This last weekend I went to Iowa — don't worry, the story gets more interesting. It was my friend's wedding, as I’m of the age where all of my early-20s friends are starting to get married. I’m underemployed enough to have the kind of free time necessary to attend. Plus, this was the first one of those friends to make the necessary moves on a woman to have a wedding, so it was particularly special — despite being in Iowa.

Outside of the wedding ceremony itself, Iowa was our chief source of entertainment. For those of you that haven't been to Iowa, let me just explain why I'm being so hard on it for being small and boring with the conjuring of a single mental image: the city of Des Moines, the largest city in the state, a city 1/10th the size of Indianapolis, has five buildings that extend above the tree line — six if you count the cell tower.

But, that didn't stop us from doing a whole bunch of exciting things. We locked the keys in the car twice, for instance. The first time it was human error, and the second was due to equipment failure on the part of the key chain. Both times we got to hang out with cool, Midwestern Lock locksmiths who so effortlessly and silently broke into the car, I now fear for the safety of all things under lock and key. There was also positive talk about the legalization of gay marriage and, unrelatedly, there was a foursome. Then we went to visit the construction site of the Enterprise, the new flagship for the Federation's peacekeeping armada, and wondered why Star Trek is the most interesting thing to happen to Iowa ever. On the last day, we went to a bar full of Iowans and saw our first black person; he was playing pool, like he was always there.

The wedding was much like Iowa itself: quaint and involved a field. Much to my disappointment, there was no 1 Corinthians 13:1-13. However, there were "I do"s, and kissing, plus, the best man strummed whimsically on an acoustic guitar. Also, there were Starburst decorating the table which we totally devoured. Fortunately, my girlfriend did not catch the bouquet, though she got close enough my heart skipped a beat. Appropriately enough, it was caught by the groom's sister, whose wedding is planned for a few months down the road. The garter toss was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a gentlemen's contest: punches were thrown, garters were snapped, ribs and egos were bruised.

Then we drove back. At one point, the right-rear tire shattered into smoke and rubber shards, but that took place in Illinois and is thus far too interesting for this article about Iowa. Sorry, it wasn't that exciting to read, but I gotta work with the material I'm given.

Mark Johnson is an unprofessional writer who drinks too much and smokes too little. Witty, unconventional, cavalier, badass: all terms rarely used by others to describe him. His hobbies include loitering publicly, exchanging high fives, and embellishing himself. He tries to be cynical, but a pesky and staggeringly persistent optimism just keeps getting in the way. Mark takes nothing half as serious as perhaps it should be taken; to date, this has not gotten him physically harmed, but he worries.