This is a true story.
My dad has a different version, but he can write his own blog if he wants to tell it his way. (Hi, Dad.)
Once upon a time, my mom–an avid reader of the Beverly Review–saw an article about an event that was taking place at IMSA. That is how my mom, my dad, and I with my broken cyborg thumb in a cast wound up in Aurora, Illinois, for a mini-Madrigals performance in December 1999 (or January 2000).
For whatever reason, this Madrigals business in all its costumed hilarity spoke to me, so I filled out an application, forged my parents’ signatures (they were out of town! And it had to be postmarked by a certain day! You post-Internet cretins don’t know what trouble is.), and mailed that in (in the Real Mail). (I feel like there was also an issue with reference letters that were lost in the mail. Whatever, I’ve already graduated – no take backs!)
At some point, I had to go back to the IMSA campus for a placement exam. Keep in mind, this was on the cusp of the cell phone era (meaning that there weren’t cell phones all over the place giving everyone cancer yet). I finished the exam with a few hours to spare and figured, hey, I can find the golf course my dad is at because it’s a great idea to walk through the grass at the side of the road and cut your legs on strange branches and sharp ornamental bushes. As my dad was pulling out of the golf course, he saw me walking down the road (despite the fact that I was wearing my lucky camouflage t-shirt), picked me up, and drove me home with the strict injunction never to tell my mom that I so easily could have been put in a sack and kidnapped.
Then I went to IMSA, and now I am on the IMSA Alumni Association, and then this guy wrote a book vaguely about IMSA.
I’ll tell you how I was possibly the only IMSA student who didn’t get in to the University of Illinois (more than once, I’d like to add) another day.