I just read a book by Mark Winegardner called "Crooked River Burning." It's a novel set in Cleveland and mentions every single Cleveland memory I have and every Cleveland event and celebrity from my childhood. Interesting. Here's a paragraph from the book that I could really relate to:
SUMMER NIGHTS! What is there to say about summer nights in Cleveland. This: Rock it, daddy-o! In Cleveland there is no spring. In Cleveland there is winter, then a wetter, meaner sort of winter (to be a Clevelander is to have a story about a ten-inch snowfall in April that you endured with good grace, a story you tell whenever the chance arises, to horrify Sun-belt pantywaists.) Then one day winter/wet-winter ends and, bingo-bango, it's summer time. After enduring what a person made of less-stern stuff than a Clevelander would confront in five winters, ten winters, maybe even a lifetime of winters, you've by god, earned your nine and one-half paradisiacal weeks of nighttime glory. You're Goldilocks baby, and you've spent some twenty-some weeks in the too-hard bed and twenty-some weeks in the too-soft, and you hit the sheets on Baby Bear's bed and you can't believe how heavenly it feels to feel just right. Just right!
But this an't no fairy tale, jack. Get your fairy tales the pantywaist hell out of Cleveland.