Denver Diner

 I have realized, with age that I'm getting more and more like my father. I guess it's normal for people to realize that apples, really, don't fall far from their trees.

My realization about this is in my love of diners. Greasy Spoons. Genetically the paternal line of my bloodline is unexplainably drawn to eating in diners. Sitting for hours, talking with friends, or simply alone with a cup of coffee. 

Denver does not disappoint in this area of fine dinning. From Greek-owned diners staggered every couple of miles in the heart of the city, simple truck stops, to the hip trendy diners filled with bearded dudes and chunky-plastic jewelry wearing dudettes. Denver has what I need. 

I am saddened that my favorite, The Denver Diner, is still sitting dark. It was on the first real date with the Ginger Swimmer, after midnight, that I had a heaping stack of flap- jacks served in front of me. Suddenly a screamed call to get the hell out broke my dream-like state. We watched from safety as flames jetted through the roof. 

Still the diner sits dark. My very genome  wanting it to be open; so I may sit and drink coffee. Like every male in my bloodline before me. It is what we do. Until it reopens, If you need me, I'll be sitting in the back booth at that Greek diner. Drinking coffee.