The Naked Cowboy

He wiggled. He strummed. He pranced. He flexed. It was all there.

The Naked Cowboy had arrived in Cleveland. My life is complete.

Ain't That Something?

Some other friends live by the ocean, some by the mountains. Some live abroad. Some live by big rivers.  I live where the Naked Cowboy visits.

We’ve been busy since Memorial Day. The Greek Festival, bike rides, The Nautica Pavilion, The Botanical Garden, Playhouse Square, Parade the Circle. We’ve done it all. Dave and I even attended a Positive Psychology workshop at the Gestalt Institute of Cleveland. We’ve been feed, feted, and festivaled. We’ve been living it up.

Cleveland is in outdoor party mode and it has been FUN.

This memorable night we went to a food tasting at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Everyone had the same entrance time so, like animals to the trough, we herded up to the front door, then to stand up tables with little bites of scallops, soup “shots,” mac and cheese, and bread pudding. Then, there he was.

The Rear View

Standing in his tidy whities and cute lettered boots was the centerpiece of the oyster bar. I grabbed for my phone and he posed for free. Normally, like a native wanting a hand out, The Naked Cowboy charges for his time in New York City. Obviously, he was part of the advertising for the Naked Cowboy Oyster Bar. Imagine wanting to prance around in your briefs.

Well, come to think of it. I am imagining me prancing around in my underwear in Times Square. In January.  In the midst of smarmy tourists who have had too many beers.  Never mind.

At the opposite end of the spectrum was our venture to Hilarities to see Judah Friedlander a.k.a. The World Champion. It would be difficult to imagine this man prancing around in his boxers. Although his “claim to fame” is being World Champion of virtually everything including his various sexual talents, he hides himself behind long hair, big glasses, a cap, long baggy pants, and a silk jacket. All these items are covered with “World Champion” logos.

The World Champion

It’s all here in Cleveland that is no longer “The Mistake on the Lake.”

When out of towners look with pity at the folks from Cleveland, I can look down my nose and smugly reply that “Yes, we have the Indians, Browns, Cavaliars, Cleveland Orchestra, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and views of Lake Erie. But we also have little prancy people who hide their mid sections with a guitar and guys that claim they are so magnetic to women that the ladies give up in a swoon.