Rabble-rousing was quite possibly my No. 1 hobby in college. As an aspiring journalist, I wanted to dig deeper into every story. A simple feel-good fluff piece, in my hands, could become a conspiracy being covered up from the highest authorities within the university. I was determined to write only “real” news, hard news. The fluff was for the features editor.
One of the controversies I covered involved the university inviting Ludacris to perform. I went to a Catholic university, one that was so focused on its religious mission that it refused to allow a student production of The Vagina Monologues. Yet they were willing to invite a misogynistic rapper. (Note: I have no problems with Ludacris or his music. It was the fact that their policy made no sense, turning down an educational program because it could offend, but inviting a rapper who was potentially more offensive.) So I wrote about it. And not only did I write the news article about Ludacris’s invitation to the university, I wrote the official editorial as well.
While I was researching and interviewing, I had to look up Ludacris’s lyrics. I then read the lyrics to “P-Poppin’” to a university official. I was already working in porn at that point, so I took extreme delight in reading the very dirty lyrics to the dean; I had no shame, but he wasn’t so unfazed. It was an exceptional form of entertainment.
After that issue ran, with our editor in chief’s column also blasting the university’s slightly baffling decision, Ludacris’s concert was mysteriously canceled. I forget the reason they gave, but everyone knew it had to do with our articles. To say I became unpopular that week would be understatement, but oh the fun I had in the process!