Workin' on the Highway

I have a friend who is incredibly skeptical of the Amish. She loves their work, but saw some at a gas station. She is certain they were not Mennonites, and has also gone as far as to have her father call her cell phone at the Amish Market to see if one of the Amish look down to see if they are "blowing up."

In the same way, many are skeptical of the DIY (Do It Yourself) lifestyle that many artists, musicians and regular-old people adhere to in their day-to-day lives. I'm not skeptical, I love the idea of doing everything myself. Maybe I could even get out of bed on time. In fact, I wonder if I could out-DIY the diehards for just one day. Who needs a commune?

It would take some preparation; I would need a rooster, a sickle and a farm relocated to my backyard for the first 15 minutes alone, but it would be worth it. I think that an alarm in the morning just wouldn't make me feel like I was doing my part.

When the cock crowed to start my day, I'd throw some overalls on top of my trapdoor pajamas, tie my flap-hat, strap on my boots and head for the door. I'd grab my sickle and harvest me some oats and barley, packing them tight into my potato sack.

I will definitely be using extension cords to listen to Neil Young's "Harvest," on vinyl, while I work. Crops and country? This is the life. I almost want to crack a bone in my shoulder blades just to use the term, "back-breaking work."

After setting ablaze last night's dinnerware, bocce ball set and furniture, I have an appropriate fire to grill up some breakfast and start my work as a hotcakes vendor, right from my front door.

I've become a hotcakes salesman at the behest of first my girlfriend and, weeks later, a random remark from my criticism professor. So after three hours of feeding the rabid, foaming masses lined up around the block, I pound out some fresh tortilla for a quesadilla lunch. The night before I had milked some soybeans for cheese in the morning.

The key to economic self-sufficiency really could be the hotcakes industry.

Some post-meal calisthenics have me all geared up for this afternoon's Lumberjack Games, which haven't been the same since ESPN started airing them. Scooter McDougal sold out last year and started training with real saws. Us old-schoolers still use our teeth and toenails. What I lose in not having a saw, I gain in my impeccable balance in the log rolling event, the result of years of training at the lumber company I didn't even know I actually owned.

The Games end with a pot luck dinner, and how else could they end? I've brought oatmeal and fresh fruit from my farm, but I can't let go of the temptation to delve into my neighbor's gruel. It smells delightfully average.

My girlfriend is coming over for a nice little date that night and I'm fresh out of DIY ideas. I have this feeling that my old stand-by, the "Indiana Jones" trilogy, has worn out its welcome in her eyes and that my homemade Scrabble board is past its day in the sun.

How can I save this day? I'm clueless. All that keeps running through my worn-out thought process are questions without obvious answers.

What would Springsteen do?

Will my calloused hands be enough to win her over for the evening? Every movie involving a nice lady and some brute ruffian would indicate so.

What would Pauly Shore have done in "Son-In-Law?"

Most importantly, is the body hair that has been sprouting up in the most odd of regions a direct result of working my fingers to the bone?

Then, it hits me. With 20 minutes until her arrival and all other options requiring too much time, I build two crude forts, complete with multiple windows and lawn chairs. I drag them outside, cover them in snow and voila! The ultimate snowball fight.

Now, sure, I'd run out of options one day, but I have to say; this one day DIY extravaganza would be hard to duplicate, even by Bob Vila.

And Bob Vila is amazing.