My misadventures at Jackson Diner (Which is actually Indian food)

Manhattan snob dodges Salmonella in Queens by moving back to Manhattan…

A friend and I decided to try out Jackson Diner in the Little India section of Jackson Heights (Queens, NY) after much prodding from my then roommate, Liz. She, among the many others, relentlessly commented on the best part of living in Jackson Heights was the Indian food. I scoffed at these comments due to my Manhattan snobbery, and knew – despite their efforts to make me feel less like a loser for moving out of the city – that Jackson Diner could have shattered my taste buds but it was not in the East Village’s Indian Row.

After a couple of weeks of misery of living in Queens, I caved and went to eat at Indian Row’s Jackson Diner. The comedic relief of the night went to our waitress for the below dialog.

Me: I’ll take the Chicken Tikka Masala.

Waitress: Okay, how would you like your chicken?

Me (confused): Um, cooked, please.

Life Is A Highway

Today I woke up, alert, relaxed, and genuinely ready to start my day.  Outside my window was a gray film complemented by droplets of rain covering the Friday morning.  Typically, I wake up groggy and unwilling to accept that it’s not a weekend so the mere peek outside would have set my depression into overdrive.  Not today, nope, I was up and ready to shake a tail feather.

Time was on my side as I leisurely got dressed, my hair dried to a radiant shine, and walked out the door as the sun appeared through the grim sky to greet my face.  Pulling out my sunglasses, I had a short skip to my walk and hopped in my car turning on the newly replaced windshield wipers to clear my view so that I could gracefully drive to work.  Without a care in the world and not running late for a change this week (road construction stress is the worst especially on a NJ Turnpike), I listened to Q104 (NY’s Classic Rock Station) tapping my steering wheel with an enthusiasm of a newly licensed driver as Billy Joel sang about tie dyed jeans (Captain Jack song).

Every green light danced as my car approached, and the weekly traffic on the NJ Turnpike due to construction parted so that I could veer off at an exit to avoid gridlock.  The normally busy Jersey City street was desolate allowing me to bypass the traffic woes of the turnpike, which pumped my smile to a full grin.

Cars lifted in the air as I looked for a parking spot in the usually hard-to-come-by parking lot in Weehawken.  Within a few steps of the bus stop, I parked my Honda and gathered my things jumping on the Jitney headed to Manhattan.  I sat alone and could breathe without the two overweight stranger’s bodies I usually get sandwiched between, and I got some work done courtesy of my iPhone.

The air was light, my soul felt bright, and it’s a Friday– Believe It Or Not!?!?


The factory warranty on my car ran out a long time ago, so stop calling me.

The area code may change on the screen of my cell phone, but the message is always the same, “Hi, this is the second notice that the factory warranty on your vehicle is expiring.”

Apparently, most of NYC’s factory warranties on their cars are running out because everyone I meet and talk to lately has been cell-phone spammed (with this message).  It certainly seems like they have picked the wrong city since according to the 2000 U.S. Census, more than 75% of Manhattan households do not own a car.

Maybe they should just stand at the subway turnstiles and try to sell a Metro Card swipe instead?

How To Get Rid Of These Calls

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