TUESDAY, 29 FEBRUARY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

NAPKIN FROM PHILLY’S CHROME-SIDED “MELROSE DINER” I have a vehement penchant (pronounced “pahhn-shahhn” of course) for cheeseball diners. The ruraller and skankier, the betterer. I strongly believe that “coffee” should be pronounced “Koaw-Fee” and is best orated by a haggard woman who sounds like Selma Diamond or Peggy Lee right before death with a 120mm Benson & Hedges bitchstick bouncing between her thin, bloodless lips, ashes falling at random like her fading youth and squelched ideals. My dream waitress’s name is “Iola” or “Gilly” or “Myrt”. She will feel a comraderie with me and my motley gang and may “take a load off”, join us in our mocha pleather booth beneath a plastic philodendron and tell us her woes, whether they be medical (“My corns are actin’ up today, I can tell ya kids.”) or familial (“Damn that worthless daughter of mine. Not 16 yet and already two children of her own with another on the way!”) I picked out the tune of the above napkin on my piano. It’s really not a very catchy refrain. It’s also particularly difficult to sing “the” as written, bringing emphasis out on the “h”. (Try singing it: Thuh-HUH-uh) I don’t believe they consulted Sondheim during their composition stage. NO ONE OVER 5' 8" ALLOWED IN THE “PENN YAN DINER” I adore the cheapness of it all — price, atmosphere, and nutritional value. How many minerals and vitamins can one possibly extract from a large chunk of snow-white iceberg lettuce? Yet how much nutrition does one want to extract when the art on the walls consists of scary clowns and mimes on black velvet canvas or yellowing posters of someone other place’s food. (“It’s pronounced Yee-Roh!”) MULTICULTURALISM DEEP IN THE ROILING BOWELS OF SOUTH PHILLY I like to experiment with crazy things that shouldn’t be on the menu (“I’ll have the mushroom barley soup pleeeeze.”) as well as revisiting all the old favourites. My ole’ chum Anne and I used to frequent Nikko’s in Oakland years ago where she was quite fond of the red jello (why give it a flavour name? “Red” is enough description), but only if cut in squares. Round, triangular, or rhomboid jello sections did nothing for her and she would find something else preferable. For my part, I confess to a certain weakness I have for the Fried Food Sampler plates available at your finer trashy diners where they load up a lubricated plate with fries, onion rings, mozerella sticks, buffalo wings, and whatever else might have fallen into the FryDaddy that day. Of course no diner experience is complete without chain smoking several cigarettes afterwards as you eavesdrop into neighbours’ conversations at the next booth about their car troubles, wife troubles, health troubles, job troubles or offspring troubles. It is due to the banning of such a passtime as chain smoking (among a veritable catalogue of other offenses) that I cannot enjoy myself in silly places like California where they no longer allow their patrons to indulge in such necessary decadence in their trashy diners. POST-APOCOLYPTIC DINER SCENE Remember, even Miss Manners decrees that little plastic packets of butter, jam or creamers ought not be served at the table, and therefore, if they are, one can do with them whatever one wishes. I like to make little Pisa Towers of creamers and butters and jellies. Create little Gilliamesque high rises then watch them fall as in Koyaanisqatsi. Everything is a game.