July 9, 2010

Exactly three month ago, today, on Friday April 9, I had my first date with the ex. We met at The Harp, a lovely Irish pub, located on the edge of Cleveland, looking over the big beautiful Lake Erie. We spent two hours, sitting there, talking, endlessly, until the bartender, at 11:15pm, managing an otherwise empty bar, told us it was closing time.

That night, I left so elated, leaving the parking lot warm in excitement over meeting someone whose intelligence really turned me on. This euphoria even inspired me to, on the drive home on Clifton, upon seeing the newly open Clifton Martini Bar, do a U-turn, pull over, text him and then wait for him to meet me inside, which he shortly did. There we talked about I don’t know what, till 2:45am, before finally saying good-bye for the night.

We were back on Clifton the very next day, first for dinner at Lighthouse and then afterwards at the Starbuck’s near W. 117^th. Somewhere in between The Harp and Lighthouse is also the recently opened Capitol Theater where, over the next month, we saw three movies: “Date Night,” “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “Breaking Upwards,” all of which we mutually enjoyed.

Clifton Avenue has so many memories of our short-lived relationship. Needless to say, driving up and down that wide boulevard stretch, en route to the beautiful highway 2, bordering the Lake, still gives me an aching stomach. Like it is right now, just thinking about it.

Every relationship that makes it beyond the one or two month mark creates a series of memories and, for my generation, many are pop-culture reference – like a certain song two people hear and then smile or nod their heads in unison. Usually for me it is very much about The Song or The Movie or The Television Show. But, this time, in this case, the biggest mnemonic device is a street. Clifton Avenue served as the stage to our relationship and not just because of all the landmarks and venues we enjoyed, but also because I’d take the street to get to Highway 2 to then hop on 90 and then to 77 to get his place, usually Sunday nights. I’d always take 490 to 90 on my drive home the following morning, but to get to HIM, this was my path, my road, my route.

A few days ago I started to realize something about Clifton and all the places on it that began to fall into the “our places” category: these were never our places, they were mine. Because I introduced them to him.

In return, I think about all the places he introduced me to during our time together and not one comes to mind. Sure there was the Friendly’s where, the last time we were there, he told the lady my order because he paid attention and knew. And there was also Applebee’s and a few other chains, deeply engrained in his deep suburbia. There was one ice cream place, where he took me on one of our first dates, where, in a perfect date moment, we sat outside, on one of the benches, and, with an ice cream in one hand and a headphone in one ear, we each listened to Pete Yorn, on my iPhone. It was all very sweet and happy and he dug this artist that he’s never heard of before. Later, I even made him a couple Pete Yorn cds, which he thanked me for, but never reciprocated.

Point is, Clifton, with all its memories, was nothing more than my introductions of a different world to a man who was actually quite content living in his own universe.

Tonight, my friend MJ and I had dinner at the Harp and sat outside, enjoying the warm weather and the gorgeous Cleveland sunset.  To the day and to the date, it is three months from that first encounter. And, today, I claimed The Harp back. Later, I stopped by Starbuck’s and claimed that back. And, on my entire drive down Clifton, I claimed the street back. I actually said it, in my car, “Clifton, I am claiming you back!”

Next time, I hope that a man I will date will introduce me to his favorite new movie theater, to his favorite Irish pub and, most importantly, to his life.

Today, I am reclaiming mine.

“Memory Remaking” is part of series of daily reflections to be included in  “Diary of the Dumped: 30 Days from Break Up to Breakthrough™.” The book is a companion piece to  “The Dating GPS: Guys, Pricks and Sweethearts™” co-authored with Anita Myers.

July 8, 2010

Today, just three short hours ago, on national television, Lebron James publicly broke up with Cleveland and introduced his new girlfriend, Miami.

There’s so much to say here and, given that this feels like my second break up in one short yet eventful week, I hate to say it – but I saw both coming.

I watched most of the final Cavs playoff games with the ex and we were both so frustrated by Lebron giving up and quitting on himself, the team and the city in games 4, 5 and 6 of the Cavs / Celtics series. This was also about the time that the ex became more involved in coaching his daughter’s softball team and less connected to us. Watching all those games, during that time, was like stress added to stress. My stomach double-hurt as my gut, soul, internal spirit, whatever you want call that instinct that rings your sensory antennas full blast, screamed at me: “This man just isn’t all that into it and he’s ready to leave.” At the time, I had little idea that it would be both men – the man who I watched, live, at the arena, and respected for seven seasons and the man with whom I shared my heart and my bed for several months. Both got inside me. Both penetrated the psyche.  Neither wanted to stay.

Today I looked at the ex’s Facebook profile one last time and then hit the “block” button to make it more difficult for me to see what he’s up to. Now, even if I type his name into the search area, it won’t come up. And, in case you care, today he was asking his Facebook friends the details of his 20^th high school reunion. As if to say, “Where else can I meet more women with whom I can have casual relations?”

Today, Lebron James, in sports’ history biggest masturbatory self-indulgence announced that he’s joined the Heat. I didn’t bother to watch the announcement nor the self-involved special preceding it. I was in the car, driving home from a good friend’s house and relied on Facebook to give me the news.

Today, disloyalty hit an all time peak and both men should be happy that Michael Carleone isn’t their brother.  Because, this week, both men pulled a Fredo.

But, not to worry, as my good friend Jessica once wisely told me “Karma is a much bigger bitch than I am.”

After today’s announcement, I posted this next comment:

“When any toxic relationship ends, it opens doors and makes room for something more life-giving and real. Cleveland, you are awesome. Now, focus on yourself.”

Oh, and one more message, one that is my single greatest lesson of the week:

“You learn the true character of a man not on how he starts any relationship, but on how he ends it.”

Good bye, dear men. You have both put me through a very volatile May and June and early July. It’s finally time for me to enjoy the sunshine. Hope your balls keep you warm at night.

“Is Love a Sport?” is part of series of daily reflections to be included in  “Diary of the Dumped: 30 Days from Break Up to Breakthrough™.” The book is a companion piece to  “The Dating GPS: Guys, Pricks and Sweethearts™” co-authored with Anita Myers.

July 4, 2010

Everything changed from the time I arrived in Chicago nine days ago to arriving home in Cleveland today.

Early morning two Fridays ago I was showing off my newly planted garden to my boyfriend Vincent*. On advice of a feng-shui expert and with the guidance of my next-door neighbors, I planted purple and gold flowers in my wealth corner and pink and white ones in my love corner.  Holding hands with Vincent and looking at this beautiful and lovely nature blooming gave me great hope of both my garden and the man grasping my hand.  We kissed each other good-bye in my backyard.

“So, we’ll talk every night,” I repeated our agreed-upon plan.

“Yes,” he replied as we walked past my now-loaded with heavy luggage car and towards his sporty and manly SUV.

After giving our final hugs, he got into his car and drove off while I went back inside the house to take a pre-road trip shower.

Vincent and I just weathered a major storm in our relationship and I was so looking forward to attending my 20-year high school reunion in Chicago, knowing that I had my wonderful man to come back to later. In fact, the night of the reunion, while everyone was genuinely happy to see each other, I escaped to the balcony to quickly call Vince after receiving a text from him.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

I was also looking forward to the second weekend of July. This would be a time where he wouldn’t have all his time dedicated to his important priorities: his kids (3 teenagers) or softball (coaches his younger daughter’s game) or his work pager (which earns him extra money). The second weekend of July was important to me because the 2-month softball season would finally be over. That weekend was going to be our weekend. Our time together. Our staycation. The last time we spent that kind of quality time together was months ago, a few weeks after we met.

To think that it’s all over, no more our, just me – it beguiles me. As this story so-far is being written “Momento”-style, I’ll now flash you back to the beginning.

On Friday, April 9, 2010, I had my first date with Vincent. I met him at The Harp, an old-school Irish pub on Cleveland’s near west side. We communicated via eHarmony and something about our emails conveyed a realized, smart, with-it kind of man. I knew he had three kids and I knew he was a hands-on dad. It’s what made him so attractive to me: a man who sticks to commitments and values real priorities. He had been divorced 10 years, and in that decade, turned his whole life around to be a healthy adult and a good provider for his family.

So when I walked into the Harp, dressed in my best black, complete with my “Matrix”-like long black leather coat, and running fifteen minutes late, I saw him – blue jeans, beige wafer long sleeved shirt and running shoes.  At first I didn’t react. But then, we started to talk. I have no idea what we talked about, but we kept talking. And then I noticed his eyes – piercing blue, like the Mediterranean Sea. I also sensed that despite his frame – he wasn’t much taller than me – he had a very manly presence about him including a firm handshake and a deep voice. Suddenly, I found him sexy.

At 11:15pm, two hours (but what felt like two minutes) later, the bar tender asked for the last call.  We were the only two left in the place.  We headed out, mutually disappointed about the closing time as the conversation was getting deep and good. We said good-bye in the parking lot and both got into our individual cars.

On the drive home, I felt so happy. There were other guys I was going on casual dates with, as recent as five days prior, but as far as I was concerned, I didn’t need to see any of them again. I just wanted to get to know Vincent more. So as I took Clifton Blvd. to my house, I noticed that the new Clifton Martini was open and I made a U-turn, parked next to the curb and texted my new blue-eyed friend, who was heading back to Akron.

“Are you far?” I asked

“No, why?”

“There’s a martini bar that’s open. Would you like to join me?”

“Sure.”

And not even 20 minutes later, he showed up. We called it date 1.2. We talked and talked and talked and then one of us realized it 2:45am.

We got up, said our good-byes, again, and headed outside. I arrived home at 3am, only to get a text from him at 3:15.

“I had a great time. I’d like to see you, again.”

“Ok, when…call me.” I replied.

And he did. We spoke, and the next evening he drove to my place.  We had dinner at The Lighthouse, another fabulous restaurant on Cleveland’s near west side. We agreed to split a steak dinner and a salmon dinner. Though the salmon dinner was bad, the conversation flowed. I told him about all the things you’re not supposed to tell a guy on a second date – what I’m really looking for and how I need a best friend who will support me in my dreams. Given that so many of my friends had just moved away, I finally realized how important it was to meet someone with whom I can trust my dreams with, share my concerns and lean on that person, and have him know that he could lean on me. His reply, looking me straight in the eye with those blue eyes of his was “Absolutely.”

After dinner, we got a couple of hot chocolates at the Clifton Starbuck’s and then came to my house, where we ended up watching “The Rocker,” which is, ironically, about Cleveland. We both cracked up the whole time. At a certain point, I took his hand. He then squeezed mine. Eventually, we kissed and the chemistry was off the charts.

For the next four weeks, we spent so much time together – quality time. It literally didn’t matter what we did, so whether it was elevating our blood pressure watching the Cavs in the playoffs, laughing at stupid jokes or being engrossed in a 2 ½ hour European film with subtitles (“The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” after which we stayed up another 2 ½ hours discussing the story,) whatever Vincent and I did, we simply enjoyed each other’s company. He’d cook for me, I’d cook for him.  I’d ask him about his work and his kids and he’d offer wise advice for my business. He loved that I was a writer and kept reminding me of how cool that was.

I felt such a strong emotional, intellectual and physical connection with him and he did the same with me. He’d call me every night, just to tell me how, in previous relationships he’d want to run, but with me, it was easy to be together and how natural and fun and good everything feels. Every weeknight, it was 2am before we’d realize how late it’d gotten.

After one that one month, we had the exclusivity conversation and considered each other boyfriend / girlfriend.

I remember that he shared some critical information upfront, like “I wish I’d met you after softball.” I didn’t really understand it. Never dated a softball player or coach.

The Friday before Mother’s Day weekend, he came over since the following afternoon I was preoccupied picking my Mom up from the airport who was staying at my place for the weekend. (Given we only dated for a month, neither of us found it appropriate to divulge our relationship to our parents.) We were watching tv in my basement and suddenly, it felt like machine guns were attacking my roof – and then there was a blackout.  A severe storm was in the area. Instead of panic or concern we just smiled naughtily, grabbed some candles, went upstairs and took advantage of the weather.

Who knew that the storm served as our relationship metaphor for the next two months?

Softball then began, and with it, nightly practices and weekend games. He’s the head coach of his daughter’s team and since it was way inappropriate for me to meet the kids, I could never physically be there to show support. We still saw each other, but each time we did, Vincent was more and more tired and I suddenly felt emotionally disconnected from him. About two weeks later he texted me and broke off plans. First time that ever happened. His reason: everything was getting to him and he couldn’t do this unless it was a “weekend” relationship.

The night he broke off plans, by chance, while flipping channels, I caught one of Wayne Dyer’s specials where he discusses “the full cup” as a metaphor for the priorities of our lives. This resonated. This was Vincent’s life. A cup already full before my arrival.

Later, I prayed to G-d, asking me to handle this situation with peace, kindness and, most importantly, self-respect. I had recently worked through some major life-long anger issues and this was my first test of reaction to an unpleasant situation. And then Vince called. I was convinced he’d wanted to break up, and never having handled break ups well before, I needed to show strength and honesty.

So we talked, and we talked, and we talked. And I shared the full cup theory I just learned, then I asked him why was he getting in his own way, given that, on our first date he told me about his three big-life dreams (which also turned out to be mine): fiscal security, having a place in the south and finding a special person to enjoy all this with. He admitted, “You’re right, I am getting in my own way.” Suddenly, he calmed down, and I felt reconnected with him.

“Listen Vincent, what we have is special.”

“It is, Alex, this is why all of this is so hard. You don’t think I realize our connection?”

“So I can wait through softball. It’s just over a month.”

And so we agreed. We had a plan: dates on Thursdays and Sundays, weekends when possible and I asked him about two specific June dates when I wanted to be with him. Also, we’d talk every night, but from 11 to 12, which seemed reasonable to me.

Every night, true to his word, he called and we spent most of those nights discussing softball. As someone who has almost never played the game, I felt I could coach it after the eight-week, play-by-play I got from Vince every night. But we also talked about my work, my writing and one night, at his place, I even read one of my published stories to him, which he really enjoyed.

As happy as I was to work out a plan and spend some time with him, I could still tell he was pulling back. How? Normal actions faded. My emails would go unanswered. Sometimes so would my texts. Exhaustion substituted casualness and the joy was gone.

A few weeks later I felt ready to break up with him. I needed more. The way things were going, I was beginning to lose that lovin’ feeling. He called one night and I asked “Are you happy?” And he, being smart, stayed up till 2am that night convincing me to stay, to be patient, not to run, and to be there when the season was over. He liked me so much and he’s trying so hard. And how he’s willing to stay up all night to have this conversation, because it’s important. I gave in.

He did show up for the two dates in June, meeting my childhood friends from Chicago and, for the first time, my local friends here in Cleveland. When I thanked him, he said “I wanted to be there. I’m glad I was there.”

By the time Thursday before my trip to Chicago rolled around, we agreed upon seeing each other on July 4^th after my return, and spending the following weekend going to the movies, out to dinner, to a local art gallery and other fun events in town. We were looking forward to being together and sleeping in late.

He called or texted me every night I was in Chicago and one night I called him as he fell asleep. On Thursday night, one week after we saw each other and only three days before I’d be returning home, he motioned that he’d be going out with his work friends, something he’d never done since we met. He was very defensive about not drinking, even though I never once commented on his drinking since I’ve only seen him consume alcohol twice in the nearly three months we were together. Something about the defensive tone of his story made me queasy. “Tell you what,” I said, “since you’ll be out with your friends and I’ll be downtown with mine and it’ll be Friday night, why don’t we skip the Friday night talk as we’ll talk Saturday and see each other Sunday?”

“No, no, at the latest I’ll be home by 11 and I want to talk to you.” That was the last time we spoke.

When there was no call on Friday night, I started to have an upset stomach. No call Saturday morning, and I couldn’t eat a thing. And no reply to my calls. I had to lie down. Three different people comforted me saying, “Oh, he probably just went out drinking with his friends, had too much and is recovering.”

But I knew better. I knew him. I knew I should have called things off three weeks ago, when my soul needed more. I left him a voicemail “Whatever it is, I can take it. Do the right thing here.”

On Sunday morning, my sis and her awesome boyfriend walked me out the door and he then helped me pack my car. I prayed to G-d for one thing: “Please let my stomach be ok and let me get home safely to Cleveland. Whatever is the news from Vince, I don’t want to hear from him until I get home safely. Please don’t have him call me while I’m in the car.”

I did get home swiftly and safely, and the traffic, road, weather and cop gods were with me. I sent Vince a brief text after I got back and unpacked my car. “I’m home. What’s the plan?” A bit later he sent me the following email (verbatim):

Alex,

Sent from my Verizon Wireless Phone

When I replied asking him to call me back, he wouldn’t. I later contacted Anita in Chicago so she had an idea what kind of mood she’d have to deal with for the next few days. Her response: capture the moment and the emotion, while you’re in it. It’s 1:37 am and I am typing this fresh, and raw per Anita’s suggestion. Capturing the moment and the emotion. How do I feel? Let’s see: my stomach churns up and my head expounds heat every time I think about what could have taken place on Friday.  That he may have hooked up with someone else. I think that someone else is now benefiting from his free schedule, specifically the second weekend of July that I waited for and, in my own emotional bank, felt I earned and deserved.

And still, though he didn’t respond to my request to talk about his phone generated e-mail break up, I did send him a very polite reply. It was the kind that took every ounce of strength to withhold the unkindness that wanted to spew out of me toward him. But I wasn’t that woman anymore. What I did, instead, was ask him to not put another woman through something similar.

I logged onto the starting point of our relationship, eHarmony. I reread his profile today and saw that he’d made a critical change to it at some point during our relationship – removing the “wanting to integrate that special woman into my life” and replacing it with “wanting to have fun.” I hated to read that. I also hate that after three months of refusing to friend me on Facebook, since he “never goes on it,” I saw today that he accepted a dozen new friends, men and women. I hate knowing that one day he’s going to use the “Sexy Mothah F***er” mix cd that I made especially for us, and our intimacy, on someone else. I hate that every time I drive on Clifton and pass that stupid Martini bar, I’ll think of that amazing first date. I hate that there’s so many damn Pavlovian reminders of all our dates, because we covered so much in such a short time frame, because it all felt so amazing. I hate that sometime this week I’m going to have to go to Barnes & Noble at Crocker Park and return his birthday gift, a large coffee table book of Italy that I got him while in Chicago – because he is Sicilian and always talked about going there one day. I hate being in this place, this post break-up place where I’m the dumpee and not the dumper. I hate that I didn’t trust myself to have walked out of this relationship a month ago.

I don’t regret this relationship and I certainly don’t think he’s an a**hole. The way he handled the break up, yes, but not his entire character.  I once asked him why he even bothered to join eHarmony if he doesn’t have time to date and he then replied, “Because I just wanted to meet women and date casually, but you were the first one I met and we clicked so well together.”

I know in my heart that he did me a favor by calling things off after three months vs. three years. I know that I gave it my all in this relationship. I also know three additional things that will have to keep me warm when I go to bed tonight: 1. My instinct is always right. 2. Relationships are work, but to be this complicated, this early, is a warning sign. 3. The man who will value me – beyond the initial month and for a lifetime – exists, and, if hasn’t already, is making the room in his life for that special woman.

In my head I know all these things, but my heart right now needs tending to. It’s ironic that all this occurred on the 4^th of July.

Perhaps it is all a gift.

Perhaps Independence Day isn’t about the fireworks of life, but about the battles we face for our soul’s freedom.

“Independence Day” is part of a series of stories to be featured in “The Dating GPS: Guys, Pricks and Sweethearts™” co-authored with Anita Myers. It is also the starting point of “Diary of the Dumped: 30 Days from Break Up to Breakthrough™.”

By Ben Lieblich and Alex Sukhoy

Films of the period reflected the ethos. Whether it was a family at first divided by rock and roll and then redeemed by it (“Light of Day”), or a baseball team in which players subsumed their individual goals for the good of the franchise (“Major League” and “Major League II”), the depiction was of flawed but proud people who would do whatever it took to overcome a challenge. The same could almost be said of “Howard the Duck,” except that, in that particular special effects vehicle, one extraterrestrial duck teamed with the scrappy Clevelanders to save the world. We choose to overlook this technicality.

While Cleveland was enjoying its role as underdog in the movies, Woody Allen was busy perfecting his portrayal of New Yorkers as the most dysfunctional people on the planet. In 1977, the director, whose oevre to date had encompassed only the supremely ridiculous, released a romantic comedy built around Groucho Marx’s comment, “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.” “Annie Hall,” based loosely on the real-life relationship between its stars, managed a delicate balance between wistfulness and hilarity. It won the Academy Award for best picture, and Allen scooped up Oscars for writing and directing. He spent the next twenty-five years making movies set in New York, featuring family meltdown, compulsive adultery, narcissism, Oedipal relationships, and criminals both bungling and lethally competent. Dysfunction was the recurring animating principal of Allen’s characters. And when the audience watched, it accepted these over-intellectualizing, infantile, id-driven people as an integral component of the New York landscape, as if the city’s drinking water had poisoned Manhattanites into rejecting rational perspective.

But something funny happened at the turn of the millennium. Whether because of New York’s economic revival, the September 11 attacks, or a culture in which Donald Trump trounces “Ugly Betty” in the ratings, Woody Allen came to realize that the dysfunctional New Yorker stereotype had run its course. Thus, during the last several years, his career has drawn new breath from films set overseas (“Match Point” and “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”) in which naive, properly functioning Americans are dominated and ruined by egomaniacal Europeans. A gap was created. Where would Americans find a city in which dysfunction could be accepted as elemental? Out of nowhere, Cleveland rushed to fill the void.

Much as “Annie Hall” heralded an era of dysfunctional New Yorkers on film, “American Splendor,” released in 2003, appears to have done the same for Clevelanders. The films are similar in both theme and narrative structure. Both feature anti-social protagonists who tell their own stories. Both films feature brief animation sequences, portrayals of the central characters by themselves and by actors, and moments in which character is broken and the audience is addressed directly. Everything is done to give viewers a multi-faceted view of two dyspeptic men – Alvy Singer in “Annie Hall” and Harvey Pekar in “American Splendor” – who push people away yet remain lovable while doing so.

“American Splendor” is based on the story of real-life local curmudgeon Harvey Pekar, a misfit everyman who experiences a rush of inspiration while waiting behind an old lady in a cash register line. He conceives of a comic book series in which the central character, Harvey himself, grouses about everyday experiences – like waiting in line behind slow-moving old ladies. Harvey is made rueful and dysfunctional by his outsized reactions to the minor annoyances of everyday life. His genius is that he knows it. The irony of “American Splendor” is that the more splenetic and dysfunctional Harvey becomes, the more comic books he sells. The film shows Cleveland to be dingy, full of greys and browns, and it captures none of the city’s beauty. But Harvey loves it anyway, just as he loves his unkempt, uncool friends. Harvey’s wife, Joyce Brabner, claims, “I find most American cities to be depressing in the same way.” What is special about Harvey is that he finds Cleveland depressing in a unique way, and that is why he clings so tightly to his relationship with his home town.

Over the past ten years or so, a series of films have taken elements from “American Splendor” and examined them from different angles. Anger, madness and violence all crop up in a pair of films that are also drawn from real life. “Antwone Fisher” tells the tale of a compulsively violent sailor who was subjected to physical, emotional and sexual abuse while growing up in Cleveland. “The Soloist” is based on the story of talented musician Nathaniel Ayers, who grew up in a loving home in Cleveland but began a descent toward schizophrenia as a young student at the Juilliard School in New York. In neither film is any line explicitly drawn between Cleveland and dysfunction. But the question must be asked: in each of these movies about redemption, why is the city mentioned at all? It plays no role in the primary narrative. The inclusion of Cleveland in the story line implies that the city is a garden in which the seeds of madness routinely sprout.

Shifting to a lighter tone, the Cleveland genre we most enjoy is the comedy in which characters, like Harvey Pekar, embrace, mock, and wallow in their dysfunction. In “The Oh in Ohio,” released in 2006, Parker Posey plays Priscilla, a woman suffering from sexual dysfunction. The plot is propelled by her quest to receive love, and orgasms, from a man. Drawing on her work in 1995’s “Party Girl” – in which she played a woman breezily indifferent to adult responsibility, and set, of course, in New York – Posey gives us a Priscilla who, rather than finding misery in her situation, sees the humor in it. “The Oh in Ohio” is quite consciously Cleveland-based, with shots from around the city, particularly the Coventry neighborhood. Filmed at night and in the bright sunshine, the city sparkles under both treatments. Of course, this is a metaphor for Priscilla herself, who refuses to let life’s disappointments diminish her joy. Here is a Clevelander redefining what it means to be tough. Directionless, at war with her sexuality, and in a failing marriage, Priscilla is strong enough to smile when she should be crying. Posey and Cleveland each make the most of their roles.

In “The Rocker,” Rainn Wilson, of “The Office,” is Robert “Fish” Fishman, a man haunted, like Harvey Pekar, by what might have been. So haunted is he, in fact, that he refuses to grow up. Expelled from a 1980s glam group just before it hits stardom, Fish waits twenty years before he lands his next gig, as the drummer for his nephew’s high school band. Determined to wring every ounce of pleasure from his second chance at glory, Fish dives from stages, drinks to excess, destroys hotel rooms and refuses to accept any level of adult responsibility. He remains likable only because of his desperate insistence that foolish behavior is the essence of joy. Here, again, a Clevelander is shown whose life is comically sad, and who is in on the joke. The Cleveland shots are drawn to show contrasts. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame – to which Fish aspires – is counterpoised against the real world he inhabits: his sister’s remodeled pre-war house, which appears to be in Tremont or Ohio City, where Fish lives in the further juxtaposed cluttered and un-updated attic. As in “American Splendor” and “The Oh in Ohio,” the setting works as a place where only the tough survive, and where a sense of humor is the measure of toughness.

Cleveland’s own Anthony and Joe Russo wrote and directed “Welcome to Collinwood,” a film set, naturally, in North East Ohio’s neighborhood of the same name. The film’s tag line “Idiots make lousy criminals” establishes the tone and theme of the story, in which an impressive cast – including George Clooney, William H. Macy, Isaiah Washington, Sam Rockwell, Luiz Guzman, Michael Jeter and Patricia Clarkson – behaves in very unimpressive ways. The characters are all down-on-their-luck hooligans in pursuit of one big score (in their parlance, a Bellini), and all they need to pull it off is a fall-guy (a Mullinski) who is even further down the food chain than they are. In one of the most memorable and symbolic scenes, William H. Macy’s character, a pallbearer at his friend’s funeral, carries the coffin with one hand while supporting his baby son with the other: the circle of life complete. None of the characters has any money, direction or hope. This is the greatest dysfunction of all: the sure knowledge that opportunity has passed, and now there is no escape, not from one’s life and definitely not from one’s geography. As the movie title itself implies, like the famous lyric of that great Eagles’ song, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Even on television, the theme of Cleveland as the home of dysfunction plays well. Harvey Pekar’s friend Toby Radloff, described in “American Splendor” as “borderline autistic,” became a minor celebrity when MTV chose him to host spring break from his Cleveland home. While beautiful boys and girls frolicked in the sun in Florida, the unlovely Radloff, a self-professed uber-nerd, narrated the action from beside his plastic above-ground pool 1,200 miles away. By making it unclear whether Radloff was really in on the joke, or whether he was letting MTV pick on him, the producers created compelling television. Toby appeared happy simply to have his fifteen minutes of fame, no matter how he got them. In another story of redemption-by-dysfunction, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, after twenty-five years of snubbing the city that holds its home, in 2009 finally decided that Cleveland was worthy of hosting the Hall’s annual induction ceremony – on a rotating basis. Grateful for recognition, willing to forgive and recognizing that a slice of pie is better than none at all, the city put on a high-production and memorable show as well as accommodating music royalty in Cleveland’s high-end hotels and restaurants.

All of this attention, even if most of it has been tongue-in-cheek, seems to have sparked interest in Cleveland as an entertainment hub. A new generation of home-grown talent is starting to make waves. Consider the Russo brothers, whose NBC television show “Community” is a big hit, or the underground television program “Julio” from Hot Lather Productions. Artists from around the country are discovering a new home in the city. For example, Judah Friedlander (“30 Rock”), the trucker-hat-wearing, go-to actor for socially awkward characters, played Toby Radloff to critical acclaim in “American Splendor” and returns to Cleveland from time to time to visit with Toby and to perform at Hilarities. Jeff Garlin, best known for his work in the dysfunction-centric “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” stole the scenes in “The Rocker” and also returns for standup gigs. Drew Carey, who recently produced a web-based documentary show about Cleveland called “Reason Saves Cleveland with Drew Carey!” returned home at the invitation of Council President Martin Sweeney in order to share his views on transformative initiatives in the city. Even comedy legend Betty White will be starring in a new TV Land sitcom called “Hot in Cleveland.”

Recently, the robust energy of Northeast Ohio has expanded into a new creative arena: food. Specifically, food as entertainment. In 2007, Travel Channel’s “No Reservations” globe-trotting chef Anthony Bourdain dedicated an entire visit to Cleveland and, in one segment, visited the legendary Sokolowski’s with none other than Harvey Pekar. Lakewood’s “Melt” has been profiled in multiple national programs. Of course, Michael Symon’s “Iron Chef” win of three years ago has propelled Cleveland to the forefront the nation’s burgeoning gastronomic movement, currently covered by the American press in magazines, television, newspapers and other media. As any chef worth his name knows, food is drama, and drama makes for excellent story-telling.

The local entertainment movement should continue to build: in 2009, Ohio finally passed a tax incentive for filmmakers that puts it on even footing with other states in competing for Hollywood dollars and, anticipating the demand, local academic institutions such as CSU and Tri-C have expanded the depth and breadth of their media programs, cultivating the skills and talents of future Cleveland filmmakers.

Why would actors like Friedlander and Garlin return to Cleveland? Why would MTV film a Spring Break segment in Cleveland? Why would so many recent movies – even if they are all about dysfunction – have Cleveland settings? And, with all of this positive momentum, what theme will rise to the top during the next ten years? No matter what happens, as even the producers of the “Spider Man” series have figured out, Cleveland, with its vast topography of beautiful water, gritty urbanism and bucolic landscapes, looks great on the big screen. With an industry-connected film commissioner, appropriate financial incentives and solid local talent at all levels, Cleveland is starting to look like a great place to make a movie. It also helps that there’s an unapologetic authenticity to the city’s resilient citizens, who are open about their passions and embrace the hard knocks of life rather than intellectualizing them.

Thus, given that this era could very well be Northeast Ohio’s entertainment Tipping Point of becoming a world-recognized city, can Clevelanders finally let go of the past and embrace a winning attitude? Now that would be functional.

Reprinted with permission and gratitude from CoolCleveland.com

Note: The film images are not Creative Cadence LLC original content.

It all started with a little pill. In 1957, G.D. Searle & Company released Enovid, a medicine that treated menstrual disorders. Shortly thereafter, an epidemic of these disorders broke out as women determined that the drug’s side effect – prevention of pregnancy – might not be so bad. Approved for contraception just as children of the 1946–1964 Baby Boom were coming of age, the Pill gave Baby Boomers a power no prior generation had ever known: the power to control whether to have children, how many to have, and when to have them.

The rest of the story can be found directly on Film Slate Magazine.

With sunshine and warmer temperatures finally here, we’re all slowly crawling out of hibernation mode, where, especially in Northeast Ohio, for months we’ve quietly nestled ourselves, surrounded by creature comforts, including those foods and items that help us cope with the cold, ice and snow. And, now that the birds and sunrise wake us up earlier and earlier each day, and flowers emerge from the once frozen dirt, it’s time to trim the proverbial fat and make room for our own rebirth.

The renewal comes with greater instinct for some, like so many of my ambitious friends who have been running, outside, since February, while a more reluctant process for others. What’s not to love about cozying up with a warm blanket, hot chocolate and a “Law and Order” weekend marathon? For most of us, this transitional season falls somewhere in the middle: we want to make changes, but, more often than not, we’re not sure where to begin, specifically if it means that an unaccomplished goal will only set us backwards and discourage future action.

Luckily, Cleveland fosters an ideal environment for local experts to help us in our journey and, whether the objective is weight loss, confronting some questionable home possessions or simply a clearer state of mind, their wisdom can guide us towards, if nothing else, a fresher state of being.

One of the biggest news stories these days is obesity, both in adults and with children. Causes mostly include too much sedentary time behind computers, video games and televisions and consuming large portions of overly-processed food. Between infomercials, books, magazines, programs, clinics, reality shows and secret miracle drugs, an individual looking for a healthier path for himself or for his family can very easily get overwhelmed and quit before even wanting to start. According to John St. John, Doctor of Chiropractic at Holistic Visionary, “If you can only do one or two things to jump start your health this spring, then replace the bad foods (packaged, processed, chemically fortified) with good, real foods. Eat four to five servings of various in-season vegetables, such as carrots, leafy greens and cruciferous plants – asparagus, broccoli and Brussels spouts, which are all good for the liver – and several servings of fruit per day. An additional big step is to replace sweets with protein, especially in the mornings, which will fuel the body.

Kristine Pagsuyoin, M.E.D., a professional declutter coach about to launch her business Mind, Body and Space agrees. “When thinking about where you want change in your life, start with the room in your house where that change can most likely happen. If you want to drop pounds, begin in your kitchen and throw away all the items that aren’t healthy or are past their expiration date.” Additionally, to help clear the mind, get ready for the process and, to live and breathe better, both St. John and Paysuyoin strongly encourage spending time outside, going for walks and participating in other simple outdoor activity to get the blood flowing, see things in a new way and to feel a renewed sense of energy. Adds St. John, “start with thirty minutes of walking, three days a week. Cardio does wonders for the physique and the psyche.” Most importantly, if you’re part of a full household, get everyone involved – not only will there be a mutual benefit, but it also prevents enablers from pulling you back into your old routines. According to Dr. St. John, “change usually starts with the mom and, (if the child has an issue), nothing will happen unless the mom is on board. The mom has to set the example.” Concurs Pagsuyoin, “Teach your kids to let go of things and to form good habits. Be a good role model to them.”

While purging personal items may sometimes come easily, the most tricky or difficult parting usually occurs with furniture, art or artifacts inherited from dead relatives. According to Deba Gray, owner of Gray’s Auctioneers and Appraisers, the four “big Ds” that drive items to her business are death, debt, divorce and down sizing. “People add an emotional reverence to these things. It’s misplaced grief and that grief, combined with greed, become the gas and fire (to an already tough situation). Often, the items aren’t even being celebrated.”

This brings up the question, “If I own dishes that my great-aunt gifted me as a college graduation present, and she’s been gone for thirty years, are these dishes holy?” Pagsuyoin wisely states, “If you’re honoring these items in a way that shows respect and use, then yes, keep them. But if you think someone else would properly tend to them in a way that the deceased relative would appreciate, then perhaps it’s time to let go and move on.” Gray agrees. “Confronting these items is like scratching a wound. I see children too afraid to let go of their parents’ possessions, thinking they’re worth a lot of money. They may be. They may be worth nothing. But the item itself will often tear a family apart.” She suggests that when families think they no longer have a personal connection with the piece, to call a legitimate auction house to have the item appraised. She also cautions that, since the auction market is unregulated and not an exact science, “no one should ever be charged for such an appraisal.”

Once there’s a spark and inspiration, whether you live in a studio apartment or a three-bedroom house, you may finally feel compelled to make the much needed shifts in your physical space. The four seasons provide a nice, consistent life rhythm and spring is the perfect time to view your home from a new perspective. Serena Harragin, Gray’s partner, advises “With the longer days, use the extended sunlight to really walk your home and see what still fits and what doesn’t. And, if there’s been a winter death in the family, now’s the time (to do this).” The mere act of opening your windows can open your mind and your heart to change.

Still experiencing the hesitation of letting go? Then think about the less fortunate, the people for whom life has dealt a difficult blow. If you’ve had an opportunity to really go through your storage facility, the attic, the garage, the basement, the rooms of kids or parents that are no longer around and had a professional auction appraiser provide fair market value, it may make sense to donate. The City Mission of Cleveland, which just celebrated its 100 year anniversary, takes gently used household necessities and clothes. Additionally, the Mission, with its clients allowed to stay, learn, grow and then reinstate themselves back into society within 180 days, is in desperate need of toiletries. If you have a secret stash of hotel soaps and shampoos, there’s tremendous and genuine demand for people whose dignity depends on these little bottles, otherwise colleting dust, waiting to “someday” be used. Finally, for all the outdated electronics in your home or business, such as computers, printers or back-up drivers, there’s RET3 Job Corp, which will either refurbish the product, reuse a part or recycle the material, and, also, provide a government regulated data cleanse, before sending a working, updated tool as part of its goal of “placing 50,000 computers over the next 5 years in Northeast Ohio’s schools.” In addition to helping others, when you donate, make sure to itemize everything and ask for a receipt, then thank yourself during tax time. The benefit is significant and ongoing.

Regardless of the cleansing goal, the key is start small and stay consistent. Pagsuyoin stresses that clutter is a symptom of trying to fill something that otherwise feels empty. “It could be loneliness, a fear of the future or even a sense of guilt and distrust that the Universe will provide.” Thus, the letting go becomes “a manifestation of what’s going away.” She advises that when tackling a declutter project, “feel your way to where you need to start and then break it down into its simplest act.” For example, if health is the focus, “go through your medicine cabinet and dispose of all expired, old and unused medication. If you want to resolve issues in your bedroom, look under your bed: if you’re sleeping on top of junk, you’re sleeping in history. If sorting through a closet seems too daunting, then start with a shelf or one drawer. And, as you achieve each small goal, aim for the next one. ” Adds St. John, “It takes six to nine months of continuous adjustments in your diet for healthy eating to become a habit. Each week, add no more than one or two changes and build on those, so that your body adjusts accordingly. Do it on a gradient, keep a food log and work with a licensed practitioner, to help you in your process.”

The result of all this work will reveal itself in various ways. When you finally let go of a family heirloom, you may increase your bank account or pay off some bills. When you eat better food, according to St. John, you will “feel increased energy, be in better shape, sleep better and have a sense of physical stability and health.” No matter what you decide to do, know this: there’s no life in the past. Now is your perfect opportunity to live in the moment, do good for yourself and others while making room for all that’s new. Because, at the end of the day, and in the beginning of spring, by letting go, you’re making room for abundance.

Reprinted with permission and gratitude from CoolCleveland.com