one last ride.

This must be a dream.

I am standing next to the huge rear wheel of your bucket-loader looking up at you behind the big wheel. With flawless precision, your hands manipulate it's many levers and shifters. As the bucket floats off of the ground, you look down at me:

"Hey bri-bri!"

You shut down the engine and motion for me to join you on atop the machine. I climb up and take my place on a small, greasy cushion that you've placed on the landing next to your driver's seat - a cushion placed for the sole purpose of having your grandchild as company. Although you're never lonely when you're up here, it's no question that you'd prefer to have company in the form of a five year old that is as entertained as you are at the thought of lifting up three thousand pound engines and moving them a distance of fifteen feet just for the sake of knowing that you could do it.

I don't remember ever being happier.

As you place the gigantic engine in it's new place amongst the other junk, you cut the engine, place your hand on my head and tell me:

"Best co-pilot in the junkyard!"

I smile, you wink, and I jump down off of the loader. As my feet hit the ground I turn and see your big smile. I smile, wave and run off to find trouble elsewhere.

I miss you more everyday, and everyday I'm reminded of the things you left behind... my sense of humor, my work ethic, my love of family and friends, and my big French nose.

I love you...and I'd give anything for one more ride on Gramp's loader.

the things you do for love.

So, I'm in a restaurant.

It looks, smells, and feels like a swanky italian joint.

I'm in an oversized leather booth and from my vantage point I have great views of both the [early twenties, doe-eyed, full head of jet black hair, Jewish] man sharing my table and the swinging red door that serves double duty as the kitchen's entrance and exit. Altough the young man is unfamiliar to me, it is the fact that my back is to the restaurant's main entrance which is making me uneasy.

He (my dinner companion) is muttering along and doesn't seem to notice that I have no idea where I am, who he is, or how we've found ourselves here. For a brief moment, I am able to disregard both the swinging red door and the fact that I can't see the room's entrance in the hopes of hearing something in the young man's words that may give me insight into my current situation.

The moment of my attention for him is short lived: the nausea of listening to him talk through a mouthfull of food is compounding the queezey "where-am-I" feeling.

I smile, nod, and discreetly wipe my saturated brow with the cloth napkin that I have been clutching in my right hand. As I wipe, though it's contents are half eaten (I assume by me), I am able to discern that the plate in front of me was once home to a generous portion of meat. It looks like a T-bone or, perhaps, a large bone-in NY strip. I am quite sure that it is mine because the meat is blood rare and, although I haven't touched steak since giving up flesh four years ago, I was once notorious for eating my meat as raw as the chef was willing to serve it.

My head stops spinning. My carnivorous appetite has returned. At once, all of my surroundings become familiar: Matthew's face, the hustle and bustle of my favorite restaurant, the taste of blood in my mouth.

All is right with the world.

This nightmare has just become dream.

Matthew is chattering on about his most recent track meet with the verosity found only in men of his age. HIs eyes are piercing and the sound of his voice is devinely comforting. As he finishes his sentence, his squeeze on my left hand brings me to the realization that his last comment was a question rather than a statement of fact.

babe? are you okay? you look like you've just returned from one hell of a daydream.

Then, that familiar smile that melts me from the core.

I curl my lips into a "I hate that you know me so well" smile.

I'm here now and now... I'm all yours

He gives my left hand another firm, affectionate squeeze. Before he releases his grip I see, almost to brief to discern, a shadow of fear pass behind his inviting brown eyes. Never losing my gaze, he smiles, lifts my hand to his lips, and places a deliberate kiss on my knuckles. He knows how much this means to me: this affection in spite of the the roomfull of people-- namely the middle age couple at the close-enough-to-touch table next to us.

As he resumes his story and his meal, he places my hand back on the table and gives me a wink - a gesture all the more comforting given the age of his features.

I feel the sweat coming back to my forehead.

This wine is getting to me... I'm going to go find the bathroom. Miss me.

I lay my hand on his shoulder as I exit the booth; He responds with another kiss to my hand's dorsum - never missing a chance to make me feel important, needed, and respected.


Like most public restrooms, the light in here is punishing. There is a man at the room's only urinal, so I enter the stall. I don't actually have to relieve my bladder so I shut the stall door and lean my back on it's inner surface, rolling my head back to stare at the cieling.

This is, more often than not, the posture I take when you are on my mind. Like Chistians kneel and count the cross on their head, chest and shoulders, I lean on a wall and search whatever is above me for a sign that this will be the last time that you invade my thoughts.

I spend no more than fifteen deep breaths with you -- ten less breaths than I allowed myself just one year ago. I guess this is what they call "doing better".

On the walk from the men's room back to the table where Matthew is waiting for me, I pass five booths. That's five chances to run into you, so I put my head down and look for the brown DKNY sneakers which let me know that I've reached my destination.

As I lower myself into the booth, he looks at me with no less love than he had when I, just moments ago, left him to be with you. He knows where I went. He knows I went there because of you. And he knows that I will most likely go back many times in our future together.

just let me down easy.

I smile shamefully because I can see that he is fighting back tears.

If you never let me down, I'll never have a reason to be anything but easy.

His tears become a smile.

In a series of movements so fluid it resembles a single motion, he is seated next to me. Feeling his breath on my face. I pull him close we hold on in an unforgiving embrace until the server comes to offer us dessert.

And we enjoy our dessert just like that... same siders.

And we pretend that you're not sitting in the booth behind me, sharing our favorite dessert with your new man.

the new LDS spokesman.

Looking over my blog today (it's like looking in a mirror as you pass -- just checking to make sure all the hairs are in the right place) I noticed that my google adspace is pedaling Mormon ware. I can't help but find the irony in this considering the nature of my missionary post.

misrepresented.

I have spent the better part of the last hour sifting through arguments related to social protest. Starting here and ending up somewhere over here and here.

As an American I have an obligation to speak up. And as an American I welcome argument and discussion. It's painful to see either side of an arguement volley in hopes of getting the golden egg. I find it shameful that protesters are, in every arena except for abortion, seen as the "anti-".

Anti-war.
Anti-Bush.
Anti-American.
and the subtle Defense of Marriage (you almost miss the "anti-" in that one, eh?)

When did it happen that the Conservative Right is synonymous with absolute right?

For the record, I'm going out to get my toy soldiers and start fighting the war in a fashion that acurately represents me...something that hasn't happend since day one of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Technically, this makes me pro-war, does it not?

guilty pleasure.

Yes, I dabbled in nicotine use when I was an encouragable and awkward fifteen year old. I would routinely pay a $5 per pack finders' fee in order to fit in with the rest of my hungry-to-fit-it friends; and if I didn't have enough cash to buy my way into the group, I was "lucky" to have a parent that smoked like her life depended on it (read: I stole Mom's cigs or I stole the money to buy my own).

In time I fell into the graces of a different social group with a less than optimistic and pleasant opinion of cigarettes. Eventually I kicked my habit - An abhorrible habit and an unfortunate right of passage for American youth.

And as I sit writing this, my maternal grandfather is losing a battle with lung Cancer most definitely cause by many years of smoking, so the following revelation carries with it a certain amount of guilt...

There are some people who make smoking look so incredibly sexy. You know the "smoke curls around his head" variety: George Clooney. Colin Farrel. A select few of my hipster friends. Any one of the Sex in the City gals.

If you need more evidence, check out this Italian drool-monger. Now, aside from the words found on an Olive Garden menu, I do not speak a work of Italian, but I think Frederick's photos speak for themselves [I'm guessing the site has something to do with smoking]:





I will continue to vocally oppose smoking.

And I will continue to champion the New York State smoking ban by casting hateful glances at those who feel exempt from this law . . .

... unless you're sexy/Frederick.

unholy thoughts.

During my third year in college both I and one of my closest friends went through elightenments of sorts: I found my way out of the closet and Jami found her way to the teachings of Joseph Smith - a spiritual conversion that was mostly in response to the house full of baby faced missionaries that lived next door and with whom she frequently [and secretly] visited.

As Jami's fondness for the boys increased mine followed; There is just something about those white shirts ... that doe-faced innnocence ... the promise of a cyclist's perfectly muscled legs under those church issued black trousers...

If we spotted the boys sunbathing on their porch, Jami (the new and ever holy Mormon girl) and I would drive by and honk the horn just to see the boys stand and wave. My-oh-my, Jesus had blessed these boys with perfect chests to hold the hearts that beat for only Him!

Jami has since fallen out of favor with the LDS, but like me, her fondnes for those aptly and sublty named boys lives on...

I am reminded of this because of a recently found secret:



It's refreshing to know that Jami and I are not alone. Thank you Mr. Smith, thank you.

holes.

You know that feeling?

The one when you get a new car and the next thing you know, everyone and their fourth cousin is driving around in a different color of the model that you've just bought?

Well, apply that theory to death.

On a Monday, someone that you know peripherally will die. Sympathy ensues. Then someone a few degrees closer will die on Thursday; more sympathy and more sadness. You may even begin to get the "wow - two deaths in one week? weird" feeling. Then the following Monday the husband of a co-worker whon you are very close with dies. Sympathy, sadness, empathy, and an outward cry "I can't take any more".

Last night I recieved word that someone that I had known in High School had passed away unexpectecly. He was 28, and truthfully, this was the first time, in this month laden with death, that the shock was stonger than the empathy, sympathy, and sadness.

To say that he and I were not friends would be doing a disservice to the amount of energy that we had both put into hating each other, and as I'm now coming to find, hate is similar to love in that once the object of your emotion is gone, a huge void is left.

A few days before his passing, through the wonderful[ly addictive] myspace, he made contact with his first girlfriend (who happens to be my best friend). It was a message common to the venue: "hey. it's been a while. how are things going in your life?" Myspace is great because such messages come with a packaged profile. A profile so similar to the human race in as much as they are more alike than they are different. Of course she told me who had just contacted her; And of course I followed the links to the profile of my arch-nemesis.

I found nothing to mend my minefields into plowshares. From the first impression, mixed with a touch of residual High School agnst, I re-enforced my belief that this was not someone that was a benefit to the human race.

Five days later: he's dead and, as I stated above, I was more shocked than sad. More unsettled than empathetic. More relieved than consoling.

This morning I made my way back to his myspace profile. There I found that it had become a makeshift memorial - a posthumus diary. And the comment section is (as i write this) filling up with third party testaments to the caring and pleasant nature of the person that I had only allowed myself to hate.

So, I finally took time to read his words and process the lists he had made of favorite movies/tv/music/books and I was overcome with sorrow. There, in a section labeled interests, was the description of someone that I could spend time with -- someone that was nothing like the man that I thought he was: the person that I hated.

And that brings me here:

For the past 20 days or so it feels like I have been surrounded by death and I have come to notice that the work that Christians attribute to Christ is actually something that we as humans should be taking credit for: attoning sin.

Since his death, no one will tell you of all of the deplorable things that Joe did. You won't find a comment about all of the persons that he alienated and the scars that he left on my ego. And that's all right by me. In flushing from my pride those wrongs that he has done to me, I am able to be at ease with mortality and hold fast to each moment I have. His passing has left a hole in me: where there was once hatred, I'm filling with compassion.

Albiet a few days too late, I have unburdened my ill-will toward him. And I have forgiven myself for being hateful.

I wish the same to my co-worker, who is, in her own way, working through her goodbye.