Beatnik Breakfast in New York, late 1950s. L-R: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back of head), David Amram, Allen Ginsburg
Man I love local diners. I feel connected to the best parts of the twentieth century when I eat in a diner.
I drink coffee in a diner. Eat pie in a diner. Eat (half my) eggs in a diner. I feel like thumbing it into the distance after I leave a diner. When I’m in a diner I’m my father or grandfather when they were young. I’m Sal Paradise, I’m River Phoenix, I’m Hud. I’m lost. I’m found. I’m happy. I’m sad. I want to read in a diner or get lost in a conversation for far too long (never long enough). It’s alright to fidget in a diner. To let your eyes wander. I love a diner with a jukebox, especially if in my booth. I love watching short-order cooks perform their trapeze act in a diner.
Diners are best when you’re feeling greasy.
I’ve never smoked in a diner. Never been drunk in a diner. Never been arrested in a diner. The night is ever young in a diner.