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I am going to describe this violent case and related pictures as I know it; partly to relieve myself of the tension caused by the role I played and to maybe help someone going through a similar situation.

A neighbor-lady moved in about 6 months ago directly across the street. She is a highly successful business woman who travels a lot, and was divorced within the past couple of years, and her kids had just started college so she moved here to give herself a fresh start. She was very friendly and open with her home and her life. She employed me to help her with her business and we became friends. I met her boyfriend and I saw that guy often until one day I woke up at 3 am to loud crashing and banging noises outside. I remember thinking it sounded like a car being hit, but I was not in the mood for such paranoia so I did not investigate. I didn't react to the ominous noise partly because I convinced myself it was a safe neighborhood and I knew all the neighbors.

This turned out to be the night after they broke up; (her decision over the phone).

The next day I learned that the ex-boyfriend had broken into the home and did a lot of damage, including breaking two knives while he carved 'X's into the kitchen wood and inside her RV, slashing her car, breaking its windows, throwing beer everywhere and slashing some paintings. She should count her lucky stars she was not home that night because I am sure she would have been seriously hurt or killed.

Surprisingly when she found out the first time what he'd done, she hesitated to do more than clean up his mess. She said she didn't want to "start anything" because she was a "non confrontational person". Her friends and I convinced her to at least file a complaint with the police. 'He shouldn't get away with that, especially if he could hurt some one else in the future' I said. Good thing she listened to us, because that initial report is probably what helped me to take care of him the next time he broke in, which was a couple days later. He had still been calling her. Said he was sorry for what he'd done, but still wanted to talk. He keep pushing to get her to talk in person; which I now believe was just a plan to do worse damage. She told him over the phone he needed help, to stay away from her and that they had nothing more to talk about. She told us and several neighbors (this is really smart) to call the police or her if we saw him around her property again. Again she went out of town and her friend's car was left in the garage. (See the car in one of the pictures.)

The next afternoon a neighbor noticed the ex parking his car down the street in a dead end. I was quickly alerted to this so I went over to take pictures of the car, and decided to call 911 because I knew how serious his behavior is and that he was probably inside her house again. I tried calling the neighbor-lady but she was not answering. Sure enough, I heard more banging and crashing noises. My family was concerned that if I notified police, he might harm us but I was not about to let this creep get away with more crap. The 911 operator initially acted like it was not too serious, but I kept insisting on what I knew to be trouble. I was told an officer would be sent to check things out and talk to me. I then went out to work in the garden but I kept my camera nearby in case the psycho-ex came out and I could get some picture of him on the property.

The first officer arrived in about 15 minutes and I told him everything I knew and gave him my key to her house. He banged on the door and called the man's name, telling him to come out and talk, and said he wasn't in trouble (I beg to differ)... No answer, except the noises stopped.

After pulling me aside to ask a couple more questions the officer started calling more back-up patrol. He yelled into the house that they weren't going anywhere. They broke the side gate lock and surrounded the house and began knocking on the neighbor's doors to make sure he hadn't jumped over there. Within an hour the street was covered in at least 8 patrol cars and a canine police dog was brought in. They eventually used my key to open the door and yelled that he had to come out or they would send the dog in. The perpetrator did not come out, so they went in and found him with self-inflicted wounds to his wrists and throat. I saw him being held by the front door with blood all over his face and chest as he was barely conscious. As the paramedics took him, I was interviewed by another officer. I asked if I did the right thing, and they were very insistent that I saved the man's life by reporting it. My initial reaction to this news was like disappointment, because I'd rather have him dead than alive and doing more of this.

The neighbor-lady did not find out until the next day. As I am writing this she still has not gotten back home to see the aftermath. It has been a whole day and her house is starting to attract flies because of all

I wasn't wearing an Aloha shirt and sandals-with-socks, but I did have a Big-Ass SLR (tm), and thus we were both instantly identified as folks who Aren't From Around These Parts. "So what brings you here?" the owner asked.

It was a question that I didn't particularly want to answer. We had a fascinating response sitting right in our holsters, of course. But when you say "We're trying to visit ten diners in one day" you run the enormous risk of being mis-identified as a Colossal Diner Bore or a Roadside America Big Bag O'Gas.

Look, here's why I like diners: they nail the compulsories. Stereotypically, they're not interested in making you a short stack of pancakes cooked with artesian-style whole grains on a stone-floured hardwood-fired grill, served with a kiwi/loganberry compote and the Penguin edition of "Boswell's London Journal." No, they want to serve you the most perfect stack of ordinary pancakes you've ever eaten. Ditto for a BLT, a club sandwich, or a slice of apple pie. Diners are all about simple food done exactly right. Plus, you can usually get in and out of there for less than seven dollars, the staff is almost always genuinely friendly, and unlike TGI Bennihoogans franchises, if God chose to amuse Himself by teleporting you from one diner to another, you'd realize the differences almost immediately.

(Ihnatko stands up, buttons and smooths his shirt, adjusts his glasses, and then proceeds, after clearing his throat and then taking a preparatory breath.)

I do not visit diners out of a sense of nostalgia. "Remember the Fifties?" says the bag-o-gas. "The tailfins on the cars! Elvis on the jukebox! An ice-cold Coke cost five cents, and a red-haired waitress named 'Betty' served you hamburgers at your favorite corner diner." This sort of blatherol is usually oozed out by some stuffed product of the hair-care industry, usually wearing rented bluejeans and a wry, thoughful grin that had to be applied surgically, introducing some sort of show on the White Guy Channel. Either that, or it's a lead-in to a pitch for some sort of adult-incontinence product. Whenever I hear this stuff, I can taste copper.

Oh, and another thing: I do believe that in principle, you should give your consumer dollars to locally-owned business whenever possible. But when I walk into a diner, I do not, repeat, do not smugly pat myself on the back for sticking it to...hang on, there's got to be a website somewhere with exactly the sort of phrase I'm looking for...ah! "The vampiritic Wal*Mart death-spiral of multinatural corporate America and its relentless and savage ongoing assault on Main Street businesses."

I swear to God: I'm just there for the grilled chicken club and a Coke. Diners get my money through the wholesome, old-fashioned method of providing a fantastic product at a low price. If I learn later that everything in my favorite diner, from the parsley sprigs to the busted jukeboxes on the tables, were built and supplied by the Halliburton Corporation, it wouldn't dent my enthusiasm one jot.

I close this harangue by stressing that if you like diners or buildings from the 1930's that are shaped like animals, and you like them for what they are, not for how you think you're supposed to feel about them, then you are clearly neither a Colossal Diner Bore nor a Roadside America Big Bag O'Gas. You are welcome to join me on my next roadtrip.

But back to our narrative. I was a bit timid about being mistaken for some bastard in an RV who had read about the Riverside in "Reader's Digest" or something. Also, it was probably a dicey thing to assume that anybody else would find this whole Diner Decathalon story interesting.

("But what about us?" you ask, dear reader. Well, you're reading this on the Internet, and thus have waived any right to be entertained and/or informed. Onward.)

"We're driving two hours to Connecticut just to meet a friend for breakfast," I lied. "She's been going on and on about this diner she likes, and we thought we'd stop here on the way in case the food sucks."

Gloriously, this was exactly the opening that the proprietor needed to pull out the photo albums: IE, any opening whatsoever,

Oh, yes, I forgot: another great thing about diners is that there's often an intense and cheerful pride of ownership. He showed us photos of the first diner he ever owned, and a diner book where it got featured attention...and a few years ago, they shot a movie with Dustin Hoffman and Dennis Franz here!

So instead of making a quick whistle-stop out of the Riverside, we stayed there rather longer than we imagined, looking at pictures and hearing stories. The Riverside was actually the Times Square Diner before the film company came along and upgraded the entire outside for the cameras. The big new neon sign was a thousandfold improvement over the old one so he decided to just keep the sign and l