Hippies and Tater Tots

Last August, I was in the backseat of my landlord’s sanely proportioned sports utility vehicle when an unwashed hippie crossed the street in front of us. A framed backpack mounted his shoulders. His bare feet were darkened with dirt, nearly black at the soles, gradually dissipating up his legs, but dirty nonetheless. Dirt that never ends. Mount Shasta is a pilgrimage site or something for Unwashed Hippies. In the warmer months they flock in with their dreadlocks and sweat-stained hemp clothing to patronize crystal shops and (ironically) shave their legs in the lakes. They wade in the headwaters of the Sacramento River despite such wading being explicitly forbidden. They powwow near the natural food store. They jut out their dirt-encrusted thumbs on the side of the road.

They deliberately refrain from bathing for one reason or another. I’m sure there are a smattering for whom it isn’t a choice, but nevertheless, I’m told that part of the Unwashed Hippie Lifestyle is that one chooses not to bathe. Soap is unnatural, you see. Mind you, most of my Unwashed Hippie Information is technically hearsay. I did a stunning job of NOT doing any background research or fact-checking on my own. However, I did manage to find the time to fact-check after I heard a preacher quote Desmond Tutu saying something about how we are God carriers.

I tried turning this over in my head for a while, like rosaries for neuro-pathways: God carrier, God carrier, God carrier… A pulse of divinity through my normally-clogged consciousness while walking the dog: God carrier, God carrier, God c-OH NO ANOTHER GOD CARRIER RUN AWAY!…

Please understand that I’m not publicly condoning any outright, blind hatred towards any individual or demographic of individuals. (I’m also not saying I hate these people. I just don’t like the way they smell.) I’m being honest about what’s encoded in the chain-mail that enshrouds my heart and dilutes all the Jesus that tries to get out. It sings something to the tune of, “Carry God any way you want, just… don’t do it around me.” This sentiment is frequently followed by a retreat into my tent with a can of Lysol, clutched close like a shut-in in a gated community sleeping with a rocket launcher under their pillow. Because who needs the cleansing work of acceptance and other God Stuff when you have a good, sturdy, Girl-Scout-grade sleeping bag to pull over your head?

This is my tent. Clearly, my tent exists for real.
Also, if you can name the Buffy episode that's
playing on my unreasonably large television set,
you get a prize.
...that's a lie. It's more like I get a prize, because if you
did so even half-accurately, I would collapse into a fit of
spasmodic squealing and glee.

In other news, “heresy” comes from the Greek word for choice. That may merit an entire post all on its own, but when I started brainstorming (laziest two seconds OF MY LIFE), it went like this: choice... cafeteria Christianity... cafeterias? Ooooh my gosh, tater tots are AMAZING... let’s run inside and see what Sophia and Jeff think about tater tots for dinner.

Furthermore, chickens.