Rock ‘n’ Roll Breakfast 

by NIKKI RENÉE FRISINGER 

If Iggy had his Stooges, then I found some friends in a
neighborhood diner on a corner a few blocks east. 

 Neighborhoods are a canvas for unsung traditions, and the neighbors we meet encourage new ideas that will bring the right colors to the palette when we are feeling stuck on where to begin. 

The combined mileage of our emerging friendship was a long and winding road—like a hidden verse wrapping through the valley of an old vinyl B-side. The obscured lyrics peaked as a song of sorts that didn’t dare tell a story, but instead hummed an old familiar and comforting tune. Its melody arranged sentimental chords comprised of an outsider’s perspective looking in, and we broke bread in a corner booth while the needle landed on a dusty groove over time at our weekly gathering spot. 

The hum of the diner was steady, and the servers brought us our steaming breakfast plates with a side of friendly banter, building up harmonies with each refill of our emptied cups. 

The walls of the old bistro were no longer a boundary between generational divides. They were constructed like a sound booth of convictions accrued from lived experience. They were poised with a business plan, yet often fraught with artistic vision through a lens that dared not zoom in. Instead, the framed perspectives tendered patience in exchange for careful consideration and lessons traded from both sides of the table. 

A dialogue. 

A fistbump.

A handshake. 

A high five.

Each punctuated gesture was peppered with encouragement and salted with comedic timing as necessitated. With each clink of the silverware upon our plates, we nourished a collectively hungered soul of what it meant to contribute art in these times.

We stirred milk into coffee cups as we pondered support of the artists who endlessly surveyed the world for others and helped us all make sense of it more and more as we proceed through challenging times. 

In this weekly debate and discussion, sportsmanship was laden with support for members of another team. Often, a gruff and tumble slapstick routine peppered our omelettes aux fines herbes with a dash of Tabasco and punk rocker sass. A small plate of smart-alecked daydream and occasional foot stomps were served on the side. It was the Midwestern way, of course, to keep our feet firmly planted on the ground. Being on our toes only elevated us to the wrong systemic woes of the oligarchs’ plans for the rest of us. 

Good conversation endlessly supplied the caffeine. Like a pot of coffee that grows cold, the eventual brew of the new day refueled us. 

While breakfast begins a new day again and again for all of humankind, our rock ‘n’ roll breakfasts emerged as neighborhood tradition. Like a good record, we flip something over like a flapjack for more of a good thing, and we may hear something new in the song as it bubbles perspectives on the flip-side. 

I think of the times in life where no roadmaps are around to guide us. If reading our favorite familiar menus is essential nourishment along the unknown path, then dialogue is a destination where neighbors will always sit beside you in both challenging times and triumphant joy. 

—For Mark and Paul