Last month, I celebrated a birthday. This would occur while I was in Philadelphia for the Democratic National Convention, so the term “celebrated” is probably a bit of a stretch, unless you consider spending a week with politicians, delegates and protesters a celebration.

The convention would force me to delay my annual trip to the casinos for an entire week! Oh, the sacrifices I’ve made for [looking thoughtfully into the distance] journalism.

This year, I turned 35, marking my exit from “The Demo,” so I feel like Les Moonves is less and less likely to read the TV review page and show up at my house with a dump truck full of cash. Television, though, has recently offered the opportunity to fondly recall when classmates and I would go to the Taco Bell nearest the Ball State campus, then start drinking and play along with old episodes of Match Game.

And then we’d wake up in the morning totally refreshed and ready for class. I would, I’d like to point out, graduate with honors.

When I returned from the conventions, however, an associate was quite excited to make our annual trip to the casinos in Oklahoma, even if we were a bit late.

This weekend, off we went to Choctaw. Sticking with the Ball State theme, I wandered into a spot in between different gaming floors called “Mason Jar Bar.”

I looked around. And didn’t see Mason Jar one! They just had [hit the letter, p, with exasperation] plastic cups!

Immediately, I started texting this picture to those classmates from college (Kudos to Ball State for helping gambling addicts forge life-long friendships) to voice my anger. I mean, that’s our namesake! I can only imagine the grumbling coming from the Ball Brothers’ pillars around that statue on the quad in Muncie.

One associate would respond, “Highly offensive!” He was right to say it.

But all this discussion about Ball brand mason jars also renewed my elan for hitting my mid-30s.

These guys, listen to me, these guys built a family fortune by slapping their name on a jar, and we’re still talking about these jars! Even if Les Moonves doesn’t show up on my porch with a dollar sign bag, maybe this blog can still turn into a money-making venture.

Or maybe I’ll just ensure my immortality by sticking my name on something. Pliers, maybe.

“Hey, could you hand me the Scaia-nose pliers?” the DIY-er would yell down the hall to his wife.

Swish!

I mean, it’s not like anyone who’s slapped his name on a bunch of stuff has said things people have questioned before.

Speaking of questionable behavior, is it questionable that this guy at a slot machine never looked at a mirror and asked himself if he looked like Hitler?

This would lead to another round of texts, and not just to Ball State associates, either, because I support diversity.

A non-Ball State classmate would text back, “#winning.”

But the star response would come from a fellow Ball State alumnus who responded, “You don’t know. Maybe Poland is one of the prizes.”

Feel free to use this blog, Ball State marketing team, as an example of the success stories that come from the TCOM department.