Cleveland Americana
By Kelly McCloskey of Abingdon, England

Fear not, my twisted little readers, this isn't going to morph into an Proud-To-Be-An-American / Paul Harvey styled "Rest of the Story" .... I promise. Not even I'm drunk enough to get that nostalgic.

I realize it's not entirely popular to be an American living anywhere but America these days. We take a lot of flack and are, in a weird way, somehow obligated to apologize for the sins of our Chief Executive Sweaty-toothed Primate. The Beast has made it difficult for the rest of us, there's no denying it.

But I don't care. Tomorrow I am taking off work and going to some gritty English beach to watch the foamy tide roll in and some of the grit wash out.

Because I do miss America. I miss WMMS and WNCX in spite of the fact I used to curse them for not playing music in the mornings. I miss the sticky-gritty Cleveland heat that hits you like a ton of bricks and left you feeling as though some giant hand had just squeezed the air out of your lungs. I miss the insane unreliability of the RTA and the oddly pleasant chemical smell of their bus seats. I miss Life-Savers. I miss commercials for something other than Big Brother. Hell, I miss commercials! Those cheesy self-funded things that could only ever afford time slots in the middle of the afternoon or at three a.m. - sometimes both.

I miss GARFIELD-1-2323.

I miss hating the Flats, cursing downtown traffic and the boiling rage of constant baseball commercials, games, memorabilia and general twattery. I miss going to the Big Egg and, upon finding they were closed by Heath Authorities, going to the Hot Dog Inn. I miss French Onion Soup at Tommy's and browsing at Big Fun. Hell, I even miss the insanity of the I - 480 / 90 / 77 asphalt ballet every morning.

And sweet Jesus how I miss the Lakewood Library. I miss everything about it - the sprawling floors, the lazy feel and the lingering walk there from my apartment. I miss Lakewood in general. I miss getting far too drunk at Corky's because the Long Islands tasted like Coke. I miss holding SarahSue's hair back when she threw up after she, Claire, Chris and I all got drunk on Schnapps.

I miss America's Drunken Class.

And that, my friends, is the biggest difference between the British and the Americans. It is the one single thing that embodies all that is good in America. And it is the one thing I still miss with the same deep ache I always have.

The British drink like nothing you've ever seen. I don't care if you cut your milk teeth on a fifth of JD in Liquor County, Arkansas. The British are drunkards of the highest calibre. They have the entire drama down to a science - from the first pint of the early-afternoon to the last Cocktail-in-a-Bucket¹ in the wee-hours of the morning. And let's not forget the show once the pubs finally do chuck out those left staggering. It's the Show of Shows!

Every week, towns report massive attacks of drunken violence and frivolity. Some towns erect giant temporary urinals to discourage people from pissing all over the buildings, streets, bus stations and tramps. But it doesn't work. On the weekend, England is awash in a steaming river of urine so potent desperate tramps don't have to beg for booze money the next day.

And yet, for all its Binge Drinking Fireworks and drunken renditions of Oasis songs, there's something missing.

Americans are known for a lot of things. And, usually, it's for being completely over the top. We are uber-friendly. We're so friendly, we make everyone else look like could-shouldered assholes. If you ask a British person the time, he or she will glance at their watch (or, more likely, their mobile) and tell you the time.

If you ask an American if he or she knows the time, s/he will smile broadly and say, "Sure I do! Hold on one sec," they'll pull up the sleeve of their shirt, smile again and say, "Oh it's about, I don't know, 5.20? 5.25? Almost 5.30. I suppose 5.27 if you want to get technical." An optional super cheesy grin / eye roll may be thrown in here. "Yeah, 5.30-ish." At this point they will almost certainly say, "Okay?" Do not be misled into believing they are making sure you've received and understand the information. Your new American Friend quite literally wants to know whether or not the time is good for you. The average American citizen has a deep-seated need for approval, acceptance and praise. We live to please - this is why we reign supreme in the world of Customer Service. Once your New American Friend has ascertained the time is indeed "okay", s/he will smile again and say, "Quittin' time, eh? Have a good night." At this point you may receive a number of questions about your evening plans with an optional round of how your weekend was (available Monday-Wednesday) or what your weekend plans are (available Thursday and Friday). If you engage in the final optional round, you will receive another "Have a great night!", another broad smile before they will have finished telling you the time.

Okay, I've completely lost track of what I was talking about.

Oh yes, the Friendliness thing. And drunkenness. Yes.

Wait, I need another drink.

But, yes, back to the Pint & Fight (aka The Traditional British Night Out). The British are, without a doubt, the most excitable drunkards you'll ever see. And even though I suppose I should be missing all the screamingly American things I'm supposed to miss - fireworks, parades, the MetroParks heaving with sullen Northeast Ohioans waving paper-towel fans even after they've become limp with sweat, what I really miss is the one thing we're surprisingly tame at.

I miss the comparative quiet camaraderie of an American Drunken Night Out. The feeling that everyone in the bar is your friend by the end of the night. The smiles you exchange with people you only ever see on the weekends. The strange little friendships that form in spite of not knowing someone's name or anything about them except they always sing CCR songs on karaoke night.

I miss being a part of a giant Alcoholic Family that could swarm the streets en masse on any public holiday without a bloodbath ensuing. I miss the booze-stretched smiles from grown men wearing plastic hats with red, white and blue stripes that you know he bought for 49 cents at Marcs because you saw them there a few days earlier.

I miss the mosquito-heavy firework shows in the balmy evenings, the damp grass, the spongy ground. I miss those heady nights when everyone was looking up and no one complained if a stranger gave a kid a sparkler. I miss the sullen, sneering Slacker-Goths in Denny's rolling their eyes at the decorations and listing all the reasons America sucks, but still looking up when the gunpowder starts to explode.

I miss sitting on someone's porch I had never met before, watching the fireworks and drinking their beer. I miss hugging strangers in bars. I miss frosted mugs and Wine Coolers. I miss Margaritas and White Russians, Fuzzy Navels and terrible micro-brewery beer.

And now, as I stand on the corner, leaning against a building that probably predates the state - if not the country - I belong to, I feel an odd sort of righteous smugness (smuggery?) as I watch the Brits stumble around with one shoe missing, searching the vomit streaked streets for friends who abandoned them two pubs back. Americans may be many things. Its true we're loud. It's true we don't travel much outside our own borders. We're a little weird, a bit freaky and have great big weapons that make everyone scared of us. We're also the world's largest consumer of cocaine.²

But, god damn it, at least we can hold our drink.

America, I Salute You!

¹Literally, in giant buckets with astonishingly little ice - available from The Venue in Abingdon, England
² See http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/us.html

From Kelly McCloskey of Abingdon, England einsteinshruggedATyahoo.com

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