evany's extended cake mix
(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)
get the latest
get into my head from twitter:
Monday, Aug. 30, 2004 | link
I think the earplugs and I may be breaking up a little bit, because it turns out that they kind of wear little sores into my ear holes? Achy scabs in my hearing canals? That's not the best. Also they're freaking out my sleeps. My theory is that earplugs simulate flu-like symptoms, like clogged hearing and ringing in the ears, which bring on, in a sort of reverse Pavlov syndrome, a sickish sleep full of terrible dreams and lots of semiconscious itchiness. You see? So, nothing permanent, nothing hasty, the earplugs are still on board, but tonight I am sleeping solo.
Meanwhile, lots of driving today, but with some juicy stops. We saw Old Faithful spew forth, and it was amazing and really long-lasting and oddly quiet for all that raging steam and water.
We arrived in Cody (home of at least two scrapbooking boutiques) way too early to make the nightly rodeo that nice reader Colin recommended, shit. But we did lunch at the Irma Hotel where, as Jill pointed out, you can see at least four dead animals without having to even turn your head. My side of the booth also featured a mysterious little button, which our waitress Patty explained, in a hushed, naughty-talk whisper, used to beckon call girls in the 1800s. Later, when asked to describe the caliber of the coconut cream pie, she used the same secret whisper, "I like the desserts at Granny's, up the street." So after Jill partook of Irma's cherry pie, which she deemed "yummy," we walked past the tanning salon/cafe, past the framing store/donut shop, up to the weird teen-boy powered Granny's for a slice of chocolate meringue pie to go. (I ate it all somewhere on the barren strip between Cody and Casper, and yes, it was sumptious.)
On the way back to the car, pie in fist, I stopped in at a mountain store and bought a splash guard for my hippy Nalgene bottle, so now when I chug it up, hippy-style, my hippy nose and my hippy lips will no longer find themselves unduly moistened. Another success story from the road!
cold, hard casper
Now we're in Casper, Wyoming (home to at least two taxidermists) at the Holiday Inn, our first chain hotel, but we both really needed a bath, and at least the potential of room service. And a huge, black, eye-magnet television. Right now we're watching VH1's "top 50 most awesomely bad songs ever" (it always tickles Steve how those shows come up as "X Most Awesome" in the cable listing, because of the letter-limit, so you think you're tuning in for something righteous, but no), having just returned from obtaining a thrillingly chilled beer from Lill, the mistress of an amazing, smokey, and very authentico drive-thru package store with back-room bar.
And while everyone is perfectly civil here, the town (based on my exhaustive, and really I am plenty exhausted, twenty-minute investigation of maybe two streets) lacks a certain warmth. The coffee's good, but there aren't a lot of returned smiles here in Casper. And they wouldn't let me take a picture of the inside of the crazy, spaceaged Wells Fargo building, though I guess that may be more security issues than actual meanness.
Oh my god, Grease is on! Total trip leitmotif! Oh shit, and now? Danny DeVito, Emma Thompson (how did that happen? Also, worst front-pleat-pants-hiked-up-to-breast-line ever) and Big Arnold in Junior, the story of a huge, tan, and freakishly cut Austrian scientist who undertakes an experimental pregnancy and gets morning sickness and hormonal shifts that make him cry over sentimental commercials and experience over-sexy feelings when he cuts open melons. "You may be crazy, but you're also pregnant." Oh this is good.