Across a wood-grain bar in southern Minnesota on the way to Buddy Holly roller coaster in slower Iowa, I lay a few dollars on the bar for the sixpack of Blatz (cheapest they got and straight from Milwaukee authenticity) the bartender slides my way. Driving all afternoon on potholed state highways from Minneapolis, the beer'll back the salami sandwiches from the general store down the street from that motel where I stayed last time and hope they have a vacancy.This is probably what divorce would feel like if I'd ever been married. Though the approach of Arnolds Park might feel like a pile of us