this class. At $60 a pop, that's a cool $1200. I estimate $1000 a month to rent this storefront, $500 in utilities and maintenence, and $500 grease money to the state of Ohio so they can mutually maintain this racket. That's $2800 left to pay $300 a day perhaps to the instructor. There's still $1600 left over. I like this business model, I may be opening Haganational's Remedial and Retarded! Professional Driving School soon.
Organ donation video time. If Johnny Suspended man was worth a shit, he'd be recycling the Henny Youngman line, "take my wife, please," right now. He's letting me down. C'mon, children of the Greatest Generation. I know Tom Brokaw would have come through there.
Now this video exercise has me thinking, what organ would they take from me? I feel as though I'm like the Pondorosa steak that's in the picture when you walk in the door. I look pretty good on the outside, but you can be fairly certain there's a lot of crap that's gross on the inside.
OK, Matt, keep writing this blog and refrain from staring at the one educated looking lady to your right, one seet up. She's taken off her sweater, revealing a large back tattoo. I will not change my initial diagnosis, this woman has a minimum of a high school diploma, can hold court on politics and sports, has a fine sense of humor, and will be a fantastic mother to our children... Here's my first organ donation baby, I give you my heart... Fuck, it's only 10am and I am going crazy already.
The attention span, collectively, of our group is very poor. I would hate to be a teacher in any class that has such sub-human vermin. Of the roughly 200 questions asked of the instructor lady, two of them sounded smart. These questions were asked by immigrant natives of Syria and Kenya. The other 18 of us from the US of A aren't bringing much shine and floss to this great land of ours with, "so you mean if I don't take the test, I won't get my license?" Is that a question or a confirmation that you are a complete idiot?
And just when my faith in the general population seems irretrievably shaken, cutie with the back tatty quotes "The Breakfast Club," and in context! She is my ice cube in the hottest recesses of hell.
Break time is approaching. I wouldn't let most of us drive either. Despite feeling terrible about driving on work priveleges for a year, I'm begrudgingly willing to admit that they've probably got it right for most of us. The BMV should be renamed Beauracratic Automotive Darwinism, the BAD.
Video 2: "the backseat is the safest place in the car." That is kind of awesome, because I've had a recurring dream that I've had to drive Dave Gifford's old Cadillac from the "bitch" position (center-rear) behind the bench seat. I wonder if my Toyota dealership can retrofit America's car, the Camry, so that I can drive it from the rear... Hey you, magna cum back tatty beauty, I'd like to drive you from the rear... My devolution continues.
If I'm doing crystal meth and giving handjobs for $10 when this class is over I will not be happy with myself nor the BMV-BAD.
Well, it's only like 11:05 eastern, and while I'm sure the next six hours will be action packed and filled with informative lessons re: life, love, and defensive driving, it is time for me to bid you adieu.
The two most glaring morals of the story are apparent, however. Number one, don't drink and drive. Number two, baby doll with tat-back is a lovely woman and we'll soon be honeymooning in a Swine Flu-less region of the tropics. Just when life puts on the brakes, the muscle car of Americana redeems itself in such fine fashion!
Goodbye license suspension, hello white-trash love!
Friday, May 1, 2009
Frank Lewis, Tell Me How My Ass Tastes
I know I haven't written a blog in quite some time. The events of the last few days have given me a few blog ideas. The Celtics-Bulls playoff series has turned into perhaps the best ever played, as it heads to game seven after the sixth edition went three overtimes. It's been some sick shit, and has reminded everyone that the NBA, despite whatever malady ails it at the time, is still freaking awesome.
But that's not why I've decided to write today.
Since the 2002 election, I've stayed away from politics. I still pay attention, I watch the news (and not just MSNBC), read newspapers online that I don't pay for (unless I start attending the advertised University of Phoenix online, I don't think I'm paying for my New York Times "subscription"), and I debate my conservative friends whenever I get a chance. Healthy. I also vote. I'm just not waving any flags or going door-to-door these days.
The gubernatorial election of 2002 changed my take on the whole process. Driving around my uncle, I knew he was gonna lose. He knew he was gonna lose. In March. But he fought on with guts and true character. He drank his Diet Cokes, and we enjoyed cheeseburgers from Athens to Zanesville, and sat through depressing Jefferson Day Dinners from Ashtabula to Cincy. It always amazed me, as a 23-year old relying on Red Bull to drive the candidate and our posse (usually three deep, but sometimes just the two of us) how he could, at 56 years old, stay so on point. He was delivering a liberal stump speech five or six or eight times a day, something right out of the 2008 campaign playbook, but unfortunately it was six years early.
But that said it all. He was not compromising his core principles. At a union hall, when he drank a Bud (and he doesn't drink beer), the fired up and increasingly intoxicated attendees literally started passing around a hat, throwing cash into it. Now, keep in mind, Bob Taft had about an AIG bailout's worth of cash for his campaign, while my uncle had enough to pay for our next tank of gas and ten yard signs. I saw this as a potential bonanza, and even entertained the idea of purchasing a few Red Bulls with it (I was on a very modest campaign stipend, and three bulls a day was taking about 10% of my net worth).
"Matt, find an envelope, put the cash in it, and give it back to (I forget the name, our union contact and friend of the campaign.)" DAMN, Tim, let's compromise here, dooood, it's like three hundred bucks. PlayStation game. Christie's Cabaret. C'mon unkskie...
Not a chance.
Enter The Other Paper. The "alternative" (note- I may or may not tense shift, but I will certainly tenor shift, right now) newspaper in Columbus did a hatchet job on Tim, messing up quotes, using quotes out of context, and basically butchering him up. I'm thinking, what motivation would an "alternative" newspaper have for thrashing the liberal alternative to Bob Taft, a buttoned up R right out of central GOP casting.
But it made me realize something. For the most part, these "alternative" papers aren't that alternative at all. I travel all the time for work, and they all look the same. Like almost exactly. They're owned by the same corporations. They employ the same type of writer/reporter/editor, this is now clear to me. An "alt" reporter operates with a press pass, giving the illusion that they actually respect principles of journalism. But when they write, they are (collectively) so traumatized by their 1) rejections from real papers- the ones with real editors- the ones that at least pay lip service to the value of objectivity, and their 2) inability to gain any traction with their words, because nobody buys (they're almost always free anyway) or picks up an "alt" for the articles. "Alts" make money from ads, and are getting hammered by Craigslist, and have literally only hookers and phone-sex advertisements to thank for their survival. People picking up alts are either looking for a band or a bar, or looking for Eliot Spitzer's girl.
So they are a defeated group, and I get that.
Enter Frank Lewis and Dan Harkins, two "leading" contributor-editor-reporter dudes at the Cleveland Scene. Leading the Scene, I feel, at this point, has about as much responsibility and importance as leading an overmatched softball team in Euclid in 2003. (Still Coach Nate, you did a great job.)
They both went hard after my uncle on the Med Mart deal. That, truly, is fine. I'm totally OK with that. If these weeklies did have a purpose, that would be it. Challenge the political leadership in a smart, objective, and measured fashion- and if they have to use humor to catch a few more readers, so be it.
Unfortunately, both forgot about the smart, measured, and objective part. They tried humor, but I don't know how funny shaping a winding metaphor of an article around my uncle's health problems are. I certainly know that offering a dig about marrying up twice is nothing less than vitriolic. Judge for yourself- this is the Dan Harkins article. http://www.clevescene.com/cleveland/how-we-got-screwed/Content?oid=1565381
Frank Lewis, well he made it his duty to go to name-calling (which I reciprocated, no doubt, in my emails to him) and to call Tim a criminal. This, I still feel, is libelous. Puss Lewis claims it's not, and IMMEDIATELY published some of the more incidieary passages of the emails I sent to him. He, of course, never published his condescending blasts to me via email about my misuse of words or my failure to understand what libel means. That wouldn't fit in with his mode de vie, which is to lampoon Tim Hagan for failing to give him an interview, even if it means being a complete and total puss-ball. Here's the select passages that he choose to publish and editorialize on in his Scene Blog forum. If he meant to throw me under a bus, it would work better if the bus was in motion, as it is very clear that NOBODY reads his shit. But here is his excerpted and editorialized take on our correspondence;
http://www.clevescene.com/scene-and-heard/archives/2009/04/29/fan-mail-from-hagan-not-that-hagan-updated
So I call you out, Mr. Frank Lewis. You have a much larger forum to go rogue than I do, even if it's a tree falling in the woods when no one is around kind of large forum. You fancy yourself as a hockey player, I have deduced. You are quick to call someone an arrogant prick, you are quick to pick and choose which portions of our email correspondence to publish (like the cowardly hack you are). And yes, I really would like to kick your ass. That's illegal though. So, I offer you this challenge; Let's have a charity boxing match, proceeds go to the winner's favorite charity. Mine will go to the county's general fund. Yours will probably go to the Scene's creditors, as I'm guessing you'll be looking for work soon. Maybe this publicity will stave off the Chapter 11 reaper for a week or two, huh?
I will close with a direct quote from Mike Tyson, but instead of the earstwhile British champ, let's sub the name "Frank" for "Lennox," and here we are: “Lennox Lewis, I'm coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"
But that's not why I've decided to write today.
Since the 2002 election, I've stayed away from politics. I still pay attention, I watch the news (and not just MSNBC), read newspapers online that I don't pay for (unless I start attending the advertised University of Phoenix online, I don't think I'm paying for my New York Times "subscription"), and I debate my conservative friends whenever I get a chance. Healthy. I also vote. I'm just not waving any flags or going door-to-door these days.
The gubernatorial election of 2002 changed my take on the whole process. Driving around my uncle, I knew he was gonna lose. He knew he was gonna lose. In March. But he fought on with guts and true character. He drank his Diet Cokes, and we enjoyed cheeseburgers from Athens to Zanesville, and sat through depressing Jefferson Day Dinners from Ashtabula to Cincy. It always amazed me, as a 23-year old relying on Red Bull to drive the candidate and our posse (usually three deep, but sometimes just the two of us) how he could, at 56 years old, stay so on point. He was delivering a liberal stump speech five or six or eight times a day, something right out of the 2008 campaign playbook, but unfortunately it was six years early.
But that said it all. He was not compromising his core principles. At a union hall, when he drank a Bud (and he doesn't drink beer), the fired up and increasingly intoxicated attendees literally started passing around a hat, throwing cash into it. Now, keep in mind, Bob Taft had about an AIG bailout's worth of cash for his campaign, while my uncle had enough to pay for our next tank of gas and ten yard signs. I saw this as a potential bonanza, and even entertained the idea of purchasing a few Red Bulls with it (I was on a very modest campaign stipend, and three bulls a day was taking about 10% of my net worth).
"Matt, find an envelope, put the cash in it, and give it back to (I forget the name, our union contact and friend of the campaign.)" DAMN, Tim, let's compromise here, dooood, it's like three hundred bucks. PlayStation game. Christie's Cabaret. C'mon unkskie...
Not a chance.
Enter The Other Paper. The "alternative" (note- I may or may not tense shift, but I will certainly tenor shift, right now) newspaper in Columbus did a hatchet job on Tim, messing up quotes, using quotes out of context, and basically butchering him up. I'm thinking, what motivation would an "alternative" newspaper have for thrashing the liberal alternative to Bob Taft, a buttoned up R right out of central GOP casting.
But it made me realize something. For the most part, these "alternative" papers aren't that alternative at all. I travel all the time for work, and they all look the same. Like almost exactly. They're owned by the same corporations. They employ the same type of writer/reporter/editor, this is now clear to me. An "alt" reporter operates with a press pass, giving the illusion that they actually respect principles of journalism. But when they write, they are (collectively) so traumatized by their 1) rejections from real papers- the ones with real editors- the ones that at least pay lip service to the value of objectivity, and their 2) inability to gain any traction with their words, because nobody buys (they're almost always free anyway) or picks up an "alt" for the articles. "Alts" make money from ads, and are getting hammered by Craigslist, and have literally only hookers and phone-sex advertisements to thank for their survival. People picking up alts are either looking for a band or a bar, or looking for Eliot Spitzer's girl.
So they are a defeated group, and I get that.
Enter Frank Lewis and Dan Harkins, two "leading" contributor-editor-reporter dudes at the Cleveland Scene. Leading the Scene, I feel, at this point, has about as much responsibility and importance as leading an overmatched softball team in Euclid in 2003. (Still Coach Nate, you did a great job.)
They both went hard after my uncle on the Med Mart deal. That, truly, is fine. I'm totally OK with that. If these weeklies did have a purpose, that would be it. Challenge the political leadership in a smart, objective, and measured fashion- and if they have to use humor to catch a few more readers, so be it.
Unfortunately, both forgot about the smart, measured, and objective part. They tried humor, but I don't know how funny shaping a winding metaphor of an article around my uncle's health problems are. I certainly know that offering a dig about marrying up twice is nothing less than vitriolic. Judge for yourself- this is the Dan Harkins article. http://www.clevescene.com/cleveland/how-we-got-screwed/Content?oid=1565381
Frank Lewis, well he made it his duty to go to name-calling (which I reciprocated, no doubt, in my emails to him) and to call Tim a criminal. This, I still feel, is libelous. Puss Lewis claims it's not, and IMMEDIATELY published some of the more incidieary passages of the emails I sent to him. He, of course, never published his condescending blasts to me via email about my misuse of words or my failure to understand what libel means. That wouldn't fit in with his mode de vie, which is to lampoon Tim Hagan for failing to give him an interview, even if it means being a complete and total puss-ball. Here's the select passages that he choose to publish and editorialize on in his Scene Blog forum. If he meant to throw me under a bus, it would work better if the bus was in motion, as it is very clear that NOBODY reads his shit. But here is his excerpted and editorialized take on our correspondence;
http://www.clevescene.com/scene-and-heard/archives/2009/04/29/fan-mail-from-hagan-not-that-hagan-updated
So I call you out, Mr. Frank Lewis. You have a much larger forum to go rogue than I do, even if it's a tree falling in the woods when no one is around kind of large forum. You fancy yourself as a hockey player, I have deduced. You are quick to call someone an arrogant prick, you are quick to pick and choose which portions of our email correspondence to publish (like the cowardly hack you are). And yes, I really would like to kick your ass. That's illegal though. So, I offer you this challenge; Let's have a charity boxing match, proceeds go to the winner's favorite charity. Mine will go to the county's general fund. Yours will probably go to the Scene's creditors, as I'm guessing you'll be looking for work soon. Maybe this publicity will stave off the Chapter 11 reaper for a week or two, huh?
I will close with a direct quote from Mike Tyson, but instead of the earstwhile British champ, let's sub the name "Frank" for "Lennox," and here we are: “Lennox Lewis, I'm coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Departed; Newspapers Face the Reaper, and the Haganational Goes Mobile
I'm a traveling man. This post is being spit at my burgeoning band of public and private readership (you know who you are Ms. Director of Household Sales and Such) from federal route 287 between Ft. Collins, CO and Laramie, WYO via my favorite and most useful device in the world, my work-owned BlackBerry.
(A quick word from my sponsor: Carney-McNicholas, Inc. is a full-service moving firm offering comprehensive logistic, transportation, and storage solutions. The organization also boasts a nationally recognized library and collection moving division, featuring the continent's premeire blogger-project manager- proposal writer- softball utility player. Slash.)
Because this blog is being written all thumbs on a mobile device, I will be expecting more than a few errors in spelling and syntax and shit, as well as an adjustment period away from the local sin tax to which I've become accustomed.
OK, all disclaimers are now out of the way, let's get to it; NEWSPAPERS ARE DYING. I am not the first to present this postulation, but hot-damn it's been something I've thought about lately. Now I may not have the command of the language and the stylistic discipline of a classically trained journalist, but I've always had an affinity for the art and science of the trade.
Two dudes I went to college with, and who excelled at Ohio U's prestigious journalism school are now on the beat of big-league ball teams, aka the sweetest job ever. Here's the catch; one of these motherfuckers is a freelancer who gets picked up by the Huffington Post and other online outlets, the other one writes for MLB.com, pro baseball's official website. Neither one has their shit literally put down on the printed page, unless you like to hit the ricoh machine and take a duke with your morning sports news.
And that's where the rub is. Never before has the "work" of journalists been more accessible, information more easily tossed about and disseminated. This fact has its obvious and inherent pros and cons; the delivery speed of our information on national and international affairs, business, sports, and everything else is instant. On the downside, getting the whole story and the whole story right, as well as a once or twice-over editing process, much of the essence of. reporting.as it has evolved, is gone.
This is a troublesome concept, I think. The bastardization (only bastards can use that particularly offensive word, you don't see me calling TARP the kyking down of the US economy, civil unions as the bulldyking of social institutions, or Michelle Obama's interior decorating solutions the niggerdizing of the oval office drapes... We need a lobby) of reporting has been underway for years, but the acceleration of the internet's ability to pilfer revenue (craigslist v classifieds, nytimes.com v paying for the New York Times) from the old papers will ultimately prove to be the vintage Mike Tyson good night kiss.
The problem is that newspapers are operating on an outdated business model, and were particularly slow (smug?) when shit got different. (The times they were a 'changin, but The Times wasn't changing shit). Reporting never had to mean revenue in the old days. I've read that papers used to run on relatively high margins, and therefore the content, which drove the prestige machine and won the Pulitzer, was the impetus for improvement amongst editors and publishers, as the bottom line was perpetually secure. And the best content meant the best reporting, even if it was dry, cumbersome, or difficult.
Not anymore. Newsrooms are shedding staff, dozens of papers are recycling the same wire stories instead of sending their own people to cover stuff, and the circulation and profit-loss numbers for the ol' papers are an absolute mess.
And this blogging shit is no substitute. Just because I can swear and stuff and anyone with a pulse and a keyboard can "publish", I don't think that means we are headed in the right direction. Reporting, and the craft that is journalism, have shaped our nation and preserved our hint of a democracy just as much as any act of congress or supreme court decision. The uncovering of corruption and scandal in both the public and private sector (Watergate, anyone?) Has been so valuable to our society, it's hard to imagine life without it. Especially for me, a kid who learned how to read from the Plain Dealer, looking for my uncle's bylines and Brett Butler's batting average. But the nation minus the paper may be a proposition we'll all be facing.
(A quick word from my sponsor: Carney-McNicholas, Inc. is a full-service moving firm offering comprehensive logistic, transportation, and storage solutions. The organization also boasts a nationally recognized library and collection moving division, featuring the continent's premeire blogger-project manager- proposal writer- softball utility player. Slash.)
Because this blog is being written all thumbs on a mobile device, I will be expecting more than a few errors in spelling and syntax and shit, as well as an adjustment period away from the local sin tax to which I've become accustomed.
OK, all disclaimers are now out of the way, let's get to it; NEWSPAPERS ARE DYING. I am not the first to present this postulation, but hot-damn it's been something I've thought about lately. Now I may not have the command of the language and the stylistic discipline of a classically trained journalist, but I've always had an affinity for the art and science of the trade.
Two dudes I went to college with, and who excelled at Ohio U's prestigious journalism school are now on the beat of big-league ball teams, aka the sweetest job ever. Here's the catch; one of these motherfuckers is a freelancer who gets picked up by the Huffington Post and other online outlets, the other one writes for MLB.com, pro baseball's official website. Neither one has their shit literally put down on the printed page, unless you like to hit the ricoh machine and take a duke with your morning sports news.
And that's where the rub is. Never before has the "work" of journalists been more accessible, information more easily tossed about and disseminated. This fact has its obvious and inherent pros and cons; the delivery speed of our information on national and international affairs, business, sports, and everything else is instant. On the downside, getting the whole story and the whole story right, as well as a once or twice-over editing process, much of the essence of. reporting.as it has evolved, is gone.
This is a troublesome concept, I think. The bastardization (only bastards can use that particularly offensive word, you don't see me calling TARP the kyking down of the US economy, civil unions as the bulldyking of social institutions, or Michelle Obama's interior decorating solutions the niggerdizing of the oval office drapes... We need a lobby) of reporting has been underway for years, but the acceleration of the internet's ability to pilfer revenue (craigslist v classifieds, nytimes.com v paying for the New York Times) from the old papers will ultimately prove to be the vintage Mike Tyson good night kiss.
The problem is that newspapers are operating on an outdated business model, and were particularly slow (smug?) when shit got different. (The times they were a 'changin, but The Times wasn't changing shit). Reporting never had to mean revenue in the old days. I've read that papers used to run on relatively high margins, and therefore the content, which drove the prestige machine and won the Pulitzer, was the impetus for improvement amongst editors and publishers, as the bottom line was perpetually secure. And the best content meant the best reporting, even if it was dry, cumbersome, or difficult.
Not anymore. Newsrooms are shedding staff, dozens of papers are recycling the same wire stories instead of sending their own people to cover stuff, and the circulation and profit-loss numbers for the ol' papers are an absolute mess.
And this blogging shit is no substitute. Just because I can swear and stuff and anyone with a pulse and a keyboard can "publish", I don't think that means we are headed in the right direction. Reporting, and the craft that is journalism, have shaped our nation and preserved our hint of a democracy just as much as any act of congress or supreme court decision. The uncovering of corruption and scandal in both the public and private sector (Watergate, anyone?) Has been so valuable to our society, it's hard to imagine life without it. Especially for me, a kid who learned how to read from the Plain Dealer, looking for my uncle's bylines and Brett Butler's batting average. But the nation minus the paper may be a proposition we'll all be facing.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Lakewood, Ohio, How I Miss Thee
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.
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.
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