In my freshman year of college, I became an existentialist. Or at least I thought I did. See, I was a bit confused since I wasn’t sure what existentialism was. Then again, it seemed neither did anyone else. But since it seemed like the thing to be, what the hey.

Existentialism, per se, was kinda hard to figure out because there was no “per se” to it. Instead, there were different kinds of existentialists. Foremost among them at the time was Jean-Paul Sartre, whose writing I couldn’t slog through, though I gave it a couple of the good ole college tries. Then there was Albert Camus, whose writing I devoured and understood perfectly. The only problem with him was he didn’t consider himself an existentialist.

During this time there was a big Humphrey Bogart revival and his films were being shown in art theaters everywhere. In hip magazines, Bogie was proclaimed the perfect existential hero, and though I wasn’t sure why, I just took their word for it and figured if it was good enough for them, it had to be good enough me.

Existentialism got its name because the only thing anyone knew was they existed. After that, things got murky. Mostly, it seemed we were all on our own in this vast cosmic boogie and we’d better make the most of it, cuz the cavalry saves the day only in the movies. But while I knew almost nothing about existentialism, it seemed I knew more than my more ignorant and impressionable peers. That alone gave me some props — well earned or not.

So while I was an Existential Dabbler Extraordinaire then, ten years later I actually learned what it was. And I learned it the way I seem to learn everything — the hard way.

I’ve always loved the saying, “Not all education takes place in the classroom.” And for all I know, almost none takes place there. But my clear and gut-level understanding of existentialism did indeed take place in the classroom — within minutes of the start of my first class as a teacher. What I learned, almost immediately, was I was as outnumbered, outgunnned and alone as the last survivor of The Lost Battalion.

And to me that was teaching in a nutshell. Sure, there were guidelines, there were folks whose advice I respected, and there were educational theories and theoreticians galore (almost all of whom I came to think of as full of doo-doo). But once the classroom door was closed and the roll was taken, it was just li’l young me, all by my lonesome, swimming with the sharks — and against the current.

Suffice it to say, after a dozen years or so as a pedagogical trail boss, I learned how to fly solo (pardon the mixed metaphor).

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Committees … and committees

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But I wasn’t left completely to my own devices due to the ed. biz’s favorite pastime — committee meetings. Though I never heard any administrator say it outright, I think their prevailing thought was there could never be enough committees, nor enough meetings or agenda items. This would’ve been fine if they got things done in a reasonable amount of time. But from what I saw, they didn’t. Instead, they got bogged down in nitpicking, headbutting, and bullying, with an occasional (and surprising) action being taken. And of course lot of proposals got tabled. I figured the word “tabled” in that sense derived from the operating tables of the 18th century, from which almost no patient left alive.

So imagine my shock when I became an official SL Winter Carnival committee member. And I was further shocked because the Carnival committees get an enormous amount of work done in a very short time. Their “secret”? Here ‘tiz: At my first meeting, I proposed the Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza be made an official Carnival event. Most folks smiled and nodded. Then I was told by Committee Head Honcho, Jeff Branch, that it was a good idea — and it was mine, all mine. In other words, if I wanted the event, it was up to me to figure out how to do it

So I — like almost everyone else there — became a committee of one. In short, I was in a committee in name only, and I, and I alone, was in the Existentialist’s Driver Seat. And if I didn’t get the Blue Buns off the ground, so to speak, I’d be in the Existentialist’s Hot Seat.

Without boring you with the details, I did what needed to get done (more or less) and it was a smashing success. Last year, its second year, was equally boffo, and I’m hoping this year’s will be as well (lest you not know, it’ll be Sunday, Feb. 2, 1:00, starting and ending at the Ice Palace). Of course, how could it not be a success, since who in My Home Town doesn’t wanna ride his bike around the burgh in February, clad in a bathing suit?

So having thunked up a new Carnival event, I rested on my laurels, right?

Wrong.

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With a lot of help from our friends

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For reasons known only to the most brilliant of Freudian therapists (and certainly unknown to me), I had a brainstorm about a new Carnival activity — a family-friendly joke-telling session …. If you’re interested, the description is online at saranaclakewintercarnival.com. You can be either a spectator or a participant, but if you want to tell jokes, you’ve got to register online, in advance. It’s called The Chucklehead Hoe-Down and will be held in the best performance site in town, the Garagery, on Thursday, Feb. 6, starting at 6:00.

Now with all those details out of the way, let’s cut to the chase. I’ve been rapping existentialism mumbo-jumbo and talking about me as a one-Dope committee, but that’s not entirely true. Yeah, sure, I’m the sole committee person, just like I’m the head of The Brothers of the Bush parade unit. But it’s in name only. I couldn’t get anything done with those events if I didn’t have the help of literally dozens of people.

There are sponsors (who, not coincidentally, are my friends I strong-arm into coughing up the ka-ching), all of whom never hesitate to contribute. Then there are the people who I delegate all the actual work to — also friends, whether I treat ’em like that or not. Bruce Young and The Cosmic Kid designed and drew up our uber-groovy posters: Br. Mike Cochran draws the Brothers’ Bubkes Bucks. Br. Ron Burdick is basically our pit crew. Br. Russ Defonce not only makes whatever weird props I want, but he does it with a smile on his face. I need something in a pinch, Jack Drury comes through. Joe Dadey is the my low-rent Walt Disney. And Liz Murray, She Who Must Be Obeyed, always rounds up her pals (The Gang of Four) to make sure registration and T-shirt sales get taken care of at the Wheel-a-Palooza. And that list is far from complete.

Now dig this: I’m just one person with three small events, so think what it takes to pull off the whole Carnival. One of the problems of holding a new event is finding a time and place when and where it can actually be done. This is because the whole ten days of Carnival are so chockful of things to do. In fact, many of the times have two or three different events going on. And, unlike Athena springing from the head of Zeus full-grown, nothing takes place without a buttload of plain old elbow grease and Sorels on the ground. (I used to think Carnival took thousands of person-hours to pull off; now I know it’s tens of thousands of hours, maybe even hundreds of thousands of them).

Beyond that, there’s the work of soliciting sponsors. I mean, did you ever wonder how we manage to have so many free events? It’s because we have so many generous sponsors.

And here’s the kicker: All of this is done by volunteers. And volunteers of a special ilk, since they get almost no recognition or accolades, nor do they care if they do. They do it for two reasons. One is quaint terms of days gone by — Civic Pride and Civic Responsibility. In short, they bust their humps so everyone in My Home Town has access to the U.S.’s oldest, finest, and funnest Winter Carnival.

The second reason they do it is, amazingly, because the Carnies just a hellluva lotta fun to work with. Then again, if you’re building an ice palace in below-zero weather, or putting together an Arctic golf course (also in below-zero weather), or doing any of the myriad lunacies required to make Carnival happen — all of it out of the goodness of your heart — you darn well better be a fun person.

But don’t just take my word for any of this. Instead, check out the Carnival schedule, pick some events you’ve never been to, and then show up.

And in the case of the Blue Buns and the Chucklehead, respectively: Suit up and shtick up!