huck

Forget all the negativity you’ve heard about “The Mistake On the Lake” or the defamatory mythos including a certain river on fire because of the amount of industrial waste polluting it.  It’s all B.S., folks.  Things are great in Cleveland.

My friends Cory and Kathryn pulled out all the stops for me during my stay, Cleveland-style.  We ate satanically decadent grilled cheese sandwiches at Melt, took a tour of the Cleveland Museum of Art (where Cory works as a curator), ate awesome gyros at the West End Market, and raw fish at Sushi Rock (see :22 in the following video: all spurious lies, by the way).

I topped it off with a look at Bruce Springsteen bric-a-brac in a special exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (where Kathryn works).  Looking good, Cleveland.

After an exhausting high school reunion weekend, I’m ready to cover some ground and put some distance between myself and Texas. Which is not to say that I didn’t have a wonderful time catching up with friends (who looked surprisingly well-put-together after a decade), dancing poorly, and nursing obscenely large–and obscenely expensive–cans of beer. I’m simply exhausted from the unforeseen emotional taxation of departure, batting away the ridiculous and understandable inclination to find an excuse to turn back. Also, it’s been raining everywhere I go non-stop since last Monday. The guy with the gray cloud that follows him around, hovering just above his head, reminding others that he’s upset? That’s me. The grumpy Care Bear with the cloud on his tummy.

My internal discourse is a raucous parliament of conflicting viewpoints; the aisles crowded with speakers scrambling to the podium to further debate the wisdom behind this project, whether castigating or congratulating me for ramming this personal legislation through committee and bringing to the floor. I’m well aware that hitting the road and writing a book is nothing new under the American sun, but I maintain to myself that I have something to add to this long-trodden tradition: a soupçon of recklessness, an earthy, gregarious humor, and–most importantly–the perspective of a human being in the 00s, completely confounded by it all, ready to purposefully lose themselves in order to find themselves–and everybody else. I think we can all agree that every few years, someone needs to self-nominate and hit the asphalt to take the collective temperature for the rest of us. I’d like to be that person this time around. I apply for this position ready to take on all of the responsibilities therein, exhilarated and terrified in equal parts, suffused with the purgatorial hope of our age.

P.S. What constitutes an overpriced coffee shop? How about $4.25 for a small glass of orange juice or $7.95 for a single egg between two slices of bread?

Did I stumble into a Rangers game? An airport terminal?

P.S.S. Pictures and cheer tomorrow. Promise.

For someone as passionate about politics as I am, it’s a bit disingenuous of me to cleave so to my chosen party – the Dems, natch – without ever having given time or money to a campaign. This weekend, I’m doing both: ponying up some fliff and traveling to New Mexico with a bus full of similarly inclined folks where we’ll canvass for the Hopester. Surprisingly, there are no hippies in this caravan, unless they’re disguised – Mission Impossible-style – like earnest soccer moms and grad students.

P.S. Amanda, notice your boy Brandon in the back left.