No more Mr Nice Guy

Ray, Ian and Regina, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Steve G, Steve & Jeanette, Mary, Bobb and Barbara, Bob Birchard turned up at 7.03 and couldn't get a seat at first.

This edition of Diner Diary is later than usual because of last week's hiatus. The Diary's veracity came under challenge, whereupon I ceased publication. I did so because I am still a working professional journalist, and any suggestion of lying therefore poisons my reputation.
I have been persuaded to resume the blog only after a heartwarming display of overwhelming public demand, but only on the understanding that the rules are changing: the sources of Caught On the Breeze quotes will not be identified, and in return anyone who casts doubt on the blog will run the risk of full investigation and exposure. If you are mocked, humiliated, ridiculed or otherwise pilloried, you have to take it as served. In my book there is no such thing as a right of reply, but I promise not to censor comments.
Enough of rules. The dominant theme of last week's session at Conrads was Ian's 67th birthday, celebrated in characteristically eccentric style with cupcakes preceded by a large green bag of French onion-flavored multigrain chips. This marked the start of week-long celebrations, which are of course only a dress rehearsal for the big Seven-Oh, only three years away now.
Ray Campi made a second consecutive appearance after his debilitating two-month illness, and was flying to England on Wednesday to sing at a rock-a-billy festival near Newark in Nottinghamshire on Sunday. 'The promoters treat me real well,' he growled. 'We are put up in a five-star hotel, and give us plenty of time to see the other acts.' Trouble is, he will be stuck in one of England's less appealing areas, unless you are fan of Nottingham castle and Lincoln cathedral.
One of the group's more charming qualities is that everyone retains a childlike freshness, to the extent that it is possible to see each of us as children. That raised the question of how much we really change, or is growing up merely a process of learning how to adapt our inbuilt characteristics to our surroundings, and having the ability to change those surroundings. At school or college we are thrown together with people we may or may not like, but gradually birds of a feather flock together and no more is that truer than on Monday nights. But you can see the extroverts, the attention-seekers (plenty of those), the quieter ones, the mischief makers, the pontificators and the gossip-mongers. I couldn't possibly put names to any of those, but feel free to post your own suggestions in the comment box!
A recurring theme is the group's general distaste for organized religion, and scepticism or more about the existence of a god. Nowhere does that bring out hostility more than in the case of the money-making TV evangelists, and no one nails them more fiercely than Jim. 'They say God is merciful but then he's going to send you to hell if you transgress,' he pointed out, 'and he is infinitely powerful but he still passes round the begging bowl.' My view? Religion is inversely proportional to knowledge, so the more we have learned the more religion has taken a back seat. Politicians pay lip service to it, because millions of ignorant people still believe in an unthinking naive way. I'm not ruling out that there might be a god, but I don't think we've thought seriously about what form it might take.
Our closest observer of what is going on under Pasadena's placid surface is undoubtedly Steve Lamb, plugged in as he is to the Coffee Gallery and Altadena Town Council. He observed that you never know who the really rich are in Pasadena, because they dress like the workers. This also happens in Britain, where the old-money rich pay little attention to their appearance unless they are attending some grand ball, when the family jewels come out of the safe deposit box. They tend to be rural, love green boots and Barbours, let their clothes go to rags. It's not an attempt to hide, they just don't need to impress many people, and maybe the same goes for the old money in Pasadena. However, you can usually tell them apart if you look closely, because their tattered clobber usually comes from very expensive tailors, cobblers or couturiers. They just make things last - especially household gooes. One jibe by one of the English old wealthy against one of the up-and-comers was 'Do you know, he had to buy his own furniture!' Of course, none of us would be gulity of such a solecism.

CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You can never be too far from Birmingham [England]
La Crescenta is a dead zone
Regina is Queen of the Cupcakes
If a car goes 100,000 miles without changing the muffler you are not going to do much business
You watched Yankee Doodle Dandy and it wasn't even July 4? How wonderful!
It's too hot to cook
We'd all like to be Rollo!