Reintegration.

Woke up this morning at 9:30. Probably the earliest I'll ever wake up before class. Did my usual morning ritual of cleaning myself up, furiously scouring emails, marking appointments, sending emails, responding to text messages, reading asinine facebook comments, and generally stalling.

Class at 11am. Geology 102. Because I need one more science class (without a lab), and this was it. That class is packed. Kids come in late, climbing over everyone because the room is filled to capacity. Me? I'm just contemplating today's blog post.

Queen (the professor) reminds us of the rumor that, last year during tornado season, professors would hold students hostage with an assignment that must be done. Can't leave until it's finished, and it cannot be made up. She goes on to remark how 1) it's sociopathic, 2) dangerous, and 3) completely against university policy—if that really did happen.

Side note: should that ever happen, leave and seek safety, then file a grievance against the professor.

I find out that the exams are structured such that of the four (including the final), only the top three will count. And one falls on the day right after my birthday. Any college student in this situation creates this predicament: "do I prepare to nurse the inevitable hangover resulting from turning 21? Or suck it up, wait a day, and ace every exam so I can choose not to take the final?"

I'm a future-minded guy in academic cases, so I'll be a responsible human, thank you.

Queen (the professor) let us out 20 minutes after class began. And that's the end of my school day.

Of course, the life of being busy is never that simple. Meetings upon meetings, making time to kill time, and not being a recluse is the order of the day.

#RebelInAuburn, Part III

Returning to my home campus today. I enjoyed the visit and had quite a bit of fun. I'm a huge fan of leaving comfort zones far behind, which is why I decided to make this trip.

Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing that would cause me to leave Ole Miss, especially for another school. "All the fine girls go to Ole Miss" (so true), it's the best-looking campus, has the friendliest people, and who could forget that I was once hired to reinforce all of these facts.

I would be lying, however, if I said I would never come to Auburn again. Just don't ever expect me to chant anything that has to do with combat and birds.

I've enjoyed myself thoroughly.

#RebelInAuburn, Part II

Having spent a full 24 hours here, I've found Auburn to be quite an interesting city. First, the best barbecue I've ever had. Hands down. Because this isn't Mississippi, it is perfectly reasonable to assume that your neighbor in your dorm is female. Greek life...is intense (that's all I'm saying about that). I've met some pretty interesting characters so far.

Downtown is very much like Oxford's square, though generally no dancing happens, and everything stays open until 2AM.

They listen to the same music I do...which pleases me to no end. Yes, there's only so much Skrillex I can handle, and I'd much prefer to jam to Pitbull or Drake.

Today, I went to an Auburn Tigers basketball game, in which they spanked South Carolina (I'm sure you can find some innuendo in there somewhere). It was their letterman's day, so they had basketball alumni return, including one Sir Charles Barkley. I sat not far from him.

And that's all for this unusually short post.

#RebelInAuburn

In lieu of returning to beloved Ole Miss, I have just arrived in scenic Auburn, Alabama...undertaking a completely new experience.

Yes, although I've always loved Ole Miss since setting foot on campus, and would love nothing more to return, circumstances have mandated that I go to Auburn University. It's abrupt, and happened without warning, I know.

I've had to make drastic decisions for myself and what's best for my life, and I just needed to have a change of scenery.

I will miss everyone deeply and wish everyone all the best.

Politics and Rebels

Here comes the season of student government elections. You've got the camp supporting one candidate, the camp supporting another, and yet another camp who adamantly declares that they are not voting for whatever reason.

I've never been an overly politically-minded person; I keep up with national (and sometimes international) politics, but I grew up knowing that I didn't want to be a politician. Being a journalist, ironically, is the closest thing to it.

Politicians have to be charismatic, demagogues, and able to espouse beliefs that they will unwaveringly stand upon. And they generally have my respect.

If you're someone who may have exposure to a large number of people, expect to be tapped for them. And be flattered that someone saw you as important enough to their campaign that they want your face attached to it.

Running a campaign, as I have come to learn, is an arduous process. The candidate and campaign team fight to appeal to the undecided voter, while not alienating their own supporters (guess what I learned in political science).

As I was elected to serve as the president for the building I live in, I got to see what happens when politics are applied to a college community.

In the fall, during the personality elections, the public forum for our building was a bit of a nightmare. Candidate promotions (a bit excessively pushed by supporters) were suddenly met with a tremendous outcry. The building itself became hostile overall. Unsurprisingly, my attempts at mediation were not well-received.

This is why I am not suited for politics.

The other residents, not realizing that their inherently neutrality in the context of campus election made them a prime audience for electioneers, believed themselves assailed in an election which they felt had no real gravity.

It wasn't the apathy that was the problem; it was the aggressive nature of said apathy. Obviously, not voting is as much a right as voting is, but campaign teams are formed to ask, not demand, for support.

Interestingly enough, despite such a belligerent stance against the election, the candidates who generated the most support in the building were the ones who literally went door-to-door, personally asking for support.

As for our online forum, our cabinet has dealt with ways to prevent such a violent reaction. All is basically well.

Of course, we still have the ones who will campaign for nobody at all. It's humorous to watch.

Think With Me For A Few Minutes.

Today's is a personal post [Now Listening to: Marching On by Flo Rida & Aaron London]. After living the good life in college, sometimes it's a surreal experience to return home for a little while every now and then. You face everything you left behind, for better or worse. You get to reflect on old experiences and how they made you who you are; and how that fits into your future. You compare yourself to your peers—not in a haughty or proud sense, but more in recognition. Having taken the same path to the graduation stage, you see the divergence between yourself and the girl you had an English course with.

From my perspective; I saw the ones who left home as I did, and the ones who stayed, and I could remember the only directive in my mind. Going to college was a given for me, but I mandated for myself that I would be going out of state. So set was I on this, that I applied to no schools within 100 miles of home. The average distance of schools from home was about 600 miles. I considered schools in New York, D.C., Boston, Ohio, and of course Mississippi.

I saw classmates and friends who had found their life parters, and have either engaged to be married, or have been married since high school. I remember my insistence on avoiding being married until after I had lived a good portion of my young life. I knew I wanted my life to be filled with experiences long before undertaking one so incredible. And yet, I can also feel a kind of happiness for those who have found the one who didn't consider them perfect, but saw fit to wade through their shortcomings to find the heart best suited for them.

I saw what used to be sources of heartbreak. What surprised me was myself. I had let go. This is surprising because I like to claim I have a superb memory, meaning I remember not only what happened, but how I felt. It then dawned on me that through my growth—while remembering vaguely what happened—I had forgotten the pain.

I saw some who are living their dreams, and others living in contentment. This was most striking, as it brought to my mind my own ravenous desires. I have always wanted a life not necessarily bound inexorably to one place. While home is a place to be established, I also want much more than to have property to my name. I want to see the most exotic, the best, the worst, the most emotionally moving, and the most exciting that this world has to offer. But in order to achieve any of this, I knew I'd have to dream, then wake up and live it.

Dreams are effortless. You close your eyes, and you're there in some scenario of your design. There's always that one minute element, impossible to miss, that reminds you that this simulation of life is only a mental construct, not the reality that you have shaped. Yet.

Having seen what I had left behind, however, made me understand and appreciate what I actually have found.

Most prominently, I've found more of myself than I had ever truly known. There are people (family included) for whom I would give almost anything, and I have an unusual way of making that known. I've found myself to be unusually protective of, as well as being willing to check in on, people important to me. I'm empathetic toward them, almost to a fault, and I suffer when I believe I've somehow lost them.

I've learned to trust myself, and somehow avoid pursuing all the wrong things. Sure, I'll make a mistake every now and then (but, as I've said before, I don't believe in mistakes; just things to learn from).

I've found the will to take control of my life, and the ability to accept what is beyond my control.

Although I still appear to be the same stoic, emotionally detached kid from years ago, I still have a massive range of emotion that still gets wildly out of hand (only at appropriate times). I've found that being so self-controlled (in general) is my own way of dealing with these emotions, rarely sharing them until prodded severely enough.

I can shed the shield of self-control and enjoy life at present, caring little for the next day.

I can wake up in the morning, decide that today is a good day, and run with it, unwilling to be upset. I can sleep at night, satisfied with what I did during the day, yet wanting to do more tomorrow.

Heck, I've even become so comfortable with myself that I'm willing to just blindly talk about myself.

Child Pornography...In Our Own Backyard??

For most of my readers: I'm from Indiana. Just recently, there was a man arrested for child pornography. That's always disturbing. What's more disturbing is how he was caught. Even more disturbing was his day job. This raises massive concerns, of course.

Stephen J. Brockman, 48, is a freelance photographer for newspapers, with a website catering to children's sporting events—giving him unusually high access to children.

Our intrepid photographer was caught—asleep at McDonald's, laptop open, displaying pictures of nude children—by Harrison County Police Department Officer Nicholas Smith, who was in all likelihood casually strolling in for a Quarter Pounder. This almost sounds too ludicrous to even make any sense.

Brockman consented to a warrantless search almost immediately. Unsurprisingly, Indiana State Police uncovered hundreds of images of child pornography, with at least one depicting a child performing sexual acts.

Brockman is facing six months to three years in prison for each of nine counts of a Class D felony for possession of child pornography.

There's a serious concern for who we allow near our children. This man photographed your young basketball player. The worst part about sex offenders is that they're not always who you'd expect.

Is That You In This Photo? Yes. Yes It Is.

Came across this product recently. Cool concept. It's the Lytro Camera, and it will definitely revolutionize the way you dodge the ever-present snitch when you're doing what you shouldn't.

A bit unorthodox in design, but this interesting device captures all available light. It allows the user to focus on whatever they want to—after taking the picture. Guess what that means? Oh yeah.

Think your face is indistinguishable in that photo that clearly came from The Hangover? Not only are you in clear focus, but so is that tattoo Mom would kill you for.

This isn't as much of a product review as it is a very cautious musing.

For the photographer (and having an SLR doesn't automatically make you a photographer), this completely obliterates the rules of composition. This is a high-definition point-and-shoot camera that nudges the art of actually focusing on the subject into a thing of the past. I wouldn't quite call it the death-knell for professional photography, though.

For a consumer, however, this is a godsend. The intricacies of a professional camera may frustrate the average shutterbug, but deciding retroactively what the subject was can be a much better idea.

Partygoers beware. This thing just might let the folks back home know what you're really up to. Bet you thought you wouldn't be tagged in that photo, right?

This lovely, odd-shaped box is a double-edged sword for photography, but undeniably convenient. I can't say I'd get one, though. They're up for pre-order.

Apparently, This Is How to Cook Crack.

This guy, according to Florida's Sun Sentinel, showed up in court with this jacket, "humorously" depicting a cartoonish recipe for cooking crack, complete with the quote, "stack paper say nothing."

He was in court on drug trafficking charges, believe it or not. Joshua Rydell, his attorney, called it "freedom of expression," but he probably didn't even believe that himself. It's better than admitting that your client is an idiot and deserves every bit of the sentence the judge is about to hand to him. Rydell admits that many of his clients come to court wearing drug-related clothing.

Curiously, Rydell said he didn't take the jacket to actually be a recipe for cooking crack. Although that's clearly what it is. Playing dumb isn't the best way to navigate a courtroom.

Broward Circuit Court Judge Michael Usan simply said, "no comment." Yeah, this guy is screwed. Have fun in prison.

Pageant Mother: Sociopath.

Watch this video. Just watch it. There are too many obvious things wrong with this.

1) This woman probably isn't too concerned with her own health.

2) Likewise, she probably cares just as little about her daughter's health.

3) Doping your child with near-lethal doses of caffeine should have probably prompted child protective agencies to run right into that home and run out as fast as possible, child in tow.

I mean, listen to the girl! She doesn't even like pageants. It would be one thing if she wanted to participate, but "it's boring" can't possibly mean "yes, Mom, I'd love to live your tragically unfulfilled dreams."

"The Coupon Queen!?" Really? Not even commenting on that. Just LOOK AT ALL THAT TOILET PAPER. Why? For what earthly reason did she justify buying reckless amounts of toilet paper in bulk? For toys??

The "Diva Beauty Queen" is already shaping up to be in contention with Jersey Shore for sheer sociopathy. Her very first sound bite is a mess of poorly-chosen, heavily-drawled slang that her mother has likely pushed onto her. This poor girl, through no fault of her own, has been nearly lobotomized by levels of caffeine and sugar that could easily denote premeditated murder. Forget early-onset diabetes, she might have actually developed ADD. Just look at her go. That isn't a little girl having fun. That's a seizure.

And the producer opted to use subtitles, because

Okay, back to that house. If, for some reason, the economy collapsed, that family would be set for life.

6-year-old Alana is waltzing blissfully around the house with the grace of a crack addict and the unfettered greed of a child who doesn't know what money is, but knows that Mommy wants it.

"A dolla makes me holla, honey boo-boo." Any responsible parent who heard that from a child would be alarmed. Nobody actually wants to raise a stripper, and that sounds just like a stripper. But look at her giggle. She has no idea what she's even saying. Mom fed it to her, and she says it to look cute.

"Special juice." Any rational person would assume, right away that whiskey was somehow involved. Listen to what Alana says about "special juice." Better yet...look at how she says it. I don't care what Mom says, if your child is barely functioning without your probably-laced-with-alcohol mess, and believes she will win by using it, she'll be graduating from Kindergarten right into rehab.

"Beauty is so boring. I don't want to do it." My heart sank when I heard that. Yet, in the next scene, 3 hours of makeup and 3 lines of Mom's cocaine later, that veneered smile is ready to get out there and win Momma some money.

...And now Mom wants her to show off the effects of childhood obesity on America. And her future plans are: not school, not running a Fortune 500 company, not politics, but "couponing" just like her mother. Well done, Mother. You have spawned a child who will come to resent you between rehab stints and hustling for money.

Look at this woman again...forcing that torturous mess down her child's throat.

"It's to help her stand out." Sure, a 6-year-old with a heart attack is bound to stand out.

Listen to how Alana describes it! The stuff makes her psychotic, and she knows it.

And she doesn't even have a great base of values BECAUSE HER MOTHER DOESN'T EITHER. Alana got third place in the pageant, and she was sad because she didn't get the biggest trophy or the crown.

I have nothing against pageants. Children's pageants are a bit of a different story. These unfortunate children get to learn to be one thing for the rest of their lives: fake. I blame the mothers and their severely deranged dreams.

Here's to the Wild Ones.

Here's to those who live life as if tomorrow will never come. The ones who, in their early twenties, feel like we own the world and nothing can hold us back. The crazy ones. The ones who, despite their well-crafted professional appearance, break loose like nobody's watching. Like nobody will remember. Like nobody cares.

The generation that, despite being ruled by social media, still flies under the radar while somehow avoiding the ever-watchful eye of the smartphone. The ones who may have grown up too fast or, perhaps more fittingly, haven't grown up at all. To us, maturity is our signal to the world that we can adapt to society while remaining unrestrained by it.

The ones who wake up wondering if they are doing the right thing or, more likely, wondering exactly what they did.

The reckless yet pseudo-responsible ones who know they shouldn't, but do it anyway, ever-vigilant to avoid as many consequences as possible.

The ones that, in an era where love is undefined and pursued in every way possible, don't seek it, but let it find them when they're ready—whenever that is.

The ones that live right now, and let the future handle itself.

The ambitious ones who believe in themselves, and don't you dare tell them what they can't do.

The individuals, who completely disregard how others perceive them, and live by their own standards.

Here's to the wild ones, who have yet to be tamed. Here's to us.

Why Rebel #83?

Seems like an arbitrary title, but I have a perfectly logical explanation for why I titled my blog "Rebel #83."

#83 was a split end receiver (on full scholarship, mind you) for the Ole Miss Rebels who graduated in 1982. He was well-known during his tenure at Ole Miss, and I've even run into people who remember this outstanding college student.

He taught me a little about football but, since the earlier schools I had gone to didn't have football programs, I never developed the early desire to play. Had my schools had football teams, I might have been inclined to play. You only live once, so I'm not really worried about what might have been.

It's funny, really, that aside from the obvious difference (he was a football player, I am not), our lives as college students seem to run parallel to each other. I've been known to play DJ for house parties. Guess who else did? I've made CRAZY decisions (I don't believe in mistakes)...and he made some of the same ones. I'm shooting for sports broadcasting, and guess who was a color commentator during a season in which he was injured?

My namesake. My father. Funny how that works, right?

Now you know.

Faithful Rebels.

I live in Indiana. Many people I know here have no idea what Ole Miss is. All they see is our dismal football record and tend to just dismiss us. When I try to explain how and why we are so strangely passionate, all I get are confused looks, and then I'm redirected to our football record.

And then it hit me.

This confused sports fan *often* goes where the wins are—regardless of the school—just to be proud to stand behind something he probably doesn't even understand.

Ole Miss fans tend to encompass everything. Ask an Ole Miss fan their favorite thing about their beloved school, and you'll get answers ranging from "the grove" to "the people," "Oxford," and "we know how to have a good time." We don't just love a single sport; we know better than to hinge all of our happiness on one aspect of the university.

We love everything. Consider a typical game day. We're in the grove all day, regardless of when the game is. We enjoy each other's company. Yes, even if you're from LSU. Just don't overstay your welcome. Oh, what about Mississippi State, you ask? No, we don't talk about them.

We'll then file into the stadium, probably drunk, but nonetheless overjoyed to see our team take the field, hear the band play the well-known anthems of football season, watch the expertly crafted promo videos that put fire in our eyes, and jeer at the infinitely-less-classy-in-our-minds visiting fans—all in good fun, mind you, as we go back to our friendly selves after the 4th quarter (or whenever we have decided to leave the stadium).

Game day is all about pure enjoyment. Some leave the game early under the pretense of preparing for after-dark activities. We're ecstatic when we realize that even though it's Saturday, the bars have elected to remain open an hour later. Visitors decry our establishments closing so "early," but it's just right for us. We'll find other ways, without fail, to enjoy ourselves after 1:30am.

Our campus is beautiful. Don't try to tell us otherwise, or you'll get an earful about careful groundskeeping. See any cigarette butts on our campus? Never. How about you?

Our past, present, and future students are, overall, the nicest people you'll ever meet. Don't believe me? Come to Oxford and I'll put money on the fact that someone will make you feel right at home. Not even on game days, either, where you'll outright feel like family.

But I have to resign myself to realize the fact that it just doesn't make sense to some.

My favorite thing is just sharing experiences, like watching the clearly-jaded Oxford police department deal with college student antics. A girl had fallen on her face one night in a bar. The cops detained her outside. Between her face streaming blood, and her drunken sobbing about God-knows-what, the officers threatened to cart her off to jail just because she was just aggravating them. Oh, and the officers had to deal with other bar-goers trying to take pictures with their camera phones.

Non-sequitur aside, we love everything about our school. Good, bad, and ugly. If it looks like their's nothing to love about Ole Miss, you're not even looking at Ole Miss.

As long as the SEC wins, we're happy.

Geaux (to hell) Tigers. Roll (to hell) Tide... Pretty much sums up the roar on newsfeeds and timelines. We can agree that the BCS champion (and runner-up...whatever that's worth) comes from the SEC. Yeah, we like that. The next best thing to a localized apocalypse depends on which bandwagon we just hopped on (and right back off again).

It's cause for a debate that Jarrett Lee was benched during this match, as he might have saved a little face for LSU. Yes, Les, it's Jefferson's last season. He had an impressive season. Lee floundered in the last meeting with the Tide. But when something isn't working...It isn't working. There's something to be said for letting a savior finish his final season at the BCS championship, but it simply isn't winning at all costs by exhausting all options. Granted, Miles would have taken heat either way, so it's open to debate as to whether or not he should have played Lee.

The Tiger defense performed...just fine, all things considered, forcing the Tide to rely on field goals to take and hold the lead. We take solace in the fact that, although LSU decisively asked us who our daddy was—and proceeded to show us—we at least managed to eke out a field goal. They can't say that about this match.

Yes, the very same team that showed it's rear end by intentionally turning the ball over on downs to let the defense run over the suspension-crippled Ole Miss line has just been spanked by an equally cocky team ("We beat ourselves" isn't a valid excuse in the SEC). Not to say the ego is completely unjustified—look at their seasons...

The point is, we're just (im)patiently waiting (read: salivating at the chance) to let loose a bear on the sideline for our own shot at the BCS title. Please?

A Haircut.

The humble haircut. Simple, innocuous, and a symbol of renewal. Shedding and revealing new growth underneath. It offers a feeling of rejuvenation and new confidence. At least that's how I see it.

For me, right now, it's a capstone. I've been on the road of recovery for 18 months, dealing with physical damage that tore straight through my confidence. During that time, I had to accept that my body had taken irreversible damage, leaving behind a permanent reminder. The scars are visible, yet only I can feel the metal within.

Mind and body are inextricable, and damage to one can also draw the other toward ruin. Confidence suffers, then fitness suffers, which becomes just a cyclical torment. Here, now, just before this rudimentary haircut, I've returned for the most part to the level of fitness I enjoyed before being so woefully injured. This fitness, fueled by the surge of confidence I claimed 6 months ago, will now feed the cycle positively.

Pushing forward, I now stand at the edge of the best time of my life, prepared to continue.

The last 12 months have been a whirlwind, bringing me so many first-time experiences and bonds with people that may never be broken. A new chapter in my life has been written, punctuated with all the fun I've had so far.

I've also come to realize that when you're at the high point, and everything seems to be going your way, watch out. You could be blindsided. It's a lesson I've been taught time and time again, but it appears that I'm failing to actually learn it.

I'm one of those people that feels unstoppable when life goes my way. For the most part, it works just fine. Being brought back to reality, predictably, is always humbling.

It's pointless then to wonder: "What went wrong? What mistakes did I make?" Because I'll then come to find that the word "mistake" is just a misnomer. There are no mistakes, just experiences to learn from. Where lives intersect is a grey area where no one person ever has control.

It brings life back into perspective. What you can control, you find that you have near-absolute mastery of. What you cannot control, however, you can learn from. It's nothing to fret about, but something to accept. Don't hold on to them, just let them go.

When you actually learn to love again is when you become vulnerable again. But, then again, isn't it worth the risk?

After such episodes, the big picture appears again. Passions that I had neglected presented themselves to me again, begging for my attention once more. Through them, I find enjoyment that I thought I had lost completely.

When I look back, I see a great change. When I would keep what I feel private, I now can share it. I've gained compassion, trust, friendliness, strength, and heart.

Time for that haircut now.

Forgotten Passions

When you forget your passions, it becomes difficult to take them up again. You realize how you loved them, and you also realize that they have been obscured by everything else.

Music: my first passion. The one thing that made me who I am. It keeps me grounded.