A clear Sunday morning finds me back at an old familiar post: the lacquered anonymity of a hotel room writing desk in a city far from my own. I played piano last night with my friend Jason White at the historic Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland, Ohio. This after a week of recovery and scrambling following a seven-night stint at the Hog's Breath Saloon in Key West. It is remarkable how time flies these days; insert your favorite cliche here and know that I am happily living it out with the all of you.

The Super 8 parking lot is alive with the exuberant voices of African-American day laborers getting their Sunday started right. The Mardi Gras atmosphere suits me just fine as the rest of Cleveland seems to be under a dark cloud inspired by the possible departure of LeBron James and the final acidic run-off of Reaganomics. You might say that there's a bittersweet magic in the air. Or perhaps it's just the odor of a paper mill not quite far enough away.

It's one of the many mornings I have experienced over the past two-and-a-half years on which I am supernaturally thankful to be without a hang-over. Suffice to say that I have, in my years on the ever-winding road, been blottoed beyond recognition in Cleveland more than I can, duh, remember. In fact, there was a time when I was quite sure that its liberal attitude towards alcohol consumption was the best reason to visit the city. Cleveland, like most burgs in the Rust Belt, never really took to my brand of popular melodramatic song. The Winters are hard here. There is not a lot of work to go around. Perhaps the metrosexual trillings of love lost and opportunities squandered are not really essential when one walks out and stares into into the cold phosphorescence Cleveland every day.

So, in my own particular way, I always thought of a gig in Cleveland as a good opportunity to wash down the failure of another lost performance with some locals who actually had something important to drink about. One freezing night in 2005 I ventured far into the demon hours with a nice fellow a few years younger than me who had a kid or two, a job at UPS and a young wife who did not seem particularly happy with him. I attempted to dispense some soldierly advice, to cross the gap between what he perceived to be the supreme difference in our lifestyles. We ended up at a sport's bar downtown that seemed close to my hotel. I think I was still operating on the pretext that I actually had my shit together and was, ten drinks down and slurring, in some sort of position to offer real direction. The fact that I have no memory of what I said or if it made any sense probably testifies to the overall sanctity of my judgment.

What I do remember is wandering off into the snowy Cleveland morning for what I assumed would be a short walk to the hotel. After a few wrong turns the biting wind began cutting through the whiskey. The streets of Cleveland are rightfully deserted at 2 AM on a Winter morning; there was no one around to ask about anything. In a drunkard's sudden rush of distorted reality, I began to panic. Was this how it all ended? Frozen stiff in a gutter of Cleveland for nothing even resembling a romantic reason?

I began to jog. The rustle of my collar around my ears and the dead quiet of the once-mighty metropolis started to skew my sense of auditory perception. I kept running through the fog of my breath in front of me, confused even by the machinery of my own body; the little engine that couldn't. Everything was concrete, all contrast in the muted white of dirty snow and geometric shadows. Everything looked the same and nothing seemed familiar.

The next day I rode out on the city's grand decaying avenues and back onto I-90 towards another Midwestern locale. Probably Michigan.


Doryce, the Super 8 cleaning lady, just stuck her head in the door and let me know that it's time to get moving. The woman has work to do, and who am I to stop her? I leave Cleveland with a light heart and gratitude for the lessons she has taught me. Cleveland, you steely bitch, you tough lover, you strapper-onner, you puss-in-boots. Miss you already.