Morning at the Taylors', Julie and Tami are in a war of escalating high-pitched warbles. They rush around trying to get out the door to the car. Tami says that "under no circumstances" is her daughter going to a concert on a weeknight. Julie begs, saying "it's the Old 97s and they're awesome!" Well, they're pretty good, but what you aren't saying, little girl, is that "it's the Old 97s, and Rhett Miller makes me feel girlishly tingly!" Tami tells Julie that if they are so awesome they ought to get a weekend gig. Julie promises she'll get her homework done ahead of time, and she'll stay in on Saturday, and they can have a family night and, and, and. Until Tami interrupts her and tells her to stop groveling. "It's not becoming." As they head out the door, Tami takes a deep breath and finally agrees to let her daughter go, only if she comes home by 11:00 PM sharp. Which, in my geriatric old age, sounds like my kind of concert to attend. And also the kind of concert the geriatric Old 97s would put on.
Instrumental music. Tim drives quietly down lonely Texas highways. Cut to a matchbox two-story apartment building right off some cut-rate highway where Tim is talking to a lady who's definitely been put away wet a few times. She drags on a cigarette and chuckles through her tumorous lungs that she "threw him out six months ago, honey." She tells Tim that his father used to hustle golf at Jackson Crest, "some piece o' crap muni out in the boonies." Muni? I have totally missed the boat on low-rent golf course slang. Perhaps I am spending too little time in matchbox apartments right off cut-rate highways. ["Just to save you the emails: Municipal golf course, I'd wager." -- Joe R] Tim walks away, and she calls after him -- getting real Broward County for a moment -- that if Tim finds his dad, "I want you to tell him that I want my Conway Twitty back. They don't got that at Target no more." Okay. I'm no Faulkner, so I can't figure out how to render that dialogue in print so that it evokes all the ignorance and disgust and more ignorance that she gives it, but maybe if you imagine Joy from My Name is Earl covered in Velveeta, stuffed inside a Lil' Smokie, and then rolled up in dough-from-a-can, you'll get the picture.