Along with 7,600 of you, I managed to scrape up a Ludacris ticket. I canâ€™t believe it.
Iâ€™m a senior. I stopped attending campus-hosted events after my freshman year because I had an experience that changed my life forever during a campus-hosted dance. It involved a girl who was 300 pounds and very underdressed and the lyrics â€œGet Lowâ€ blaring over the loud speakers.
I quickly abandoned school dances, socials, lectures, concerts and involvement of any kind in campus life and turned instead to working out, studying Marxist Theory, breaking things and drinking beer.
I got a job. Then I got another job. And eventually I convinced the Collegian that I was stable enough to write an opinion column for them once a week. Fools.
Needless to say, getting a Ludacris ticket is a big step for me.
I remember it was a Wednesday because on Wednesdays I buy a couple cookies from Subway and slowly mosey about campus thinking about how self-awareness is, in itself, a social ideological fact. I walked up the stairs in the front of the Student Media office in the Lory Student Center, and the first thing I saw was a line at the ticket counter to the left of the iBox.
Subconsciously, I gravitated toward the line and, to my surprise, waited. When I got to the front a kid asked, while already reaching for a Luda ticket, â€œCan I help you?â€
â€œYes,â€ I said. â€œI-want-a-Ludacris-ticket â€“â€“ man.â€ Breathing slowly, I contemplated these words.
He looked at me impatiently because I didnâ€™t have my Student I.D. out. I was just staring at the ticket in his hand, waiting for him to hand it over. He finally asked with a sigh, â€œDo you have your Student I.D.?â€
â€œYes,â€ I said, wondering why he wanted to know.
â€œI need to scan it for the ticket,â€ he said, pointing an exasperated finger at a large white sign just to the left of me. Practically painted in big green letters were the words, â€œHave Student I.D. ready!â€
Still suspicious, I got my I.D. out and handed it over. He scanned it and said, â€œBe sure to bring your I.D. to the concert because you canâ€™t get in without it.â€ Then he quickly glanced toward the next person in line while I stumbled toward the nearest door, holding the ticket in my fingertips, flabbergasted that I had actually gotten one.
I havenâ€™t set foot in Moby Arena for two years. And the last football game I went to was in 2008. Seriously, this ticket is very unsettling to me. It has a strange powerful quality, like the Ring of Power. I feel it in my wallet keeping me strong and dependant simultaneously. If I were to try and give it away, or a bearded man with a wooden staff were to try and take it, I fear I might assault him and rip the ticket out of his dying hands.
Perhaps the ticket symbolizes nostalgia for my, once unmatched, freshman participation. I recall attending a meeting for the well-being of southeastern Alaskan Tlingitâ€™s once. I was the only white person there. When the meeting started, it started in Tlingit so I couldnâ€™t even understand what was being said. Then they brought out a live raven, which, only later did I find out, was supposed to help make tough decisions.
Well the time has come for me to make a tough decision: Luda or no Luda? Do I sell the ticket â€” payment accepted in cash, hats, beer, snowboarding equipment and â€¦ coupons â€” or do I actually go listen to Ludacris sing about ghetto booty?
Ah the future. The perpetual unknown. Drink it in. I recall Doc Brownâ€™s words in â€œBack to the Futureâ€ in times like these, â€œWhere weâ€™re going we donâ€™t need roads.â€
I wish I had a DeLorean so I could go watch myself tonight in both scenarios and make a decision based on solid research.
Or maybe Iâ€™ll just catch a live raven.
Shane Rohleder is a senior communication studies major. His column appears Thursdays in the Collegian. Letters and feedback can be sent to email@example.com.