After five years on campus, I think I’ve figured out Veishea.

As is true for every event in life, there are rules that must be learned. Veishea is no exception.

Each Veishea that I celebrated had many common threads that I suspect are familiar to many Iowa Staters.

The first and most common unspoken Veishea rule I will call the Law of Sudden Popularity. Every year about a week before Veishea, nearly every student seems to get a phone call from some distant friend from the past. After a couple of seconds on the phone, you realize they could care less about how you’ve been. They want a free place to stay in Ames for Veishea. See if this sounds familiar.

Ring, Ring.

You: “Hello?”

Distant Friend: “Hey, buddy! This is (insert name of old high school pal turned leech here). Long time, no see.”

You: “How have you been? Gosh, it’s been about five years, hasn’t it?”

Distant Friend: “Yeah, something like that. Say, I can’t talk real long right now, but me and some bros are coming into town this weekend, and I was wondering if we could crash at your pad.”

You: “Uh, yeah, I guess so….”

Distant Friend: “Thanks bro! I knew you wouldn’t let me down. See ya Friday!”

Click.

The second most common rule, I call Faas’ Lament (named after Daily photo editor Michael Faas, who first discovered the law).

Faas’ Lament is the fact that any Campustown establishment that normally offers a relaxing environment to hang out with friends is transformed into an uninviting, alien place that you couldn’t bribe your way into during Veishea weekend.

Say you wanted to spend your Friday afternoon in (insert your favorite Campustown bar here). Well, don’t plan on it unless you want to spend two hours standing in a line that appears to be moving backward.

And even if you do brave the lines and pay the $15 cover, you often find that your normal watering hole isn’t so normal anymore. For one, there seems to be no one around whom you recognize. And on top of that, there’s a group of drunk guys from (insert the name of any redneck small town in Iowa) who are hell-bent on “teaching you long-haired hippie college boys a thang or two about life in the real world.”

The third rule: Veishea Parade Viewing Dilemma. It doesn’t matter how early you arrive on campus for the Veishea parade, you will never, ever get the spot you want. Even if you arrive four hours early, it wouldn’t matter. Somebody would still be standing in front of you. And those highly coveted spots (namely the steps or the bleachers near Beardshear Hall) are most likely reserved for immediate family members of the university administration.

The fourth rule is called the New York City Parking Rule. This one is self explanatory. Ames and ISU have enough trouble with parking on a normal day. Throw in 50,000 people from out of town, and you have a parking nightmare.

I call the fifth rule the Law of Perceived Residency. This is somewhat similar to Faas’ Lament. No matter how hard the Veishea Committee and the university community try to shift the emphasis away from alcohol, there always seems to be a population of drunken college dropouts who migrate to Ames and roam the streets, crash the parties and pick fights.

They make Veishea less enjoyable for Ames residents and ISU students, and they would do us all a favor by just staying home.

The sixth rule is the Coronary Corollary. A Taste of Veishea is truly tasty. Cheese on a stick, Cajun shrimp on a stick, gyros (on a stick), and many other food items are available. People who otherwise wouldn’t even smell foods containing so much saturated fat seem to readily use the words, “Hey, it’s Veishea,” while they stand in line for some exotic deep-fat fried entree. Can you blame them?

The seventh rule seems to get me every year. I call it the Overestimation of Athletic Ability. There are many events that bring out the athletic worst in people over Veishea, but the mass Twister game is probably the best example. People who otherwise strain muscles while lifting the remote control to change the channel fancy themselves as Olympic caliber gymnasts when it comes to this ever-popular competition.

My old roommate passionately argued with a judge for five minutes once about whether his bottom actually touched the mat.

And the last rule that seems to hold true with every Veishea is the Law of Lawn Migration. Every college student in every part of town seems to spend hours on his or her front lawn. Sometimes (though I hear it’s illegal) even furniture makes its way outside. This law is mandatory if you live on Welch Avenue, like I do.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about being outside and watching people walk by your house and shouting things like, “Veishea!” or “Happy Veishea!” that’s a whole lot of fun.

I may be forgetting some items on my list. Surely every student has Veishea rules of his or her own, but these are the biggies that I live by. After five years, I’m glad I’ve got it all figured out.

Troy McCullough is a senior in journalism mass communication from Pleasantville. He is the editor in chief of the Daily.