No one stumbles upon the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award collection at the Cleveland Public Library. The books are shelved in three locked cabinets of the Treasure Room, a drum-tight chamber in Special Collections.
I am in an S & M relationship with Cleveland. I am Cleveland’s slave. For me the “S” of Cleveland’s sadism stands for “seasonal.” All winter long, I withstand what Cleveland wants me to withstand.
Harvey Pekar — the grouch, the pessimist, the quitter — wrote about the Cleveland that really was — not the Cleveland we aspire to be.
Thanks to some lobbying by the Greater Cleveland Partnership, “one of the largest chambers of commerce in the United States,” a proposed 20-year extension of Cuyahoga County’s “sin tax” ...
The men came every day, arriving as the daytime manager slid back the bolt on the front door. They walked into a darkness so solid they’d tip their heads as if dodging a blow.
Our distinct region — friendly to artists and startups, with [...]
I want to laugh when I hear that people are moving to Cleveland to practice their art. Then I want to spit in their faces. I want to do them grievous bodily harm. How dare they, I think. The nerve.
Some people hate the term "Rust Belt" because of its loaded connotations of decay. For others, the term is a source of pride. I am in the latter camp.
There’s only one Berry Gordy, but Rust Belt America in the 1960s and ‘70s was also home to at least a handful of African-American-run recording studios that thrived without bank loans ...
My husband and I moved to Cleveland from a high rise in Queens with bewildered giddiness. In the mornings, we woke to the sounds of birds chirping. No sirens, no honks. Although the downtown was eerily quiet, traffic moved.
Ten years ago, I was living in Oberlin, a college town 30 miles from Cleveland. I was newly divorced, and ready to start dating, but not anyone in my small, company town. So I met Cleveland men.
Discovering music history, one garage sale at a time.