I’ve spent the past several days in Indiana, where I went to college. I was looking to burn some “comp time” from work and Ball State associate Chris Ulm had declared a karaoke night.

I decided to drive instead of fly.

“I’m not shellin’ out 400 bucks for an airplane ticket!” I explained to my computer screen.

Plus, I had always enjoyed long road trips. I once drove from Portland, Oregon to Las Vegas because I was going to get to the bottom of this Area 51 situation. Turns out it’s a well-designed tourist trap in the middle of the desert where a town of 54 people has figured out a way to sell t-shirts to tourists.
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The good people of Tennessee and Kentucky did their best to hold my attention. I feel like some of these locations were named by a guy sitting on his front porch drinking out of a bottle with three x’s printed on it.

This trip allowed me to belt out some music I’d be reprising from my time in college, so I started burning some new CDs for the drive up. Most of my CDs were destroyed in an unknown calamity and I would get two separate lectures on how no one still listens to CDs, but I still belted out some songs from the olden days. I feel like Brad Paisley was ahead of his time with this number about how we’re all from somewhere else.

Also, imagine how the election might have played out differently if John Kasich had used David Allan Coe’s “I’m an Ohio Boy” as his introductory music. Then he could have walked out on stage during rallies and and said, “[expletive] man, I’m from Ohio.”

Ulm and I have a rich history singing karaoke. Back in college, a group of us hotheads would go to Chi Chi’s every Wednesday after producing the evening news on the campus TV station. He and I lived across the hall from each other in the dorm freshman year.

You can understand, then, that my anger grew when I pulled into Muncie and saw that dorm was being destroyed. And the Chi Chi’s had already been destroyed. For a bank!

“I do not care for things changing,” I muttered.

This was a dorm of great historical significance! Papa John allegedly devised his pizza recipe on the fifth floor. I lived on the fourth floor, explaining why my accomplishments have been limited to a blog.

So us hotheads got in the car after karaoke because we had to bid farewell to the dorm. I have no idea why we had a designated driver. Clearly, you can see, it was not necessary.

The Ball State campus has changed quite a bit. I had lunch with one of my professors so I could demand an apology. Because of the effort he and the telecommunications department put into my education, I am now a network news reporter and have a lot of work to do. He told me the broadcast journalism and print journalism departments had merged because kids today need to learn how to shoot video even if they’re print reporters.

“I do not care for things changing,” I explained.

I wish he had replied, “Then don’t go to the Village.”

The Village is where Ball State students would go to carouse. There was a hot dog joint that was open until about 3 am and several old restaurants and bars.

Now, there are all these fancy buildings. One place had a sign advertising “10 gourmet burgers!”

You know what was there when I was a student? You had two choices: a burger with cheese or without cheese.

And there certainly wasn’t a frozen yogurt joint next door called, “Let’s Spoon.”

​How is this going to help Ball State students learn the real world is an awful, rundown place where, even though you hate talking to people, you make a living talking to people?!

I’m available for guest lectures, Ball State faculty. I think you’ll find my rate quite competitive. My presentation is called “I do not Care for Things Changing.”

While I was on the road, I decided to make a quick trip home to Ohio. I was prepared for the change there. My brothers and I were remodeling the kitchen at my mom’s house.

During this visit, she, I swear I’m not making this up, insisted on cooking dinner even though there was no running water in the kitchen and the refrigerator was plugged into the living room, so she minced a bunch of chicken in the living room.

​On the way out, I decided to stop at Bill’s Donuts. Bill’s was also a rundown joint where us high school hotheads would mill around, up to no good. But now, Bill’s Donuts has been named one of the best in the country, so when I showed up, there was a line out the door!

​”I do not care for things–” Wait, I absolutely did not mutter anything.