I just returned from Summercamp, the best music festival in existence.

On the one hand, some of the rhetoric around Summercamp is absolutely ridiculous. The wrist band I wore for three days in Chillicothe actually said “Together We Can Change The World.” To which a performer that my friend, Greg, overheard satirically respond:

“Yup. Summercamp. Sitting in a field…dropping acid…drinking keystone…changing the world.”

On the other hand, Steve pointed out on our first day that when you think about the sheer number of people (who are basically all different hues in the fucked up rainbow), and the low incidence of theft, the nonexistence of violence, and the extraordinarily high feeling of community, it is a pretty impressive gathering. Steve suggested the tag line for the festival should’ve been “This is how the world should be.”

Friday, our first day at the festival, I watched Sound Tribe Sector 9, one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen (this was the third time I saw STS9). Immediately after that was Girl Talk, a skinny white boy who is one of the greatest DJ’s alive. Then I sat quietly for 45 minutes (my family reads this blog) and went to see The Flaming Lips, who put on the greatest concert I’ve ever seen in my life.

And it was good.

Obviously I’m Lips prejudiced, I’ve spent most of this year listening to them and to see them live is a rare privilege. And the truth is that Wayne (the front man) was talking way too much, but I was totally with him all the way. And when they came out to do an encore, I knew before they hit the stage that it would be “Do You Realize?” (see previous posts to know why I think that song is God’s gift to man). And they came and played it, and I’d gotten separated from my friends in the crowd, but right at the end of the song, two people who I had never met before in my life turned and hugged me. One of them was crying. It was beautiful.

I’m cynical enough to know (believe) that music no longer has the power to change the world. That a song can’t shape life as we know it, that a band isn’t really a fore thinker so much as a reflection of others. But for a moment there, when Wayne was talking (a lot) and introducing the “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah Song,” he made me believe that if people could just share an experience like this they might be able to remember that we’re all human and we need to take care of one another, then maybe this whole world would be a better place. And for a second when the crowd was singing along and people were holding up lighters and peace signs (which in many other situations I would have found very corny), I thought about how magnificent the human spirit can be, and I felt like I wasn’t the only one in the crowd that night who was thinking that same thing.

And I even swore to myself as I half-sang, half-shouted, “the sun don’t go down, it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning round,” promised myself that I would hang onto a moment of such clarity even as it passed, and I’d force myself to remember that feeling of love for mankind. And the show ended and we all headed to our tents in Three Sister’s Park, and as the Lips left the stage, the PA music came on and they played the perfect song for the moment:

“And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

I saw my best friend of the last 12 years, Michael, on Saturday. For 5 hours. That was it. I hadn’t seen him for two months, and I won’t see him again for another two and a half. This is roughly the situation for most of the people I wrote about last “Do You Realize Week” (SummerCamp this weekend, more to follow). Alex in North Carolina, Mitch in Ohio, Woody in Sweden (Sweden? Sweden) and Nick in Kentucky.

Obviously, my friends in Champaign are wonderful too. But I’m talking about my oldest and dearest friends. And I won’t get to see them much at all in between now and next May when I graduate college (read:die).

I keep telling myself that this is part of growing up, and I’m trying to be more adult these days. So when I said goodbye to Michael and Mitch told me he was staying in Ohio for the summer, part of me said:

(gruff, manly-like voice. Potentially British) Part of being an adult. Nothing to be done about it.

But then another part of me said:

(high-pitched, quivering kiddy-like voice. Definitely British) I (sniff) miss (sniff) my (gulp) friends. WAAAAAAHHHH!

The summer after 4th or 5th grade (I’ve forgotten the timeline and remembered the trauma) Michael went to the Philippines for a few weeks and it was the longest we’d spent apart in our nascent friendship. I was about 9. I thought sucked.

Ten years later, it still sucks.

I saw Eddie Izzard last night, and he is the funniest man alive. Really, he is. If you don’t know Eddie, he’s a British transvestite, actor, and comedian. He’s comedy is a combination of accidental humor and humorous comparison. Most importantly, he likes to show his audience that anything can be funny. For example, how funny do you think the Ice Age and the origin of language in homo sapiens is?

“Language started about 100,000, and the ice was still here until 10,000 years ago. So for 90,000 years people were just standing around shivering. And all they could say was-

Person 1: (shivers) What do you think the temperature is?

Person 2: Minus…a lot.”

I have a strong personal connection with Eddie (not in a stalking creeper fan way). The first time I saw one of his specials it was right when my grandfather’s tumors were catching up with him. And in one of the bad months near the end, my sisters and I would come home from my grandparents house and we’d alternate between the three Eddie videos we had. It helped a lot.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my dad bought tickets for us to see him on the Sexie tour, but then I asked this girl to go to homecoming and the dance was the same night as Eddie. So my dad bought an extra pair of tickets for the two of us to go a different night. Then the date fell through (and that’s a story for another time) so I got to see Eddie twice, which helped considerably with my romantic problems at the time.

I did something last night that I’ve never done for any performer ever, I (along with a good portion of the audience) gave Eddie a standing ovation the second he came onstage. On the drive home, my mom said it was a little much to give a comedian the O before the show starts. My dad replied, “I was doing it for everything he did up til now.”

Hi. I’m in Bloomington. Awesome, right?

Now that I’m working legitimate, grown-up type hours, I can only party on the weekends. So I’m choosing wisely. Which is why when I got off work today I drove to Bloomington to visit my friend, Dan at Illinois Wesleyan.

I realized when I was eating dinner with him that this is what adulthood must feel like. Working all week, falling asleep at 10:30 whether you want to or not, and getting excited at 4 o’clock every Friday for your planned weekend ahead. It’s the planning part that makes it all adult-like.

I noticed sometimes this year that I would purposely not decide what I was going to do on a given night until the last possible moment so that I could have the appearance of making “spontaneous” adventures. In fact, probably the best example of this was unofficial, when I went unexpectedly from stranger’s home to stranger’s home for most of the day.

There’s something about adolescence that glorifies the unplanned. (Pregnancy is not funny). Some teenage instinct says that plans are lame. Fun only happens on the seat of your pants (Pregnancy is still not funny). So we ride the crazy, drunken, hormonal tilt-a-whirl called college. (For $20,000 a year, your child won’t know what they’re doing until ten minutes before it happens!).

Then you turn 25 and stop being cool.

Well, call me “lame” (and I’m sure you sometimes do, you bastards). I have no problem with planned fun, like my current trip to Bloomington. Earlier this week I planned to go camping, to drink beer and eat hot dogs, and to never leave the fire pit if I could avoid it. The planning didn’t make the execution of those things any less awesome.

I think the distaste for planned fun is symptomatic of a larger fear of the future. College is supposed to be about living in the moment, right? I guess so, but it wouldn’t hurt to occasionally think about the future. There’s merit to the “spontaneous” philosophy of college living. But I’m okay with the expected, because I’m expecting great things.

Plus I’m worried about the whole “living in the moment” thing. I don’t want to peak in college, and I’m starting to fear for some of my friends and acquaintances in that regard.

I’m worried about tomorrow, because I don’t want to spend it thinking about today.\

I had to take a leave of absence from blogging recently, what with going back to Barrington and getting a car (thanks mom and dad). Then there was Mother’s day (thanks mom and Mimi). And then camping.

I love to camp. Not really so much camp, as build a fire. I started one Monday night at about 6:30 Eastern Time and it didn’t go out completely. It was still smoking a little when I left this morning at 10:45. I can’t get enough fire.

Fire is probably the simplest really cool thing you can do. There has never been a time in my life when someone said, “Hey, Carl. Wanna start a fire?” and I declined. It’s kind of my thing.

I burned a porch that night

First of all, a fire is psychologically satisfying. It’s an instant gratification thing. I take my hatchet or my saw to something and then I throw it in and watch it burn up. Boom. Done. Awesome.

And the camping trip I went on was with the Penny Dreadful Players. A group of more snide, quirky drunks can’t be found. But you put a fire in front of them and even they are hypnotized.

I’ll admit that I enjoy the firemastering a bit too much. I suppose it must look silly to people around me as I pound a hatchet with a hammer to split wood. It just brings out some sort of weird neanderthal instinct in me. Many times on the trip I had to restrain myself from saying things like:

“MMMMMM. FIIIIRREESS BURN!”

Building a fire is simple, but it’s easy to not learn how to do right. I learned from genetics and family and practice.

I had a lot of simple moments on the camping trip, and I happen to think those are really good for your soul. I walked into a shallow cave on a creek bed near our campsite and just sat and listened to the water alone and I couldn’t tell you what happened, but I know I liked it.

Of course our idea of camping isn’t exactly Walden. We need an ipod and speakers in addition to copious amounts of beer in order to really feel at one with nature.

Simplify, simplify, simplify.

I started my summer yesterday, and by that I mean I went to two different jobs. Hurray for school being over.

This morning I accepted a second internship which means I’ll be staying here for my wild and crazy summer of working 45 hours a week.

Which means I have to buy a car.

I was in a strange mood last night, because I started reflecting on the last year of my life. and I realized that I was no closer to accomplishing anything in my life than I was a year ago. Sure I’d knocked off another year of college, but it was pretty easy, so it didn’t feel like I did much. It was a little sad.

And then we had a big damn party, which reminded me about the things I did do this year. Which was have a lot of fun. And that doesn’t feel like an accomplishment. Laughter and dancing doesn’t really add up easily. But that’s basically what I did all year, and it took a little “Wolf Like Me,” to remember that.

Especially today when I realized I was going to be working full time for the next three months, probably hanging onto one of the internships into/through next year, buying my first car, being an adult, etc.

So all I did all year was fuck around, to be blunt. But that’s what college is for, I guess. And I won’t be able to live like this much longer, if ever again.

You’re only young once, I guess.

I am done. And that means one thing.

I AM A SENIOR IN COLLEGE. SUCK IT!

I’d like to thank the little people who made this possible. All of my teachers, my parents, my sisters, my grandparents, my genetics. I know I couldn’t have done it without you. Everyone over at Folger’s, God, E. Um… The Y chromosome, the thumb, hand tools, and everything else that made my success up to this point possibly, it’s really your moment.

Say what you will about the Sopranos series finale (And perhaps you will) but I loved that they brought back the “little moments” line. It really hits home with me.

“And when you do, remember the little moments. That were good.”

Wait, stop reading my blog (temporarily).

Enjoy your moment.

At about 9 O’clock (I think it looks cooler with the “O” capitalized, Tim. You proofreading bastard) tomorrow night I will have finished my second/junior year of college.

HOLY SHIT! SLOW DOWN, LIFE!

I moved into my house August 18th, I drank a lot, I produced and directed in a festival of original ten minute plays, I drank some more, I was in The Laramie Project, cried onstage, went home for winter break, saw my friends, drank a little, threw up on new years, came back to Champaign, directed Oleanna, drank alot alot, started wino wednesdays, produced Come See Our Shorts, got an internship, went to the end of the year banquet for the Penny Dreadful Players and tomorrow I take a final.

That’s basically all I can remember from the last year. In between I wrote, smoked cigarettes, and had sex. That’s pretty much it.

Someone told me shortly before I graduated high school that life was really about to pick up the pace. I had complained about how fast my senior year was going by, and they just chuckled and said, “It only gets faster.” They were right.

I think I’ve always been a joie de vivre type, and that’s part of why things seem to move so fast to me. Everything is fun, everything is enjoyable, every moment counts. But they pass so quickly. Whereas every time I’m actually upset, feeling blue, a little down on myself, time stops.

Fucking Relativity.

I’ve always had moments where I specifically set out to slow down and think about what’s happened and reflect on how I’ve changed in the last year, etc. But those moments are getting few and far between right when I need them most.

I guess I want things to slow down now because I really want to savor the moment. But I know it’s impossible. So I’ll have to just keep bounding from moment to moment and hope that the jumps provide at least a second to look back and see where I’m coming from.

Sort of an administrative post, but I’ll try to be snide and irreverent as usual.

Keep Reading Over The Summer!

I’ll be in Champaign this summer making money. But working, sleeping, and drinking can only fill so many hours in a day, so I will be continuing to post on a regular basis this summer.

I know you’ll get that internship you wanted, and it sounded like a good idea, but you’ll end up at a computer for eight hours a day, with your thumb up your ass just like everybody else’s shitty internship. Or you’ll get a real job, where you actually work, and probably get paid a lot less than all of us with our thumbs firmly lodged in our colons.

So either way, you’ll need a little something to remind you that life is worth living. This could be anything: Poetry, my blog, black out drunk, my blog, camping, my blog, or sex.

Since I expect a lot of people to go away for three months thinking, “Well, I just don’t have time for you anymore, warrior poet. I’m sure you’ll be there when I come back.” I’ll be combating this reader apathy by doing REALLY INTERESTING SHIT.

A few of the ideas that I have in the works include:

Sleepless In Champaign: I will attempt to go 72 hours straight without sleep and post during and after the experiment. I’m told that after 48 hours paranoia sets in and that after 60 I might start having minor hallucinations. So those posts should be a laugh riot.

Homeless In Champaign: Haven’t quite ironed out the details, but basically I want to be out doors for at least 48 hours. I considered combining this with the sleepless thing, but then realized that a highly paranoid, temporary street urchin could make some seriously bad decisions.

And finally, a series that I hope to start in the next few days:

The Warrior Poet Responds! Where I’ll be responding to craigslist personal ads in whatever way suits my fancy. So far I’ve responded to five ads, but each one was a robot. They all sent me responses automatically telling me to sign up for True, or some other such bullshit. Which is too bad, because the response I sent to “Looking for FUN?” (which is craigslist code for: Big whore) was the following E.E. Cummings poem I was recently introduced to:

the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined

they go with girls who buck and bite

they do not give a fuck for luck

they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit

one carves a cross on her behind

they do not give a shit for wit

the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck

who cannot read and cannot write

who laugh like they would fall apart

and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined

they cannot chat of that and this

they do not give a fart for art

they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind

they do whatever’s in their pants

the boys i mean are not refined

they shake the mountains when they dance

Anyways. Enjoy your summer and your pointless summer employment, I know I will. Keep reading, even if you’re graduating (your entry level job won’t be much better. Your thumb will most likely still be in your ass).

You might not think it to look at me, but I represent the federal government. I got a job as a special census taker in Urbana, and it is a plethora of funny.

From my training manual:

“What Qualifies as a housing unit? A house, an apartment, a mobile home, a houseboat, or any other structure that contained an occupant on special census day; including, but not limited to: a barn, a garage, caves, etc.”

CAVES! FUCKING CAVES! YOU THERE! IN THE CAVE! THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT WANTS TO COUNT YOU!

Now, my job is quite simple, to count the people who didn’t mail back the form so they wouldn’t have to answer their door. But I don’t really go door to door. No, I was hired late in this census process. So I don’t really go door to door. I sit in a large complex of town homes, park Randy’s Buick in front of buildings where at least one occupant hasn’t been “enumerated” (Fancy word for “counted”) and I wait. Today I worked for eight hours. I completed less than one questionnaire an hour. It was awesome.

Probably the coolest thing about the job is the official ID badge I get (which has my name written in pen on it). When I’m on duty, and wearing the badge, I’m protected as a federal employee. Like Mailmen are. If you threaten me in this super-duper counter status of mine, you can go to federal prison. Totally awesome.

The job only goes on for a little longer, but it’s fast and easy cash. So for the next two days I’ll be sitting in the Buick and staking out townhouses. Not awesome.

Of course, my other job is cold-calling for a health insurance company. It could be worse.