216 til I die.
The area code as a lifetime commitment.
The ballot
Vote on the ones you would wear. A phrase that hits 100 votes opens for designers. Not here? Send in your own.
The area code as a lifetime commitment.
Suburban area code pride, with a smirk.
You will regret it.
A folding table, a grill and everybody's cousin.
The lake has opinions about your plans.
Still got a bridge, sort of.
Industrial past, carbonated future.
Blame the lake. Blame the weather.
Emerald necklace, no notes.
Forecast, tattooed.
Our official motto, unofficially.
Sandwich. Hash. Egg roll. Don't ask.
For everybody who ever got a sandwich after midnight.
A warning with a long memory.
The nightlife of every parent's youth.
The river is a border and everybody knows it.
Argue with the photo.
The amusement park we lost and never stopped missing.
The boomerang city.
Lent turns every church basement into a restaurant.
Pack the sunglasses and the umbrella.
The weirdest, best civic sculpture. Phrase only.
Seven months of proof.
Costume over a parka, every year.
Three things we are famous for.
Hope anyway.
A greeting that sounds like home.
For anyone who has ever merged at the wrong moment.
Cleveland math, applied in February.
Confidence with a postal code.
Ask me how much snow. I will tell you.
Rough estimate. Possibly generous.
Built to survive the shoreline.
Come hungry. Leave full of cannoli.
Northeast Ohio's idea of spring.
Under the tower, like it was 1930.
The nickname that won't go away.
Closed lane, open humor.
A response to every out-of-towner.
Stay anyway.
Before the breweries, it was still the best.
Upgrade the state in your head.
Starts when the snow stops. Ends when the snow starts.
Fat Tuesday, but make it Polish and filled with jelly.
Pierogi, pink flamingos, zero apologies.
Lake Erie's best export, fried.
Made by somebody's grandmother, usually.
The one meal that never changes.
Church festival energy, year round.
A rivalry in eight words.
Kielbasa, fries, slaw, barbecue sauce. No substitutions.
Accordion, wind, a good time.
Settle it on a shirt.
Swerving is a skill and you have it.
The Moondog Coronation Ball, 1951. We were there first.
Everything old holds up.
Rusted. Reliable.
Every car, every boot, every March.
North Pole tire shop, lakefront edition.
The party snack nobody outside Ohio understands.
The way it's actually pronounced, loudly.
Built by the people who built Cleveland.
For the one who still believes the call will come.
Cold, green, and in good company.
Rust Belt, standing.
The electric traffic light started here in 1914.
Rare enough to screenshot.
Fall Sundays in all weather.
Everyone who drives I-90 knows the one.
Same city, shorter spelling.
The old nickname, for people who like trees.
Great, and also rude about it.
Burned in 1969, then got on with it.
The whole food pyramid.
Neighborhood loyalty, stitched in.
Ran in the cold. Earned the pie.
The most accurate calendar in Ohio.
Built into the water supply.
A prayer, a plan and a life philosophy.
The two-word summary of everything.
Allegiance, short form.
Cleaveland lost a letter and never found it.
Six degrees is a generous estimate.
Christmas Eve is a Polish dinner here.
Said every April, accurately.