Had lunch today with a friend and his girlfriend from NY. We went to a local diner here in Good Ol Midwest Murica. I've never been to NY so I asked her, Is NY just like what it looks in the movies. Do people hang out in diners all the time?"
And she said no, that they were actually kind of dying out, being replaced by boujee eateries. She hypothesizes that it's because one's eating decision is now increasingly guided by what can be transposed onto Instagram.
Damn. That was a moment when I felt probably what all our ancestors have gone through. This moment of knowing your aging in a way where the world is leaving you behind.
I'll always love the diner with it's shitty, burnt coffee and low-quality greasy food and waitresses who always have a gallon of politics to pour into your mug.
The rapper Gucci Mane always raps about his bricks, AK 47s, bad bitchez, and cars. I will always write about diners and the hopeless people inside them who share their spit and breaths through decades old cutlery and ceramic mugs.
I wrote about the rapper's art to repetition a little while back: how they always rap about the same things seemingly, and that's how they become great in their niche.
Here I wanted to write what's been on my mind but unsaid for awhile now. That I already know that the next decade at least, all my writing will in someway be tied back to the diners, and the dreamers who revolve around them.