Brisket, Headspace, and the Lost Art of Actually Talking to People

An hour north of San Antonio in the small Texas town of Blanco, sits the Old 300 BBQ. The kind of place where vegetarians go to reevaluate their life choices. It’s also the waypoint from where three old friends live, but have never met in person - we had been threatened for six months.

I got a two-fer out of the day, making a call I had been looking forward to for weeks. The drive was a masterclass in conversation. Alfred Rhett, PMP, ITIL 4, an Air Force wingman from forty years ago, had read my book, #PatriotsWake (shameless plug), actually read it, not just "liked" a post about it, and he had questions. Real ones. The kind that required actual thought to answer. We dissected themes I'd written the year before the book, debated points I'd half-forgotten, and somehow ended up discussing whether being a good father means teaching your kids to change their own oil or just making sure they know who to call when the check engine light comes on.

(The answer, we decided, is both. And also neither. Fatherhood is complicated.)

Politics entered the chat somewhere around mile marker 32, which is earlier than usual but later than it used to be. Should Washington, D.C. be its own state, among other things? When I was a 19-year-old Airman, I barely had an understanding of politics, but Rhett was always analytical. I bet he’s been waiting to have this discussion with me for forty years - I’m a slow learner. The conversation flowed like good whiskey: smooth, warming, occasionally burning, but never boring (that was a deep sentence).

By the time I pulled into the gravel parking lot, I realized I had been genuinely, dangerously, present. We agreed to have more sessions like this. Next time: Opinion of Secretary Hegseth’s meeting with Generals, Admirals, and Senior Non-Commissioned Officers. That should be a calorie burner - I can’t wait!

Breaking Bread and Everything Else

The BBQ joint didn't disappoint. Brisket so tender it apologized for taking up space on your plate. Ribs that required both hands and zero dignity. The kind of meal where BBQ sauce becomes a badge of honor on your shirt.

My two other friends were already there. Brandon Pinzon , Joanna McDaniel Burkey , and I had worked directly and indirectly over the years. That professional network had turned into an orbit of friendship, but we had never connected in person. Within minutes, we'd formed what sociologists might call "an organic discussion group," but what we called "three friends eating way too much meat." The topics came fast and unfiltered: BBQ (naturally), and Brandon's father's apparent transformation into what we could only describe as "functionally Amish."

"He does everything by hand now," Brandon explained, "He goes to gas stations that still accept checks.” Who knew the Amish used checks?

We pondered this mystery with the gravity it deserved. Had Brandon's dad discovered something profound about slowing down, or had he reached that age where learning new technology feels like homework? The answer remained elusive. The brisket kept coming.

Then Joanna made the mistake of mentioning social media, and we were off to the races.

Is it the root of all evil? A close second? Or merely a symptom of our collective inability to sit still with our own thoughts? We debated with the passion of people who all had accounts on at least three platforms. The irony was not lost on us. The brisket, however, was rapidly being lost to our stomachs.

The Revolutionary Act of Lingering

Here's what struck me as we sat there, bellies distended, napkins destroyed, dignity optional: we had nowhere else to be. No meetings to rush to. No calendars pinging with passive-aggressive reminders. I hadn't checked my phone once. No buzzing with that dopamine-disrupting notification symphony. No PowerPoint presentations. No stated objectives. No one would take minutes. It was, in other words, deeply suspicious behavior in 2025. Just three people who carved out an afternoon to exist in the same physical space and see what happened.

When was the last time you did that? Really?

We've engineered efficiency into every corner of our lives. Coffee meetings are 30 minutes maximum. Calls could have been emails. Emails could have been Slack messages. Slack messages could have been eliminated entirely if we'd just read the documentation. We've optimized human connection down to its most concentrated essence, like some emotional bouillon cube.

The problem is, some things shouldn't be efficient. Some conversations need to meander. Some thoughts need the runway of unstructured time to take flight. You can't schedule serendipity in 15-minute increments between Zoom calls.

What We're Missing (Besides Dessert)

We didn't order dessert. We physically couldn't. But if we had the room, we could have solved world hunger. Or outlined a compelling approach involving better distribution networks and a reevaluation of agricultural subsidies.

The point isn't that three friends at a BBQ joint are geniuses waiting to be unlocked. The point is that actual conversation—the rambling, digressive, sometimes profound, often ridiculous kind—does something to the human brain that scrolling, posting, and liking simply cannot replicate.

It decompresses. It recharges. It reminds you that you're capable of sustaining a thought for longer than a TikTok video.

My Air Force buddy's questions about my book were sharper because he'd had time to think about them. Our political discussions were more nuanced because nobody could drop a hot take and disappear into the algorithm. Brandon's dad's Amish awakening was funnier because we could riff on it in real-time, building jokes like jazz musicians trading solos.

None of this works in the comments section.

A Modest Proposal

So here's my radical suggestion: we all need more afternoons like this. More drives to think or use the journey, and time, to talk meaningfully with old friends. More BBQ joints with no agenda beyond the next napkin. More conversations that start in one place and end up somewhere completely different.

Give yourself permission to be unavailable. Let your thoughts breathe. Sit across from another human and rediscover the lost art of actually talking to people—not at them, not past them, but to them.

Your email will still be there when you get back. The world will continue spinning. And you might just remember why we evolved the ability to speak in the first place.

Besides, there's BBQ to eat and world problems that won't solve themselves.

Although, to be honest, we came pretty close.

Joey Jablonski Donna McAlister David Hechler TAG Infosphere Jim Shelton Pablo Esteban Choi Sean Bratcher Deno Morgan Edward Amoroso John Rasmussen Jason Neuman Donjeta Mahmuti Michael McKenna Stephanie Amoroso Lester Goodman