Forever Stamp

July 23-24

One of the big things to see in Cleveland is the Free Stamp. So that was our first stop on Friday.

I came on it by chance during my last trip to town and learned that there can be an intriguing charm in an 85-ton metal replica of a piece of office equipment.

It’s in Willard Park on Lakeside Avenue East. That’s not where it was intended to go at first, and it got there by a roundabout way.

Sohio, Standard Oil of Ohio, had a new, bland headquarters in 1985, so the company commissioned the pop art team of Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen to come up with something to give the place a touch of character.

The artists' solution was a rubber stamp of epic proportions not to print “paid” or “past due,” but to announce “free.” All caps.

The Sohio building sat across the street from Cleveland’s monument to the soldiers and sailors of the Union army, who had fought for the cause of freedom.

Sometime between the original commission with the sculptors and the completion of the work, Sohio was sold to British Petroleum.

When the new boss, head of BP’s U.S. operations, learned of the message on the stamp, “free” apparently took on a new meaning. For some reason, he feared that the message referred to the takeover, which meant Sohio was no longer free.

Yeah, I know. I can’t follow the logic either. Maybe in CEO-think it makes sense.

The monster stamp sat in a warehouse somewhere for years. Then somebody got the bright idea to put it in the park, which is next to Cleveland’s City Hall. There’s a plaque in front of it today saying it is a gift to the City of Cleveland from BP America.

It was probably an embarrassment and the company wanted to get rid of it.

Now it’s a popular prop for family photos.

Cleveland’s city fathers must be less touchy than oil company CEOs. They aren’t worried at all about the implications of having a giant rubber stamp next to their headquarters.

The park has a view of Lake Erie. We walked there and saw a few boats, some commercial, some recreational. 

Then we drove to the Cleveland Museum of Art. It’s a museum of some size, but we only had the energy to see a small bit of it.

We toured most of the Medieval section and then went upstairs to the West Wing, which houses the East Asian art.

Religious themes dominated all this art, There were Madonnas from the 15th century and bodhisattvas from the 7th. The experience was a goulash of cultures and myths. Our karma ran over our dogma. 

Oh lord, this is what Jung was talking about. We humans are all pondering this stuff we know nothing about, but people on opposite sides of the world come up with similar ideas.

Is that fun, or what?

We had to pay our respects to Rodin and stop to see The Thinker on the front steps of the original wing.

The artist oversaw the casting of the piece, one of many castings of the subject in various sizes. It was donated to the museum in 1917 by a local mogul and partly destroyed by a bomb in 1970.

Nobody was hurt. Nobody was caught. The Cleveland police believed it was the work of a local cell of the Weather Underground.

We looked for another piece called the C-Curve, which was another big thing to see in Cleveland. I saw a photo of it online—a large circular mirror reflecting its environment. It looked fascinating.

According to the website, it was on the grounds of the art museum, but no one working there knew about it. 

In looking for it, though, we did come across a different surprise. There is a building visible from the museum grounds that has a fanciful design. It looks like it is being crushed by an aluminum alien.

It’s the second photo of the day because I can’t think of a way to describe it properly.

When we were at Market Square on Thursday, Joanna noticed a sign for a restaurant on 25th Street. It was Phnom Penh—surprise, surprise—in Ohio.

Actually, the sign caught her attention because of an e-mail that Larry sent some years ago when he was considering a trip to Cambodia. In a rush of awe, he called the city “Phnom Fucking Penh.”

After all the bar food we’ve been packing in for the past couple of days, some healthier, closer to vegetarian Cambodian could be a good break. So we went from the museum to Ohio City.

We parked in the same lot we used Thursday and walked a block over to Phnom Penh.

We had a smorgasbord, or the Khmer equivalent of it: An array of rolls—spring, paper and a couple of others—a soup flavored with pork and shrimp, a plate of mixed vegetables, and seafood in a fried rice that was surprisingly sweet.

There was no beer, though, so we crossed the street afterwards so I could have dessert.

We walked into a bar where I ordered an MGB Hyper Haze, an unfiltered IPA. 

What’s “MGB”?

“Market Garden Brewery. They’re across the street.”

I nursed my draft for a while and then walked Joanna across the street to buy six to go.

I love hazy ale. As a sign in Seattle once said, “If God wanted us to filter our beer, he wouldn’t have given us a liver.”

Saturday morning we set out for Jamestown, N.Y. It’s Lucille Ball’s hometown and hosts the National Comedy Center.

Actually, I booked the stay in La Quinta first and discovered the rest later. As it fell out, the hotel is one block away from the Comedy Center. We checked in and walked over.

As the guy who sold us our tickets explained, it’s a high-tech place. We got wristbands and then went to a terminal where we created a “profile.” We chose our favorite comedians, movies, and TV shows.

My sense of humor runs to irreverence and foul language like George Carlin, Margaret Cho, and Richard Pryor, but also to the weird like Will Ferrell. I have no idea why I find him funny, but I do.

I also had to snap a picture of myself and tell the machine my name.

When you come up to an exhibit there is often a place that you are supposed to tap to activate. “Tap” means to push your wristband against it.

Then that goofy photo (they’re always goofy) comes up with a “Hello, Harry.” And it suggests which selection you might like. Sort of like Netflix.

It was fun to see some of the comedians of the past doing their thing.

My favorite part, I must admit, was the Blue Room. This is a lower-level area accessible only by elevator where all the uncensored clips and material are.

The first thing you see (and hear) out of the elevator is an exhibit based on George Carlin’s “The Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television.”

I’ve heard conflicting stories about how “blue” came to mean “obscene.” The Blue Room has one I hadn’t heard before.

Vaudeville, it says, began as a family-friendly alternative to burlesque. Any vaudeville performer who crossed the line, through suggestive or questionable references, would receive a blue envelope with a letter reminding him to behave.

This is funny, too. Here we are on the border of nowhere and we don’t have to drive anyplace.

Between our hotel and the Comedy Center there is a conveniently situated bar called Shawbucks, where you can “dine and unwind with friends.” 

Now, if I can walk from the bar to where I sleep, I don’t have to behave. I love that. Joanna had no objections, and so that’s where we went for dinner after our visit to the Blue Room,

Shawbucks serves family restaurant food, not the usual bar food. Joanna had grilled salmon; I had a pork chop. There was asparagus, salad, potatoes.

Oddly enough, there were no taps at the bar. But they offered a selection of bottles from Southern Tier Brewing, which is only a few miles away. I had the brewery’s hazy and clear IPAs.

On the way back to the hotel we detoured to find a delicatessen where I got some more of the clear IPA, which is now disappearing.

It’s after eleven. I’m going to unwind with another Southern Tier.

Be well, all, and God or Buddha bless,

Harry

Joanna got up on the open-mic stage in Jamestown and did a little dead pan.