Here I sit in real America.

Because what could be more melting pot U.S.A. than a German boy ordering

a good ol' Southern plate of eggs and sausage in an Italian diner from

a Mexican waitress named Gabby? This is my breakfast at Johnny Romano's

Diner on Huddleston Road and welcome to it.

Far from the deafening roar

of all the populist talk concerning the problems we have living together

as different peoples, I sit silently gulping down my fat-laden, carbohydrate-free

morning meal. We are one as a people. I am one with my pork and cholesterol.

(For my friend in Hawaii who advances the vegetarian lifestyle on her

talk show, yes, you can use me to illustrate a typically bad example).

There are few pleasures left

for the middle-aged man growing less young every day, especially since

Matt Lauer has officially ruined the buzz haircut for us all. All our

money goes for the kids, Uncle Sam or to doctors who say a lot of words

to us like "prostate" and anything that ends in "-itis."

So here I am with newspaper in booth and the simple pleasure of musing

philosophically.

Like, has anyone else noticed

how Wal-Mart has now replaced waiting in long lines, being checked out

checked out by overcomplicated cashier robots? And what do those humongous

"Always" neon signs mean, hanging over the entrances at Wal-Mart?

I just want to know.

I also wonder why every time

a plane takes off or lands the pilot says, "Flight attendants, prepare

for cross check." It just doesn't instill much confidence in me when

even the airline workers are checking to make sure they are wearing a

cross for protection.

I am shaken from these deep

thoughts by Gabby asking me if I want my usual extra butter on my links.

I decline, because, after all, I am about the health. Actually, I seem

to have become the worst customer on the face of the earth. Nothing ever

seems "right" to me. It's not the question, "Is the glass

half-empty or the glass half-full?" It's the question, "Is the

ice-to-water ratio correct?" It's got to be right.

And I'm sure my waitress gets

tired of my running joke when I leave, saying, "Can I get change

for a quarter, so I can leave a tip." I could swear once when I left,

I heard her call me "Gringo" under her breath. But of course,

I kid.

Nevertheless, I love having

my big, fat Italian breakfast. Everyone should try one sometime. And while

you're at it, try the big, fat Romano salad for lunch. It is the ultimate

"big salad," sized to make even Elaine Benes green with greens

envy.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at https://ebilly.net.]