This summer, I purchased a bicycle. It was the first "new" bike I'd purchased since the days of weekly allowances, bed times and Flintstones vitamin tablets. It was a big deal. I wanted it for therapeutic sojourns around my new-to-me North Collinwood neighborhood, lakeside cruising and park runs. I had no intention of biking across the mountains or racing through 10 speeds along congested roadways. I had no interest in BMX tomfoolery, nor an awkward retro beach cruiser. 

I scoured Craigslist for the perfect set of wheels. One subject line stood out: "Perfect Vintage Cruiser". The pictures sent my heart racing, and I arranged to be at the owner's apartment the following day. I brought wrenches. The bike was big, heavy. I took the front tire off, loaded it in my car and sped home, grinning like Ralphie with his Red Ryder in A Christmas Story. I had taken ownership of a 1960  (or '61) Murray Comet VI. 

It was all original. The previous owner had been given it by her friend, whose family  bought it new. It had the original headlamp, two-tone seat, chrome fenders, front rack, chain guard. It had all the 60s space-age style cues, with afterburner taillight and streamlined faux gas tank. It had the original paint, original decals. The rear still bore the era-appropriate Cleveland bicycle license plate. It was a time machine. A time machine with a lot of surface rust, grimy bits, a busted chain, two spent tires and a burnt out headlight bulb. Still, I was smitten. 

I spent the following weeks dismantling it, gently removing rust, polishing it, removing rust, ordering new white walls, tubes and tack, removing rust, visiting my local hardware store for a new bulb, removing rust, and visiting Century Cycles for a new chain. My girlfriend patiently watched as bits of bicycle found their way into the office, kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom. Within a couple weeks, I had it back together and took it for my first ride. I rode until after dusk, just so I could fire up the headlamp and taillight. I felt like a kid again. A group of cyclists passed me, shouting, "Cool bike!", and a man seated on a bench in the park said, "Man, that's one cool bike – must be old!" Having added a bit of oil to the enclosed Sturmey Archer three-speed unit, I effortlessly shifted home. Fifty years later, the design was still turning heads and making people (namely me) happy. 

When my friends saw the bike for the first time, they agreed it was cool. When I spoke of the history of Murray Manufacturing of Ohio, they nodded with friendly feigned interest. When I spoke of Viktor Schreckengost, I lost them. Many had never heard of Cleveland's greatest designer, America's DaVinci, the man who had styled my bicycle. The man whose designs were responsible for millions of Murray bicycles and pedal cars, among many, many other things. I was strangely perturbed by their lack of knowledge or interest. Knowing that Schreckengost had something to do with my bike, however tangentially it may be, made it extra special to me.

In September 2007, Northern Ohio Live magazine, where I was an editor, hosted the publication's annual Awards of Achievement ceremony, recognizing outstanding individuals and organizations making a difference in Northeast Ohio. That night, a special lifetime achievement honor was awarded to Viktor Schreckengost. Many wondered whether his health – he was then 101 – would allow him to make the event, but he attended with his family. He accepted his award, and his wife spoke on his behalf. He waved from his wheelchair. I later introduced myself, and we shook hands. He smiled, likely wondering who the hell I was. My brush with genius stayed with me long enough to draw me to a 50-year-old bicycle, to reverently revive it and share its cool midcentury lines with my contemporaries. When not in use, it can be found parked in my office. Inspiration comes in many forms. I'm sure Viktor would've agreed with that.

Click here for more about Viktor and how a group of Cleveland Institute of Art students are preserving his legacy with a line of products that will be available in retailers later this year.

I've never purchased a copy of, much less subscribed to, Vogue. I never embraced Men's Vogue, though its short shelf life would seem to indicate I wasn't the only one with reservations. None of this kept me from settling in to watch the 2009 documentary film, The September Issue, which chronicles Anna Wintour and her legion's quest to produce the thickest issue in Vogue history.  

While most regular Vogue readers will be smitten (and frankly, it's difficult not to be) with the couture, the romanticized locations, and the gratuitous dose of pomp and circumstance that seems to surround Wintour's every sunglass-wearing move, I was soundly floored by the business of Condé Nast's fashionable centerpiece. 

While MTV would have every teen girl believe a fanciful career in publishing awaits them at the editorial roundtables of Elle, Teen Vogue, et al, The September Issue does well to document that reality is much different. And even more ridiculous. 

As print magazines struggle, the Vogue team triumphs on in the openly ludicrous world of fashion. Filmed during the making of the record-shattering September 2007 issue, the cameras follow Wintour and her cadre on international jaunts to Paris and Rome, long hours, a tragically uncool Starbucks addiction, clever story boards, creative infighting, the scrapping of photo shoots that cost more than $50,000 and the ever-looming deadline. Having worked in the print industry, it made me nostalgic. 

The days of long editorial staff debates over what carefully cultivated copy would never see the light of day, meetings with creative directors to coordinate photo shoots for covers and fight over images, being tightly wound as deadline approached, breathing a sigh of relief when the issue went to bed: that's print nostalgia – not full reality. 

Vogue is an anomaly. Most print publications don't have multimillion dollar monthly budgets to develop their books. There's no doubting that Grace Coddington is among the world's most truly gifted creative visionaries ever to share her talents with the print world, but part of me would like to see how creative she'd be with a budget of $100 and little to no equipment. That's when a creative director really shows his or her colors. I'd like to see what Wintour would do with a staff of four, and what publisher Tom Florio would do without a reliable sales army, among other things. 

Giving credit where it is most certainly due, the Vogue team banged out an 840-page September '07 issue (of which 727 pages were advertising; 87 percent of the magazine, if you're doing the math). Two years later, ad pages were down to approximately 425. 

Recently, news broke that Florio would leave Vogue at the end of June. With Condé Nast in various capacities since the 80s, Florio doesn't know yet what he'll do next, just that he wants to do his own thing. "I've been here a long time and I really love the place … But if I don't do this now, then when?", Florio was quoted as saying by the Wall Street Journal. So even the top man at a top performer like Vogue can still feel the pull of the open road, so to speak.

No doubt, Florio will have ample capital at his next venture, though probably not the vast resources, power and influence he both felt and wielded at Vogue. Clearly, these things aren't as important to him as pulling his own strings. Perhaps that's the appeal of the entrepreneurial venture. I've felt it myself.

It is a widely heard message across Ohio: buy local. Consumers are encouraged to eat, drink, bathe, sleep, live, listen and build local. It is a notion that has gained significant momentum in recent years, despite the rise of multinational chain outlets. However, as one local group has discovered, living local is a hard slog. 

"We are committed to local entrepreneurial ventures. Period," says Patrick Billows, co-founder of the Center for Righteous Aspirational Poverty. "We commend those organizations that refuse to be bought by big business, instead relying exclusively on local organizations, businesses and people to fund their enterprises." 

Billows, the former proprietor of a boutique sweater shop, featuring goods only made using wool from regionally raised alpacas, opened the center in 2008 with his wife and business partner Amanda, who admits their venture was a bit shortsighted. "We launched in November and business was great for the first six months," she says. "When the weather changed in spring, business tanked and never recovered." 

The center raises money for local enterprises by relying on fund-raising efforts at events throughout Northeast Ohio. To date, local philanthropy has helped the organization raise close to $800. "We gave $100 each to six different outlets that sell local products only." The pair kept $200 as rent money for Billows' brother, who the couple lives with. 

"When we opened, we knew it would be tough; we took a vow of poverty to be local," says Renee Dintan, owner of Style Us, a clothing and record shop in Sheffield Lake. "We wanted to carry only locally made clothing and only sell albums recorded by Ohio artists." Dintan argues that the manufacture location of the vinyl is a moot topic given the artists' Ohio connection.

Business at Style Us has been tough, and Dintan sleeps on a pullout cot in the 400 square foot store and relies on a pay phone down the street from her storefront. "We read how interested people were in supporting local businesses – just go on Facebook, and it seems as if everyone is championing a local business," says Dintan. "I see lots of people talk about my store, but I don't think they're all really shopping here."

Jake Pembrooke may disagree.  He owns Father's Farm Cottage in Portsmouth, Ohio, a quiet southern Ohio town where Pembrooke's restaurant business has been booming. "I read about the problems facing local retailers – heck, I even see them; plenty of businesses have come and gone since I opened the Farm Cottage, but we don't seem to be affected," he says. Since opening, Pembrooke's highly seasonal, highly local menu has won rave reviews, and residents are clamoring for a seat. "Everything we serve is from Ohio soil, and while it costs more, it certainly tastes better." An Ohio rib eye with local purple potato hash and a roasted corn maque choux made with local vegetables costs $39. The average yearly income in Portsmouth is $24,000. "Our profit margins are negligible," says Pembrooke. "From staffing, licensing, permits, food, billing, materials and all the other costs, we barely break even, which stinks because there's not much left we can reinvest in the community." It's an alarming trend, according to at least one financial analyst. 

Bill Rearoro, a financial analyst with Bender & Beggs in Canton, says that this situation has historical precedence. "At one time, China was the technological and cultural center of the world," he says. "Yet, after years of self-imposed isolationism, the country crumbled. I see parallels to the misguided if well-intentioned business plans of today's entrepreneurs." Success comes at a price, too. 

 "I opened Primrose Particulars in 2004, selling a variety of locally made goods, from honey and soap to books and pottery," says Janet Primrose. "Yes, we carried lots of other goods to help pay the bills and help us continue to support the local artisans." Local critics saw things differently.

"Being local means you have to struggle, or 'you're not keeping it real,' I was told," says Primrose. "If you make money, you're clearly doing something wrong." Primrose closed her store in late 2009, and now lives in Florida. 

[Photo by Kevin Nortz]

Moving is never easy. Aside from the physically taxing process of shifting all my worldly possessions, as trivial as they may be, there are great emotional attachments to break. For years, I had called a modest apartment in Cleveland Heights home. I moved there shortly after graduating college, and its proximity to Coventry (read: La Cave du Vin, the Grog Shop and B Side) was immensely appealing. I was a stone's throw from work, first in University Circle, then in Little Italy. I lived with a great friend who I had known since our first days as freshmen at St. Ignatius High School. I made loads of friends in the neighborhood, and navigated a lifetime of meaningful moments I'll never remember. It was ideal.

Then the walls came down.

As an optimistic twentysomething living in Coventry, it was easy to overlook the aging apartment's shortcomings: windows with unique draft features, heating elements that doubled as refrigeration units, a not-so character improving dearth of electrical outlets, a sad kitchen. However, as I aged, so did the apartment. While I did personal maintenance to insure I didn't fall apart, the owners of the apartment did not see fit to do the same with their property.

First, the little apartment that could was stricken with a plumbing problem that prevented my roommate and I from flushing anything. Not pleasant when you share one toilet. It took the landlord months to rectify the problem, and after the horrors I encountered during that time, I don't think I'll ever be the same. Around this time, I also lost my job. The proverbial excrement had really hit the fan. I fled to the Outer Banks for a week that summer, trying to enjoy a vacation that had been booked nearly a year prior. On a journalist's salary, I rarely vacationed.

As the harsh Cleveland winter took hold that year, and I was working from home, I became painfully aware of our landlord's policy of turning off the heat during the day, conveniently between "work hours". Having always been away during those hours, I never noticed. Combine that with poor insulation and the draft flow windows, and I was wearing winter woolies at my desk.

On January 15, the kitchen ceiling collapsed. It had happened for the third winter in a row, and despite repeated calls to the landlord alerting them of ever-increasing water damage. With sub-zero temperatures, the apartment was not livable. It took numerous calls to the City of Cleveland Heights housing department to get the ceiling fixed. That happened more than 10 days after the collapse. That week, I told my roommate I would not be renewing our lease. After a faulty gutter fell from a property owned by our landlord, causing thousands of dollars in damage to my roommate's car less than a month later, he decided that he would not be staying there either. It was the end of an era, but a change was overdue. The apartment was headed in the wrong direction, and my roommate and I were headed in different professional directions. Logistically, I was headed East.

Home is now in North Collinwood. When I tell people I live in North Collinwood, they often take on a blank expression, explaining that they're not familiar with the area. In most cases, they react as if I've just told them I have a terminal illness. In one rare case, my best friend visited and grew nostalgic, as he was raised in the area.

My new apartment represents a new lease on life. My girlfriend and I joke that it's like being on vacation. We have such capitalist extravagances as central air and 21st century windows, an ice maker and countertops.  We even have fully functional plumbing and a ceiling. I'm a one-minute walk to Lake Erie, and the sunrises, midday reflections and sunsets make morning, day and night that much more dramatic. I've always been drawn to the siren song of the water's ebb and tide. Having lived in Ireland, Boston and Rocky River, it may be a deep-seated yearning. As a bonus, I'm very close to the Waterloo Arts District.

I still love Cleveland Heights, and I maintain that there are few places in our region so bursting at the seams with an amazing arts and culture scene, unique shopping and great dining options. Now, I have to drive a few extra minutes to get there, and, as was the case when I lived there, I still have to pay to park everywhere. Tax breaks are nice, too.

Sometimes it takes stepping outside your comfort zone to realize how uncomfortable it made you. Also, my landlord is currently showing my old apartment, if you're interested.

[Sunset photo by Sarah R. Sphar]

Collaboration requires baked-in leadership, and we’re not just talking about pie. Progress is made when leaders lead where there’s a need, galvanizing others in the process. The folks in the Lake Erie Building at Templar Industrial Park are leaders. They decided collaborating on an open house was the perfect way to usher in spring and showcase the West Side’s inner ring artistry. A local professor continues to lead beyond instruction: his weekend-long poetry exposition offers a soapbox for amazing writing and perspectives, bringing in poets from far and wide. A local dance company’s cutting-edge performances continue to lead in the Midwest – and have drawn in a couple of organizational fans for a new breed of benefit concert. That’s three Fresh Starts just for you. None of them happens in a vacuum.

Jawing In Kent

It’s been a long time since the Classic Cleveland Poetry Slam at the Beachland Ballroom came to an end. Thankfully, there are many events across Northeast Ohio that have filled the gap. Kent State University poetry professor Maj Ragain helms one of the best: the annual Jawbone Poetry Reading and Pie Festival, which celebrates its 25th anniversary this Friday, April 30 and runs through the weekend. The affecting catalyst, as revered as the late Daniel Thompson by some, provides an open poetry forum with featured guests from across the region and the country. The whole weekend ends up being a venerable who’s who for regional poets. Of course, there’s pie, too. Lots of pie. This is a must for anyone with a poetry jones. Learn more at Standing Rock’s website.

Screw You

Take in the Screw Factory Artists Spring Open Studio this coming Saturday, May 1 from 1 to 8 pm, at the edge of Birdtown in Lakewood. Artists Arabella Proffer, Gina DeSantis, Shannon Okey and more than two dozen other local artists open their Lake Erie Building studio doors for a no-cost, open to the public open house. The mediums on display for this auction-exhibit include fiber, photography, painting, sculpture, ceramics, glass and mosaics. Proceeds from the auction will benefit the Friends of Madison Park. Organized in 2007, FOMP is a community group committed to enhancing Lakewood’s Madison Park as a “backyard park” for children and families.

Watching the ‘Wheels

Here’s one that’s sure to end up on many “Best Of” lists at the end of the year: Dancing Wheels Dance Company and School joins forces with two marquee arts organizations for a benefit gala/concert at the State Theatre at Playhouse Square Saturday, May 1 at 7:30 pm. Titled And All That’s Jazz!, it features special musical guests the Cleveland Jazz Orchestra, along with the heavenly Singing Angels and students from the physically-integrated dance company and school. The program features two world premiere dances, including one by Broadway legend Donald McKayle, who will give a pre-performance talk prior to the performance. The gala, featuring hors d’oeuvres, desserts and a silent auction, immediately follows in the theatre’s swanky lobby.