is there a diner in your life?

Posted on March 13, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Does this photo conjure up any memories for you?

Of course, I don’t mean this sign specifically but, do you have a diner in your life? A place to eat eggs and sip coffee with friends or family? Sitting alone with a newspaper is best of all. You can really scour your soul when you’re alone in a diner. I like sitting at the counter. You get the best service at the counter because you’re right in their face.

Diners are my favorite places on the planet. They’re so unpretentious and comfortable. They feel like home.

When I was in high school, before we were old enough to drink and hang out in bars, we use to meet at the L+K on Pearl Road to flirt with the cute waitresses. (Hi, Z.) At a hotel coffee shop we frequented on Bagley Road, I use to sit at a table and write in my journal. When my friends came in and saw me sitting alone writing, they would leave me alone and I would finish up and join them. I think they use to make fun of me but that’s okay. I didn’t mind being the fool. Still don’t.

New Jersey has some fantastic diners. Here’s where I go with 7-Year Old Daughter on Saturday afternoons for lunch:

Isn’t it a classic? I’ve been taking her here since she was 4. The waitresses know her and make a fuss when we come in. We have a favorite waitress and always make sure we get a booth in her section, even if we have to wait. My hope is that when Daughter is older, she’ll sit in these same booths with the same jukebox selections (they haven’t changed in decades) and say to herself, “This is where my dad used to take me when I was a kid. I love it here.”

Mary-Louise Gabler

Posted on March 11, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I saw Mary-Louise Parker (my pretend girlfriend) in the Broadway production of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler.

When it opened a few months ago, the critics were almost unanimous in their disdain so I expected very little. Out loud, everyone says that they don’t listen to the critics—especially New York theater critics. You won’t find a bigger bunch of malcontent failed writers and actors looking to tear down what they themselves could not build. But the truth is that EVERYONE listens to the critics.

I’ll admit that there were a few passages that were…ahhh…what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yea. Boring. A few scenes plodded along at too leisurely a pace. But I am pleased to report that, overall, I enjoyed it. Pretend Girlfriend (gawd, she’s cute) was in very fine form in the title role as a bored, depressed newlywed who becomes so despondent over her inability to control the lives of the people around her that she shoots herself in the head at the end of the play. Talk about your desperate housewife!

That fucking Ibsen is a real barrel of laughs, isn’t he? The last time I saw an Ibsen play, Master Builder, I ended up walking out at the intermission—something I had not done in over a decade. I think I’m through with Ibsen. I’ll stick with the Bard and leave the depressed Norwegians for the New York theater intelligencia.

cell phone jammer damage

Posted on March 9, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Look what’s become of my poor cell phone jammer.

These things are so fragile. It’s not like I slam it around or anything like that. This is the second unit I’ve purchased. The three prongs at the top bend out of place very easily. There’s an even more powerful unit available (it’s a bit more expensive than the $38 I paid for this one), but the prongs on that model look even more frail than this one.

A battle-hardened soldier. I like it. It looks MEAN.

* * *

United States: illegal to operate, manufacture, import, or offer for sale, including advertising (Communications Act of 1934), with fines of up to $11,000 and imprisonment of up to one year.

In the UK, you can own a cell phone jammer, but it’s illegal to use it. C’mon, England. Don’t be so naive. What do you think these things are for? Decorative wall sculpture?

The good news is that they are completely legal to own and operate in Armenia.

yuppie breeding ground

Posted on March 8, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Overheard at the local playground by a yuppie mommy (with WAAAAYYY too much enthusiasm and wild applause):

GOOD SLIDING, JAKE!!! GOOD JOB!!!

Oh, for Pete’s sake. All that kid did was obey the laws of gravity. Must we compliment our children for their every little triumph? Wait until Jake finds out that the world isn’t all that impressed with his accomplishments.

when clowning becomes just another goddamn job

Posted on March 6, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

This is probably a back-handed compliment but I found Humor Abuse, the one-man show at the Manhattan Theater Club, far more enjoyable than I thought I would. If it weren’t for mimes, clowning would probably be the bottom rung of the entertainment ladder so I didn’t expect much.

The premise sounds pretty staid; a lone actor stands center stage and acts out the story of having a professional circus clown for a father. Father drags son into the business. Son learns the trade and tries desperately to please his father. Father ends up burning son. Ho-hum, right?

WRONG! It works beautifully. There were a few truly inspired moments that made me think about my own idiot father. And then I realized that the show isn’t really about clowning at all. Nice work.