The Existential Capital Of The World (Chokeland [nee Cleveland] Deserves A Non-Victory Parade)

If we've all been witnesses, isn't it time for a universal Witness Protection Program?

I must admit, for several hours after the Cavaliers' totally disheartening, mega-choking defeat at the hands of the Boston Celtics Thursday night, that was my thinking: change the name of the city to Chokeland, give all fans a new identity and ship them in secret to parts unknown to attempt living a new life. For the first time in my life I faced, starkly, with no more delusions clouding my eyes, the very real possibility that Cleveland's last victory parade, for the 1964 Cleveland Browns, when I wasn't even two years old, would be the only such parade I would live to enjoy (I recall being so happy at that moment of victory in '64 I promptly chugged my bottle, bellowed "Goo goo gaa gaa," and crapped in my pants).

But then the sun came up Friday. Just out of habit, I muttered as a I squinted; you can't expect the entire cycle of life to just shut down automatically so fast; give it another day or two. But then I saw a sight that immediately should have confirmed what I had assumed was impossible: life will go on. For walking across an empty, seagull-swooping parking lot, fresh off the 8:07 bus, was my boss, Joe, the most diehard, dedicated, optimistic Cleveland sports fan I know (the man owns a Tim Couch jersey, beat that). Joe (who was born several years after 1964) trudged up to the front door, snapping out his I-Pod ear things as usual, dug out his keys, grunted a good morning, and the workday commenced, like any other day. How unusual, I thought to myself, and kind of rejuvenating.

As you can guess, the sun has continued to rise in Cleveland all weekend, my car's still getting sucked into pot holes no matter all the road-repair orange barrels I serpentine through, people are still dressing to extremes in this fickle Cleveland spring (one guy in shorts and a tank top, another in a zipped up winter coat), and just yesterday I heard two guys, like cockroaches fighting over the last crumb after the world's been destroyed, arguing about the make-up of the Cleveland Indians pitching staff (the Cleveland Indians? weren't they this year supposed to be only a blip of interest to us for a homestand, at most, between the Cavs victory parade and the Browns starting training camp?).

So, against most people's expectations and hopes, life goes on in Cleveland. And the more I think of it, that's the point, the whole point, the only point of Cleveland. Life goes on. It exists, simply but profoundly. No extreme natural disasters to ruin us, no extreme civic ecstasies like world championships to excite us. We simply take the next jolt from the next pot hole and drive on to the next closed lane sign (we do road repair great in this town, just not road construction, or really any other kind of construction; the labor of mere existence pretty much precludes creation).

And so I think it's high time we recognize the fact of our "mere existence" status here in Cleveland. Recognize it, embrace it, as much as one can embrace such a neutral abstract concept, and dare I say it, begin to capitalize on it. I propose that Cleveland market itself as the Existential Capital of the World. Change the names of our main downtown thoroughfares from the optimistic, capitalism-embracing Euclid, Prospect, and Carnegie to Nietzsche, de Beauvoir, and Camus avenues. Change Quicken Loans Arena (the Q) to Kiekegaard Arena (the K), Browns Stadium to Sartre Stadium, Progressive Field to Heidegger Park. Instead of trying to seduce big businesses and conventions to come to town with sweetheart tax and hotel deals, let's lure all the gloomy coffeehouse denizens of the world to Cleveland with the promise of our gray skies. Our new marketing slogan can be something like, "Let's face it, life is a miserable existence; give in and spend yours in life's most miserable city." Or, "We have the world's best hospitals--come to Cleveland and prolong your meaningless existence in good hands." Or "You know it's all pointless--come to Cleveland where no community-unifying, temporarily-transcending sports team world championship will delude you into thinking otherwise."

Come on Cleveland, let's embrace the crude truth that there's really nothing to embrace except the fact that we exist, merely, like all those abandoned buildings in the "midtown corridor," and make some hay while the sun continues to shine on our potholes. Regardless of whether or not Cleveland Rocks, or ever really did or ever really will, Cleveland Is, and that's all that matters. Now somebody design a Statue of Existence, somebody chisel the words "Give us your whatever" on it, let's knock down that truth-defyingly named Terminal Tower (nothing is terminal in Cleveland; it goes on forever) and put the statue there, and let's throw a parade to celebrate the fact that we have nothing to celebrate except that fact that we're here.

Nobody loves a parade less than I do, but I say we round up all those millionaire athletes we've practically sold our souls to in the past in the (delusional) hope that they would deliver us a championship to distract us from our mere existence lives for a week or two, only to see them choke and fail, and make them, those millionaire athletes who choked away all our hopes, foot the bill for the greatest non-victory parade in the annals of the world. I'm talking the hallowed Dawgs of the late 1980s Browns who allowed the Drive and Fumbled away our hearts. I'm talking the 1997 (and throw in Sabathia from 2007) Indians who couldn't score enough runs in Game 7 so none of us had to endure Jose Mesa attempting a one-run save. And I'm talking LeBron, Shaq, Delonte, etc.--yeah, we witnessed you guys, now fork over some cash for confetti, port-a-johns, riot police (maybe Denver and Miami and Boston can kick in a few junkers from their impound lots for us to ceremonially trash and burn) and noisemakers so we can have our long-deserved parade already.

We exist...still...despite, dammit! Now throw us a parade.

Pere Ubu-Life Stinks