This is it. Column 100, and my last as a Ball State University student. That’s as freaky to me as it likely is to you. I’m finally graduating … again.

To every bar hopper, friend, random student and instructor who took the time to e-mail, text, tweet or verbally acknowledge the column, I give you my greatest appreciation and thanks. It wasn’t that you made me feel cool, it’s that you thought what I was doing was cool. That’s why I wrote.

This column has been my outlet since Spring 2004 when then-DN Forum Editor Lauren Phillips. I was overjoyed that I could return to making people laugh with words, just as I had in high school. Looking forward, I sincerely hope to find another opportunity in addition to this site.

In the interim and beyond, this site is now my outlet, alongside my treasured friends who make it breathe. My thanks to them. My thanks to you.

Much love. Enjoy.

d

Ten years ago this upcoming month, Baz Luhrmann’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” became the title track to life’s lessons, courtesy spins on MTV, mainstream radio and even late-night television.

The thoughts were those of Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich, originally published June 1, 1997. She introduced the text as her attempt at a graduation speech she’d never be asked to give, encouraging others over the age of 26 to try it, too:

“Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who’d rather be Rollerblading,” she said.

Her words are way more relevant on the verge of my graduate-level graduation compared to the eighth grade graduation I was up against just a decade ago. In the interest of giving back, I feel compelled to share my life-so-far advice – not to my peers, but to those students who’ve yet to experience what we all have. Ehhem.

Ladies and gentleman of the incoming class of 2009, wear Ball State T-shirts. If I could offer you one piece of college advice, wearing a Ball State T-shirt would be it. The long-term benefits of school pride and relaxed 50/50 blend casual wear are forever symbols of your tie to the university, whereas the rest of my advice will only leave you wondering what in the hell you’re getting into. I will satirically dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the energy and determination of your freshman year. Oh, nevermind. You won’t understand the energy and determination of your freshman year until long after you’ve left the residence halls.

Get pleasure from the residence halls. Get pleasure in the residence halls. Sure, it may seem like a total hassle and lack of privacy now, but you can’t get that social interaction in an apartment. That’s why it’s called an APARTment. Don’t move in with your best friend. You’ll hate them by the end of it.

Don’t waste your time on GPA worries. The real worries in college are apt to be things that never crossed your mind, the type of event that blindsides you after some group project meeting.

Keep your old textbooks; they are a record of what you’ve learned. Throw out your bank statements; they are a record of what you’ve lost. Don’t blame me if you get audited.

You can redefine education. You cannot redefine kegger.

“Bro” is OK. “Frat” is not. Use “douchebag” at your own risk.

The only way a third of campus would find out about the swine flu is if it’s a clue in the Daily News crossword.

Join the high ranks of student leaders so you, too, can take questions from your peers about how “messed up” the crossword puzzle is, or how badly they need Sudoku on page two. Add Sudoku to the Daily News on page two. People will blindly praise you, and then call when it’s messed up.

No matter what swag they are offering, do not sign up for a credit card. Those shirts ought to read, “I got stuck in a high-rate APR and massive debt and all I got was this T-shirt.”

The dynamite goes boom. Your biggest screw up may be your 15 minutes of fame. No one is immune to a case of fumbleitis.

Things were better when Puerto had margaritas to go.

Bars can get out of business despite “great” management while a pizza place that doesn’t take credit cards survives them all. No amounts of washing will remove the stench of self-loathing that comes from paying a cover to get into Dill Street. Fabric softener will get out the cigarette smell.

Learn the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing.”

Get to know your bartenders. They’re more fascinating and fun-loving people than you’ll ever be. Alcohol or not, you won’t remember the best moments in college – you’ll just know they occurred.

Be concerned with who goes home with you. Be more concerned with who sees it happen. Do not read gossip Web sites they will only leave you feeling more curious. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Police yourself.

You can have a student center that students never visit.

Live in LaFollette once, but leave before you get a staph infection. Live in the Village once, but leave before you turn 25.

Don’t take joyrides with cops.

You can find a more controversial athletic director than a guy named “Bubba.”

In the right conditions, your tongue will stick to Frog Baby.

Stop policing yourself. Be comfortable with who you are, and abandon the masks of what you are not. People will love you more when you’re most comfortable with yourself.

While you are still wondering what to do with your life, your friends will get real jobs, get married and have kids. Plenty of people don’t know what to do with their life at 22. Some don’t know what to do with their life at 45. Those people will be your professors. The 22-year-olds are your graduate students next year.

Be careful with the course advice you take and the early classes you agree to. Academics are a side act of college life. Do everything the songs tell you. Ignore everything your freshman adviser tells you. Be wary of upperclassmen dispensing their advice. It’s a form of helpful patronization that involves recollection of bad life decisions with a yearning to be back in your shoes again.

Frankly, do whatever the hell you want to do.

But trust me on the Ball State T-shirt.

–

My great thanks to friend and BewilderedSociety.com writer Will O’Hargan for his help on this column.

Originally published in The Ball State Daily News | BEWILDERED SOCIETY: My last chance to impart a few words of advice

“GA Position?” the subject line reads, dated 11:15 a.m. June 19, 2007. It’s another response in an e-mail thread that brought me back to Ball State University for graduate education and two years of college life I never had as an undergraduate.

Of all message threads to end up randomly appearing on my Blackberry, it would be this one. There’s no logical explanation for why the message appears in my phone’s inbox. Some wicked twist of fate and timing is my best guess. In a peculiar coincidence I’m noticing it just minutes after returning home from our department’s end-of-year graduate student reception.

Tracing through the thread, I flash back to the original period of correspondence. I was interning in Boston, debating a move for a full-time job or a return to further my education. There were finer details, of course, but they’re irrelevant here. Obviously the latter route won.

Now here I am, nearly two years later and all that much closer to a master’s degree. The e-mail serves as a reminder of not only where I came from but where I am. This is the true victory lap. It’s enabled me an outlook on life and a perspective on college that was lacking during my undergraduate tenure. Above everything else, I’ve learned not to worry too much.

A lot occurred to me that summer after graduation almost instantly. I touched down in Boston not more than five days after May commencement. Within a week I clung to Facebook for social life support, uploading pictures into albums and even sending YouTube videos to friends. I previously avoided Facebook photo album creation, yet overnight it became a favorite pastime. The sight of newly uploaded graduation pictures brought as much sorrow as it did joy.

I knew a handful of people in Boston, all co-workers with their own lives and schedules. I longed for the meet-and-greet bar environment of a college town, or the random projects and organizations providing opportunity to meet fresh faces.

It was a new city. The prospect of a job was on the horizon. I was loving life and at the same time absolutely scared as hell. The novelty of being an “adult” had not worn off, yet I could already feel its repercussions. Three months earlier I was most concerned with who I was partying with next weekend. Now I found myself debating the true advantages of medical and dental health benefits. The little bubble around Muncie had burst. I knew the world was big, but suddenly Indiana seemed like a blade of grass in a field of opportunity.

So many things I’d worried about in school were really just petty concerns in the grand picture. Grades. Arguments. Grudges. Identity. It didn’t matter. It never mattered. Why had I cared so much?

College quickly brought on the same trivial feeling high school had after graduation. No, I hadn’t missed the tests, the late-night cramming sessions or the busy work. I missed my friends. I missed being in a creative environment. I missed mid-afternoon beers, random hallway “’Sups?” and spontaneous lunch gatherings. I missed college.

When people tell me they want to go back to college, I know the daily routine monotony is somewhat to blame. However, the majority of that emotion is a desire to return to the same place with the same people. The social climate is missed, not the place itself. When you really ponder that, there’s no way to recreate what you’ve just experienced. That’s the most frightful part of moving on: it’s not the push forward, it’s letting go of what we’ve had.

To this day I remain gripped by freshman behavior. A small piece of me judges and despises their (sometimes innocent) actions, yet further reflection tells me that despise is rooted deeply in envy. Some part of me wishes to be back in those shoes, in those times with those friends. I want to go back knowing what I know now, conscious that everything would turn out just fine. Then I recall the stress, tests, arguments and other dismal moments I’ve overwritten with the good times. Maybe I don’t want to do it again, after all.

Someday walking through the Atrium will evoke the same feeling you got the first time you visited your high school cafeteria after graduation. McKinley Avenue will seem as small as the hallway leading to your first period class. You don’t stop to think about that, and a lot of other things, until you’re gone. You never really notice you’ve left until you stop to take it all in. Perhaps that’s by design.

The hardest part of graduating college is coping with the end of it.

This column was written Sunday night in just under two hours. It was submitted to the DN in the wee hours of Monday morning for use this week, although it’s my off week on the schedule. The week was filled, so the lil’ column sat in the corner. I asked the DN to run it online today after it failed to print during the week. Yeah, the topic has certainly run its course at Ball State, but it needs to be said. -d

You did not need a text message.

Following Friday’s bomb scare/threat, student outcry has again rallied for the use of Ball State University’s emergency text alert system. Akin to the Fall Semester off-campus shooting, concerned students say they deserved a text message updating them about the situation.

Admittedly, “Run like hell” is well within the 160-character limit for standard Short Message Service messages. (A “Boom Goes … ” reference here is grossly inappropriate.) Beyond that, there’s little authorities could have said other than, “Avoid LaFollette Complex area.” That, however, only creates a greater interest and generates more fear because our collective curious (or intoxicated) minds would wander up to the scene to see exactly what was happening. This is a nightmare for authorities already trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack – if it even exists in the first place.

A text message alert was decisively not needed. At the same time, the university failed students in not officially releasing more information about the incident until hours after the event.

The text messaging system is an alert system designed for extreme circumstances such as canceled classes or life-threatening situations. A bomb threat is an extreme situation, no doubt. From all indications and information that’s been released, the large majority of campus was not in danger. The people who desperately needed to know were moved to Worthen Arena. Authorities, via a Saturday afternoon e-mail, said they assessed the threat and determined no strong reason to move students out of LaFollette Complex. Take that for it’s worth, but I must trust their judgment of explosive materials over my limited used of firecrackers and bottle rockets.

As of writing, a non-scientific DN|Online poll said 46 percent of voters wanted more information about the threat Friday. Ponder: You’re not getting more information because the authorities don’t have any more information. They’re as clueless as you. If you know where the bomb is hiding, you either a) put it there or b) need to drop out of school and market yourself as an explosive-sniffing human. If the authorities know where it is, they’re trying to take care of it before it eliminates your ability to notice it in a more unfortunate manner.

Desires for an e-mail dispatch earlier in the morning are understandable. A Daily News e-mail was postmarked just after 2:30 a.m. Saturday, according to my e-mail account. The first Emergency Broadcast message from the university reached my inbox nearly two hours later. The next university message was not sent until 3 p.m. Saturday afternoon. That in mind, the University Community deserves an explanation as to why it took more than 12 hours for a full report of the situation to be officially delivered to the entire community.

Still, we didn’t need a text message.

To keep its subscriber base strong, the university has no choice but to frugally send messages. More frequent messaging would result in ignored messages, or ultimately a fall-out of users. Most faculty and off-campus students had no need to know what was going on at that hour. That need would have drastically differed if it was in the middle of a business/academic day,

This brings us to the underappreciated power of human networking.

The average time it takes for the university to send a mass text alert is 12.5 minutes, according to a test conducted a week prior to Friday’s scare. It’s quite plausible that if a real “OMG We’re going to die” emergency were to strike the campus, you’d receive five personal text messages, 20 tweets and seven Facebook status updates before you’d get the university text message.

The text alert system is a safeguard, not a failsafe. If a shooter is on the loose through campus, let’s hope we conquer him before those 12.5 minutes are up. If a tornado is going to strike campus, don’t expect your cell phone to tell you to take cover. Look out the window, use your senses and take care of yourself.

Look, the instructions here are simple. In the event of a real emergency: 1) Remove head from ass, 2) Observe the situation and 3) Use your best judgment and survival skills like the rest of the fear-sensitized world. Don’t expect anyone else to do it for you.

An earlier follow up to the situation is what we needed, not a 2 a.m. scare-text. In any emergency situation few alerts will solely keep you out of harm’s way, let alone one of 160 characters. Ultimately there are just 14 characters that will keep you as safe as anything.

Use your head.

–

Originally published The Ball State Daily News / DN|Online | BEWILDERED SOCIETY: University made the right call with not texting about bomb threat

I’m traveling about 464 miles per hour somewhere over Missouri. My awareness of this statistic is courtesy an announcement from our flight captain. I’m writing on deadline today. Well, today is yesterday by the time you read this – but never mind with the time/space details.

In the interest of transparency, this column really was due yesterday – two days ago for you. I’m between a rock and a hard place, or in this case: a four-hour flight and a deadline. I know, I know: I’m flying somewhere, pity me. That aside, we’re all familiar with the qualm of the deadline-tagged, last-minute assignment we’ve put off just a bit too long. Consultants call it procrastination. I call it my “Organized Homework Sensitivity Handling and Intensity Tactic.”

In either form, a new perspective of “deadline” develops.

I waited to write until this flight knowing that I’d be forced to concentrate. While the deadline demands attention and forces productivity, it’s not the sole focusing aid. I’m 40,000 feet in the air. There are few distractions here.

The absence of Internet accessibility prohibits the spontaneous lure of e-mail, Facebook, chat clients and subsequent statosphere updating. There are no e-mail alert windows or chimes to divert my attention. Even the cell phone is powered down. I’m completely disconnected from the world here; an eerie, yet oddly comforting fact.

Kansas City, on my right.

Oh no. Have I become old? Just like that! Overnight? My multitasking abilities have dissipated into thin air along with my tolerance for ignorance, all-nighters and fart jokes. When I really want to focus on work now, I find myself closing every non-critical application on my computer. I force myself into the environment I’m in right now, sealed off from everyone.

What happened to the glory days of late-night IHOP visits with friends to cram for tests, or the massive study sessions at the library? In retrospect, those were only necessary because of the prior lack of productivity. Not only had I failed to achieve anything up to that cram session, but neither had my friends. Further hindsight reveals an even more misled trust of those late-night study sessions.

Here I am now, 30 or so minutes into writing, buds in my ears but no music playing on the iPod to which they’re attached. I fear turning it back on. If I do, it’ll have to be a new album. Familiar music pulls my interest from logic to lyrics.

Minor turbulence.

In defense of single-tasking, I must say it’s strangely gratifying. Periodic, perhaps hourly retreats to my Internet browser are just rewards for 50-some minutes of solid, dedicated work. Wow, now I’m exhibiting self-discipline, a skill undoubtedly traded for that fart joke humor.

Clearly I’m not respecting deadlines any more or less than past situations. Irresponsibly, but truthfully some of academic life is sorting the real issues from the pseudo-ones. Our on-demand culture conditions us to need, nay want things now. We got too impatient to wait for e-mail at our office, so we put it on our phones. We can’t stand to have unread text messages, never mind the very existence of mobile communication as it is. It’s not enough to have applications on our computers, we need them on our phones.

Therein lay the problem – I’m too attached to let go of any of it. Consequently, this “now, now, now” environment has enhanced procrastination and destroyed the ideal of a deadline. We can no longer successfully prioritize. Today everything is time-sensitive and demands our attention now; it’s leveled the mountains of urgency. This bastardizes our sense of prioritization and disrupts our ability to multi-task.

Then again, that’s all multitasking is: a dismal mix of failed priorities.

Deadlines are invisible finish lines of little importance. Life’s true time-sensitive situations need no deadlines. They demand attention immediately and do not cease annoyance until needs are met – situations like the crying child four rows behind me who needs stowed in the overhead compartment. Deadlines serve solely as incentives to react and discipline. Were we all able to prioritize properly and avoid multitasking, we’d be a more productive society.

I imagine it’d also solve world peace, end conservative “teabagging” and win the Obama daughters another cute puppy. See – our multi-tasking is ending the world. Ultimately, we get more done by doing less.

Well, that’s it – column’s done. If only I could send it now. I’m in a nearly 500-mph. projectile and I can’t log into Gmail?

Guess I’m missing deadline – again.

–

Originally published in The Ball State Daily News: BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Distractions prevent any prioritizing

In the middle of a Sunday afternoon on campus, its presence was fashionably obnoxious. Not just because of the timing, but also the weather. Though it’s late March and a bit chilly, the conditions were not intolerable enough to warrant winter weather gear.

The mask covered the face of a more portly character whose otherwise youthful appearance anecdotally confirmed he was a student.

My friend and I walked through the John R. Emens Auditorium’s parking garage toward Bracken Library, nearing the masked man and his cohorts. As we drew closer to the stairwell serving as our exit to the sidewalk, the noise around the group grew louder. There was yelling, chaos. A frantic array of oddly dressed people was strewn about the scene. Had I not known better, I’d sworn I’d seen a mugging in progress.

Then I saw a Nerf gun.

Such is my latest encounter with the hordes of fellow students playing this year’s round of “Zombies versus Humans.” Despite my blocking of that Facebook application the saga continues to unfold in the world around me. Fml.

Sunday was not my only encounter. Since the game’s fourth semester launch was reported on March 26, I’ve witnessed a few packs of hungry something-or-others loudly and hurriedly passing through the academic buildings I frequently live in. I can vividly recall one disruptive situation when a pack entered Letterman just beyond my office. They could be heard for at least a minute as they continued down the hallway into the next building, further stealing my attention amid heavy work on my thesis and Facebook status updates.

I can’t afford typos in those, either. The status messages, I mean.

A disclaimer: I’m not against fun. I’m not protesting student involvement in anything. I’m not calling people “losers” or “lame.” I’m simply saying respect other people.

The game is fine. It’s harmless, recreational and gives people a way to relax. We all have our own ways of unwinding – and I’m not attacking a group’s method of doing so. I’m suggesting here that the nature of the people I have seen on campus is sophomoric at best. This, I’m sure, does not include everyone playing the game.

There are places for this activity. We expect everyone else to adhere to these community standards. At last report, Nate Davis never practiced his passes in the lobby of Letterman. The basketball teams are not playing street ball on University Avenue next to Carter’s Hot Dog stand and to an audience of drunken passers-by. The only thing served to the men’s volleyball team in the Atrium is lunch. Ball State’s Singers are not using Bracken Library’s second level for show practice. We keep drinking to bars and off-campus homes – OK, well that part sort of sucks. Still, you get the concept. There’s a time and a place for it all.

It is inappropriate to trek through academic buildings while covered in camouflage and an arsenal of Nerf weaponry that makes China look unprepared. Please: Keep it outside. Avoid heavily trafficked areas like stairwells to parking garages. Darting after people is fine in a field, but jumping out in front of unaffiliated people to catch a bad guy is downright rude.

Sure, I’m sounding like a bit of a curmudgeon. I guess I don’t “get” the game. At the old age of 24 and with six years of Muncie under my belt, I’m perhaps only a few columns away from telling everyone, “Get off my damn lawn.”

Then again, I actually don’t have much of a lawn. Consequently, neither zombies nor humans are the problem there anyway. My neighbors’ dogs appear to have seized that territory just fine on their own, something I wouldn’t mind fixing.

Now where’s my ski mask …

–

Originally published in The Ball State Daily News | BEWILDERED SOCIETY: HvZ players must respect all students

More than ever before, Facebook is a weapon in the battle for our university’s highest student office. This Student Government Association election again solidifies our dependence on the networking site, and our generation’s growing acceptance with passive communication, and really odd behavior.

Facebook exists in its own reality, subject to a separate world of cyber trends – otherwise known as memes – shaping the culture of our digital life. I speak not of the annoying application invites, though they’ve been discussed here before. I have no interest in chasing your Zombies, doing something with one of your furry “pets” or planting anything in your little green garden. Memes come and go, yet they have quite the effect on our online persona. Behold a recent history:

Last fall YearbookYourself.com found itself the center of attention for students with a surplus of pictures and too little to do. For those lacking Photoshop know-how, this was an excellent solution for seeming trendy without all the fuss that’s required in understanding “layers,” “tools” and such. Then it stopped being trendy. You know full well you’re judging the one clown in your friends list with his mock yearbook picture still as his profile image. That guy, in fact, knows well what a “tool” is.

Speaking of tools: For historical context, the yearbook profile picture phase followed the landmark digital revolution known as “Taking a picture of yourself in a bathroom mirror.”

Hijacked from tweeny MySpace profiles, at some point college students thought it was a good idea to take “natural” portraits using the reflection of their bathroom mirror. Ordinarily you would crop out the camera flash and awkward body position. Not here, though. Give us that awkward smile and ignore that towel hanger and hideous bathroom rug in the background. It’s show time.

Then it was pushed further. Suddenly we’re taking shirts off, making bad-boy pouty lips and throwing up the peace sign in a way that even Woodstock attendees would say, “What the hell, dude?” In fact, one of these photos isn’t enough. You need seven. No … 10! Yes! Ten photos of yourself because your eyelash was left of center in frame three and your biceps were not bulging to capacity in frame eight.

Friends! Commence judging.

Moving forward, along came the “20/25 Things” thing.

“Hey world. Here’s a supposedly random collection of facts about me that I actually filtered in my head so I could sustain some level of dignity and credibility with you, despite my now-public fetish with unicorns. Now, because I just wasted 45 minutes of my day, I feel that you should too. So I’m tagging you in the hopes that you’ll creatively wrangle 20 things and we can LOL about this at dinner this weekend, or pretend like we never filled them out to begin with. xoxox Unicorn-lover Dave”

Let’s jump back to the world of face-to-face communications for a second. If I’m that eager to know 20 “random” things about you, there’s alcohol and weekends for that. You know: Those same sorts of evenings inevitably resulting in a haphazard discussion of religion or politics – or both. Nothing says a great night like two mutual friends at ends over God, Obama and the difference between the two. Add a bottle of Boone’s Farm to the mix and suddenly we’re raging a holy war on hope. This is why I prefer a night of bottomless warm chai and a rousing game of Connect Four. That, friends, is how truth is told!

If I wanted to know these things, I’d ask you. In the realm of middle school politics and sociology, there was a feeling of elitism involved in knowing your “besties’” deepest darkest secrets. You felt special. You felt loved. You were in the circle! You had scaled the highest peaks of your school’s cliques and were staking your claim on BFF Mountain.

That elitism is missing with these openly accessible “20 things” surveys. I’m flattered you decided to share these closely guarded facts with me, but now everyone you’re friends with knows, too. So much for your inner circle.

Furthermore, I argue the very guarded nature of said facts. This is the second condition of the “20 things” plaque: Lying out your ass. If you at any point stopped and said, “Hm, I don’t think I want to put that in there,” you were cheating. That’s like keeping a finger up during “10 things,” or sneakily trying to put it down! For the sake of conversation everywhere, this meme is playing out its course to a now barely noticeable existence.

Now we’ve got the Album Art Design challenge.

The basics: A Wikipedia article, a Wiki quote, a Flickr album and 10 minutes of your life you’re never getting back. If the “20 Things” meme revealed at least some valuable information about us, this tag-me frenzy has as much sway in our lives as a Magic-8 ball.

Literally as I write this another meme is attacking my news feed. Recall the odd-looking characters from a series of children’s books by Roger Hargreaves, such as “Little Miss Sunshine.” Create an image of all the characters. Replace names of real characters with fictional names such as “The Pimp,” “The Jock” and “The Good Little Church Girl.” Tag friends in said image. Repeat. A meme is born.

Given the Facebook profile photo history discussed earlier, I think this meme creator skipped a vital character.

“The D-Bag.”

–

Originally published in The Ball State Daily News |BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Facebook trends come and go but profiles remain

For an Internet celebrity is born this day! Retweet! Retweet!

Ugh. Who am I kidding – I’m jealous.

Had I grown up in another time, been born in a different year, things would be remarkably different. I could be achieving so much just from losing a tooth. The book deals! The TV shows!

You’ve seen it by now. “David After Dentist” captures the antics of a 7-year-old boy as he deals with the side effects of pain medication following a tooth removal. Frankly, he’s on a medically sanctioned high that makes hard-core drug users wonder his secrets.

<!–more Read the full column after the jump … –>

The YouTube video – available at snipurl.com/bmy0i [and embedded above] – is hitting the viral equivalent of musical platinum. A YouTube site search for “David After Dentist” yields countless results for remixes and satirical posts before you actually find the original, posted Jan. 30. It’s achieved numerous YouTube Channel No. 1 claims and, as of writing, is nearing 8 million views. By comparison, the most watched “Boom Goes the Dynamite” YouTube video is sitting at about 2.2 million, and it’s been online for three years.

Envious am I! He’ll grow up known to the adoring masses as “the cute little video kid on drugs.”

I guess McCauley Culkin did that, too. Anyway, David’s path to success will soon become his own responsibility.

Creepy as it is, he had little choice in putting that video up online. Dad dad it. David can’t fully understand the repercussions and taunting that could ensue during the coming years of adolescence. It could very well haunt the child through life.

Or he’ll use it to get laid.

Remember the Nirvana baby? No, of course you don’t. This year’s freshmen were barely two years old when the 1991 “Nevermind” album hit stores. Not to say I remember it, as I was fresh off my NKOTB high.

I digress. You’ll recognize the infamous album cover if you see it. Naked baby. Pool. Dollar bill. Yeah, that kid’s walking the earth still. In fact, Spencer Elden is a little celebrity in his own right. He scored an internship with Shepard Fairey, the LA street artist who designed the now legendary Barack Obama campaign posters, a December CNN.com article said.

And now that he’s 17, he’s using the incidental fame – worth way more than the $200 his parents got for the original photo shoot – to find some of his own teen spirit.

“I have to use stupid pickup lines like, ‘You want to see my p—s … again,’” he said in a 2007 MTV interview. Mind you, he was 16 or 17 when that interview took place.

David is 7 years old. Ten more years, and he’ll be worrying about proms, cars and colleges. He’ll probably have an agent, too. The child is going places! Think of the offers. This opens doors to a series of “after” moments throughout life.

“David after prom.”

“David after Spring Break.”

“Forty-year-old David after his first prostate exam.”

I gather we’d hear many of the same noises and phrases. All three scenarios seem likely to have the subject roaring, “Will this last forever?” or “Why is this happening?” followed by intense screaming and body posture resembling prehistoric animals.

And it could have been me! It all makes sense, I mean seeing as my name is David and I, too, have experienced many visits to the dentist. Between braces and a tooth removal, I’ve had my fair share of oral discomfort.

I showed David’s experience to my mother, watching her facial expressions slowly transform from “What is this?” to “Aw, how cute.” In the post-video discussion, I couldn’t help but ask if I was the same way after my visit in the third grade or so.

“Oooh yeah you were,” she exclaimed, breaking into laughter. My friends sat grinning.

I inquired as to the lack of video. My father confirmed my internal speculation.

“We just had that VHS cassette tape recorder,” he said. “You remember how big that thing was?” he said, motioning to how big it was. (Like, big.)

I looked back to my mother. “So would you have posted it to YouTube?” I asked, giving way to only a slight pause in her thought process.

“Yeah, probably!” she said laughing more. She later added that she should find some of those “older VHS tapes” of my childhood. I graciously but firmly declined.

Luckily for other David, the age of broadband Internet access and inexpensive portable video devices is upon us. Technology was not pulling for me back then. Alas, my childhood failed to reach the stardom status other David recently hit.

And now that I think back to some of the content on those old VHS tapes, I feel some things are best left to their original medium. Actually, the taunting ability my parents have because of those tapes is a bit unsettling.

I better make a trip home …

–
Originally published in The Ball State Daily News, BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Starting to feel a little jealous of Internet star

No, not everyone’s drinking. It’s midday in the Village; the minors are around, too.

Status messages from Twitter, Facebook and chats exemplify the communal excitement shared by those not only in Muncie, but across the state and Midwest.

“NO CLASS TODAY!”

“FREE DAY!!”

“CLASS IS CANCELED!”

“THANKS BALL STATE, IT’S LIKE YOU KNEW WHAT I WAS DOING LAST NIGHT.”

“HELL YEAH! SNOW DAY!!!! :) :)”

It’s a gift from the sky, literally and to some ? metaphorically. Is this really happening? As we transitioned into our collegiate lexicon, we exchanged “snow day” for things like “credit hours” and “bulletins.” It’s the “get out of jail free” card we thought we lost to the days of passing periods and lunch mods.

Sure, we should work, but why the hell would we do that? It’s a snow day! It’s a gift. We’d be foolish not to enjoy it, right? Today presents great opportunity.

A slippery drive through campus in a friend’s SUV exposes the scenes we expect following a heavy blanket of winter weather.

“Wow the snow brings out all the hotties,” another friend says as we crawl past a student pausing from the hell that is digging vehicles from plow drifts. Chuckles ensue. We turn the corner and the east end of campus comes into focus.

A handful of people wrestle in the snow-covered grass in front of Studebaker East. They may be lacking the snow pants from mom, but their North Face jackets and jeans appear to be serving them fine. They resemble the 20-something versions of the elementary school playmates.

Across New York Avenue a group stands in question of a fellow student’s car. Deductive reasoning says they’ve backed the vehicle down an alley with drifts of a foot or more. The small car’s back window remains covered as the driver discusses something with one of the people outside. They’ve come so far, but the final test remains. A wall of snow, courtesy of the main road plowing, serves as a barrier to the street.

It makes you wonder if it’s worth driving at all. Clearly to some it’s not: Four or five students walk southbound down New York to Riverside, avoiding non-shoveled sidewalks like quicksand.

My lunch allies and I have returned from the grocery, snacks in hands. We carry the bags to an apartment, jumping step-by-step into footprints left before us. The sacks of ice we carry seem ironic given the frozen tundra all around.

The day is only beginning. There’s so much time and reason to be productive. But isn’t it more fun not to be?

These are the stories we’ll bank and the mental images we’ll retain. While the tests, quizzes, lessons and lectures are what tie us together, they are furthest from our thoughts in these hours. Days like this are the unexpected memory-makers. The “little things” our parents preach to us, and we’ll someday preach to our children.

Damn, that’s scary.

Perhaps the university cancels classes tomorrow, too. It is anyone’s guess and a precious few’s responsibility. Morning could bring another relief, or another day of reluctant studies. It’s the nearly forgotten game of “wait and see, hope and pray” we loved to play in our grade-school years. We can’t control it, though, so we might as well enjoy it while it’s here.

Soon the “real world” will devour our snow day, in lieu of things like “telecommuting” and “sent from my Blackberry.” There are small triumphs here. There are rare opportunities like upper-level snow emergencies and sick days. But those cost us more than they benefit us.

The real crime of 9-to-5 life is not losing a snow day, but rather losing the memories a snow day creates. It’s not about the ability to slack off, or take an extra long lunch. This is (sadly) routine in many office environments. The beauty of a snow day is that everyone else can – and is – too. There is a community striving for fun, seeking the most of the opportunity.

In fact, that community just sent me a text message. A few of them. Perhaps the Locker Room is getting interesting. Screw work. It’s a snow day.

Hell yeah.

–

Originally published in The Ball State Daily News: BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Students should enjoy snow days while they last

As Mother Nature shoves Muncie in the deep freezer – somewhere between the bulk mini-corn dogs and those 500 meatballs left over from your high school graduation – everyone’s all atwitter about how miserably cold it is.

It is, in fact, miserably cold.

Listen carefully and you’ll notice a trend in phrasing this time of year. Never is anything just “cold,” “freezing” or “below seasonal average compared to years past.” We have to fuel the internal fires with our similes and anatomically problematic expressions.

Surely in the last few days you’ve heard someone fall into the trap. Maybe you used one yourself. Observe.

“It’s cold as s—/f—/hell outside.”

Now, I’d argue most of these things are warm. Hell especially. “It’s hot as hell” works, unless your view of hell deviates from that of most – and that’s cool. Maybe you think hell is in Alaska. Most Republicans did after the 2008 election. Hell, Mich. – the city, I wasn’t just starting off my sentence with it – is also facing some frigid conditions this week. You really need to specify in these cases, however. “It’s as cold as Alaska!” Or: “It’s cold like Hell, Michigan (48169)!”

“I’m freezing my ass off.”

Sure, there are days extremities feel as if they’re becoming detached, but that’s all just a mindset. No one has really ever lost an ass to the bitter cold, right? I mean, maybe they’ve lost the chance to *get* ass because of the freezing cold, but never did they literally lose an ass. In order to get clarification on this pressing issue, I spent a few minutes questioning an expert source via phone.

Dave: “Are there any reported cases of anyone freezing their butt off?” (4:22 p.m.)

ChaCha: “We’ll have ur answer soon! U can use FastCodes to get answers now! Try FUNMENU for Jokes,Games,Bizarre; INFOMENU for Defs,Weather,Scores; MENU to see ‘em all.” (4:23:38 p.m.)

Aha! Clearly this one has them fooled. They’ll be spending hours on it …

ChaCha: “No it technically isn’t possible. You would be dead from freezing to death before you could freeze your b— off. ChaCha again! *Make ur friends gag! Txt GQ” (4:23:45 p.m.)

Well, that settles that. No ass freezing! Taking this forward then, we can also eliminate another quotable.

“I’m freezin’ my balls off, bro!”

OK, first: No. Second, I’m more mystified when females mutter something like that. “It’s cold as balls,” they say. Really? Because I don’t think you know.

Now, ChaCha makes an excellent point in its textual wisdom. You can freeze to death. Hypothermia is no joke. Frostbite is also a legitimate concern for ears, hands – and I suppose if you’re running around naked for extended periods of time – genitalia, too. With temperatures well below freezing and wind chills mirroring our income tax deductions, there’s nothing shameful in overdressing for even brief walks about campus.

For the most part I find we college students are smart enough to sacrifice aesthetics for general comfort and well-being. I’m reminded otherwise when I see women running around in fewer total square inches of clothing than what constructs my favorite pair of jeans. A few obligatory public service announcements:

Open-toed shoes will easily earn you a trip to the emergency room. Shelve the ‘flops until Spring Break.

Pants fit over shorts. This is by design. Even if you’re walking from LaFollette Complex to Irving Gym, don’t presume your masculinity will be defended by baring your oversized nylon Tar Heels shorts through the subzero conditions. You never know when there could be a fire drill or, if it’s LaFollette, a real fire.

Give up on the exotic hair styles – painful I know – and put on a hat. About 50 percent of your body heat is lost to an uncovered head, a report prepared for the National Heath Care for the Homeless Council said. Don’t forget to take off the stickers.

Spare yourself the snowball fights, or at least change clothes if your snow angel party gets a little too involved. The same report said wet clothing causes a 20-fold increase in heat loss from the body.

Soon spring will spread its delightful, partially sunny joy across the brick and grass of the university. We’ll return to pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, singing birds and absent ice-polishers. Not this week, though. So bundle up and you’ll be cool.

I mean warm …

… as hell?

[Originally published in The Ball State Daily News: BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Winter phrases could use some smart revisions]

[Fade from black. Cue music.]

Aside from a cup of cheer, nothing gets you in the seasonal-celebration-of-your-choice mood better than a lovely collection of holiday music. And whether it’s for a fireside study session or a sleigh ride through Minnetrista, this year you can bring home the melodic joy of the season to play time and time again.

That’s right! Bewildered Society studios is proud to introduce a two-disc set of memorable holiday tunes with lyrics specifically and semi-masterfully crafted for the Ball State University caroler! You and your entire friendship circle can enjoy these great tunes now, and until you find something else to read. This limited time offer is not available in stores, online or anywhere outside this satirical column. That’s all the more reason why you should sit back, relax and take some time to relieve yourself of impending Finals Week doom!

[The full column below the fold.]

Let’s begin our holiday journey with a MITS trip down Wheeling Avenue in this memorable “Silver Bells” rendition.

City sidewalks, icy blacktops
Dressed without salt or sand
In the air
There’s a feeling
Of recession.
SUVS smashing
‘cuz they were passing
Sliding time after time
And on every crash corner you’ll hear …
[Chorus] Mayor said, Mayor said
It’s cutback time in the city
Snow-and-ice, it’s not nice
Soon there will be hell to pay
Hear the cars crash
As I fall on my … back
This is Muncie’s sad scene
And above all this politick
You’ll hear
[Repeat chorus]

Mmmm! How great. I’m still sore from that fall! [Laughter] Wow, it’s such a great time of year. This season always makes me think about spending times with the ones I hold so dear to my heart – and those I absolutely do not! Why, that reminds me of this children’s favorite with the legendary sound of “Jingle Bells.”

Dashing through Bracken
With one of my classmates
O’er books we’re crackin’
Cussing all the way (F—!,S—!, D—!)
This team is one to hate
I think we’re going to fight
What fun it is to stay up late
And I’ll do it again tonight!
Oh, group projects, group projects
Screw it all to hell
Oh, what fun it is to lead
In a class where Prof. can’t tell

Hallelujah! Yes – nothing is more enjoyable in the midst of a dreary December than studying hours on end for an exam worth an outrageous percentage of your overall grade! You could study at home, but your obnoxious friends are next door boozing the night away. Remember these timeless moments? I sure do! And that’s why you need a copy of this hit interpretation of “Silent Night!”

Silent Night, finals night
quiet hours, ignored, all right
‘Round the textbooks our minds slowly rot
While our neighbors shout, ‘Who wants a shot?’
This class is really ha-ard.
F this, let’s hit the bars.

Eggnog and SoCo 100 – what a time-honored holiday tradition. If you’re enjoying these classics, be sure to log on to BewilderedSociety.com and see the ones we couldn’t print! Next: Who doesn’t love this 2008 sports classic to the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” written with the help of friend and fellow Daily News columnist Will O’Hargan!

Brady the 13-1 coach, [it'll happen]
had a season, quite a jewel
and an impressive offer
to coach for another school (not from Jo Ann!)
Some B-S-U officials
wouldn’t pay to keep him here
So if you ask alumni
TC’s head is in his rear (like George W.!)
Then one foggy GMAC eve
Syracuse came to say:
‘Brady with your skills so dear
won’t you coach our team next year?’
Then all the Orangemen loved him
And they shouted out with glee
Brady the 13-1 football coach
You’ll get us to mediocrity!
You’ll get us to mediocrity! (Like Adlai Stevenson!)

Oh, Ho-Ho-Ho! What a beautiful tune! The glorious memories of the season can be forever yours with this two-disc set. Finally, let’s not forget everyone’s favorite, “Gora, Gora, Gora” to the tune of “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”

“Oh, Gora, Gora, Gora // I made it out of clay.”
… I forgot to finish that one. Next year?

[As originally run in The Ball State Daily News |BEWILDERED SOCIETY: Seasonal cheer produced by unlikely songs]