Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. It runs weekly, on Fridays. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

December 11, 1998

So there I was, stepping down from the People’s stage after joining Dazy Head Mazy in a stirring rendition of their finale, “Not Raven,” when I asked myself, “Self, how is it that I’ve become a rock star?”

Now I realize I’m not selling out Hilton or touring the nation in a 1977 Dodge Explorer, but when I was singing the vocals and listening to the crowd go nuts, all I could think was, “Damn, I’m good.”

OK, not that good. But good enough.

If I remember right, it all started back in grade school when my best friend and I would hold talent shows in his living room and lip- sync our favorite tunes from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” He always did “Billie Jean,” while I wowed the crowd with “Wanna Be Startin’ Something.”

As I grew up, I never turned down a chance to embarrass myself in front of a large group of people. Whether it was singing “Born to Hand Jive” in our high school’s production of “Grease” or kicking ass as a budding young rap star in our variety show, I loved the spotlight regardless of my lack of musical talent.

My high school choir teacher tried to offer me a subtle hint regarding my future in singing when she kicked me out in the middle of practice and told me never to return, but I figured she was just jealous.

Once I got to college, my performances ranged from leading the masses in “Jump Around” and “Come Baby Come” at parties, to karaoke at the Fox Lounge, to serenading sorority circle alone at 3 a.m.

From the beginning, it was clear that I had the music in me, and it just wanted to get out.

At the ripe age of 19, I would sneak into People’s to join my favorite band, Iowa City’s These Days, as their diehard tambourine man.

Soon I was traveling all over Iowa just to join them on stage for a few songs, and it was then that I knew I was hooked on live music.

Then, one summer when I was hanging out in Kansas City, These Days played at People’s and asked the whereabouts of their auxiliary percussionist. When they found out I wasn’t there, they announced to the crowd that they were calling it quits.

I still feel guilty to this day.

Over the course of the next couple years, some other friends of mine started making it big in the regional music scene, and I found myself spending mug nights and weekend road trips watching Lunchbox and The Nadas perform around the midwest.

When Lunchbox found out about my rhythmic skills, they started to let me up on stage to show the love between a man and his tambourine. Soon after I started shaking my thang on stage, they broke up as well.

I was starting to sense a pattern.

So I boycotted the stage. I couldn’t stand the thought of being under those blinding lights, feeling the smothering pressure of the performance while fighting through deafening screams if it meant that my friends were destined to throw in the proverbial towel.

But then I got the clap.

Mike and Jason of The Nadas were down in Des Moines, and they asked if I wanted to help them out with percussion.

I fought through the flashbacks and eventually accepted, only to find out they didn’t have any instruments. So I was left to the most basic rhythmic device there is — clapping my hands.

It just wasn’t the same, but the band did stay together. In fact, their career was doing better than ever.

Like a rodeo cowboy remembering his true calling, I forgot the scars of the past and hopped back in the saddle again.

Soon I was facing my fears, joining my pal Paul Wright for “American Pie” and singing Barenaked Ladies with my buddy Boner, and I knew I was back in action.

So there I was, standing near the stage as the Dazy Heads began their last song, and I knew I couldn’t pass up an invitation to belt out one of my favorite tunes.

So I ran to the bar, grabbed another bottle of Bud Light, hopped up on stage and harmonized with the guys.

And life was good.

But then I remembered something a little disconcerting that had happened earlier in the year. I had taken Nikki to central campus a little before midnight to take part in an ISU tradition, but when the clock should have struck 12, all that happened was my Timex beeped once.

No bells. No kiss. No kidding.

So now I’m on a mission. I’m going to play the Campanile bells, and I’m going to do so before I graduate.

That should give me plenty of time.