A Coney Island of the Michiganders.

I always enjoy the NY Times‘ Metropolitan Diary section (little tales of city life sent in by readers), and today there was one that made my linguistic antennae vibrate: Dear Diary: My daughter returned home to New York from college in Michigan for summer break. Her three roommates came along for a weeklong stay. Sitting around the kitchen table one morning, they were eagerly planning things to do in the city. They mentioned a nightclub. “There’s a really good diner around the corner for afterward,” I said. Marisa, born and raised in Michigan, looked confused. “Diner?” she said. “What do you mean ‘diner?’” “Huh?” I replied. “What do you mean?” “What’s a diner?” “What?” Marisa’s eyes darted around to the other Michigan girls. They also looked confused. I was confused too. “It’s a casual restaurant, open 24 hours,” I said. “You can get breakfast any time, burgers, fries. You sit in a booth.” “Oh,” Marisa said. “You mean a Coney Island.” “What?” I said. “Yeah,” Marisa said. “In Michigan,…