Nov 172010
Authors: Shane Rohleder

Along with 7,600 of you, I managed to scrape up a Ludacris ticket. I can’t believe it.

I’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 “Get Low” 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, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I-want-a-Ludacris-ticket –– man.” Breathing slowly, I contemplated these words.

He looked at me impatiently because I didn’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, “Do you have your Student I.D.?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering why he wanted to know.

“I need to scan it for the ticket,” 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, “Have Student I.D. ready!”

Still suspicious, I got my I.D. out and handed it over. He scanned it and said, “Be sure to bring your I.D. to the concert because you can’t get in without it.” 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 haven’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 Tlingit’s once. I was the only white person there. When the meeting started, it started in Tlingit so I couldn’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 — payment accepted in cash, hats, beer, snowboarding equipment and … coupons — or do I actually go listen to Ludacris sing about ghetto booty?

Ah the future. The perpetual unknown. Drink it in. I recall Doc Brown’s words in “Back to the Future” in times like these, “Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”

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 I’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

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