God bless the friends I met working at The Battalion.

The paper had changed and I was not sure I liked what it had become. More so, I no longer felt at home in the newsroom.

I was getting in more and more arguments with the EIC and other top editors — even breaking my cell phone in half out of anger during one such confrontation.

My friends were either leaving the paper or being fired and I came seriously close to quitting myself. I had typed up my letter of resignation and was prepared to bring it with me to work on Sunday when I decided to go home for the weekend and clear my head.

As I sat at the kitchen table and talked with my parents about the conflicts at the paper and the crisis of conscience I was wrestling with, I began to see a realization forming.

If I were to quit the paper now, I would be taking the easy way out. I would be giving up — admitting I was wrong. When I returned to work that Sunday, instead of a letter of resignation I submitted an application for managing editor.

Although there was a lot of support for me in the office, it was clear that it would be an uphill battle for me to become managing editor — a battle I did not make easier.

I made a lot of rash mistakes — said foolish things in emotional moments and perhaps drew a line in the sand that only further created a wedge between people. I made it clear that I was not going to be a “yes man” and I did not sugarcoat that fact.

I will not lie. In the end, when the EIC chose somebody else for the position, I was upset. With time and perspective, though, I realized they made the only choice they could.

I don’t believe it was a show of favoritism — friends picking friends. No, in the end, the EIC chose the person they could trust to watch their back. I wasn’t going to be the safety net of positive feelings the EIC was looking for, but I would have always watched the paper’s back.

The first few months after leaving The Battalion were hard. A magazine internship I had been promised fell through. Life in a real newsroom proved to be a different experience then I was used to. I realized that so much of what had made me good at my job were the people I worked with at The Batt.

I was part of a team and without the rest of the team to back me up; the job was harder and less interesting.

It was difficult to continue to read The Batt on a daily basis. The paper continued to make choices that seemed wrong. It became a good-looking paper — full of fancy graphics and flashy layout (a legacy I can’t help but feel partly responsible for), but it was loosing its substance. It seemed like a ghost of it’s former self — or maybe I was the ghost, looking in on the living and, unable to take part in the creation, left feeling cold and alienated.

The Batt, though, is in a constant state of transition. People come and go. Things get better and then they get worse again. That’s just the way a college paper operates. The Battalion will always have its guardians — people at the paper who will look out for it and nurture growth.

Working at The Batt was an honor and a privilege. I worked with some very talented people. I made some very good friends. Today is dedicated to all of you.

Thanks for everything.

The people who worked at The Battalion were more then co-workers, they were friends. I always respected them as friends — even through our arguments at work.

A student newspaper, by its nature, is in a constant sate of transition. Students do not make a career out of working for The Battalion. They come and then they go — leaving because they graduate, get a better job somewhere else or simply become bored. New students then come in to replace them.

In my time at the paper, I had the opportunity to be part of three very distinct staff “eras.” During my first year at the paper, I was the new guy — looking up in awe at the editors who ran the paper. I reached my peak during my sophomore year and the first half of my junior year — joining the ranks of those editors who I had admired. I became noticed for my skills, was recognized for my achievements and made serious changes at the paper.

More importantly, I was a part of something bigger — a group of likeminded individuals all working towards a common goal. On a daily basis we produced a great paper — and we had fun doing it. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of staying past my welcome — trying to force myself into the next “era” of Battalion staff when I should have moved on.

Looking back, I should have quit when the rest of my peers left. As friends such as Nikki, Aaron, Andrew, Nishi and Sonia moved on to different things, I stayed behind and tried to maintain that same fun atmosphere. It’s a very real possibility that I overstayed my welcome.

While there were always editorial decisions I disagreed with, during my last semester at The Batt these differences in opinion began to grow in their frequency and intensity. It was obvious that I saw a different purpose for the paper than the EIC did. The real kicker, the decision that continues to bother me to this day, was the paper’s editorial stance on a group of stupid kids who made a stupid mistake.

Three students, two of which had coincidently worked as Aggielife writers during my time as editor, made a video of themselves in blackface acting out a slavery scene steeped in ill-advised racial stereotypes. From talking to the students in question, it became obvious that the purpose of their video was to lampoon the perceived second-class status of minorities at Texas A&M. This message, unfortunately, was not obvious in the video and the student’s actions were not easy to defend.

Upon hearing about the video and the fact that at least one of the actors was a former Battalion employee, the EIC made the decision that the paper would come out strongly against the video and the students responsible. I did not have any real problem with this stance — it seemed like a perfectly reasonable one at the time.

Unfortunately, as the paper continued to harp on the subject with every day’s issue — inciting the school with inflammatory rhetoric that essentially amounted to a print lynching, I began to have serious issues with the paper’s choices. I felt that a bigger deal was being made of the issue then needed to be — possibly in the interest of 15 minutes of fame the EIC was receiving due to the incident.

Everybody at The Batt knew of the national spotlight that had been shined on previous Batt EICs during the bonfire collapse and the Uncartoonist scandal, maybe the EIC wanted a taste of that fame. Why else would they continue to force the paper to cover the story of three kids who essentially made a “Chappelle’s Show” skit?

I lost faith in the paper the day I found out the students were forced to withdraw from A&M — an act I strongly believe the paper was directly responsible for.

To be continued…

The Battalion basement office was, without a doubt, my home during my time at Texas A&M.

An emotional man to be sure, the paper’s advisor loved his job and it showed through every aspect of life in the Battcave. From the meticulous job he did every day with his Batt-rant e-mails (and later Batt-rant blog) to his style of coaching through trial and error, Mr. George nurtured one of the most creative environments I have ever had the joy to be a part of.

Even with his long history as a journalist up his sleeve, Mr. George knew that the best way to teach student journalism was to let us fail on our own. He gave us the opportunities to make our own choices, suffer our own mistakes — and, of course, he was there in the end to show us exactly where we could improve.

Instead of rolling up his sleeves and doing our jobs for us, Mr. George gave us the tools and resources to maximize our potential and make real change with the paper. I know for a fact that under most any other advisor, I would not have been given the chances to experiment and the opportunities to succeed that I had.

Beyond his role as a newspaper advisor, he was also there for us as a friend. I imagine every Batt employee who spent any real time in the Battcave has a story or two to tell about how Mr. George lent some advise, bailed us out of trouble or just shot the shit with us.

After my sophomore year, Mr. George and I began to talk with some seriousness about my future at the paper. It had become obvious by then that my stint as an editor was not just a resume-building fling. My work meant something to me and he was beginning to take notice. We started to discuss the possibility of me applying for editor-in-chief.

The thought of being EIC had always made me nervous. I knew my limitations. Technical editing was never my strong suit and I had trouble saying no to controversy. He saw the potential for me to rise above these weaknesses though and become a great editor. Through his pep talks, I began to see those possibilities too. I also began to see the assets I could bring to the paper. I wanted to do it.

And so, after my third semester as Aggielife editor, I turned in my application to be EIC. Mr. George worked with me to prepare for the interview, hone my technical skills and scale back my impulse to court trouble. In the end, though, I let him down.

As I started off this series writing, The Battalion was my life during college. The paper came before everything else — including grades. By spending so much of my time in the Battcave, I had forsaken my actual classes and my grades showed this to be true. I did not have the GPA required to become editor-in-chief.

I felt as small and worthless as a mound of bat(t) droppings when I asked Mr. George to remove my application from consideration. What hurt me more then anything else, though, was the fact that he seemed genuinely sorry that he might have had a role in my low grades. He was afraid that the paper, and by proxy he, had been the sole cause for my low GPA. More then I regret not having the chance to be EIC, I regret making Mr. George feel that kind of shame.

As all good things must pass, Mr. George left Texas A&M my senior year — the year things at The Batt began to go sour.

To be continued…

Mr. George transformed from one of the scariest men I'd ever met to a real inspiration in my life during the four years I knew him.

I had been told to go to the Batt offices to get trained on a Saturday morning but I did not know which classroom to go to or what time training would begin. When I finally found the right the classroom, I was nearly an hour late. Peering into the room through a window on the door, I tried to decide whether I should actually go inside for training or just walk back to my dorm room.

Mr. George did not give me a choice.

Spotting me through the widow, he stormed over to the door and yanked it open. Looking me up and down, he asked if I was there for the training.

I nodded; petrified of this imposing figure whose face was marked with a scowl.

Well, you’re too late, he said and slammed the door in my face.

I walked back to my dorm room in a daze unsure of what had just happened. In high school, I had heard about college professors being a bit unforgiving but this was insane. Who was that horrible, horrible man I had just encountered?

A few days later, I was finally given a name to put with the face of the man who had almost scared me away from the paper forever. The day after my first article was published, I received an e-mail from my editor. The subject line simply read “Batt Rant.”

For those who worked at The Battalion during Mr. George’s tenure as newspaper advisor, the words “Batt Rant” elicited a wide assortment of mixed feelings. There was the fear and apprehension that crawled down your spine just before opening the e-mail. There was the anger when you finally read the comments Mr. George made about your latest work and wanted to know just where he got off saying what he said. Then, of course, there was the striving that set in — the drive to create something that would warrant a compliment from this Anti-Giving Tree of a man.

In my first semester at The Battalion, I avoided Mr. George. Still afraid of his gruff nature, his masterful usage of sarcasm and the fact that he had spent the better part of the fall ripping my articles to shreds in his Batt Rant e-mails, I felt that the less time I spent around the man the more I would enjoy my time at the paper.
Then it happened.

Something I wrote elicited a kind word from Mr. George. He approved.

Like a little Dutch boy pulling his finger out of a hole in a dam, the article paved the way for me to build up the courage it would take to approach Mr. George.

And so, for the second time in my first year at Texas A&M, I found myself peering in on the paper’s advisor through a door window.

This time, instead of teaching a class I was late for, he was enjoying his dinner in his office. After hearing my diminutive knock on his door, he yelled for me to enter. I cautiously opened the door and peered into his darkened office.

I just wanted to introduce myself, I said.

I know who you are, he responded. Good work on the review. Keep it up.

That night I walked back to my dorm room rejuvenated. A week before I had considered quitting — almost scared away from the paper by the Batt Rant Boogie Man. Now that I had gotten good ink in a Batt Rant, though, the only thing I wanted was more.

To be continued…

The people I worked with at The Battalion, such as Andrew and Adan, were more then just co-workers, they were friends.

There’s the trip to San Antonio to compete with the rest of the paper at TIPA. While the actual competition was a great experience (I won first place for a television commercial I storyboarded), the real fun was had “off-duty” — from drinking too much on the Riverwalk and spending the rest of the night insisting on doing a terrible Christopher Walken impression to checking out San Antonio’s famous haunted railroad tracks and, disappointed with the alleged phantasms, covering Aaron with baby powder so he could jump out of the bushes and scare people with his stark whiteness.

I even had my own unexplained mystery when, after doing a traditional Mexican Grito on the Riverwalk, a stranger on a passing tour boat called me out by name to compliment my yell. How he knew my name, I will never know.

There was the time my friend Jay tazored me to research a column and then there was the time the Tazor corporation sent me an e-mail informing me that the word “tazor” should never be used as a verb. Well, they can go and tazor themselves.

There were the celebrity interviews I got to do — ranging from me from calling the director of “Nacho Libre” a racist because he hired Jack Black to play a Mexican character to me driving to Houston for the morning so that I could hang out with the stars of “Clerks,” a film I had grown up idolizing.

Other heroes of mine I had a chance to talk to because of my job include Bruce Campbell, Neil Gaiman, Brian K. Vaughan, Richard Cheese, Doug TenNappel and Kinky Friedman.

Other great memories include the Batt parties such as the Crystal Pepsi Taste Party in which I gathered a group of friends together to each drink a shot glass full of a 16-year-old soda I had bought off the Internet, the Risk Party in which two of my closest friends almost got into a fist fight over the rules of one of the most confusing board games ever devised, and the countless karaoke parties in which I discovered that some of my male co-workers can sing Britney Spears songs really, really well.

There was a reason I spent so much time in the newsroom — the people I worked with. I guarantee I would not have stayed at the paper as long as I did if it wasn’t for the friends I made in the Battcave. These are the memories of college that I will always cherish.

From the Chik-Fil-A bitch-fest dinners with Stacy and Adan to the wonderful lifelong friendship I cultivated with Andrew (a guy I started off unable to stand) to the summer Nishi taught me that a vegetarian dinner could actually be delicious to Allison helping me find the keys to my car so I could drive home when I was obviously falling-down drunk (I didn’t die and it gave me a great story to tell) to Evan and Wade taking pictures of me in various forms of pain to Aaron and Whitney and I spending New Year’s Eve watching Saddam Hussein execution footage on YouTube.

For those I didn’t mention, rest assured I did not forget you — I merely ran out of room.

Some of my greatest memories, though, involve a man who would, over the course of four years, be transformed from somebody I was genuinely afraid of to one of the top five people in this world I admire: Mr. Ronald E. George.

To be continued…

I fell in love with San Francisco during my brief visit there and would love for another excuse to go back.

On the first night in the city, the other Batt editors and I decided explore the city. None of us having ever been in San Francisco before, we decided to pick a general direction and just start walking. This idea started off fine — we passed some neat-looking buildings and weird upside-down trees that appeared to have designed by Dr. Seuss.

Eventually, though, we wondered away from the touristy side of town that we had started in and wound up walking through the city’s sex district. Now, I should probably mention that I was the only guy in the group.

As we started passing adult theaters, street dealers and other assorted debauchery, my spider-sense started to tingle so much I felt like a cell phone on vibrate. It wasn’t until I started to spot people seemingly following us, though, that I entered full freak out mode.

The girls I was with didn’t seem to have any problem with the danger that surrounded us at every turn. Maybe they hadn’t seen enough “Law and Order” episodes. As I tried to push them to walk faster instead of them pointing out prostitutes, in my head I was deciding which of my friends would be the best decoy to throw to the hungry wolves. If I let them take the weakest of my fellow Battsters, maybe the rest of us could escape. I’m proud to say that we were able to safely get back to the hotel that night without having to pull out my rape whistle.

I learned a lot of things during that trip. I learned that if you wake up early enough on a weekday in San Francisco, you could spot a man doing yoga in the middle of traffic. I learned that pictures of seals taken at night develop into pictures of black panthers fighting in a tar pit. I learned that Chinatown not only has a lesser-known rival district named Japantown, but its shops have an obsession with giant wooden penises. On a related note, I learned that if you take a picture of a giant wooden penis, you will get yelled at in Chinese by an angry shopkeeper.

My favorite memory from the trip, though, involves a chance encounter.

During one of the nights we were exploring the city, my friends and I came across an art gallery. The gallery was dedicated to Margret Keane, an artist known for her paintings of children with oversized eyes. After taking a look around at the paintings, I wound up talking to the gallery manager.

Among the many things we talked about, we discussed what I wanted to do with my life. I told him about my dreams of going to film school and becoming a hotshot director. He then proceeded to tell me that just that day he had talked to a dozen other aspiring filmmakers. The world is full of people who think they have what it takes to be the next Steven Spielberg, he said. What did I have that separated me from the rest?

I thought about his question and came to the conclusion that I didn’t have anything. Nothing I had shot was exceptionally good. My videos up until that point were funny because of their limitations — not their content. I was not going to find my fame behind the camera. He then asked what was it that I am good at. I answered that I was a fairly decent writer. Pursue that, he said. There’s not enough room in film school for everybody — there’s always space in this world for a good story. I walked out of that art gallery rejuvenated; I left San Francisco with a purpose.

To be continued…

A page I designed for the Aggielife section of "The Battalion" during my time as an editor.

Courting Controversy

If there was one thing I enjoyed about being an editor, it was the ability to cause a stir.

Upon taking the job as the features editor, I read the last three years’ archives of Aggielife stories. Scanning the articles, I noticed the same stale topics were being covered semester after semester. Even I was guilty of resorting to a few tired chestnuts during my time.

I never shied away from controversy, though. During my time at the paper, I developed an unofficial weekly segment I called “Deviant of the Week.” Every week I would try to spotlight a new alternative lifestyle I felt would make students uncomfortable. I realize that my motives may not have been soaked in journalistic integrity — but boy was it fun.

My first fur-ay into this experiment was a story I assigned about furries, those wacky kids with a fetish for anthropomorphic animals. I did not have the time (nor inclination) to write the actual story myself so I entrusted it in the care of one of the paper’s best and brightest writers. Upon publication, we received hate letters from both the students disgusted with the story’s glorification of man-animal on man-animal sex and the furries disgusted with the story’s gross inaccuracies about their sub-culture.

Yiff, indeed.

Undeterred by the article’s response, I went on to publish additional stories about wiccans, atheists and other assorted wacky student groups.

My favorite response I received came from a student angered by the paper’s decision to publish an article on preteen cross dressers.

“I’ll never read The Batt again,” the reader wrote in an e-mail. “From now on, I’m only subscribing to the Houston Chronicle.”

I sure hope the reader enjoyed the Chronicle’s features section that day — which published the same AP story about transgendered youth I did.

Press-kit Piñatas

Working on the paper’s entertainment section, I received daily shipments of film press kits. Occasionally, these kits would come in cool decorative packages such as a kit for “Monster House” shaped like a haunted house, a kit for “Sponge Bob Square Pants” that contained Twinkies, or a kit for “Strangers with Candy: The Movie” that contained a box set of the TV show. Most of the time, though, the kits came in DVD cases and contained nothing but CD-ROMS full of photos of whatever movie the studio wanted us to pimp that week. Not one to throw stuff away, I saved the press kits in a desk drawer. Eventually, though, I saved so many kits that I ran out of room.

My solution? I bought a piñata and stuffed it with the press kits. I then invited my writers to come in for a meeting and, afterwards, have a swing at the piñata.

Upon busting a hole in the piñata and seeing what appeared to be DVDs of the latest films fall out, the writers exploded into a tangled mess of grabbing arms and kicking feet. They fell over themselves trying to grab as many of the “DVDs” as they could, unable to believe their luck. Once the commotion settled down and my writers realized that they weren’t holding free copies of their favorite movies but had fought over glorified photo CDs, they walked away grumbling. I thought it was good fun but my writers weren’t laughing with me. Maybe that’s why I had such a hard time afterwards convincing them to meet their deadlines.

To be continued…

A features page I designed during my time at "The Battalion."

I worked on a daily newspaper for the better part of five years — first at Texas A&M’s student newspaper, The Battalion, and then later for The Bryan/College Station Eagle.

Part of my reluctance to reminisce about my brief stint as a journalist has to do with the fact that, despite currently having a job that I love, a part of me still misses the smell of a newsroom. Recent economic developments in the world of newspapers and my continued concern for the jobs of my friends who still work in journalism has lately left me thinking about my years pushing copy.

During college, my life almost exclusively revolved around the school paper.

Except for a few short-lived extracurricular trysts, I did not participate in any other club or organization during my time at school. I lived at the paper.

I would skip entire semesters’ worth of classes, going in only for tests and spending the rest of my time in the newsroom. My friends, for the most part, consisted mainly of people I worked with.

And for a while, life was good.

I had it in my mind pretty early into my college career that I wanted to work for the paper. Submitting an application in my first week at school, I was soon hired to write film reviews and features for the Aggielife section. I later learned, though, that my career at The Battalion almost ended before it began.

When turning in my application, I submitted a few stories I had written in high school. One of the stories, a mock editorial written by high school janitor who moonlit as an obsessive stalker, turned out to be a bit too creepy for the assistant editor sorting through the applications.

Thankfully, the section editor read it and saw something salvageable in the admittedly very creepy essay. I was offered a job.

For my first year, I kept my distance from the paper — only occasionally going into the office. In lieu of wearing my partici-pants in the newsroom, I submitted an alarmingly large amount of stories from my dorm room.

I probably wrote at least fifty reviews that first year, often times seeing an article of mine published in the paper every day for an entire week. While I didn’t know many people at the paper and didn’t exceptionally feel like a big part of the staff, I loved the thrill of seeing my work published.

I wrote everything that first year. I reviewed movies, music, books and comics. I even won second place in a statewide competition for a review I had written for the “Cold Mountain” soundtrack.

My career as a features writer had a little rockier of a take-off. The first few stories I submitted were sent back several times for revisions. I had not gotten hired in time to go through training and had to learn how to write a newspaper story through trial and error — with an emphasis on the error.

The more stories I wrote, though, the more curious I became about what happened to them after I pressed the “send” button on my e-mail.
And so, at the end of my freshman year when I was approached about applying to become an editor, I quickly became interested.

At this point in my life, I was still set on attending film school after graduation. I had no real interest in becoming a journalist, but I figured that a semester working as an assistant editor for the school paper would look great on my resume.

I was about to jump into the deep end of student journalism.

To be continued…

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Today's Guest Columnist: Daniel Wallace

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

Sometimes, though, I need help that my friends just aren’t able to provide. Whether because of my friends’ character flaws, limitations in knowledge or just because they’re tired of me asking them for advice all the time, I am forced to look elsewhere for guidance. Luckily, that’s why God gave us Famous People.

Daniel Wallace, for example, wrote a book that contains cover-to-cover home spun wisdom nestled within tall tales and fanciful fatherly fantasies. The book, “Big Fish: A Novel of Mystic Proportions,” is the basis for Tim Burton’s 2003 film of the same name. Like the film, Wallace’s novel is chock-full of solid advice and sound philosophy. 

Because words in a book do not materialize out of thin air but are instead plucked meticiously (and often painfully) from a writer’s mind, it’s no surprise that I’d want to read an advice column written by Daniel Wallace. Unfortunately, Daniel’s rather extensive criminal background he gained while operating as an unauthorized masked vigilante in the streets of Gotham City prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear Daniel,

I really enjoy football games. Unfortunately, whenever I put on my maroon and white body paint, I end up experiencing an allergic reaction. This semester my friends are obsessed about the idea of spelling “Aggies Rule” with body paint on our chests. They say they need me to be the letter “L” because I’m so tall. I don’t want to let my friends down, but I also don’t want to suffer a horrible reaction. Can I still be a highly spirited, brightly colored letter “L” without being in god-awful pain? 

— Tormented at Texas A&M

Dear Tormented,

It sounds as if the letter ‘L’ applies to you in more than one way, because you’re clearly a loser. Without you, your friends would be left spelling AGGIES RUE, and that’s surely bound to raise a number of questions, a question which will demand many more painted students to answer it. AGGIES RUE . . . what? Perhaps they rue the day you decided to become an Aggie instead of a Longhorn. So the answer to your question is no. Not only should you suffer, you should be willing to die for your team; the football players are willing to — why not you? Or do you need your mommy? Bottom line: There’s no place for you here.  Go home. 

— Daniel Wallace

Dear Daniel,

I’m having a problem finding a date to this week’s Midnight Yell. I don’t know what the problem is. I always wear a really wacky outfit designed to pump my fellow students up, and yet all women seem to do is point and laugh. I don’t want to compromise the integrity of my school spirit, but at the same time I would really like to have a date. 

— Dateless in Dorm

Dear Dateless,

There is someone out there for you. You just have to be creative. First of all, why limit yourself to girls? Surely there are other men who  might find you attractive? And don’t stop there. Team mascots — “furries” — are always looking for companionship. You may roll that way without even knowing it. Also, paying for a date “in advance” helps as well. I’m sure many, if not most, of the students in your section go out after the game, together, to one huge bar, where they talk and have fun. Were you not invited? How sad is that? Write a novel.  The women will go crazy for you then.

— Daniel Wallace

Dear Daniel,

I have school spirit, yes I do. I have school spirit, how ’bout you?

— Containing Spirit in College Station

Dear Containing,

The truth is, I do not have school spirit, especially as it applies to sports. I feel that it’s become a business — the players aren’t here to learn, and many of them can’t read or write. They’re given a latitude that the regular student can only dream of and are idolized for their single-minded and idiotic way of life . . . Hey — just kidding! I have a ton of school spirit! Want some?

— Daniel Wallace

Daniel Wallace wrote this column in 2006. It originally ran in The Battalion, Texas A&M’s student newspaper.

A celebrated novelist, Wallace is best known for his novel “Big Fish: A Novel of Mystic Proportions.” He has also written the books “Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician,” “Ray in Reverse,” and “The Watermelon King.” Wallace is also a professor and lecturer at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Visit Daniel Wallace on the web at www.danielwallace.org.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

I’m always ready for a nap.

During high school, I would sneak into the auditorium during lunch periods, find a nice quiet spot on the stage behind the curtains, put on my headphones and fall asleep. I knew it was time to wake up when I heard the noise of the next period’s students begin to shuffle into the theater department for their afternoon classes.

My habit for daytime sleep indulgence did not dissipate when I went to college. My freshmen year, I was saddled with an eight o’clock class every morning Monday through Friday but I would always make a point to find time for a nap before my next class. When I couldn’t go back to my dorm room because of time limitations, I would explore the campus in search of a solitary location to rest my eyes.

I became the master of finding unused classrooms with soft seats, comfortable couches in out-of-the-way locations and even bathrooms where I could sit on a clean toilet and take a quick snooze.

From the couches of Rudder Hall to the hidden balcony of the MSC to even underneath my desk in the Battalion offices, I took my afternoon naps wherever I could find them.

My favorite spot, though, was the West Campus library.

With soft chairs that you could sink into, a quiet atmosphere perfect for undisturbed slumber and a convenient distance from the majority of my classes, the WCL became my nap destination of choice.

Between classes I would find myself a nice chair, take out a textbook from my backpack so it looked like I was studying and set my cell phone to vibrate an alarm ten minutes before my next lecture. These short breaks were like manna from the sky as far as I’m concerned.

Unfortunately, there was the issue of talking in my sleep.

Since I was a child, I’ve been told I spout uncontrollable monologues during the night. From short bursts of nonsense gibberish to soft moans, I make all sorts of noises while I sleep — not the least of which is snoring.

Most of the time, naps didn’t put me in such a deep sleep to illicit nocturnal admissions but if I was coming off of a particularly sleepless night all bets were off.

I first noticed my bad habit forming when I began to groan in the middle of lectures. Even with my naps, I always had a hard time staying awake during some of the more tedious of subjects. I once slept through an entire semester’s worth of economics classes.

During one particularly un-inspiring accounting course, I woke to find that I had been making soft moans from the back of the auditorium. Awaking mid-moan, I opened my eyes to see several of my classmates staring at me with a mixture of surprise, humor and annoyance. The embarrassment I felt for the rest of the class period didn’t add up to the shame that came later.

One morning as I slept in the library, I found myself having a particular dream about ordering deli meat from a deaf butcher. As you can guess, this story can only have one ending.

I awoke in the library screaming at the top of my voice two words: “Roast Beef.”

I quickly gathered my books and left the library without looking at the faces of my fellow Aggies. I didn’t need to see the shocked expressions to know every student trying to study had heard my deli meat battle cry.

Read more stories of my time in college