An afternoon at the lake with Mark, the fight choreographer, and several actors, splashing about, small-talking, getting sun-burned. Earlier, a phone conversation with my beloved friend Neal, of whom I'm proud, who lives an impassioned life of family and creativity with all the complications that entails. Later, a solo dinner of barbecued pork ribs and a 3.2 beer at a roadside restaurant housed in a double wide (double wides find large commercial use, down here), the room dark, guys eating dinner with their families and cowboy hats or feed caps tilted back, but still on their heads. Gals looking a little pursed-lipped. Some young folk in bad need of nutritional advice and more aerobic exercise. Farm chores aren't enough to keep their jean sizes below 40" (or 50" or 60"). They have my empathy (after all, I'm hunkered down over a plate of ribs, too.) That I'm not from around here, you can see noted out of the corner of everyone's eye, and I get that little bit of extra politeness from the (wafer thin) waitress and (equally willowy) busboy that reveals their curiosity without outright stating it--next time I stop in, on the way back from the lake, I'll satisfy it. Didn't get a lick of homework done.
The ribs were darned good.