Well, Ruby's still in the shop, so decided on another diner excursion. This time chose yhte Frazer Diner, a 1930s O'Mahoney tucked in amid the uniculture along Route 30. Sadly, I arrived 15 minutes past their closing time of 2pm.
I did process a few more images from yesterday, including this booth shot from Bob's Diner in Roxborough...
Enjoy. As always, more will be added to my Flickr stream.
Had planned to take Ruby on my diner excursion today but she developed a case of the hiccups. Made it to the local garage, and was later told that trans fluid was getting into the engine because a small (and fortunately inexpensive) part of the trans had given out. Am hoping to get away without a major trans job.
But in the meantime, I took the van out and hit a couple of local diners, the Llanerch (yes, two L's) and Bob's (no L's). Enjoy.
More on my Flickr stream.
Took a couple of hours to go photo one of the oldest diners in Eastern Pennsylvania...the Creek Side (or Kennett) Diner in Kennett Square, Pa. Sit down, have a cup o' mud.
Took Ruby for a ride thru the suburban wasteland today. Many of the other drivers, when I could stand to look at the faces, seemed in a trance-like dream state. So I ran a red light just to see if anyone was paying attention. Nobody noticed. Stopped for coffee at a strip mall. At least the Muzak was Nat King Cole.
I don't know how writers like Cheever and Sexton did it...I mean,
create literature in suburbia. Oh right, he was a drunk and she was a
suicide.
Today is for lounging
for finding lost sleep like lost socks
for laying in the grass
or on the beach
a day for hammocks and sandals
for old songs, the ones you can love
without remembering all the words.
Turn off your phone,
dare to be unreachable.
First I want to thank all of you who've been with me thru the first half of my daily blogging journey thru 2009. And second, I'd like to say a word about freedom. Or more properly, freedoms. They seem to be an endangered species.
I'd like the freedom to paint my home purple, even if I live in a development.
Freedom to speak with a customer service rep based in the United States.
Freedom from voice-activated software.
Freedom from "menus" on DVDs (I just want to watch the fucking movie).
Freedom to smoke in a bar.
Freedom from warrantless wiretaps.
Freedom from focus groups.
Freedom to attend a sporting event in a stadium NOT named for some pan-satanic financial institution.
Freedom from being required to produce 3 types of photo ID for almost everything.
The freedom for same-sex couples to marry (let's just get over it already).
Freedom to pay for postage stamps and money orders with a credit card.
Freedom from the stranglehold of uniformity.
Freedom from "office campuses."
Freedom from 20% interest rates.
...and by the way, the freedom to choose any health insurance I want when I can't afford ANY of the options is NOT freedom.
So happy birthday, America. Let's try to do a little better this year.
Male self-image is a strange thing. Near as I can tell, it's formed in those awkward pre-teen years when athleticism and physical competition become measures of self-worth. Unfortunately, when it came to sports of any kind, I was virtually worthless (like the old joke, "in the event of a baseball game, I was usually second base").
I remember starting a new school in 6th grade and running into a girl who'd been my "hand-holding friend" in 4th grade, before she changed schools. She, of course, had a new "boyfriend." He was thin, good at sports, and judging by his clothes, rich. I knew where my bread was (and was not) buttered. So I backed off.
Then came another year and another new school, this time in a new city. I was that much chubbier, that much nerdier, that much less confident. My dad had this idea I should be in private school. So now I was in with the really rich kids. How rich? Robert Redford's son Jamie*, was in my class. The high point of our interaction was when he put oranges in each of my coat pockets and smashed them. A rotten little shit. I did manage to make a few good friends, tho none of them female, and no dating.
Then in 11th grade a new city and a new school again. This time an all-boys prep school. Again, my dad's idea. Growing up in the Depression had warped him. He thought by being around the wealthy, he (and in turn, I) could be accepted by the wealthy. False. I counted my days at prep school, and each night argued my case for a transfer to public school for my senior year. After months, my dad agreed to meet with the Dean of Students at the prep school. Fortunately, this guy was such a huge dick that even my dad got angry and sided with me. Tragically dad died my first week at public school. Which completely fucked me up.
So senior year was spent in co-ed public school. Which should have helped. Tho I didn't drive, which didn't help. As my high school friends who read this blog can attest, I had zero dates senior year. I had crushes on two girls, each of whom turned out to be an Evangelical Christian. My luck. Mostly, my friends and I drove around, played stupid pranks like destroying mailboxes, and sat around in all-night diners waiting for something, anything, to happen.
Fast forward to college. More of same for 2 years. So, in the photo below, I was 18, a college freshman, and a virgin, with a sparkling vintage 1965 Epiphone guitar, and to quote Lloyd Dobler, "no chicks anywhere." Fact is, I thought I was very ugly. Looking at this photo now, I was just an average teen boy. But I thought of myself as virtually deformed. Funny, huh. And I managed to do it without the help of the media messages that bombard girls and women each day.
If I could go back nd talk to that kid, as Morgan Freeman said in The Shawshank Redemption, I'd try to talk sense to him. I'd tell him not to measure his worth by his body or his athleticism. I'd tell him to take chances. To love life, and if he couldn't manage that, to fake it. And I'd tell him that, despite appearances, whiskey is not his best friend.
Funny thing tho. I'm sure he wouldn't listen.
____________________________________________________________
*I heard that Redford developed a life-threatening liver ailment that eventually required a transplant, and that he now heads a foundation to increase awareness of organ donation. Glad to hear he's less of a douchebag than he was in 9th grade. Because he was a HUGE douchebag.
At dawn I warmed up Ruby and drove downtown for my abdominal ultrasound. One of the stipulations was that I be fasting foe 12 hours prior to the test. I'm not very good with fasting. Years of heavy drinking have fucked-up my blood sugar beyond repair. So my driving was not at its best. And I got no help from the city planners, who, in their finite wisdom, had changed the formerly 2-way street leading to and from the parking garage to a 1-way street leading away from the parking garage. (Note: if you're going to make grotesquely illegal driving maneuvers, do so in a car that's less conspicuous than a 1972 Maverick.) On balance tho, things worked in my favor. I got to the garage about 10 minutes sooner than if I'd gone around the 4 city blocks it would have taken to enter legally. And all it cost was a tongue-lashing from the parking security guard. I apologized and assured him I wasn't trying to get myself killed, and that there was still a left-turn arrow emblazened on the street (which can be confusing).
The ultrasound itself was far less eventful. The wait was brief, the tech was efficient, the ultrasound gel was even pre-heated...which was a little creepy. I had to think of all the times during Cecily's pregnancies that we went for ultrasounds. And all that ultrasound goop. Now it was my turn. I tried to get a sense of what he was seeing on the screen. Finally something recognizable appeared... "Either that's a stone, or I'm pregnant." It was, in fact, a stone, in the neck of the gallbladder. Not wedged, but definitely in a bad spot. Which would explain why fatty meals are likely produce an attack, while low-fat meals are not. I told the tech I'd switched to a low-fat diet. He asked if I'd lost any weight. "About 18 pounds," I told him. "Maybe I should get a gallstone," he said. "Only if you're into pain."
One good sign was that the doc on duty didn't want to have a second look himself. Second looks usually mean something bad, or at least tricky. So I dressed, ate the snack bar I'd been carrying in my pocket, and drove Ruby home, trying my best to break no laws.
Now we wait for the official word from my doc. I have a feeling there's a surgery in my future...but hopefully at a time of my choosing.
Ok, so much for not complaining...this is gonna be a rant...so send the kids to bed.
The fucking water company has had our street torn up and our main rerouted thru an anaconda's nest of above-ground hoses for two months. First, one of the hoses breaks and spills hundreds of gallons of water into the street. Then we find out our house is equipped with some sort of one-way moisture valve that prevents the outbound pipe from being used as the inbound pipe, so we had no water at all for a day.
And today I get a water bill for $192. When I call customer service, I'm told that our meter had been "stuck" and that they couldn't get a "clean read" on it SINCE DECEMBER. They have some kind of drive-by system, similar to a radar gun, that reads each meter as the AQUA truck drives thru the neighborhood. So now, they claim, they finally got a "clean read" and this is what we owe. Only problem is that I've been paying AQUA bills (usually $35 a month) every month. When I asked about that, I was told that when a "clean read" is not available, the customer is charged a flat minimum rate. The $192 represents 6 months of water use ABOVE the $35 monthly minimum, i.e., another $35 a month for 6 months. To top it off, I was told it is MY responsibility to check the meter and to see that the usage amount on my bill does not read zero.
Fuckers.
Hey AQUA, here's an idea...if you can't get a "clean read" on a customer's meter for more than two consecutive months, CALL THE CUSTOMER or send someone out to do a MANUAL METER READING.
I'm tempted to dig my own well.
Fuckers.
