day 17: i checked out some boiling-hot geology porn

Yesterday around 2 a.m. my brother A. and I arrived at Yellowstone National Park, and everything here is boiling and steaming and spewing in a way that has me convinced it wants us all dead. 

Turns out Yellowstone is actually a volcanic hotspot, and last time it erupted some 650,000 years ago it covered half the U.S. in volcanic ash. And it is still very much alive, as bulging and surging beneath the ground is enough magma to push the ground up to an elevation 2,000 feet higher than the surrounding land. Which is probably why it might snow here tomorrow on the first day of June.

In some spots where rainwater and melted snow seep through the earth, the magma heats it up and spews it back out along with other gases, creating the geothermal features Yellowstone is famous for. 

Enjoy some free geology porn from our first day in the park, as well as some funny shit we encountered along the way:

Artist's Paintpot

"I think the term 'continental breakfast' is misleading. It doesn't sound like it should mean 'shitty,' but it means 'shitty.'" A., Travelodge in Rapid City, South Dakota

Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone

Unfortunately-named South Dakota politicians: David Lust and Scott Munsterman

Sulphur Cauldron

"Do we get a free sample of gold?" - little boy in Mt. Rushmore Cave

Mud Volcano

Potential smallest town ever: Emblem, Wyoming, with an official population of 10

Tomorrow we visit Old Faithful and Mammoth Hot Springs. And we eat more Montana huckleberry ice cream, because dammit, that shit is good.

day 16: i drove across south dakota

First of all, my mom should have been a boy scout. She is always prepared, and I’m convinced that after packing for something as simple as a four-hour trip across Kansas, she could feasibly survive for up to a month in the wilderness.

My brother and I are road-tripping to Yellowstone by way of Mt. Rushmore, and judging from the three bags she packed full of granola bars, Benadryl, Advil, first-aid kits, sunscreen, bug spray, Pepto-Bismol, flashlights, spare batteries, binoculars, etc., I think she’s convinced we’re going to die.

And today it did get a little scary. Most of Interstate 29 along the Iowa-Nebraska border and into eastern South Dakota is pretty much identical until you get to the Badlands. Today it was storming, and we could see heavy rain blurring the horizon and lightening streaking the sky several miles before we actually drove through it.

As rain and hail beat against the windshield, South Dakota quickly went from snorefest to intense. A few miles later the rain began to let up, and between the darkness of earth and clouds a strip of grayish sky hovered eerily (pictured above).

The storm was invigorating, allowing me to stay alert during the next 300 miles that featured an excessive amount of billboards advertising a place called Wall Drug, which could have been anything from a restaurant to a gift shop to a water park; the ads were not terribly specific. When we finally reached the exit, as far as we could tell it was a tricked-out gas station.

When the next surge of billboards hyped a place called Reptile Gardens, I imagined it was an iguana in a cage behind a curtain that some dude would let you peek at if you gave him 50 cents. Turns out it’s on the way to Mt. Rushmore, so I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.

days 14 & 15: i saw the birth of my godson

Note: Because I feel it is mommy's privilege to share baby's first pictures and not mine, the photos are of oddities from the hospital's so-called "gift shop." After 26 sleepless hours, I thought they were hilarious.

My 12-hour crash course on labor and delivery was intense. It was like riding a rollercoaster while sticking needles in my face and eating pop rocks. It was like driving 90 mph down the highway on a motorcycle while not wearing a helmet and firing a handgun. And it was the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

I have known E. since we were 14 years old. Saying we're best friends doesn't do our relationship justice; we are more like sisters or even soul-mates. For the past 13 years, we have seen each other through our best and ugliest times, so when she told me she was pregnant, there was never any question about whether I would be at the delivery.

When she called Tuesday to say her labor would be induced the following evening, I took a personal day at work and went to the hospital bearing a caramel frappuccino, the last thing she would be allowed to eat until the baby was born.

A few hours later when her contractions intensified, I got a cup of ass-tasting coffee from the vending machine and prepared myself for an all-nighter involving baby name trivia, a "relaxing" hospital-produced tv program consisting of an hour of adorable kitten pictures, and some of the most impressive cussing I've ever heard.

Historically I am not a baby person. I'm afraid to hold them because I'm convinced their heads are going to roll right off their weak little necks, and as far as I'm concerned they all look pretty much the same.

But it all changes when the baby belongs to someone you love. When E.'s baby boy was born Thursday morning after 12 hours of labor, I watched him come into the world and take his first breath, and I cried. He had a perfect little nose, big hazel eyes, and a head full of curly brown hair. When I held him for the first time, I felt I could have stared at him forever; in short, I was in love.

Now I am suddenly disgusted by the way pop culture has turned childbirth into a kind of spectator sport. It seems certain fame-whores are trying to see who can pop out the most kids at once (current record: eight), and there is never a shortage of speculation on "is she or isn't she" or "who's the father" on daytime talk shows and in tabloids.

And it's unfortunate, because it detracts from how truly amazing the whole experience is. It is both delicate and enduring, and I am honored to have been a part of it.

day 13: the caffeinated explorer goes to one more cup in waldo

When I was 17, I got a job at the first KC-area drive-thru Starbucks in Olathe, Kansas. On my first day, I discovered the caramel macchiato, which is as much caramel sauce and sugar as it is coffee. Overwhelmed by the deliciousness, I chugged two within 20 minutes, experienced a brief period of elation, and then had to go home early with intestinal distress.

All things considered, my first experience with coffee was like a sloppy, drunk makeout session that blossoms into a mutually-beneficial relationship, and now coffee keeps me from face-planting into my keyboard on a daily basis. 

Almost as much as coffee itself, I love trying new coffee shops, and I'm always on the lookout for ones I haven't been to; hence One More Cup, located along the Waldo strip around 75th and Wornall that looks like it's forever stuck in 1975, but in a good way.

The quaint storefront is the kind of place you drive by day after day and wonder why you never go in. It looks inviting in the same way a small-town diner does; that is, the staff will be friendly and the food will be good, but there will be a cluster of regulars eyeing you suspiciously, wondering why they've never seen you 'round here before.

Inside, the shop is not fancy or pretentious, and the usual coffee shop fare of croissants, muffins, danishes, etc. lines the counters. I am absolutely thrilled to discover they serve my favorite local organic sandwiches from the Nutty Girl and that their Roasterie iced coffee is from concentrate and not simply drip coffee poured over ice; in my mind, that is one of the factors that separates a serious coffee shop from a merely mediocre one.

For those who like their coffee sweet and fancy, they have a variety of creative drinks featuring Shatto milk, including root beer chai and white mocha strawberry.

Strangely enough, the thing that wins me over is the cups. Manufactured by NatureWorks, the cups are made from corn - a sign on the condiment bar warns that they will melt if left in hot cars - and are 100 percent compostable, as are the straws.

Delicious and eco-friendly? I think I may have discovered a new lunchtime retreat.

day 12: i watched an entire season of reality tv

Don't get me wrong - I love the Biggest Loser. I watched every episode this season and followed the contestants through their struggles and victories, and they inspired me to stay active, as for years I loathed the gym and viewed it more as punishment than self-improvement.

That said, I figured it was only a matter of time before some enterprising young chap began scheming. Because where there is money to be had, there is a way to unfairly get your grubby little hands on it.

Here is my Biggest Loser get rich quick scheme in 5 not-so-easy and potentially physically- and psychologically-damaging steps:

1. Doughnuts: Fucking eat them. In order to get on the Biggest Loser, you need to be at least 100 pounds overweight. In season 9, the heaviest male contestant was 30-year-old Michael, weighing in at 526 pounds. The heaviest female was 27-year-old Ashley at 374 pounds. 
2. Anger: Direct it inward. If you’re in a relationship, you might want to end it. Feel free to drink too much and overeat in an attempt to fill any voids in your life; then beat yourself up for it. With the help of super trainers Bob Harper and Jillian Michaels, the angriest contestants learn to use their rage to fuel their workouts.
3. Make the cut: Getting on the show can be tricky; with more than 60 percent of the American population to compete with, you need to stand out. Try to be the fattest, the cockiest, the most desperate, the most optimistic, the most motivating, etc. It probably helps if you have a good reason to get in shape, such as kids or a spouse (or perhaps you want kids or a spouse but don’t feel as though you deserve them, about which you should be very vocal).
4. Maintain: Once you’ve made the show, your goal is to be there for all 16 weeks. In order to avoid being eliminated, you need to consistently put up big numbers, so don’t blow your weight loss load all at once. Also, in the event you do fall below the yellow line and are eligible for elimination, you don’t want to be the bitch in the house like this season’s Melissa. You never know when you might need allies.
5. Win: This is, of course, the part where your scheming pays off; not only is the Biggest Loser confident and athletic, he or she becomes $250,000 richer. This season’s winner was Michael, the heaviest contestant in BL history, who dropped to 262 pounds; in second place was Ashley, who ended at 191 pounds. Most contestants ended up losing at least 50 pounds, and some, like 24-year-olds Sam and SunShine, are downright smoking hot now. Others, like 51-year-olds O’Neal and Sherry, have simply been inspiring to watch as they regained control of their lives. Check out the before and after pictures on the BL web site. And then hit up the closest fast food drive-thru, because you’ve got some work to do.

day 11: i admired an ice queen

For as inept as I am when it comes to makeup and clothes – if it were socially acceptable, I would go around barefoot wearing hippie skirts and never brush my hair – I am nonetheless fascinated by fashion and the world that has been created around it.

This is mainly because I’m a sucker for tragedy. The runways are filled with hungry young women – hungry for fame, money, love, acceptance, and perhaps most of all, a big fucking sandwich.

Even more interesting are the people who helped create this artificial, impossible standard of female beauty. And no one can argue that one of the main culprits is Anna Wintour.

Vogue editor-in-chief since 1988 and famously aloof bitch, the skinny 60-year-old’s trademark dark sunglasses and severe bob have become iconic, as has her tendency to overuse the one F word that seems to matter more than any other in modeling. In her position of power, she has the last word in what is considered "in." And each year, it all starts in September, the "January of fashion."

The 2009 documentary The September Issue follows Wintour and the Vogue team as they plan and shoot the largest issue in Vogue history, weighing in at nearly five pounds and being hailed as the "Bible" of fashion.

As a documentary, September is most revealing in what it ignores: most people aren’t chauffeured to Starbucks each morning, taken seriously for saying things like “I’m really feeling whites this season,” or aware of who designed their gym towels. The only outsider’s perspective comes from Wintour’s daughter, a 20-something law student who feels "there’s more to life than fashion."

Despite Wintour’s apparent obliviousness to the fact that most designer clothes are not accessible to anyone who is not both rich and thin – the documentary opens with her saying most people avoid or poke fun of "her world" because they are "afraid" of it – there is something to be admired in the singularity of her vision. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to present it in a way that inspires both interest and desire.

day 10: i went down to funkytown

In Raytown, Missouri, a large shed in a shopping center just off the highway houses Funkytown, a neon, disco-themed dance club that is locally famous for being both ridiculous and awesome.

Despite wanting to hold the place at arm’s length and enjoy it only ironically, I have to confess I had a genuinely good time, especially because the dance floor has been tricked out to look like a giant carwash complete with old-school brushes and bubbles.

Experience the funk (and because they were never intended to describe something so unnatural, some funky haikus):

Pray to disco ball

Spinning and shining above

The god of the dance 

Climb up the stairway

To heaven, it’s VIP

And remains empty

A town this funky

Makes neon a state of mind

Crunchy as fall leaves

Drinks become empty

Gnarly tree lords over bar

Sees you sip then trip

Cougars in a cage

On soapy neon dance floor

They get too frisky

Halo of bubbles

Suspended like a held breath

Pop ephemeral

Chair offers a hand

Have a seat in your short skirt

Homage to the douche