The jukebox at our local Waffle produced two singalongs tonight.  Bohemian Rhapsody and Don’t Stop Believing played a pivotal role in the events of the evening.  I even table drummed.

It’s a homely little place that I didn’t realize was nearby until a week or so ago when I made my second only visit to The House of Waffles.  And I spent the better part of four hours grazing on breakfast food and discussing the depths of Calvinism and Theology.  And I loved it.  At 2:00am in the morning.  Why, yes.  Open 24 hours?  You have my attention.

I’ve been yearning for such a joint where you can meet, have good food and great conversation.  And sometimes you can break into song and get a round of applause from the wait staff.

Which did happen.  And I ‘air guitared’ on my way out the door too.  Cause that’s how I roll.

Like a boss.  A Waffle Boss.

Booyah, baby.

The headline of this post evokes a joke that I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to finish but you can probably figure it out.  Tuesday’s are a doldrums day.  I’m in between the rocking time I’ll be having tomorrow night working with my preteen group and the eventual slide into Friday and the end of the week.  There’s not much to look forward to on Tuesdays.

Maybe that’s something I need some work on.  On Sunday in my preteen small group someone mentioned how dealing with today is the best way to live.  Worrying about tomorrow or the next day is a useless exercise.  Tomorrow will take of itself tomorrow.  Today needs wrangling.  Focus on today.

I’ve been sitting on my couch watching episodes of “Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe” trying to figure out what to type here and as I was watching each wretched job Mike endured I wondered if the folks on the screen focused on the week like I do.  And as I sat down at my laptop I realized that maybe my vision is a bit flawed.

So, there’s my revelation for today.  Until tommorow…

I could talk about how I think this whole “Occupy Wall Street” thing is going to take a terrible turn since it seems it’s been able to do is occupy places, protest vaguely and suck in every fringe group that’s been wading out there in the pool of the left leaning.  It’s started to grate on the nerves of the businesses and citizens that are having to deal with a growing encampment of people.  Important things like toilets, hygiene and other standards that usually are not a problem for a one day protest have flared up in this several weeks long action.  And as far as I can tell they’re not intent on stopping this giant sit in.

I was listening on the radio today as our local AM news station was playing an interview from the guy who put together and made possible a Veterans Memorial that is now facing the growing crowds and a slowly encroaching rabble.  There was the sound of annoyance and mild panic in his voice.  He was genuinely concerned that this good and honest thing he had worked to make possible would be overrun by a bunch of unemployed people who were so angry that they’d just as soon sit and throw a week long fit than attempt to change the system in a more positive manner.

I wouldn’t say I think this whole “Occupy Wall Street” is a crock.  I think in it’s early days it was a good idea. However when things start getting attention and when you’re living in a makeshift camp, things start to happen.  There is a resounding amount of stories starting to creep out about how this pure movement is now turning dark with allegations of sex and drugs starting to become more prevalent.  When you don’t have a central command structure or anything resembling accountability among the patchwork of socialist groups, communist groups, labor groups and other assembled fringe groups you’re no longer on message.

You’re putting out the worst kind of public relations.  It’s a mass of anger with no real direction.

That’s just where I stand.  I actually had a cordial twitter conversation with a Occupy Denver supporter.  So there’s something good here.

Yet I get the sense as this thing goes on longer in New York and across the nation that somewhat haphazardly put together structure is going to start getting strained.  I can only hope that this thing stops being jello and turns into a nice bundt cake.

I attended a Iranian Protest a year or so back on the steps of the State Capitol.  These men and women had passion for their country and the people they loved within in it.  They knew what was happening back home to their relatives and friends.  They held a deep hatred towards the government that was killing and destroying the lives of people that deserved to be free of the insanity that was serving as their President.  It was inspiring to see them stand up and let their voices be heard.

When I look at the Occupy movement, I’m not inspired.  I’m find myself experiencing a unusual feeling of indifference to college students who have debt for degrees that are over represented in the crowded marketplace or have had their entire industry fall out.  Those jobs may never recover and that industry may never return to the glory of yesteryear.  I find it hard to support the causes and demands when talk of sharing money, taking money from people who’ve worked hard to earn that money, and this idea that someone owes you something.

Maybe it’s my politics.  Maybe it’s because I’ve had to reinvent myself numerous times since the age of 15 1/2 when I started working.  It might also be that I never finished college and with nothing but the knowledge I’ve gained over the years and the struggle to find a career that fits and has strength, I’ve found myself where I am.

Maybe it’s an issue of perspective in that I’ve not grown up in the world the Occupy Movement seems to live in and believe in so passionately.  Perhaps I’ve just seen another side of these United States of America that I’m unable to comprehend this picture they’re painting on this canvas of confusion.

I’m not saying their wrong.  I’m saying I mostly disagree with their methods and am increasingly worried it’s going to be their greatest downfall.  People will get tired of them trying to block traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.  They’ll find the effort to separate all the different groups, ideals and goals tiring and irritating.  Businesses, the city and the people that manage the parks and properties they’ve camped out on will find their patience running out on a movement that can’t seem to pick a direction and has done the next best thing.

Sat down and refused to get up.

Am I wrong?  Right?  Insane?  Or part of the nasty Right Wing Conspiracy?  Use the comments if you’d like or reply at me on twitter.

But I’ll hold off on unloading all my reverbanations on you today and go with the carefully worded prompt from high on NaBloWriMo - Given that Autumn is busting out all over, which is your favorite season and why? Alternately, which is your LEAST favorite season and, of course, why?

My favorite season is Spring here in good ole’ Denver.  Spring brings the thaw but it also brings the thunderboomers, the storms and the always tempestuousness of Mother Nature’s nasty side.  This last year was a particularly barn storming year for weather in the Denver Metro area.  Flooding, wind driven hurricanes and more thunder to top it all off.  Boulder had a few scares and thankfully it appears Fall and Winter are here to bring some sense of calm to the whole occasion.

Which is why alternately I have to poke my nemesis with an ugly stick.  Winter.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love the snow.  I love the wintry sensation the holidays’ bring out with that cheery feeling mixed with hot chocolate and the usual Christmas time sounds from the stereo.

I however do not appreciate, love or otherwise wish to tolerate the drivers that Denver has inherited from other states.  I’m glad this place has inspired you to see why indeed this city is quite possibly the greatest place to live out your existence.  The constant sun.  The amazing amount of things to be done around and just outside town.  The beautiful people.  It’s a great package.

However I do not enjoy having to deal with your driving in the snow.  Your inexperience.  Your hesitation.  The absolute freak out the world is coming to an end Armageddon is knocking on the front door manner in which you deal with snow, rain or something other than the dry road.  You make me want to move to Mars, Canada or if they’re accepting refugees – Alaska.

I think it’s because my love of Denver is being tempered by the growing amount of people. And perhaps that is ruining a once pure white as snow love of the winter season.  So, I’ve got the solution.

Time to start deporting people who can’t drive in snow or rain.  I suggest we create a ticket system with a points value denoting how many times you’ve been shown to be unable to drive in the wet. And we start drop kicking ‘em out of the state.  I mean that literally.  Construct a device to drop kick people out.

I think it’d be genius.  Who’s with me?

Untitled NaNoWriMo prequel Chapter 001

The night was quiet as the light wind swept through the streets. The street lights flickered and sent unsteady shadows racing across the pavement and into the dark alleys. Most within the limits of the metropolis had fallen into the sweet slumber that welcomed them. Some were still up as the hands of the clock danced over into midnight. They paced across the cold tiles and shuffled to the couch where the bright colors of late night television breathed warmth over the insomnia and gently glided the last remaining souls into the wonderful world of rest.

The city’s denizens hadn’t fought the night but the city herself was waging a war beneath the haunting moon that hung above, casting a concerned glow over the few who dared to walk the streets of the unseemly city.

The city of Coldstone wasn’t a terribly bright spot on the plains of Colorado. She was the bastard child of her neighbor to the west. Where Denver was modern with all the wonders of the world Coldstone was its cantankerous twin that more often than not was the one who was called into the principals office. It was a modern Wild West Gotham.

Parts of the city were owned by particular families. There were few places the police could claim as safe. It was simply understood that the burgeoning growth of this plains town was to be managed by men who knew better and could manage to make a little off the top in the process. It was a town run by Made Men. And no one dared to push against the tide of Darkness.

At least in the last 50 years. The last good man in a badge had been assassinated by the Mafioso families in a rare show of unity in 1950. Any upstanding officers of the law suspiciously retired to Mexico or transferred out of the city.

And so as the restive few remained watching over the cancer ridden world the cycle continued.

To the north and just ten miles short of the The Great White North an aging sheriff shuffled to his phone as it range loudly. Cursing the late night interruption he answered gruffly with a few choice words. His breath left him for a moment as the gentle voice on the line explained just why she was ringing just past midnight.

It was time to come home. 

It serves as a fantastic moment in a amazing film to tug at heartstrings and move you. It’s also an odd realization that you’re emotionally reacting to an adopted space alien and his family’s troubles but it’s a indicator of how strong the story telling is in the film.

Yesterday’s NaBloWriMo was, “What is your favorite way to spend time with your family?”.

Well, Montana is the short answer. My brother and I were both born in Big Sky Country. When we were kids we’d make a trip up North on holidays and vacations to see family, friends and The Big Sky we’d missed for so long. Hanging around small town Montana with Grandma and Grandpa while rabble rousing with assorted cousins and town folk it came to be one of our favorite ways to spend time with our large family.

We’ve spent winters up there in -40 degrees blowing snow and we’ve sweated through hot summers and jumped at the impressive spring lightening and thunderstorms that pounded across the state. It was one of the most fun things I remember from my childhood. That tradition continues today.

We spent Memorial Day celebrating my grandfathers 97th birthday and visiting the small town my parents grew up in. We checked out old hangouts and old friends while catching up on all the wonderful things that had changed and all those we’d lost over the years we’d not made the trips up. Spending time at the graves of my grandmothers and grandpa is naturally a moment of mourning but it served as a gentle reminder of the greatness I had come from and how much more I needed to become.

Of course tooling around Fort Peck, seeing museums and experiencing a slice of history that my last remaining Grandfather can still remember with alarming clarity was an absolute bonus.

It was so much fun I’m getting ready to go back for Christmas. My grandfather’s health is slowly fading and it’s been a few years since I’ve spent a Christmas with him up in Cold Country. I’m looking forward to seeing him again and seeing what I often refer to as my second home.

Once a son of Montana, always a son of Montana.

Tomorrow National Novel Writing Month begins (in just a few hours here in Colorado) and I’m excited.  I can only hope for better results as November starts up.

It’s fairly fascinating to sit down and glance at the calender and discover that is suddenly November.  Just ten months ago I was plotting my new years resolutions and promising myself I was going to get healthy, lose weight and get better at being me on a daily basis.  Now all those days, weeks and hours later I can confidentially say I had no idea what I was doing.  And I’m still not sure how to make those New Years Resolutions stick and hold like they should.

I’ve discovered a lot about myself in the last month.  Some intentional but most of the shining light moments came out of nowhere and shook me up a little.  I’ve connected back up with some old friends who I deserted and I’m finding new ways to stay connected with some new people who’ve decided to put up with me.  I’m also finding out what growing up and older means when it comes to changing tastes, needs and wants.  Mix all this together and top it off with me being a still figuring this out Stroke Survivor and you have a Spock-ish fascinating life to live.

Writing for me has always been my catharsis.  Getting my feelings out and working through them in a journal has been something that helped my heart since my early days in Middle School.  This has changed and morphed through the years of High School, College and now Adult Life.  To that end after nearly two years on Twitter I’ve found myself in a dark corner of self realization.

I’ve never pulled any punches on this blog and have strenuously attempted to lay it out as honestly as possible because I think that’s one of the more important things in life.  Here’s what I’ve come to conclude…

Social Media is slowly killing me.

I know.  Twitter is pretty frackin’ awesome.  I’ve watched as Denver’s local community as gone from being a few people tossing around ideas to a full fledged world of characters real and imagined.  People have found new jobs, new lives and new futures through it.  If you ever wanted a place that thrives on Social Media and the people within it, you can see it in Denver Metro.

Here’s the part that is killing me.  I’m not that guy.  I’ve tried to hard (far too and way too hard) to belong to this community of people.  I presented three times at Ignite Denver.  I’ve showed up at a few Tweetups.  I’ve gone to events specifically to twitter, take pictures and make a splash of some kind.  All for the wrong reasons.  I’ve been trying to “feel” accepted, to belong to something that really never wanted me.  Through no fault of anyone (believe me – this is all one me) I had found myself back in middle school trying to find my corner to carve out.

Working so hard to interject myself into this community of fast movers, quick shakers and morbidly talented people I discovered this wasn’t me.  It may have been me before my stroke.  I came to realize recently that I sometimes forget I had a stroke and it sent my body, mind and soul spinning into the blackness of the sky.  I’ve been operating under the illusion that this is Old Aaron.  That he can somehow function together with Post-Stroke Aaron.

Discovering that you’re trying to hard to do and be something that is not you and will never be you is akin to a tsunami jumping out of Cherry Creek Reservoir and laying you flat out across the highway.  It’s a weird and horrifying sensation filled with regret, disappointment and resolve.

And so I’m letting go of this innate need to belong to whatever is the latest and greatest.  Sure, I’ll sample things that come around and kick the tires of new newest Foursquare, Gowalla, Brightkite or whatever newest fandangled thing they put out.  I won’t make it my life.  I’ve got a life to live.

And so I close out National Blog* (originally I had “Novel” in here.  I am tired. (Writing Month.  Been Fun.  Been Real.  And for once…it’s been real fun.

Chapter Five – Breaking Bad

Gotham was something to everyone.  Most could claim a visit at least once in their lives and no two experiences were the same.  As the legendary city of a cape wearing hero it had a reputation to hold up and it rarely disappointed.  It also had the legacy of having an infamous police department and more than its share of rogues in that gallery alone.  Within that gallery stood the forty year old Thomas Dahl.  He had grown up in Gotham on the wrong side of the tracks.  In various twists and turns that would have made Agatha Christie proud he found himself on the wrong side of the law and then on the right side.  A few twists later he was back across the thin blue line and building a security empire in Las Vegas with an old friend.

How he had returned from the edge of darkness with a badge of gold was something debated and discussed in circles endlessly.  Thomas Dahl was grizzled, grounded and grumpy. He didn’t answer questions or draw it for anyone.  He simply did his job and moved on down the line.  Diplomacy was for other people in his department.  Gotham City Police Department had a policy when it came to Thomas Dahl.  If you had a complaint against the man known as the “Freight Train”, then you probably deserved whatever it was that caused you to whine.

“…I don’t get it.”  Terry McCloud had been given a change of clothes and access to a shower.  He was now pulling on a new suit jacket and looking at his fresher looking figure in the mirror.  A new pair of glasses sat on the dresser to his left.  Thomas Dahl stood in his office in the next room digging through case files.  They were on the 40th floor of the Gotham Police Department Headquarters. T he expansive windows looked out on Old Gotham in the distance, hazy and foggy in the early morning hours.  A lone desk sat at the back of the office with computer and large screen alive and working.  Thomas Dahl tapped a few keys as he half listened to his brother in law.  “Get what Ter?”  A few more keystrokes and he had his answer.  He joined his now fully dressed compatriot in the bedroom that had been there for years before Dahl had taken the mantle of Captain.

McCloud knew the history of the office before his friend had taken over.  It had been full of graft, lies, death and dirty blood.  This was beneficial to his former employer.  They were driven to own whoever was in this room.  It had worked for so long and with little trouble that Thomas Dahl wasn’t expected to rattle any cages.  Terry still had fresh memories of the shoot out in the casino lobby.  It had been bloody.  They had lost every man.  He had escaped with his life.  At the time he wasn’t sure about the how and the why.  Now he understood.  He was meant to live.  Thomas Dahl had decided to spare him in the hopes to bring his brother home.

It was noble cause and gave Terry pause to realize that despite the most powerful mafia family in the world there was still something stronger in his life.  His real family.  “How’d you get them to take you back?” He asked as he turned to face Thomas.  Dahl was dressed in a similar suit with a blue tie.  He was wore a neck badge and his weapons were shoulder holstered under his suit.  Thomas Dahl didn’t dance around what he was for no one.  He was at his core a cop and it would take a miracle to change the blue heart that beat in his chest.

Thomas slipped his pager and phone onto his belt and smiled slyly.  “I never actually left.  Technically on leave.  Not official police business.”  He looked to Terry and allowed the full grin to spread to his face.  “The papers are making one helluva hullabaloo about the whole thing.  That’ll pass.  You ready?”  McCloud shook his head as he chuckled, “You are one sly son of a gun.”  Dahl winked.  “This is what I do.  Let’s roll.”

Gotham’s Police Plaza was a fifty story building that sat on the far edge of New Gotham.  The elevator screamed down to the fifth floor where upon opening was revealed the Organized Crime Unit.  It was in terrible disarray with desks in various conditions strewn across the two story cavernous space.  The walls were a dark seedy green that hadn’t seen fresh paint in as years.  The lights hung dangerously from the ceiling and some didn’t even shine due to the lack of bulbs.  At the back of the room were stairs up to the second level which held Thomas Dahl’s official office and a few meeting rooms along with a view of the entire room from the railing.  Beneath the stairs were the interview rooms.

Dahl took a deep breath before stepping out into his new unit.  He turned to McCloud and pursed his lips, “Welcome to my personal hell.”  Terry McCloud grunted and followed his brother in law into the room.  Controlled chaos wasn’t a term either man could easily use to describe the room’s current condition.  Shouting and conversations overlapped every step and moment.  The clanging sounds of metal and wood desks being cajoled from place to place bounced off the worn walls.  Detectives and officers alike shuffled about in a coordinated move that lacked rhythm.  It didn’t bother Thomas Dahl.  He relished the conflict and chaos.  He was the blunt and bloody instrument of change in the department and there wasn’t much holding back scheduled in his planner.  Brutality was sometimes the best way to inspire something to happen.

Thomas Dahl was all of these things and more.  He led an awed McCloud through the mass of blue and up the stairs to his office and finally behind closed doors was silence found.  Echoes of the movement drifted in every so often as a reminder of what was happening just outside the doors.  Dahl’s squad office was far more real than the Spartan world forty five floors above them.  A worn and tested desk sat against the long wall facing the door.  The walls featured all kinds of posters, clippings and photos of Thomas Dahl throughout time.

The man was an impressive tour de force to behold in person and the journalistic lines and lies that were told would impress anyone.  McCloud wandered along the walls as the man he was reading about checked his email, voicemail and shuffled through the files and papers that threatened to take over the desk.  Articles about Thomas Dahl’s exploits ran the gamut.  His misadventures in Gotham.  The troubles in Coldstone.  The eventual discovery of his secret past and the game he had run while an officer of the law.

A lone section of the wall was blank, empty of anything.  McCloud frowned.  “What’s with this space?”  Dahl didn’t look up while he finished writing information on his notebook.  “Alexandra.”  Terry felt his breath leave him for a moment.  He had almost forgotten Alex.  He felt the color rush to his face as his embarrassment took full effect.  McCloud turned to face his old friend who had paused at the desk, eyes closed.  “I’m sorry Tom.”  Dahl shook his head, “It’s hard to forget all these years later.”  He opened his eyes and gritted his teeth.  “It’s the life I chose Ter.  Not much I can do to change the past.”  The two regarded each other for a moment longer before there was a knock at the door.  Dahl answered coolly, his voice carefully coming under control, “Whattya got?”

Through the door stepped a lithe woman that at McCloud’s estimation barely broke five foot four.  Her fiery red hair in a pony tail accentuated an unusually pretty face that held green daggers for eyes.  She wore a crisp uniform and her badge reflected brightly from the lights in the room.  Her nameplate read, “Lt M. Flannery.”  She stared at McCloud and raised an eyebrow.  She “hrrumphed” and turned to Dahl.  “Watchers on Giovanni’s place report two cars pulled up.  Plates match to a Rascon Harris.”  Thomas furrowed his brow as he shook his head, “Nothing really new there.  We know the Harris and Giovanni families are trying to build an alliance.”  Flannery smiled thinly.  “I didn’t come up here for nothing Dahlie.  Cars from the other families also started arriving a few minutes ago.  Everyone’s in play.”

Dahl grinned at this news.  “McCloud, you’re coming with us. We’re going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”  The muscle bound Norwegian headed for the door as Flannery rolled her eyes.  McCloud walked after her asking, “What is it that he’s going to do?”

Marie chuckled as if the man was crazy.  “What else does Thomas Dahl do on an average day?  Raise hell, make the mafia angry and shoot someone.  I figure that’s the plan.”

Terry McCloud gulped.  Twice.

Never fear blog-ites, I’m still writing.  In fact, I’m preparing for National Novel Writing Month that goes live on Monday.  That’s not only terrifying but very very soon.  I’ve got a outline in my head and some scenes thought out but I need to start pumping myself up for the fact that I will indeed be in progress Monday night writing a Novel.  Oh the terror.  Unless you ever tried this insane project (it does indeed lead you to question that sanity to which you hold so dear) you probably don’t understand the Godzilla like fear it can induce.

Trying to write 50,000 words in a month is a terrible trial filled with tribulations (no tribbles thank goodness!) that either make you a better writer or demolish any hopes you had of completing any kind of literary project.  You have to dive in, stay the course and have the cannons ready to smoke any distractions that come your way.  If this month’s National Blog Writing Month is any indication, I’m in for a very long haul.  Tears will be shed.  Blood will be spilled.  Things will blow up.  And a story will be written.

Now I have 12 blog posts to catch up on until Midnight Sunday when the end of National Blog Writing Month arrives.  Ohemgee.  To the keyboard!

Update: HAHAHAHA!

“At the end of the day you have to realize something.  This was my home.  This was my city.  I left here because I had a choice.  Live or die.  You seem to have forgotten what happened while I was in exile in the city of Sin.  I slipped and fell onto a conscience that I lost I had lost years ago.  Busting my head open and finding that in the blood that bled from my wounds there were still scruples to be found.  To be proud of once more to wear the name “Dahl”.  To stand up for whatever sought to bring my city down.  To save lives.  To do the right thing.  I’m sorry that you’ve forgotten that and I’m sorry that I don’t remind you of it often enough.  You keep on storming down here from your head in the clouds ivory tower and I’ll keep on reminding you why I wear this badge.  Let me do my damn job and go decide if you still want to do yours.”

“Life.  When I was a kid my dad introduced me to the business of ending it.  In small ways at first.  I think it was his way of trying to prepare me for the mud he’d been slogging through all those years.  We killed a lotta bugs that summer.  We graduated slowly but surely.  It wasn’t long before I was a fresh faced 21 years old with a freshly fired barrel dropping to the ground as I ran for my life.  My heart had never beat that hard.  Hasn’t since.  We were in the business of taking the bad lives of the street.  We did a pretty good job at it.  That’s one of the few good memories I have of my father.  He’s been dead years but it still brings a lump to my throat.”

“”You think this is some kind of gangster game?  You struck me as a fool the first time I met you but this is pushing the boundaries of the box I so delicately put you in so long ago.  You may be full on stuck on stupid.  I’ve killed for less.  So you have to think long and hard.  Get those wheels running and the gerbils fed.  I need everything you have on this one, ok?  I’m not averse to sending you to meet God and there’s a chance he’ll just end up laughing you down the slide to the fun fiery pits of the ever loving hell you deserve.  So think on this one.  Your life depends on what kind of a line you can figure out is the best to feed to me.”