XXX

Once a year, it seems, I make it out to the further Seattle-ish suburb of Issaquah to the Triple XXX Drive-In. Oddly enough, it is not a porno drive-in theater; it is not really even a drive-in restaurant, as there is no car service, like at my beloved Kiltie in Oconomowoc. But I don't care at all that it has a misleading name -- it is a fun retro diner and there's always some cool cars around to ogle too.

The Triple XXX is one of those places that jams as much STUFF in it as possible, for your nostalgic viewing pleasure:





That's a lot to look at while you wait for your plate of far far far far too much food. Most of the items seem authentically old, which I like. Fake nostalgia items, like those old Coca-Cola tin signs you can buy new, depress me. I picked up the empty old bottle of Diet Pepsi sitting on the windowsill at my booth, and smiled to feel the familiar fat swirls in the clear glass. It doesn't really take very much to make me happy. The Triple XXX also has a couple of jukeboxes. This is something I have wanted forever, but it is getting harder to see that I will ever own one. It gets more impractical and Rich Baby Boomer Predictable Purchase as the years go by. I did enjoy some vintage James Brown funk during my meal, though.





The place is known for its yummy rootbeer, and I agree, it is really good. My rootbeer float also featured creamy Darigold vanilla bean ice cream, and possibly was the final pushover to diabetes for me.



Ah, well. My tuna melt was especially yummy too, but I couldn't manage many of the crispy golden fries served with it. I hate leaving a restaurant feeling like I have to all Karen Carpenter or something.

My first impulse when I saw this was to ask my mom for a dime so I could ride it:



I'm not kidding either. In maybe two or three seconds, I recalled that I was now 47, my mother is 82 and lives in Wisconsin, I don't have a dime, and I would break that poor horsey and wagon now. Sigh. Very occasionally, it sure would be cool to be three again.

Heading back out to the parking lot, it is hard to miss this bus:



Was it really Buddy Holly's tour bus? Upon closer inspection, I think nahhh. The worn paint looks about as authentic as the rips in my $78 "1969" jeans from the Gap. It's got extra restaurant seating though, and an empty driver's seat.





A few bitchen muscle cars, and time to head back home.






Another woman looking at the pink Duster remarked that my pink purse matched perfectly, so it surely must be my car. I replied that if that were the case, I would explode immediately into fabulousness. She laughed, and then kept on laughing. "You're funny!" she said.

The Triple XXX would probably get even more business if it did have porn star car service like you would think it would, but I like it just fine the way it is.