On stuff I was sitting in the Diesel Café, just outside of Boston, trying to get inspired, when the twenty-something pony-tailed guy at the next table said to his companion, "I'm really bi-regional," with a straight face. I thought it an odd term, but instantly, I felt an inner knowing, a feeling that, at least in the geographic sense, I too, am "bi." Though I've always identified with Cleveland sports teams and had a defensive pride in my much-maligned hometown, for many years, I dreaded visits back to my old haunts. In the late '80s, shortly after moving to the Northeast, my father passed away, stricken by a heart attack. Within a year, my grandmother died, my young cousin had a stroke, and visits home were marked by death and mourning, a recurring ightmare. Besides, I had lots of memories I wanted to forget, the musings of a shy depressed boy growing up as a high school nerd, a hopeless athlete, a wimp when it came to fighting, football, and other typically male pursuits. I'd left Ohio in the mid-80's, eager to experience something new—wanting ocean, mountains, and more gay bars, (I'd finally come out at 28), and so I packed up my belongings and headed east, just shy of my 30th birthday. But as I tried to adjust to my new surroundings, I experienced a bad case of culture shock. Boston and its suburbs were crowded, fast-paced, maze-like. I felt lost, literally and figuratively, as I tried to adjust to graduate school, Boston accents, and the cost of living, which was double that of home. And eventually, life back in Cleveland calmed down. My mother remarried, at 69. My remaining relatives survived, and I noticed the resurgence of the city in the '90's. Even the Indians—the beloved losers of my youth—managed to win two AL championships, in 1995 and 97, the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame opened on the lakefront, and all of a sudden, Cleveland was a cool place to live, or at least, a good place to be from. As I finally settled into Boston and learned to negotiate its one-way streets, its "squares" that are actually triangles or hexagons, and the coldness of its natives, I nurtured my Cleveland fixation, so that my bi-annual trips became a sort of pilgrimage to the holy land. In the past few years, I've published several vignettes in an Ohio-based magazine. This summer I'll be writing a series of 'snapshots,' short pieces describing events around town—and like a junkie in an opium den, I'm overwhelmed by the possibilities. But I have to make choices. Airline tickets to Cleveland cost about $200 round trip, and with rental car and recreational expenses, i.e. dining out, I can't go home more than twice a year. This year I'm facing a particularly difficult decision — whether to attend my high school class reunion or the 2nd annual Duct Tape Festival. The 30th reunion of the Beachwood High School class of 1975 will take place over Memorial Day weekend, the Duct Tape Festival about three weeks later. For the reunion, I can tick off the benefits of showing up: I can feel superior to the jocks, who claimed I threw like a girl, when I show up with a full head of hair and a 32-inch waist, and they can barely bend over to tie their shoelaces. I can 'come out' to whoever I want, knowing that I won't see any of my former classmates for another decade—at least. I can find solace in the fact I still don't have crows feet or gray hair, unlike (I hope) some of the women who refused to dance with me when we were all on the 7th grade Bar and Bat-Mitzvah party circuit. And the cons: I don't have kids to brag about, or a significant other to slobber over. I haven't made a lot of money, gotten a book published, or done anything to justify my existence on the planet. I might be reminded why I skipped my 20th reunion. The Avon Heritage Duct Tape Festival promises no such angst. Instead, their web site promises three days of "larger than life duct tape sculptures, crafts, fashion, gardens, games, a parade and even an antique car show in the city that is proclaimed the 'Duct Tape Capital' of the world-Avon, Ohio, the home of Duck(r) brand duct tape." In Ohio, every town worth its salt hosts a festival of some kind—usually for a particular fruit, vegetable, or food product. Every county seat hosts an annual county fair. So it makes perfect sense to celebrate the fruits of man's labor, the produce of the local tape factory. The festival, in which one lucky father will win "Duct Tape Dad of the Year," strikes this bi-regional man as slightly 'over the top.' Still, Midwestern pride oozes from every page and pore of the website, with its links for sponsors, special events, and maps of the festivities. And in some strange, needy, primordial way, I really need to be there, to gawk at the duct tape sculptures, to cheer for the "Duct Tape Dad," to hum to the thrum of a marching band. Which is why it appears I'll be using frequent flyer miles to visit Ohio twice in the space of three weeks this summer. After all, France and Italy will still be there in the fall. The Duct Tape Festival will not.from Cool Cleveland reader Judah Leblang judah31@hotmail.com
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