evany's extended cake mix
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saturday, Aug. 28, 2004 | link
Just a few slender moments after I signed off last night, who should roll in but some ROCK BAND from CALIFORNIA, who spent hours and hours showering, slamming doors, and yelling each other's names preceeded by the word "fucking" like it was a title, "Fucking Mike!" "Fucking Chris!" And here I take momentary leave of you to craft a tender love letter to my earplugs.[...]
Scary death-spider sculpture hovering above the road in front of the Beehive House in Salt Lake City.
Jill and I split up and she went off to do some grocery shopping and I walked up to take a tour of the Beehive House, the restored home of Brigham Young, the Elder who brought the Mormons from Illinois to Utah. I'm not sure what I was expecting, some cute peeks at oldy timey stoves and outfits I guess, and not the hard god sell. Basically I just didn't think it through! I don't voluntarily spend a lot of time amongst people submerged in conversion-frenzied religions, otherwise I would have known better. But it became pretty clear what I was in for when the first tour guide started right in with the crazy Joseph Smith talk, and the "what can you do" shrug of an explanation for the whole zany bigamy thing as a workaround to protect the yesteryear women who couldn't legally own property. Maybe giving Mormon women the right to their own stuff? Maybe that might have been a more straightforward solution than polylove? But that's okay, I'm not here to make waves, I just want to see some hot pot-belly stove action.But then one of the sisters (as we moved throught the house, we were handed off to a different sister in each section, like moving through some sort of religious digestive track) asked me where I was from, and once they heard "San Francisco," I was in serious trouble. I think maybe converting a loose Northern Californian is the ultimate feather in a Mormon's cap, it gets you like fifty gold stars and a SECOND year's supply of jerky. Because from that point forward, every tour-guide sister beelined straight for me and my soul. Maybe they radioed ahead? The whole experience came to a completely surreal head when an Argentinian sister snagged me as I was walking out the door, so close! As she was asking if she could have my phone number so she could call me in a week to see if I had any questions, any fears, say, about my spirituality, I realized that unexpectedly there was blood gushing from my nethers.* The complete awkward horror of the situation paralyzed me for few moments, and I just stood there, shaking her hands and laughing, "haha, no, no thank you" and then I kind of just ran for it. Jill was parked right out front, contemplating busting in and rescuing me, but first I had to weather an extendo-remix surreal addendum where I went back into the house and interrupted an all German-speaking tour that was just starting to ask for a bathroom. And THEN Jill and I drove off into the Utah countryside with its many billboards ("Unity: pass it on!"), more, of course, Mormon churches, and a steady supply of farminess whiffs, a sweaty, horsey, muttony smell not at all unlike the smell of the Rennaissance Pleasure Faire. Things took a turn for the yay when we started getting in to Bear Lake country, where we saw, in swift, satisfying succession: a cow-crossing sign featuring the shape of a standard cow followed only seconds later by an actual cow with the same exact profile, facing the exact same direction, like maybe each cow has its own sign, and it's someone's job to run around after it, moving the sign in its wake; a monstrous tailgaiter, who really ought to have had a rubber glove snapped to her grill she was so up my ass, getting pulled over not moments after she jerked unsteadily and terrifyingly past us; and finally, just seconds after I descibed what kind of sign from the universe I was looking for regarding the difficult proposition of selecting one of the five total Bear Lake raspberry milkshake outlets, "I'm just looking for a huge, 3D milkshake, that's all I need," I said, and lo there it was, flying high and proud above La Beau's!
So that's exactly where I went for my shake. It was very ice-creamy while the actual raspberriness was pretty subtle. Jill's shake, which she got across the street, had a much sharper raspberry taste, which to me presented as a little too frozen yogurty and not nearly as good as mine, but Jill by far preferred its raspberriful taste.
Jill poses atop a bear bench in "bear town," Idaho.
* Gene: You know, you post about your period a lot.
Me: I find that you don't post about my period enough.