Where'd I go?

I'm at the Taco Show. Back soon!

I know it's not "What Are You Doing" Wednesday yet, but.

I'm accidentally making myself nauseous at instructables.com. I'd ask you what you're doing, but obviously, you're doing the same thing now. And for that, I do apologize.

However, if you've never visited instructables.com yet, then go. You'll always find many truly extraordinary projects to do, like painting a snail.


Yes. Some days, I do have that kind of time but have yet to find the motivation or resources.

Honestly, people fascinate me, and then most of them make me feel like a true slacker. But that's where the B12 injections come in. Personally, I couldn't live properly without instructables.com. So be prepared to spend a few hours there. But don't worry. It's not slacking. It's Monday. And what's a Monday for anyway? If you don't ease into a Monday and fill the well for the rest of the week, you'll get the bends. I should post "How to Ease Into a Monday" up on instructables, but I can't. I'm too busy hunting snails instead.

In other news, I have only one Happy Hippie Sighting to report.

Note: At the risk of offending any hippies who may actually be reading this blog, I may cease referring to him as a "hippie" because even though it sounds like I may be using it as a derogatory label, quite frankly, with my love of long hair, world peace, regional goat cheese, flared pants and any such equivalent grooviness, I may proudly be part-hippie myself. One-sixteenth, I'm sure.

I spotted him briefly outside yesterday, looking fit and happy as usual, quietly surveying the courtyard, kicked back with his feet propped over on the railing of his porch and his french doors flung wide. Then at nightfall, what to my wondering eyes should appear but the fully-lit Christmas tree set electrically ablaze in the corner of the living room. Sadly, Happy was nowhere to be found.

I feel a Nancy Drew-style investigation coming on.

"I think he's a tree-hugger. Tree-huggers jog," my mom said with unshaken conviction. First of all, I hope no one ever taps into our phone conversations because they sound like something terrible -- exactly opposite of what they are intended to be. "Nothing at all. Observation. Shooting the breeze" is what they are intended to be.

Actually, I take it back: first of all, I haven't heard the term "tree-hugger" in forever, so I think I laughed. Then, secondly, I said, "Yeah. But 'tree-huggers' wear toques and organic clothes from patagonia and don't usually have long hair, do they?" I asked, continuing the thread of sweeping generalizations for my own cheap entertainment purposes. I'm not even sure Memphis has many tree-huggers if any -- not because most people don't care enough necessarily, but hopefully because there are no giant red sequoias here to protest and save. Hell. We go through pine trees like toothpicks. Probably for toothpicks. "Well, some do. Some have long hair," she replied, still unwavering.

I realize the absurdity of my labeling process. It's not something I do for any other reason but for identification and entertainment purposes only. Me, I label myself "simple" or "average" or "looks bored and tired like a 5th grade teacher around November." But again, I assure you that I'm not labeling anyone here in a derogatory way. Why would I? I'm part-misplaced tree-hugger, too. One-sixteenth, to be exact. And one-sixteenth hippie. And two-sixteenths amateur sociologist just trying to crack a nut.

Figuratively, not literally. Sheesh. I'm not calling anyone a nut.

Yet.

"I'm tellin' ya, he's a rocker. I bet if I talk to him, I bet I know him," Mamie said with her unshaken conviction.

I like talking to people who have their own brand of conviction.

As long as they aren't nuts. There. I said it. Nuts.

"When you say 'rocker', you don't think he listens to Kansas or anything, do you?" She laughed, said no. That's a relief. I can't imagine being happy listening to old Kansas albums. So I asked her if she'd strike up a conversation over his Christmas tree or something the next time she came over, and she said of course.

I must know his secret to happiness. It could be as simple as a dosage level, or painting snails, but I hope not.