They Call Me Diesel

c. Fall 1998... Cleveland, OH... Names have been changed to protect the innocent...

The plan was the four of us would go to the game together and meet at A.D.'s house. He'd drive us  from there. We were all on board, but me especially because I hated driving... Mostly because I was kind of a shitty driver. (To put that in perspective I ran over a ton of shit; curbs, leaf piles, bikes, kids on bikes, whatever...) Come to think of it, the rest of them were likely just as relieved that they didn't have to spend the ride to and from Canton, Ohio (our destination for the football game) with their fingernails embedded in the interior of my '96 Nissan 200SX due to the tension caused by fear for their lives. A Win-Win, they call that.

But before I made it to the centralized location, I needed gas to get me there. With the high MPG on the ol' sports car (It was Fire Engine Red and had a spoiler, it was a fuckin' sports car!) it cost me a mere $14 to fill 'er up... FOURTEEN DOLLARS! Due to the economy (I guess) it was a more whimsical time when you drove just to drive; I'm talking about Parkway Buzz Routes for DAYS. That is, of course, unless you were driving with me at the wheel. There were more pressing matters at hand, namely survival.

So I stopped for gas. And not to harp on the theme of "this was a time when," but this was a time when there was a mutual trust between gas station owner and consumer. There wasn't this "pay-at-the-pump" or "pre-pay" malarkey. It was the home of the free, baby! So I rolled up to the nearest vacant pump, popped my gas tank, and proceeded to pump... pump pump it up.

While I was filling my tank, I noticed the gas attendant inside the Marathon hut was waving at me. I thought to myself, Boy, it is not every day you see this kind of hospitality! This fine gent has gone above and beyond to make my pumping of the gas experience as comfortable and inviting as it could be! I should write a letter to his superior... Perhaps I will... SO, I returned his graciousness with a hearty wave of my own. I top it off, replace the gas pump as I had found it, and proceeded inside to pay that man his money.

I crossed the threshold of the quaint, locally owned establishment to the pleasant jingle of the door chimes, and with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step I don't mind tellin' ya. Only, I wasn't met with the smile and open arms I'd expected from the attendant. No, I was greeted with a grimace and a look that could only mean one thing, "You fucked up."

And I did... I fucked up.

"Do you know you put diesel fuel in your car?" he asked with an arrogance about him.

I stopped. My body stiffened. And after taking a moment for his question to digest, with wide eyes, I responded with, "Wha-what does that mean?"

Means you fucked up... I'm paraphrasing.

"So what's gonna happen?"

(For those of you who do not yet know what diesel fuel does to an engine that runs on regular fuel, you're about get the account of such an occurrence from a learn-ED professional.)

"Wellllll," he shifted his belly that was encased with denim overalls, "she'll probably smoke for a while... Then... eventually... she'll dump on ya."

After chocking back the vomit at the thought of my father's reaction, "Ffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," I said. I walked out and hesitantly hopped back in my car, started her up, and drove to my friends. I made them aware of the situation, and decided that there was nothing I could do about it at that moment. We went to the game. We had a good time.

So the next day came and I woke up and called my father and sheepishly broke the news to him. He headed right over to my friend's house, where my ailing, diesel-poisoned Baby Red stood on its dying last leg. When dad arrived he called Triple-A... on speaker phone... and explained the situation. The Triple-A representative, as professionally as he could muster, replied, "I've been working in the automotive industry for 25 years and I have NEVER... heard of ANYONE... doing something like this." A little excessive, but whatever. He sent a tow truck and picked up my Baby Red.

The fuel system was flushed and she was back terrorizing the roads of suburban Cleveland and beyond in no time. My dad eventually got over it and as the years went on really grew along with me and became much more understanding of the nonsensical shit I did. He'd stand in the background of my adventures in idiocy and proclaim to the masses, with a tear in his eye, "That's my boy." This date back in 1998(ish) was the first time my father asked me directly if I was on drugs..., to which I replied, "What, you mean... right now?"

Why was it that easy for me to put diesel fuel in my car? I don't know. I feel like that should have been impossible... Like, the pump nozzle should have been 3 times too large to fit in my bomb ass sports car's gas tank. That's not the point. The point is be careful out there..., because like Abraham Lincoln said, Sometimes you're pumpin' the gas, and other times... the gas is... pumpin' you...

I'm paraphrasing.

RL
3/24/16

When Perspective Rolled In...

A man in a wheelchair recited original poetry to me today. This was after a 4 hour battle with public transportation, not to mention his day-to-day struggles, just so he could take a huge risk. A potentially life altering, for better or for worse, plunge into the unknown. Normally when people tell me they "write poetry" I'm immediately put off, regardless of my passion(?) for writing. This time was no different. But when people tell me they want to recite their original poetry, I'm an attentive audience. To look past the inevitable scrutiny of a complete stranger and say, "Here I am"? I applaud that fortitude. I envy it. His passionate recounting was staggering. I felt what he felt when he wrote it.

He told me a joke too. A joke he probably wanted to tell me much sooner than he did. He was hesitant with me at first, as I was with him. (First impressions, they say, last forever; and forever isn't easily overcome.) But when the time came, I laughed at his joke. Not out of pity or social obligation; because it was funny. As you've already concluded, we'd already spent some time together at this point.

From what he told me, we were meeting today because he was tired of sitting around feeling sorry for himself and his situation. He was done with it. He wanted to do something, not only for himself, but for his son who is getting ready to make his own life-changing decision. He wanted to set an example. Again, I applaud him. He thought I, along with the institution I represent, might be a catalyst to getting where he wanted himself. And it was only me out of happenstance; I didn't know I was going to meet him today.

This man had been bound to his wheelchair for more than half of his life. Not by any decision that he'd made, but by the universe. He was jovial despite his situation. (Like I said, he made me laugh.) There was a point where he talked about his struggles with it. More than I'd expected, again, for having just met him. But he was upbeat. Excited for a potential new opportunity. A chance to do something to buck the trend that has become his daily routine. And something he's been told he should do since as long as he can remember because of his God-given talents; and he had many. An understandably exciting time for him!

Having been on both ends of devastating news I can say there is no "better" side. No easier allegiance. Both parties know what's coming; it doesn't matter who knows first. This scenario, I was the barer of bad news. Part of this decision was out of my hands, but I was still the one he lead on a guided tour through his dream, and his plan to live there. To make it his permanent reality. Despite my initial skepticism I could see his plan taking shape. His passion and unbridled enthusiasm made that possible.

I felt genuine remorse for this man. All he wanted was what he wanted. It doesn't matter how long or what path he took to get there; he was there. He was visibly upset. And here I sat, knowing that initially doubted that he could do it. It was never a question of desire, it was the logistics. (My bio will tell you I'm notoriously a realist. Some have even called it pessimism.) Again, it was inevitably out of my hands and unavoidable, but I felt no different. 

We spent some more time together; after the fact. The least I could do was make sure he got to where he needed to be. (As I mentioned, the eternal struggle with the public transportation system in this fair city is no easy task; regardless your traveling circumstances.) I'm pretty sure we both understood one another early on. Why we both were there. No real expectations, but both leaving with an overwhelming sense of disappointment. I wished him well and did leave him with a glimmer of hope, however fleeting, that it'll work out.

And part of me harbors that hope that I'll see him again, and this time we'd make it work and start laying out the blueprints of that dream he so desperately wanted build. Until then he's just that Man in a Wheelchair who gave me more than he'll ever know. 

RL
3/22/16

My Super Tuesday in Cleveland, OH

It started out rough! And that was because of how Not So Super Monday ended, also in Cleveland, OH. So I'll start there, I guess.

If this past Monday had a face, I wouldn't punch it, but I'd point a stern finger in the aforementioned face and tell it to fuck off! Sorry for the language right off the bat, but there were no other words; trust me, I looked for them. I'll spare you the grisly details, but I'll say aside from maybe two highlights, it was loaded with B.S.

But then came Tuesday... I took Tuesday off of work; not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I had some unwanted guests I had to eradicate from my apartment. HINT: One of them enjoys cheese and peanut butter. Well, enjoyed cheese and peanut butter. (R.I.P. Mighty... or Mickey... or Danger... I didn't come to a conclusion on a name.) While I was garnering the tools needed for my other eviction, I bounced around town a bit. I went out and hit the polls (it was the Ohio Primary) and reveled in doing civic duty, sticker emblazoned on my outerwear. I shopped healthy; picked up some fruits, some proteins, some fruit juices, etc. Felt good about that. (We'll see how long THIS version of Ryan Being Healthy goes.) And I spent some legitimately quality Me Time. If I had seen my Primary Care Physician, I trust she'd have ordered some up for me.

I specify the Me Time as "quality" because I feel like there are times that "Me Time" isn't always of a good quality. This time definitely was. I relaxed. Took in the day and made a concentrated effort to remain unencumbered by business or drama or drama... or drama. (Strange how that's such a recurring theme in adulthood, right? Maybe it's my own fault I feel surrounded by it most days, but I feel I do my best to ignore it. Better yet, avoid it. Drama is a persistent stalker; it seeks attention relentlessly.) I got what I needed done done. I invested in myself a bit. I relaxed (if you consider following politics relaxing). I caught up on the goings-on of the world (again, politics, but remained calm and hopeful that our votes as Americans counted). I really feel I got the most of the day, in spite of it setting itself up for disaster.

If you checked my resume, or better called some references, they might tell a contrary tale. Trust that I'm very aware of my tendency to make mountains out of molehills (there's a Molehill-To-Mountain range named after me spanning from Central-Florida to Northeast Ohio). But I bucked that trend today. For good? I'd bet there will be a relapse here or there. But why not take My Super Tuesday in Cleveland, OH and make it a jumping-off point? Sounds like a worthwhile venture.

RL
3/15/16

Push It Real Good

As I'm sure you've guessed, I'm a HUGE Salt n' Pepa fan. I know, who isn't, right? Anyway, this blog is for all the sexy people. So all you fly mothers, get out here on the Internet and get down with this...

So my question, after all these years: How DO I become number one in a hot party show? I mean, do I JUST push it? Or is there more to it? I feel like Salt and/or Pepa never really gave us a complete answer. Of course they laid it on us with spandex, 8-Ball jackets, and more Roger Rabbits than one person could handle... But where are the answers?

I WANT ANSWERS!!

As a follow-up to this blog post I will be sending a strongly-worded letter to the management team behind Salt n' Pepa...

Hmmm... I'm starting to think I should've sent this back in 1988 or so, when I first had all of these questions. Huh... Story of my life. Always a decade (or more) late and a buck short.

Oh well, the song's still the shit and in HEAVY rotation on my tape deck. No doubt.