Friday, December 31, 2010
There are some days that I feel like Chrissie Hynde.
When I came home to Ohio,, my head was filled with grand memories of the way things used to be. All of the years I was gone, I envisioned how Cleveland had evolved. How the city of Cleveland had grown.
For the past 10 years or so I have lived in Indianapolis. That city has improved, it's vibrant and shockingly clean. In the time I have lived here, I went from never going downtown, to buying a condo and making my life downtown. I was certain Cleveland had improved the same way.
Sure, I heard about the Forbes list and Cleveland making it as one of the most miserable cities. I read in horror about alleged serial killer Anthony Sowell. I don't know...maybe I thought everyone was jealous. Come on, Cleveland rocks. We have an Iron friggin Chef.
But things change. Cities change. People change.
I do not for a second regret moving back to Cleveland. I certainly don't regret taking a job in Cleveland. For better or worse, Cleveland is my home, and like my cousin that likes to speak in Klingon at family functions, I won't abandon her.
On my way to work every morning, I pass by abandoned and decaying buildings. Tagged by some pseudo artist in residence the buildings make me sad. I look at the buildings and all I can think about is how beautiful they were, what they meant to someone. Fantastic and glamorous hotels or apartments.
It is just a stupid building. Right? Maybe not...
This symbolizes something more to me. Since I left, everything has changed. I can't for the life of me get to places that I had easily driven to hundreds of times. The landmarks have changed. The roads have changed. If I didn't have GPS I would spend more time that I already do lost. There are no Lawson's on every corner to serve as markers.
Even though my city has changed, I'm still happy to be in it. I came home to make Cleveland a better place.
Happy new year everyone or in the immortal words of my cousin, QISmaS DatIvjaj 'ej DIS chu' DatIvjaj (for the non-Klingon speakers, that is Merry Christmas and Happy New Year)!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
In the past days, everyone has shared these fantastic memories of chance encounters with the Cleveland Indians legend. Almost every Cleveland fan has something signed by him (personally, I have a photo and a ball from Spring Training) in their collection.
Some people said he was gruff or grumpy. I say he was Cleveland.
As a graduate student at Iowa State University, the best part of those two years was an hour side trip that my dad and I made to Van Meter, Iowa to see the Bob Feller Museum. I'm sad to say that this was in the age before digital cameras. If you wanted pictures, you still had to use *shudder* film. Some of you may not remember these days, but you had to buy film, which was expensive and then process it, which was more expensive...and then, the HORROR *wait* for the pictures to be developed. The most difficult part of these days was the dreaded conversation that you would have to hold with people, "I'm sorry, but I only have one picture left, so would you please step aside?" But of course, there was always the joy of the extra picture or two on the roll. There were few greater joys of getting one over on Kodak than the 26 pictures on the film roll of 24.
Ahem...back to the story....
If you have never been to Van Meter, it is nothing more than a blip on the highway. The city is under one square mile. Under. One. Square. Mile. If I remember correctly, there were four stop signs in town. One on each corner.
When we got into town, I saw families hanging their wash from lines in the yards. Just this little neighborhood and then this red clay building that looked more out of place than anything I have ever seen before in my life.
|AP Photo of the flags at half mast for Feller's passing.|
The visit reminded me of my childhood, going to museums of all sorts with my dad. The fact that Feller left his fantastic career to serve his country and then...come back? Amazing. Imagine what would have happened if he didn't enlist and instead played baseball for those 4 years.
The last time I saw Bob Feller in person was the inaugural season of Spring Training in Goodyear, AZ. I happily paid $10 for him to autograph my Spring Training ball. My friends laughed and mocked that I paid for the autograph, but I was happy as can be.
Last year, Bob didn't make it to the park when I was in Arizona. I don't remember if it was due to his flight or if he was ill.
I just thought he would be there next year.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
It's ginormous. Gigantic. Huge.
And there are multiple lots. And then there is the Pit, which is an entirely different lot and subculture that we won't go into here. Let's just agree that Browns fans take their team, the game and tailgating seriously.
A few weeks ago, I got up at 4:30 am to get ready to go on another adventure in the Muni Lot. These people are *serious*. Did I mention that?
I'm fortunate enough to have friends that are what I like to call "tailgating professionals" to hang out with. These folks have food, drinks, a tent, chairs, extra gloves and 5 hour energy shots for those that need them. They even have a potty tent. *That* my friends, is serious.
We left at 5:30 am to get in line to get in the lot. We had to wait in line to get into a parking lot at 5:30 am. As you can see from the photo, we weren't the first in line, but we were in decent shape. You don't want to get stuck too far back in the lots because the walk back from the Stadium can be painfully long. Especially around 4 pm, almost 12 hours later for those of you counting.
The view from our parking spot is amazing. Looking ahead and being able to see the Rock Hall and Browns Stadium is a great thing. The view is about as Cleveland as you can get. The air was filled with the smell of tasty meals simmering and grilling. While our tent had a grill and a toaster oven thing, some spots even had flat top griddles (which made yummy egg sandwiches). I didn't see much haute cuisine, but I certainly didn't see anything to complain about.
It was about this time I had to pee.
My friends have a set up a pee tent. A pee pee tee pee if you will. Previously, in the tent, it was a bucket that you did your business in and then dumped out. Eww. I'm sorry, but all I could think of is we are in 20th century America and I am not chucking the contents of my chamber pot into the street. OK, OK...honestly, I'm not very coordinated and all I could picture is me falling over in the pee tent and dumping the contents of the bucket all over and the tent toppling and me...me giving the lot and the highway a show.
After nixing the tent idea, I went to find a porta potty with a short line. I finally found one and a bit of ugliness followed. I was inside, carefully trying not to touch anything and desperately struggling to make sure my scarf didn't touch anything when it happened. I was in a scene out of one of those bad teen movies. All of a sudden... BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Someone was kicking the heck out of the porta potty that I was in, all with me being in a bit of a compromising position.
Visions of Jackass danced through my head. What was going on and oh my God is this thing going to tip over and cover me with its contents?
Suffice to say, when I gathered myself together and opened the door, I wasn't happy. I was honked off. The guy standing in line was in my direct sight. As I marched up to him, he started waving his hands, "It wasn't me! It wasn't me! It was that guy" and he pointed to a rather large Bluto looking fellow. If I had to guess on who would have thrown a car battery onto the court at LeBron given the chance, it would be this guy.
I was not happy.
I went directly up to him, toe to toe and asked him what his problem was. Oh, yes I did. The smartest thing I've ever done? Not even close. But I was upset. I almost wore poo people. Our conversation was about as far from civil that you could come. He was screaming, rude, vulgar and as his friend said, giggling, he was drunk.
Let's take a little timeout for a second. I've been a bartender off and on for over 10 years. This guy may have been drinking, but he was hammered like Mel Gibson was on his rant. He wasn't drunk enough to be that much of a jerk.
There are very few things that I know for certain; if there is a crack in the sidewalk I will trip on it, winters in Cleveland are cold, birds chirp and if I had been that guy in front of my friends, it would have been a different situation. I can bet that they would not stopped me from yelling and screaming that way, especially in front of *my* child. They would have apologized to the person I tried to tip over and would have let me have it later on.
Back to the story...
As we are "conversing loudly" I looked over and saw a boy, maybe 10, watching and laughing at Bluto. I put my hands up to him in surrender, muttering something about Father of the Year and left the situation. I was dumbfounded that there was a child there...exposed to all of that.
Kids do not belong in the Muni Lot.
Let me repeat, kids do *not* belong in the Muni Lot.
This was something I saw over and over. The worst part of it was that these kids were not with responsible parents, in my humble opinion. There may have been some, but none in my view. We had Bluto and his son, and there were even children jumping into beer pong games. They weren't drinking, but they thought it was great fun to try and get the ping pong ball into the cup. Just wrong. Wrongity wrong wrong wrong.
Jumps off my soapbox
With the exception of Bluto the porta potty kicker, everyone I met was fantastic. Were they drinking? Sure. Was it rowdy? Absolutely. Look people, you don't go to the Muni Lot for tea and scones. There are adult beverages freely flowing and nachos everywhere.There has been quite a bit made lately of opposing fans getting hassled in the lots by Browns fans. Does this happen? Absolutely. If you wear an opposing jersey, I will boo you. I won't hurt you or throw my beverage at you, but I will boo you. But if you say, "Hey, I'm from New York" and you are a Jets fans, you will get less grief. If you wear a Jets jersey and you are from Shaker Heights, you get what you get. This is happening at stadiums all over the country. If you can't take the boos, wear something else.
I fully support razzing and booing, but I do not support tackling and throwing peanuts.
Walking around the lot is fun. I love the creativity of the remodels of buses, vans, RVs, cars.
Among the party people, the ones that stand out most to me are what I call the Four Loko kids. At one time they were the Braylon Bunch but now they are just the Browns Bunch (which is just as well). They have the blaring DJ and microphone heckling anyone trying to maneuver with their car through the lot after 9 or so. I saw quite a bit of that and it must require nerves of steel. Trying to drive your car through throngs of people and corn hole games.
The kids have games and a massive spider looking beer bong. Actually, when I saw that, I realized how old I truly am. There was a day where that would have been fun. Now I just wonder how they clean it and how many people have put their lips around the tubes before me *shudders*.
Lose and you have to do push ups, as a friend soon found out.
As game time approached, people started giving away their last booze remnants, all the less that they would have to take home. People drinking that last beer before you leave the safety of the lot and have to pay $7 for a beer in the Stadium.
Finally, the long walk to the stadium began with chants and cheers. Signs raised high into the air. Lots of Peyton Hillis signs.
All in all it was a great day. Few things are better than spending time with good friends and catching a Browns game in person, as opposed to a sports bar with the sound on another game.
It's safe to say that I'm happy in Cleveland.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
After watching LeBron James almost destroy the Cavaliers almost entirely on his own, I thought I should wait before I blogged. You have to understand, I was angry. Very. So, I waited.
I am still angry. I'm angry about a lot of things right now. I'm angry that the media wanted the City of Cleveland to implode and the National Guard to be called in. I'm angry that LeBron bopped his head to the "Akron Hates You" chant. I'm angry Anderson Varejao hugged LeBron before the game.
I'm angry that the Cavaliers gave up, rolled over on their backs and let the Miami Heat drive a bus over them. The level of disrespect that the Cavaliers players welcomed from LeBron was something I have never before seen. Maybe they were afraid they weren't going to get invited to a party. It was like LeBron and his posse trudged their muddy boots across your new white carpet and stood in front of the TV with 10 seconds left in a playoff game.
I'm angry that a lot of the things that I am angry about aren't even LeBron's fault. He was just the final piece in a sad, painful puzzle.
I'm angry that people from Cleveland don't understand.
I'm angry at myself for expecting them to.
It would be cliche to say, "It's a Cleveland thing, you wouldn't understand" even if it is true.
I grew up in the suburbs, but always said, "I'm from Cleveland." I have never seen a Cleveland championship in my lifetime, but I have always been a Cleveland sports fan. That's just the way it is.
Growing up in Cleveland, everyone clung to our sports teams to show the world what we are. The days of Eliot Ness and being home of so many firsts were long gone. For awhile, we had WMMS and the distinction of being the Rolling Stone Reader's pole #1 radio station, but that was about it.
Many of my fondest childhood memories were based around Cleveland sports.
My elementary school had Kardiac Kids t-shirts made with our school name on the back (all of the schools in the district had them). I remember running home with the order form *begging* my parents for one.
I had never been to a Browns game, but I always watched them with the family all around. Like other kids throughout the city, my dad made sure I knew what the calls were, what the penalties were. We talked about the plays. I remember having a huge crush on Brian Sipe and my heart sinking when Ernest Byner dropped that ball.
"The Drive," "The Fumble"and "Red Right 88" were added to the list of Cleveland sports disasters.
There were a few Cavaliers games that I went to when I was little. Sitting in the rafters at Richfield Coliseum to see my favorite, Bingo Smith play. In fact, I had a t-shirt with the old logo, that always made me think of the 3 Musketeers, one of my favorite cartoons at the time. "All for one, one for all!" was the motto.
Much later came "The Shot" and the Cavaliers adding to the Cleveland sports misery.
My favorite part of summer though, and still is, was going downtown with my dad to Indians games. We were terrible, but I didn't care. I won my first bike at a game, a powder blue Huffy 10 speed with a denim seat.
|Painting by Bruce McCombs, http://www.bonfoey.com/McCombs.html|
A couple of times a season, my dad would spring for reserved tickets, and those were great days. The stadium would be mostly empty and he would tell me to sit wherever I wanted. I was always adamant that we sat in our seats, so he would ask me our seat number, which I would read off, "Seat 5," I told him once. He said, "Well, go find a seat 5." I would run up and down the rows, through out the sections looking for the best seat 5.
I always would ask my dad how I could get the tom-tom guy's job. I thought that was the best job in the world. He got to go to every game and get people fired up. How much cooler could the world of work get? It took well into my adulthood before I realized, that John Adams was the "tom-tom" guy, and that wasn't his job. He was a fan. Amazing.
As an adult, I remember seeing grown men shed a tear as the old stadium was torn down and they took little bits of rubble home as a memento from a time long past.
That is one thing that we, as a city placed on LeBron James. We took all of the Cleveland Sports Misery reel and put it on the shoulders of a high school kid out of Akron. Here was this kid...one of our own, a hometown guy that could make a difference.
We gave him names like "The Chosen One." We would later let him call himself the King. King James. We bought it. We loved it. We agreed. We were his loyal subjects.
If you watch the Nike Witness commercial, you can see. The damn thing makes me cry every time. Every. Time.
The people in the commercial weren't actors. They weren't flown in from LA. We were proud of LeBron. He was one of us. He stood to put Cleveland on the map. This was our chance to show the world that we are something. I watched the commercials and swelled with pride. This is Cleveland now.
We had a chance. This guy, full of puff and swagger - and skill - was going to get the city of Cleveland a championship.
All of a sudden, Cleveland games were a sell-out. Cleveland games were the marquee games. When I lived in Indiana, the Cavs games were packed...like the Lakers, the Celtics...championship teams.
I took on the swagger. I had more pride in my city. Sure, our Browns and Indians were terrible, but ... look at the Cavs. Look at LeBron.
We started to see that maybe...just maybe, LeBron wasn't perfect.
Stories would filter out here and there about the antics of him and his "posse" through out the city. Being rude and disrespectful to servers and bartenders (and I am sure if you have ever read my blog you know how I felt about that), ridiculous demands...all mentioned in hushed whispers, behind closed doors.
Outsiders would talk about the monster we were creating, and would be shot down double barrel style by us. How dare you talk about our King like that? You're jealous...a poor sport!
I even called the Papa John's pizza in Indianapolis to give them 9 levels of hell after the t-shirt controversy.
LeBron made his "Decision."
This is where outsiders get the story twisted and can't understand for their lives why we can't "get over it."
I'm not angry about LeBron leaving. OK, that's a lie. I am. But, if he stood before the city and said, " I love you all and thank you, but it is time that I move on..." I would have lived. I would have been angry, but I wouldn't have the urge to burn his jersey.
But LeBron, an Ohioan...I won't even insult him and call him a Clevelander, as someone from the state of Ohio, he had to know that first, nothing good has ever come out of naming a sports "situation." Everything horrible in Cleveland sports has a name.
I don't know what planet that LeBron James lives on that he thought it was in his best interest to give his move a title.
Watching the ESPN debacle, I almost...*almost* felt sorry for him when he made his announcement. If you watch it (and no, I won't link it here), there is that brief moment that he looks like he is going to vomit. LeBron had to have a brief flash of, "Hey, this might not be the best idea."
But then he took his talents to South Beach. Not Miami. South Beach.
And then the stories started trickling out...how he never had a conversation with Joe Tait. Joe Tait. Not even his rookie year?
More stories about his posse and their extravagant demands.
Owner Dan Gilbert's infamous comic sans letter.
What did we do? Was this somehow our fault?
In a word, maybe. I think as fans we put up with LeBron because we wanted to win. We wanted to believe that he was a *good* guy. We wanted to believe that he was one of us.
Sadly, he never thought of us that way. LeBron made comments that growing up, he hated Cleveland.
The Cavaliers allowed James to go to the bench and chit chat. James was comfortable in the most hostile, uncomfortable environment imaginable. Cavs players hugged him before the game. They allowed him to chat the bench up when he was on the court. I know I said that before, but I can't believe they allowed that to happen.
I had dreams after the game of the ball boy giving LeBron a hard shove and to shut up. That guy would never have to pay for another drink in the city of Cleveland for the rest of his life.
The fact that it was the conduct of the players and not some drunken Bluto throwing a car battery onto the court that embarrassed Cleveland makes me angry.
The Cavs have a long way to go to win the support of the fans back...not because they lost, but because they gave up.
Am I still a fan?
Yes. Maybe a little smarter, maybe a little wiser, but I will always be a fan.
I'm from Cleveland.
Friday, November 26, 2010
That was my last day in Indianapolis.
The weeks prior to me moving back to Cleveland are nothing but a hazy blur in steam covered mirror. I was working insane hours that left me no time to properly prepare for a move. I would get up, get dressed, go to work, come home, go to bed.
In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say... I am a procrastinator. Yes, I am standing on top of my coffee table admitting that. LOUDLY. After years of trying to get back to Cleveland, I wasn't ready to believe a move was coming until I got the paperwork declaring, "You are hired!" Over the years there were too many broken promises and almost moves in fits and starts. I wasn't going to pack a thing until I knew for sure.
When I finally had a chance to breathe, my calendar screamed at me that I had one week to move.
In the immortal words of one Miss Liz Lemon, blerg.
Blergity blerg blerg blerg.
My last week of work was spent wrapping up projects and starting new ones (I spent my last day in a department retreat to plan for 2011. Yes, planning for programs that I would not be there to see. But, they paid my check and if that is where they saw my talents best utilized, so be it.) and saying goodbye to friends that I would likely not see for some time, if ever again. That is always the challenge when moving jobs, exaggerated even more if moving out of state...people that you loved to hang out with, chatted with every day were going to disappear. Everyone makes promises to keep in touch, to stay connected. Sadly, that is a rarity. People have the best of intentions but when Jane in Accounting - the one everyone loves to hate, isn't there to bind you together, you lose sight of why you were connected in the first place.
Leaving a job always reminds me of The Breakfast Club. People are friends in a situation, but once the situation changes...
By the time my last day jumped out at me, I was minorly prepared. I had packed all that I could into my car and I was going to deal with the rest later. For some reason a little nagging voice in my head poked at me..."where is your car title?" The history on that is for some reason, the Indiana BMV could not for the life of them figure out how to take a lien off of my car. My car has been paid off for years now and over those years I have sent 3 different letters from the bank declaring the car mine. All mine. Mine mine mine.
I called the BMV and lo and behold they did not have the lien taken off. Wow. Didn't see that shocker coming.
So, my last day in town, I took a copy of the letter my bank sent me and off to the BMV I went. This was a Saturday, so their hours were short and it was already 9 am. Eeek.
When I arrived at the BMV, the barbed wire around the building should have tipped me off that this was not going to go as planned. I stood patiently in line, checking my twitter and facebook pages and time seemed to fly. I thought to myself that this was going to work out. It was my turn at the counter and I explained that I needed a copy of my car title. I showed my license, my paperwork from the bank, my passport and an electric bill.
And then I asked a silly question.
I asked if she would please send my title to my new address in Ohio. The following is the discussion we had:
Me: Would you please send the title to my new address in Ohio? I'm moving today.
Selma: I need proof of your address.
Me: Proof of my address? But I have everything to verify my identity here...I even brought my electric bill. But I am moving. I'm not there yet, so I have no proof of anything with my new address.
Selma: I need proof of your address. I need to staple a copy of it to this form.
Me: Miss, please, I'm moving out of state. What am I supposed to do? I don't have anything with my new address on it, because as you can see, I am not there yet.
Selma: Well, we can send it to your address in Indiana, but we don't forward car titles.
Me: (vein starting to pop out of my forehead, eyes starting to bulge) So, that really isn't an option is it? What else can I do?
Selma: Well, you can get yorsef to the post office and fill out a change of address form and they will give you paperwork.
Me: (giving her the eye) Are you sure? That doesn't sound right.
Selma: That or we can mail it to your address here.
Me: Thank you for your help.
BMV and it would be OK. There would still be a day to salvage out of this.
For the record, a Saturday at the post office is almost as fun as a Saturday at the BMV. I stood in line again waiting for my chance to explain my situation once again. After running through the whole scenario, the lady told me to fill out my change of address online.
I explained that I had filled one out but the BMV told me to come here and get a date stamped copy of my change of address and I could get my title. The woman looked at me and said, "yeah, umm, no." I took several deep cleansing breaths and asked to see a manager.
The manager looked at me and said, "we don't do that here." I begged and pleaded to the stone faced woman. No luck. She was incredibly helpful in informing me that proof of a change of address was sent to my new address. Through my gritted teeth, I asked her how that could possibly help me now. She smiled at me sweetly and said, "We can't do anything for you."
Once again, I walked out of a building muttering and mumbling to myself. It was sad, but that was the moment that I realized that customer service is truly dead.
And then...it hit me. I filled out my change of address online, so I had received a confirmation via email. Yayy! I was going to conquer this ball of red tape. So I hoped back in my car and went off to a Kinko's. I was too far from home to use my printer and time was ticking. Tick tick tick. I ran into Kinko's, got online, printed out my email and dashed out of the building to another BMV.
The wait time at BMV #2 was 12 minutes. Great. I could be in and out and home by noon. I arrived to see that I was the 45th person in line. 45. I counted. Fortyfriggityfifth.
When it was my turn to tell my tale to the intake clerk, the office had closed and they had locked the door. The woman looked at me and started to say something to the effect of "I don't know if we can do that" when I held my hand up to her. Exasperated at this point I said, "Please, just push me through to talk to someone. I'm having a bad day here." Her response - "Yeah, sounds like you have got a bit of a run around today."
More mumbling and grumbling on my part as I walked over to the waiting chairs. Turns out that the wait time doesn't start until you check in, something I call shenanigans on.
My name is called and I shuffle over to the desk, tired, hungry, cranky and desperately needing to pee. I explain everything once again and hand the woman all of my paperwork, including the postal change of address verification form. The woman, we'll call her Patty, babbles on and on about whatever as she hands my paperwork back to me. I tell her my new address and push the papers back to Patty. Looking at me, Patty pushes them back and tells me it is $6.
I nod, get out my money and hand her the papers again. Patty then informs me, "hey hun, I don't need those." Something in my brain snapped and I asked to see a manager. This has upset Patty because she gets snippy with me and says, "I thought I was pretty awesome."
More grumbling and muttering on my part. I explain the whole deal that the first woman told me, that she needed the paperwork to attach to the form. Patty chuckles and says, "Oh no hun, see there is a section here to send the title to a special address." Groaning I explain the situation to the manager where he tells me, "Yea, you got some bad info there."
I nodded and thanked them for their help, trying to leave before my head exploded to make the place look like a crime scene.
Needless to say, I'm happy in Cleveland.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
I apologize for my lack of updates, but things have been a bit hectic as of late. I promise to get back on the blogging roll. Some upcoming blogs include my last day in Indiana, my first day of work and why I agree with Chef Scott Condant and his hatred of red onions. But that will all come soon.
When I was little, my mom used to try and get us to go around the table and say what we were thankful for. She would always some heartfelt statement that she would share with a little tear. We all would say things like, "I'm thankful we have pie" or the ever popular "I'm thankful you didn't burn the turkey."
So, in honor of my mom, here are the top things I am thankful for right now, in no particular order.
Cake Wrecks, Awkward Family Photos, Passive Aggressive Notes, FML, Post Secret, People of Walmart, and of course, Cyanide and Happiness.
Friends. I am so incredibly, mushily grateful to be back around my friends. I've missed being around my friends - in person - for years. But all that time, I knew that they were there for me and supported me, no matter what situation I found myself in. Whether it is taking me to a Browns game (yayy) or coming to my my folks house to work on my car, I am appreciative.
guy. But for the most part you are a Cleveland fan because you were born here and it is your team. You go to games or watch them on TV with your mom and dad, maybe grandparents...listening to stories of the last championship (1964). Families bonding over the hatred of evil Art Modell or singing Bernie Bernie. I will always be a Cleveland fan. Always.
Thank you all for reading my blog and I hope that throughout the year(s) I will continue to entertain you.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
|very end, Edward Norton turns to Helena Bonham Carter and tells her that she has met him at a very strange point in his life.|
That is an incredibly accurate statement regarding my life right now. Before anyone panics, I don't have minions of mayhem and I'm not blowing anything up. But, things are strange for me right now.
So many things that I have been hoping for are happening...some at the wrong time.
With my online moniker of ClevelandChick, it isn't hard to catch on that I love Cleveland. I was born there and it is quite simply home. And finally, after years of trying, I am heading home. Finally, a job opened up and I am headed to live at my parents' house. And yes, before you even ask, I will be living in my old room. I think I still even have some comic books stashed in the closet.
It is going to be strange for awhile. No longer will I be known as "that Cleveland chick." Here in Indianapolis, I am know in several local watering holes as that. I come in like clockwork whenever there is a Cleveland game and I end up being known as the Cleveland chick or the Cleveland lady, although I always felt calling me lady made me seem older.
Somethings here in Indianapolis have finally started to fall into place, but sadly, too late. I miss Cleveland and I can't wait to return to the land of Marc's and Stadium Mustard. I'm sad to say good bye to my life and friends here, but it is time to move on and go home.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
This is going to be one of those posts that will make perfect sense to some and others will be like whoa, I had no idea.
How many times have you gone to a concert, sporting event or even Mickey D's and asked for an extra cup only to be given a mumbled denial or a flat out no? I remember many times as a kid watching my mom argue with the person behind the counter for a larger cup for water or a cup to split a soda. As much as she begged and pleaded and shared with the cashier how stupid their rule was, she never got anyone to budge. Well, at least the cashier never budged. Eventually a manager would either be incredibly rude or give her a cup because my mom had become the rude one.
Over the years, I came to understand the situation - the situation of cups, not the Situation of the Jersey Shore. That is a whole different post. Here's the deal...when you go out to one of these places that serve drinks in plastic cups, that cup is what is called a chargeable. That means there is a dollar value assigned to that cup. If you have 50 cups in front of you and each one is used for a $10 drink, you now have 500 bucks in front of you. If I am bartending and lose 10 of those cups and I don't account for them somehow (showing the boss man that they were cracked or otherwise unusable) I am short $100. Ouch.
If you think about it, the soda or beer you buy at a game or concert come out of boxes or kegs, so there is no real way to tell how many drinks were poured. There are contraptions that can weigh kegs and give estimates as to how much was used, but nothing is exact. As far as cocktails, you can look at a bottle and estimate how many shots were poured, but it is impossible to know for sure how many shots of Crown you used.
Now to make it all the more complicated, there are usually cups around (mostly for bottled beer) that are not chargeable, because you count the bottle of beer, not the cup. So, if you are not thoroughly confused yet, now think about all the cups. As a bartender at NFL games, I have cups for bottled beer, wine, shots, cocktails, 3 or 4 specialty cups, large sodas, small sodas and a partridge in a pear tree.
People at games will ask me for an extra cup to put their 2 cocktails in or 2 cups of wine. A totally reasonable request...one that I must deny. One would think that it would be simple. "I'm sorry sir, I can't give out extra cups." But like a game of Jenga, nothing is really ever as simple as it seems. Me denying someone their right to an additional cup pushes some people over the edge, through the valley and down the river. I have had people threaten, yell, scream, beg, plead and my personal favorite - steal the cups.
Yes, steal the cup. Let that sink in for a second.
Since this isn't my first rodeo, I flank my "expensive" cups with the "freebie" cups. If one of the freebies get stolen, no biggie. If the $10 cup gets yoinked, we now have a problem. Each week, I explain to the same people that I can not give them a cup. I apologize. I rationalize. I agree. If none of those tactics work, I tell people that truth. This year, we were given the smack down. If we are caught giving out cups, we can be fired on the spot. Adios. It amazes me that when I use that as my last card, that I will be fired if I give out cups, people still want them. People babble on about how I won't get caught or my personal favorite - I'll leave you a big tip.
Here is a little secret, if you tell a server or bartender that you are going to leave a big tip you are automatically categorized as a jerk. Actually, most bartenders will call you something other than a jerk, but jerk will work for here.
This Sunday, when I set up my bar and rows and rows of plastic cups, I'll search the crowd for the lady that always order 2 chardonnays at a time and plead for an extra cup, trying her best to see if this will be the day that she breaks me...and I give her an extra cup.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Everyone has a 9/11 story. Where they were, what they remember, forever singed in their brain. I was at home watching the Today Show. In fact, I was supposed to be on a plane to DC, but changed my flight to 9/12 a few days before. I watched with horror unfold as narrated by Matt Lauer and Katie Coric announcing to the world an "accident" of one plane crashing into the World Trade Center...and then a second plane. The day started out as what was thought to be a terrible accident and ended in an act of war. However, I neglected to tell my parents in Cleveland that my flight was changed. I had a horrible phone call with my mom, her voice alternating between relief and anger ... and fear.
A week or so after 9/11, Americans were still not flying. Not traveling. Even though planes and transportation was starting to move again, people were not. A few weeks later, it was more of the same. People were still staying put, in shock of what had happened and how easily it occurred.
I was online and I was offered an amazing deal...6 days and 5 nights in Las Vegas at the MGM Grand for under $250. Basically for the cost of a cheap flight I had a free room for a week. My friends and I thought we would get the economy going again and spend the Thanksgiving holiday in Vegas, or as my mom refers to it - the holiday I didn't come home.
When my friends and I arrived, the first thing I noticed as how quiet it was. McCarran International Airport was a ghost town. There was no hustle. No bustle. Walking through the casino, there were no cheers from a jackpot or blackjack. The craps tables were silent.
The workers everywhere from the small shops to the dealers all showed their concern. The Vegas strip is usually full of people laughing and joking. Instead it was filled with emptiness. People would excitedly chat with us, and then go back to looking desperately for the crowd that wasn't coming.
As we walked down the strip, something was happening in front of the New York New York Casino. Firefighters and police officers from all over the world were leaving notes and their t-shirts in front of the NY cityscape. There were candles burning, letters to lost friends. I have never witnessed anything like it. My friends and I walked through in silence, trying to read everything...sometimes pointing something out. Men and women were openly crying, I know I had tears streaming down my face the entire time.
Since then, the casino has archived everything that was left behind and created a Hero's Tribute, rotating the items through their display like a museum. In the years since, I have returned to Vegas. I have even been to the Casino, but somehow, I haven't been able to look at the Tribute. Now, the items are in shadowbox cases, a few at a time, capturing a moment. A moment that I was there for...one that I don't need to see again.