Filthy Hippie Shambles into Town, Vomits Words

Hyeeuuuuuurrrrkghrghhllle.

Ugh. Kaff.

Right.

So, the end of summer is coming at me with ever-increasing velocity, and I haven't yet taken the time to educate you, my purely conceptual readers, on the awesome things I have done, and the incredible vitality of my life.

I haven't talked at all about San Diego Comic Con (I met a real-life superhero), or my adventures along the coasts of North Carolina (cutlass duels in surging sea foam), the Wright Brothers Memorial (Scientific adventurers of the highest caliber, as can be shown by the respect paid them by Neil Armstrong in carrying a piece of their plane to the moon*) or the Philadelphia Folk Festival (sex, drugs, folk rock and roll) which even now engulfs me.

*(This is actually true. Also, it took us a mere 66 years from the invention of any kind of powered flight to be dropping men in tin cans on the surface of a giant, airless rock which has loomed over us for as long as we have existed. Mankind can be pretty neat, and a lot crazy.)

Sitting under the stage, two nights ago, I tried to compose a post for this very website about the Folk Festival and what it means to me. I found myself unable to do so. I work (ha!) as a volunteer every year at this festival, and have been doing so since I was a person.

I am twenty-one years old. I have been to the Philadelphia Folk Festival twenty-three times. The crew that I work with are old friends, a sort of seen-once-a-year boisterous and chaotic family who make even more fun of me for being lazy than my ordinary family do.

We do a lot of work. I do less than some, but more than my reputation would indicate. In years past, I earned the reputation. It doesn't chafe, particularly. The jokes are just that.

I am busily earning my reputation again, on this website. Apparently, it's just that comfortable.

The Folk Festival is a mystery, and an enigma, and I intend to return to it later, along with all the other notable instances I mentioned in the first paragraph.

You see, I don't know why I go every year. I just do. There are all kinds of reasons for going, but I don't know which ones have convinced me.

More on that later. I think there might even be something of value buried in all the introspective claptrap and twaddle.

Right now, I apologize for the low volume of posts around here.

I am practicing being a protagonist, which is something of an alien skill to me.

Also, this post wasn't posted when it says it was. This is because I wasn't sure it had a point, yet. However, James must have read the draft, because he said something about it, and now all of you can, too. Expect a real post shortly.

A glimpse behind the curtains of Eleven Names!