06-07-02 - 7:22 p.m.
our spot at the lake was occupied by four old farts with huge bellies. fishing licenses were pinned to their hats. poles were planted into the dirt on each side of their beach chairs. during the course of our two hour lunch, patrick and i learned that catching a fish is not the actual goal of the fishing experience; bathroom humor and spitting take precedent. patrick, who doesn't have the need for male comradery and spitting, much less the patience for fishing, shook his head in wonderment.
i'm convinced those people are mentally ill, he said.