Cleveland — “Outside of OD’ing, there ain’t a more rock and roll way to go,” I reasoned as our tiny Embraer jet juddered and shook amid a fierce windstorm that (I would later learn) sent multiple tornadoes spiraling across western Michigan. We slid sickeningly from side to side — swooning with sharp drops and course-corrective ascents — as we attempted landing at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport less than an hour later. I queasily gripped my armrests in silent prayer as wisdom from Baseball Hall of Famer Ichiro Suzuki floated through my head: “If I ever saw myself saying ‘I’m excited’ going to Cleveland, I’d punch myself in the face — because I’m lying.”
Which brings us to the point: Why on earth would any sane man — especially a Chicago man — voluntarily fly to Cleveland, unless it was to pay off shady ransomers? What kind of Our Spacious Skies installment is this, dedicated as it is to postindustrial Ohio? Truth is, I did it because I had to. I felt a calling. Yes, much like my fellow Chicagoans Jake and Elwood Blues, I was on a mission from God: I solemnly informed my editors that the time had finally come for me to make my required pilgrimage to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame — ideally on their dime.
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