Flying the Kite, the online addition

4:09am: One foot out of this crappy town
In less than 24 hours, I will have one more month left working at Cold Stone. One more month. After two years and eight months of gainful employment at this great ice cream store, I have one more month. Wow. That’s deep. It is important to note that not once in my time at Cold Stone, in my two and a half plus years, did I take more than a full seven days off. Not once did I ditch work for unimportant pursuits. Not once did I ever steal from the store, which is, in reality, quite a thing to say. Not once did I ever receive a “little talk” like so many of my other coworkers.

To put this in perspective, I spent three birthdays with the store, which is a sixth of my life, listened to three Superbowls, seven NBA finals games, four World Series games and one NHL Finals game within those walls. I've only lived three Cold Stone free months in Littleton, Colorado. Five out of eight high school semesters took place during my stay. I broke twelve can openers, one microwave, three display signs, five ice cream spades, one ice cream pan (on my own skull, none-the-less), innumerable candy bars and several egos while working at Cold Stone. I witnessed two inspections, yet, somehow, was never actually working for one. I helped remove four workers and nearly sent several others home. I was an institution at that store, for better or worse, probably for worse. Because of me, no one quite knows just what a “like it” is supposed to look like. Because of me, three people quit and one got sent to a different store. I am the only person in Cold Stone County Line’s history to have not only one but three people request not to work with them. That’s something to be proud of.

There are so many great memories connected with Cold Stone. Most of which, my boss most likely doesn’t want to know about. I’ll let him believe that a little girl knocked over the cake book display and shattered it. I’ll let him believe that the cleaning crew busted the cosmetic covering of the microwave. I got rejected to prom at Cold Stone, went on my first date at Cold Stone, had my first beer, and then second, with a group of coworkers at my first party, which was held to see a coworker off to college, made many friends and just as many enemies. I went on a Cold Stone road trip with a coworker to visit one of the original Cold Stone workers. That’s called influence. Because of Cold Stone, I learned Joel Galli’s seven steps to finding a woman, learned how not to play poker, decided to join the military, learned how to make a marshmallow football, kiss ass to get tips and, most importantly, laugh off the things that anger, disgust or annoy me. Oh, and, when cleaning up vomit, make sure to clean the mop thoroughly before the vomit dries to it.

The job was certainly one of the only things that’s ever taught me about the world. Never make fun of women when a forty five year old feminist is standing right in front of you. She will complain. This incident later lead to “the code.” “The Code” involved the male workers comparing women to restaurants. Somehow, Applebees became the top of the hierarchy. A desirable woman would be “hey, wanna get some prime rib at Applebeas?” If, by chance, someone disagreed, they would say, “Nah, I’m more in the mood for some Wendys.” Thus, the customer, while hearing everything, suspects nothing. Foolproof.

Maybe I wasn’t the best worker, and certainly not the best boss. But you can’t knock my loyalty. Who else would put up with such low pay for such high abuse levels? Who else would do this all simply to display the respect they feel for the person that hired them, trained them and taught them a few things about life? Besides, the job was flexible. That’s why everybody that works there works there. I was the boss that nicknamed one of the newbies “Jesus F@#ker” because she was a Jehovah’s Witness. I was the boss that said “fuck cakes and fuck Dana (the bosses wife) for making them” to a group of eight newbies. I was the boss that wore a cowboy hat to work for a week just because I could. Then there's the time I helped drape a rag over one of the security cameras just to see how long it would take for someone to take it off. I've been in three peanut butter fights, four caarmel fights, one pistachio fight, two card board cake sheet fights, a gummy bear war and one shaving cream fight. And who can forget me chucking a banana at one of the newbies just for a laugh? But I learned from the best. Lonnie, my first boss, whipped me with a banana, leaving welts on my arm, for leaving a couple of banana bottoms on the floor. He set off fireworks in the alley, which, might I add, is totally concrete, nearly hitting the store. He toked up behind the store every day and blatantly hit on not only customers, but underage coworkers. I miss him. Not really. He used to whoop up on me. Not hard, or anything. He was scary. But, deep down, a good guy just looking for a few laughs.

One of the biggest lessons Cold Stone taught me is that people will use you if you let them. For a while, a short while, might I add, I was known for giving out discounted ice cream. Greatly discounted ice cream. I made a lot of “friends” in a short time span. Never in my life had so many casual acquaintances decided to grace the store with their presence. It became very apparent very quickly that these people were merely nice to me for cheap ice cream. When the flow slowed, while not completely, but greatly, so did the influx of new friends. Even to this day, there are still those who come in expecting a free ride. They aren’t too happy to hear that the “Franklin Train” has stopped running and since been dismantled and sold for scrap. Until just the other day, a couple of these frozen delicacy “squatters” were still fooling me into thinking they were close friends. The second they started having to reach for their purses, they stopped showing up at Cold Stone. In fact, they cut off contact. Sad, I guess. One of these girls, I realized, had gone so far as to con a date out of me, which she later canceled twice for reasons unknown. I haven’t seen or heard from this ice cream siren in nearly a month, which, oddly enough, coincides with the first time I charged her with not full price, but close to it.

I will miss the job, but not really. I’ve met so many people through Cold Stone, have so many memories, it’s hard not to feel a little depressed at the prospect of leaving. Two and a half years with no significant breaks and then, as if by magic, no more. Oh well. It’s a sign of the sudden change that will hit my life on November 8. A sudden, shocking, exhilarating change that will determine the rest of my life. I can’t wait, and, at the same time, am ready to shit my pants out of fear. But what a ride it will be. I would like to thank all of the people that I met and changed my life at Cold Stone. Especially Paul Webber, the man that taught me a lot more about politics than ice cream and more about the military than my own recruiter. Thank you for the opportunities and, of course, the money, all of which I squandered away on useless crap I didn’t actually need. Thus ends my long goodbye to one of the few places I actually connected to in Littleton. One more thing to miss in boot camp. One more thing to grow out of.

4:58am: My scientific study of the female
It has occurred to me that teenage girls are freakin’ nuts. This isn’t a longass rant on women and my lack of a social life. That can wait for later days. This is more a questioning members of the opposite sex between the ages of 14 and 17. This is a scientific study of this particular demographic.

I say it is scientific because it is backed with years of observation done in the field, hours of extensive research and a great attention to detail. I have left many stones left unturned, but this is a tricky subject matter in which many stones should remain left alone. I know the value of my testicles and wish to avoid having them attacked by a rogue knee. I have studied this demographic for nearly three years in the setting of an ice cream shop, four years in the setting of a public high school and, most importantly, four years in the setting of a common dwelling. My research includes first hand sightings of females in a variety of situations with a variety of outcomes. They include interactions with parents, other adult members of the community, males of their own age, other females of their own age and animals. My research includes being rejected by several females in this demographic, being toyed with, mislead and openly lied to. It includes first hand accounts of girl on girl fist fighting, lies and deception. I have produced an independent expose on why females of this demographic are the way they are. I hope you find it educational and entertaining. It was a bumpy ride putting together this information.

My first observation of the demographic in question, shall we call them “X” for simplification, is that they appear to be solely dependent on a little electrical device commonly known as a cell phone. Their almost habitual use of this device could be described as an addiction and debilitating. Use of this device is generally followed by cliquish consultations with other members of X. The device, kept in hand at all times, substitutes for actual interaction with members of the community and other members of their own age group. The threat of removal of this device causes the female to react similarly to a mother bear protecting her cubs. Tactics used to defend the device include guilt tripping (reserved for the subject to use on parents, claiming that they are taking away her connection to her friends), name calling (when guilt tripping doesn’t work, the subject will resort to calling the threat uncool or lame) and, lastly, crocodile tears (a tactic used in many situations for a variety of purposes, including obtaining currency from males, avoiding altercations with the police, avoiding altercations with teachers and basically getting the female out of any situation at any time). The cell phone has taken this demographic by the throat and has created a state of dependancy.

My next observation centers around the members of X and their treatment of the males of their same age. Males are treated as objects to be possessed and fought over. The members of X seem to have no use for males other than for financial gain, feelings of self worth and for amusement. X uses the male of the species to maintain the hierarchy. Members of X feel the need to establish themselves by obtaining the most sought after male and lording him over the others. The stereotype is of the male using the female for this same exact purpose. The problem with this stereotype is this: the male of the species has a limited cranial capacity, making it incapable of consciously seeking out a hierarchy through the degradation and objectification of the opposite sex. The task of setting up and maintaining a hierarchy is the sole job and responsibility of the female. Males can also be used to amuse the females. X understands that males are simple creatures, thus, they use complex requests and signals to confuse the males. Signals that would appear blatant and obvious are often masked by conflicting signals, confusing the male and causing a state of paranoia and often is demoralizing. This state of fear is the goal of every member of X. Males, driven by nature, desire to be with females. This desire is often mistaken for lust or even the need to possess. These are misunderstood characteristics. The male simply desires companionship from the fairer sex. Males wish for nothing more than simplicity and ease which females take advantage of for their own gain.

What is most fascinating, however, is the interaction between one female and another in X. Females treat each other as competitors first, enemies second, prey third. Friendship, while feigned, doesn’t appear to exist amongst the females. The males of the species, while competitive, are also very capable of making and maintaining a base friendship, even while maintaining the competition. Females, however, form vicious competing groups similar to the gangs seen in Compton or Harlem. Even amongst these groups, trust is limited and often taken advantage of. They fight using guerilla war tactics including spreading rumors, verbal attacks as well as, occasionally, physical altercations and the use of extreme force. Directly witnessed occurrences of this behavior include rumors of sexual experience, specific campaigns against individuals for the crime of “stealing” a prized male, theft of valuables and even, in one extreme case, the physical assault of a female for “not respecting” another female’s territory. The object is to maim both the psyche and the ego, creating a sense of inferiority in the enemy. This fight mentality is masked by a thin layer of civility. The most perplexing aspect of the fighting is the perception of society that males are more prone to violence and “bullying” tactics. Females are far more aggressive. It is because of this misinterpretation that the males are so confused by the females.

My findings lead me to the conclusion that females between the ages of 14 and 17 are so aggressive, catty, manipulative and deceptive because they are confused by themselves. The males display their emotions readily, but the females hide what they feel, afraid of social repercussions. They hide themselves so thoroughly in layers of fraudulence that, eventually, any feeling of self is lost in the lie of the identity they have taken over as themselves. Thus, females should stop jerking the males around and start fixing their own damn problems. Males should not be seen or treated as the playtoy used to make the females feel better about their problems. I hope you found this educational and informative. I know I didn't.

3:55am: HELP ME CHOOSE!!
Just a warning: this is basically me soul searching. It isn't all that funny, not that it matters. Not too many people are reading it, anyway. No one, possibly. It's kinda deep. As deep as I go, I guess. Thank you for those of you who will actually read it.

How does a person measure what they’ve accomplished in life? What, in the end, does a person grasp on to as their importance in this world? Is there some sort of formula? Good deeds subtracted by bad deeds divided by time squared? It seems to me that, in the end, these are the questions we all want answered. We all want to know what really, truly, matters. Some know, or, think they know. Others of us, myself included, have no idea what to do.

Recently, I’ve had lots of time to think about what it is that I’m going to be doing for the rest of my life. That’s the bad part about having so much time to live with your decisions. You end up doubting them. There are lots of things I should have chosen. Some days, I think that, when all is said and done, I won’t be but a mere grain of sand in the grand scheme of things. I’ll be the one on the side of history, behind the important people, taking their picture. I’ll be the one sitting back and recording what the actual people, the real people, do.

But what about being a doctor? Doctors have an easy job of measuring the good they’ve done. How many people have they saved? They can answer that. Or, maybe, it’s such a large number, they can’t. Doctors get to see directly the fruit of their labor. There is no doubt the importance doctors play in our world. It is such a simple job. Take something complex and fix it. Make the heart keep pumping, the brain keep thinking, the lungs keep puffing. Keep the patient alive. Unless, of course, the patient is DNR. I’ve seen way too many episodes of “ER.” There is good in being a doctor. Honor. Dignity. Importance. Challenge. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe I should be a doctor. Maybe that’s the job for me. Sure, I failed most of my science classes. But I loved bio, dissecting the pig. Or Zoology and learning the workings of the biologic world. And look at Michael Crichton. He started off as a doctor.

Lawyers, DA’s, cops, detectives, can all measure their success. Number of bad guys put away and good guys saved. Lawyers can say “I’ve saved hundreds of innocent men from being put in jail.” DA’s can say “I’ve put hundreds of bad people away in jail.” It’s another simple job with complex undertones. Black and white. Cut and dry. The basic intent of the criminal justice system in its most pure state is not complex. Good people stay safe. Bad people are either turned into good people or removed from society. Sure, there are several legal quandaries. Several questions left unanswered. Several issues that can’t be answered simply. But, still, the basic job provides the opportunity to make a positive impact on the world in which we live. I could be a lawyer. I enjoy arguing with people. I may not be very good at it, but I enjoy it none-the-less. I enjoy pondering the perplexities of America’s justice system. I enjoy analyzing and solving problems. And John Grisham was a lawyer. He still wrote and practiced law. It’s in my genes, too.

Teachers know how they succeed, I would assume. Teachers have a direct impact on the world. While unsung, and often unrewarded, teachers provide the basic foundation upon which our country functions. The education system is directly responsible for producing informed, moral, competent individuals into society. A difficult task, yes. Difficult as it may be, it is in this difficulty that teachers find their greatest reward. Turning even one student into a competent member of society is the reward. Having the direct ability to show students what the world is made of, how our country forms, what the great writers have to show us, this is the power. How many people can empower hundreds of young people per day. How many people can positively impact the next generation directly? It doesn’t matter if the rest of the country recognizes it but, behind every great human being, behind every success, is a teacher, or even several teachers. Teachers influence the students they work with in a profound way. They show them that knowledge will save them from the demons of this world. That the greatest weapon in the modern world is a strong education. I could teach. I’m not patient, but that can be worked on. Besides, I’ve disagreed with enough teachers, admired enough teachers and respected enough teachers to know what kind of teacher gets through to their students and what kind of teacher alienates their students. And Stephen King was a teacher while fleshing out his writing career.

What about politics? The purest and most direct way of implementing change in America. Politicians have the ability to make swift and instantaneous decisions that impact the entire country, world. Sure, there’s lots of red tape and the process is mired in corruption and greed. But that’s why people who actually care about the country should want to become politicians. Fix the system from the inside out. Change the world by fixing what’s causing the world its problems in the first place. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the US government is responsible for all the problems. Merely that government in general seems to be directly or indirectly responsible for a lot of the problems facing the world. Good people can help try to fix that. I could be a politician, or, at least, involved in politics on some way. Run a campaign. Advise a political leader. Serve as a clerk or work in public relations. You know, make an influence, help. I remember Mr. Collins’ Western Civ class, learning about the ancient Greeks and wanting that. Wanting to be a part of that. Wanting to be in the amphitheater, pointing an entire nation in one direction or another. How much power they must have felt. Uncharted territory. I could be a part of that. I could be a part of America’s great forum. Represent my peers. Or serve a representative of my peers. It gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.

What about being a journalist? How do journalists measure their lives? In the modern world, journalists aren’t trusted anymore. Geraldo Rivera is a skeeze. Bill O’reilly a phony. There is no fair, objective reporting anymore. Every journalist has some sort of agenda. They don’t want to report the news, anymore. It’s depressing. The main goal of journalism is to let the people know what is actually going on in their community, their city, their county, their state, their country and the world, not in that order. It is not to serve as a tool used to attack specific people or political organizations or parties. The goal is not to make George W. Bush look stupid or to make John Kerry look like a tool. They do that on their own without the media trying to help. The modern journalist is more interested in progressing his or her own career than informing the people on the happening of their surroundings. Since when has opinionated news reporting been acceptable? Journalists aren’t allowed to take sides. Now, though, journalists aren’t just taking sides, they’re defining what the sides are and which side is right or wrong. The only true journalist is one who’s opinions of politics are impossible to register through an analysis of their work. Personal beliefs should not be ascertainable through a brief glance through a reporter’s portfolio. There should be no right or wrong in journalism. There should only be fact. Analysis is fine. Attack is not analysis. I could be a journalist only because I refuse to pick sides, anymore. Both sides are equally wrong and equally right. I refuse to say “abortion is immoral” or “Democrats patronize their constituents and create a system of dependancy.” That’s not up to me. That’s up to the people. I would give them the facts objectively, not trying to lead them to a conclusion. Writing is fine and dandy. I still want to be a writer. I still want to let the world know what’s going on. I can do that without being a journalist. In fact, I couldn’t do that if I were a journalist. A writer, yes. A writer of book length non-fiction. A contributor of trade magazines, yes. Working as a newspaper journalist will not provide me with the same options. It will only limit my ability to influence the world because journalists aren’t intended to fix, merely inform.

I want to save lives. I want to protect the weak and fight off the powerful. I want to influence, move the country, the world, the universe. I want to mold the youth. I want to say, at the end of my life, that I succeeded. There are only a few ways to do this. There are only a few professions with enough honor in them. The problem is, amongst these few professions, which is best for me? Which can I make the biggest impact? Which will bring me the most satisfaction? How do I go about fixing the world? Can one man fix it? Is it worth fixing? How does one answer these questions? I’m not sure if what I want is possible. I’m not sure if doing all of this is plausible. I will die having failed merely because my expectations for success are impossible to achieve. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. What is a life lived in mediocrity but a wasted life?

3:17am: Published, kinda
Oh, and check out a copy of the Denver Post's editorial section for August, 24. If you look closely enough in the letters section, you might just find me. Granted, they cut some stuff out of my letter, but who cares. At least now, some actual real people might casually glance over my writing. You see, right now, I'm writing to my one true fan: myself. I haven't had a comment in like a month. What's up with that? Oh well. It's healthy to talk to yourself. Writing to yourself, not so healthy.

3:12am: Why I failed at school and school fails for students (longass rant)
Having recently become a high school graduate, I have realized some things about school that previously eluded me. There are some grim realities about our public education system that I would like to expose today. You may not like what I have to say or agree with it, but I experienced it all first hand. You may not want to see what really exists, but you can’t deny the facts.

Fact number one: in four years of high school, I never read a single book when it was assigned. Yeah, sure, I read hundreds of books, some of which were required for certain classes, but never the right book at the right time. “Catcher in the Rye,” one of my favorite books of all time, I read in eighth grade and several times after. But not once did I read that book during my junior year of high school, which is when it is required. I didn’t even bust open the book to read a few pages. Yet, still, somehow, I managed to pull, forgive the aphorism, shit out of my ass. And the school ate it. I never read “the Iliad,” not once, yet somehow managed to have in-depth discussions about the epic everyday without getting caught. “Bless Me Ultima” I read the first chapter and basically used that to summarize the entire book. I didn’t read any farther.

I’m not entirely sure why I never read a book when it was assigned. I have nothing against reading by any means. Maybe it is some sort of forced independence, subconscious. Or maybe it was laziness. Who knows. No matter how trivial the book, how simple or benign, I never did the reading. I would try. Pick up the book, turn a few pages and end up reading an old copy of Steinbeck or Stephen King or National Geographic or Mad Magazine. I think a lot of it is due to the fact that the mandatory reading lists at any public high schools lack good books. The problem is that schools don’t get the point of literature. They don’t understand. Books aren’t written to be overanalyzed by overzealous and often well meaning but misinformed teachers. You don’t need to teach Hemingway. Yes, he’s a good writer, but there is nothing to teach. My philosophy: the best books are the ones that you can read and not have to analyze to understand. “Grapes of Wrath” is a blatant book. Beautifully written, yes, but obvious in its story. Similarly, “Catcher in the Rye” succeeds so well because it requires no teaching. Readers, especially high school aged, get the book. They understand inherently. The best literature is felt, not learned. Anything that is an acquired taste is no good at all. Fine literature is no different. If you don’t like Faulkner, you don’t like him. Force-feeding him down unwilling throats is doing Faulkner and the students a disservice.

Fact number dos: there are too many students for teachers to keep track of. It is far too easy to get away with doing nothing. Here is my secret to surviving in-class discussions about literature I didn’t read. Teachers grade on class participation. Thus, students want to get their points early and not have to talk later. Teachers always ask plot related questions to start the discussion. The students who were too lazy to analyze the plot but read the required pages none-the-less will answer basic plot questions first, so as to avoid having to think the rest of the period. As they answer these questions, the story unfolds before me and I then tell the students what the story is actually about, or, tell them what the teacher will tell them the story is about. The only person who knows exactly what the story is about is the writer of the story. Also, teachers appreciate “unique” interpretations of literature. Because of this, my shit smells like roses not matter what. Genius? No. Common sense and years of practice. Because there are thirty students in a class, all I have to do is talk three or four times, mostly existential bullshit that I don’t believe and neither does anybody else, and the teacher will never know. I don’t even have to specifically mention anything in the book, but can talk about the nature of man, which is what most stories are about anyways.

Essays are the same. How is it that I got a B on an essay about a book I didn’t read? Simple. The teacher has hundreds of essays to read. Also, because I’ve “proven” through in class participation to know what the book is about, teachers usually don’t read over my writing too closely. And, because they assume, for whatever reason they might have, that I’m a good writer, which isn’t all that true. I’m a good bullshit artist. Nothing less, nothing more. My writing for newspaper is different because it is motivated by a desire to express my actual opinion, in general. Essays, however, are different because my opinion about most of the books we were supposed to read is generally “I’ve read better.” Teachers don’t want to hear this. They want to hear “Holden’s adventure through New York is the catalyst for his journey to becoming a man.” Bullshit? Yes. B- work? On who’s grading scale? Heritage High School’s. Sad.

Fact three: every essay I wrote in my four years of high school was written at most forty eight hours before it was due. The average essay was written the day it was due. Every independent study was written the day of, every hundred point Western Civ paper, every character study, the day it was due. Once, I busted out a six page paper the period before it was due. Not only did it get an A, it got a green smiley face. This says nothing about my skill as a writer, which is what my dad told me when I showed him the paper. He knows just as well as I do that most of the essays I wrote were crap and that I shouldn’t have passed a single English class in my four years of high school. He didn’t read the paper, but, if he had, he would have been appalled. It was riddled with made up information, unsupported claims and bogus analysis. It was bullshit at its finest. Some would say “well, that’s school for you.” What, having teachers so overwhelmed, they don’t even take time to glance over my essays? Hey, at the time, it was great. Minimal effort, maximum return. Now, looking back, I’m sickened not only that I took advantage of the system, but that the system was so flawed in the first place. It is debilitating.

Fact number FOUR: I never once opened up a social studies related text book. Well, except for my AP Econ book, but that didn’t do me any good, anyways. In four years, my social studies teachers (with one exception, but he doesn’t count) praised me. They seemed to be under the impression that I read every night. Sadly, though, my entire social studies education came from either watching the news, reading the paper or from movies and the History channel. I did learn while in class, but never outside by doing the desired book work. How is it that I managed to fool these teachers, most of which I admired and respected? Because the bar was so low, a tiny little hop exceeded it. Knowing the first president was good enough. Knowing the event that pushed America into WWII was worthy of an A. Every poor sap who watched the movie “Pearl Harbor” had more American History knowledge than needed to succeed in life, it seems. I don’t blame the teachers on this one, but the students. Basic knowledge of their own heritage shouldn’t have been a class, but a prerequisite for adulthood. I can understand not knowing the 19th amendment, but not knowing the First Amendment, or the basic gist of the Bill of Rights or even what the Bill of Rights is, that’s just inexcusable. Teachers have no option but to lower the bar. My favorite teachers, with one exception, were always social studies teachers, but that changes nothing.

Fact number cinq: I got into college with a 2.4 GPA. Few may know this, but I actually did get accepted into the University of Missouri and could have gone. My decision not to go was partially based on the sad fact that I only got in because of a quasi-decent ACT score. My GPA of 2.4 did not matter at all in their decision. If students with 2.4 GPA’s can get into college just as easily as students with 3.4's, what is the motivation to do better? It’s not as if 3.4 is scholarship worthy. It serves no purpose. I did the bare minimum. Why would I desire to do any better when the bare minimum to stay in school gets me into a pretty good college?

As you may have noticed, most of my complaints have nothing to do with the science and math areas of education. That is because I never found the loopholes to those subjects and failed at them miserably.

For the students reading this, don’t do what I did. Not because it doesn’t work. It works like a charm. I’m living proof of that. Do the work because then more options open up and you won’t feel guilty taking the easy options. You’ll have earned them. I didn’t earn college. I will, though. I’ll make sure of that. For the teachers reading this, buck up. This isn’t an attack on teachers, in general, but on the basic format of public education. It should be harder to do less. It should be easier to do more. Do the right thing, whoever you are. That’s all that matters in the end. A diploma earned through deception isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Or, should I say, a diploma earned through deception isn’t worth the paper on which it is printed? Did I actually learn anything? I was smart enough to take advantage of the system but not smart enough to succeed in it. And that’s the saddest FACT of all.

2:20am: Note on entry entitled "Save Me"
In the entry before last, entitled Save Me, I sated that I had just vomited my breakfast. I don't mean I intentionally threw up my breakfast. What I meant was that my breakfast and my five mile jog didn't quite agree with each other and, well, you get the picture. I don't need help with an eating disorder. Don't worry.

2:06am: And back to the story
This is a continuation of my story about Caleb Isaac Taylor, the odd boy. Again, comments are welcome. And, yes, this is almost word for word a conversation I once had with a minister, only under slightly different circumstances. Just so you know.



“We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.”
~Jonathan Swift



“I’m glad, my son, that you’ve decided to end your little spurt of unjustified rebellion,” the pastor said as I followed him passed the pews and to his personal office.

The church slowly emptied out as people headed off to enjoy the remaining hours of the unbearably hot summer day. The pastor opened the door to his backstage office to reveal a sizable room, mahogany everything, as if a status symbol. Bookshelves full of books that the pastor had probably never read. A desk that looked used, but I wondered if it had ever really been used too hard. The pastor sat in a plush, oversized leather chair that was very out of place in the very brown office.

“Actually, Pastor, I’m just here so I don’t end up pissing my mom off. I’m still as agnostic as ever.”

The pastor frowned. He leaned forward and leaned his head on his hands, elbows on the desk, trying desperately not to look stupid. The entire affect was that of an idiot trying to mask his idiocy with more foolish tactics.

“Tell me about that.”

“About what?”

“Your anger toward Christ. Tell me why you hate good. Why is it that you enjoy chaos and death?” the man asked, as if he were required to.

“I don’t hate good. I don’t want chaos or death. What does being agnostic have anything to do with hating good or wanting death and chaos?” I asked.

He leaned back in his stupid leather chair, putting his index fingers together and to his lips, as if praying. He stared off into space contemplatively, although what he had to contemplate is beyond me. It was a simple question that deserved a simple answer.

“Christ is good. Christ brings peace. Not believing in Christ is like saying that you believe in bedlam and destruction. Do you believe in bedlam and destruction?” he asked, expecting a “no, I guess not.”

“In the existence of bedlam and destruction? Have you taken a look around you, Mr. Preacher Man? We’re surrounded by destruction in this very town. Look at the mill. You wanna ask anybody who’s life depended on that mill if there’s destruction in this world? If they say yes, does that make them a bad Christian?”

“Yes, but that’s the work of Satan. You see, with Christianity, you get an explanation to the evil in our world.”

“The mill failed because the work could be done cheaper elsewhere. Satan ain’t good enough. He’s just the Christian crutch. Something goes wrong, it must be Satan.”

“Christians don’t believe that chaos rules the world. You do.”

“Don’t proclaim to know or even understand what it is that I do or don’t believe. You have no idea. And chaos doesn’t rule our lives but is merely a component in them as is death, humor, mango juice, cow towns and broken hearts.”

“Then everything’s just random? Where did it all come from?”

“Where did God come from? Huh? Did he just appear some day, up in the big black nothingness?”

“God is eternal. He does exist, he did exist and he always will and always has existed.”

“Likewise, bud. What put it all together, I don’t know. Big Bang, God, Allah, Buddha (fat chance, ha ha), Michael Jordan or Santa Clause, whatever happened, I don’t know. You can’t prove it, nobody can.”

“It’s about faith.”

“Of course it is. It has to be. I just don’t have much.”

“So, if you’d never seen the ocean, would you disbelieve in its existence?”

“Flawed analogy.”

“Really?”

“I’ve seen pictures. People have been to the ocean and back. Everyone can agree it exists because both science and religion have corresponded and agreed that it is, in fact, there. God, though, God’s not there. At least, he’s not something that a person can see and report back to the rest of us. It’s not as if Aunt Maud took a vacation to Heaven and came back with cheap shirts for everyone saying ‘I died and all I got my family was this stupid t-shirt.’”

“Faith’s not about concrete evidence. That’s why they call it faith.”

“Then what’s it all about? What gives someone faith in one thing and another person faith in
another thing? If being agnostic’s wrong then isn’t being a jew just as wrong? Are you some sort of Midwest Hitler?”

This threw him off his case. I knew it would. Calling someone Hitler get’s them defensive. It’s overused, the reference. It’s not as though Hitler was the only bad person to ever live. Nobody ever compares another person to Atilla the Hun, though. I guess he’s just not bad enough.

“I’m no Hitler, Caleb, and you know it. Jews have faith in God. So do Muslims and Hindus.”

“So anyone who believes in God is good and anyone who doesn’t is bad. What about Buddhists? Are they bad, too?”

“But they believe in hope. They have faith in something.”

“And I don’t?”

“What do you have hope in if it’s not God?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I have hope in the will of this community. I have faith in the ability of the human spirit to overcome obstacles put forth by random elements, be it God or other. I have faith in myself and in my father. I have faith, but it ain’t in God.”

The pastor stood and picked up a brand new copy of the Bible off the top shelf of his book case. He sat and began to read, stalling. I knew he was stalling, I knew he wasn’t reading or searching a specific passage because he wasn’t wearing his glasses and I knew for a fact that he couldn’t read a word without his glasses. He read for about three minutes, not looking over at me.

I sat in silence, hands in my lap, resisting the urge to pant, daydreaming again. Brittany Olson in a bathing suit doing bio homework with me, Superman, Clark Kent, that kid from that one show, what’s his name, flaming hay stacks, scarecrows attacking villagers, God smiling, white as always, Jesus with blonde hair and blue eyes. What a joke. What a fake. What a waste of my time. Yet, I stayed. The sweat began to build on the pastor’s brow as he tried desperately to collect his vary few thoughts and form some sort of response. A painting, medieval look and feel but clearly relatively modern, hung behind the pastor. Jesus with his crown of thorns, almost pale, blonde hair, blue eyes, smiling as blood dripped down his forehead.

“And, by the way, why’s Jesus white if he was born in Jerusalem. Wouldn’t that make him look more Arabian?”

Finally, propelled by God, or maybe just his own stupidity, he responded.

“I feel sorry for you, not able to accept the grace of God. I feel sorry for you not being able to feel the greatest love of all.”

“That’s it? That’s all you got? You sure you don’t want to throw some sort of proverb at me? Sure there ain’t nothing in that big book that will make me change my mind? You just don’t seem to get it. This isn’t some sort of teenage rebellion thing. This is real true disbelief in God.”

“You know, all this hooliganism is really upsetting your mother. She spoke with me earlier this year in depth about how your beliefs are affecting your brother and sister, turning them against God, and ruining her good standing in the community.”

“Oh please, bud. You leave my mother out of this. Besides, if anyone has Satan in ‘em, it’s her.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to comply?”

“I already knew this was the hard road. Christianity’s the easy way out. Kids at school beat me up, call me a Satanist, write stuff on my truck and that’s not even the worst of it. In fact, at least then, they’re talking to me. The worst is going a full day without a single peer saying a word to me. Your Christianity, so accepting, hasn’t made room for some poor kid at the lunch tables at school.

“The teachers, the people supposedly looking out for me, they treat me like some sort of freak. They skirt around me in class, scared that I’m gonna start spitting venom or white supremacist crap for some reason. I’m no white supremacist just because I’m not the world’s biggest fan of God. That’s lunacy. The adults in this town think I’m gonna go crazy and start killing people. They don’t know me or anything about me. Where’s the hope in that? Where’s the good in that?”

Again, he went back to the text, turning pages randomly, looking for something, or so it would seem. Again, I sat patiently waiting. He now looked visibly shaken. He had failed his mission. Conversion, something seemingly so simple, like a shot, wasn’t quite as easy as he had hoped. I wasn’t gonna just let him tell me to be a good little boy and start believing in God to save my soul, or to save my mom some heartache. When he didn’t talk, I talked.

“But don’t you start thinking I feel sorry for myself. I’m not asking for them to be nice. It don’t make no difference. I knew what would happen and accept the consequences of my decisions. Tolerance, while hunky dory, ain’t necessary. I can handle it. My family, well, they shouldn’t have to, but I can’t help the way I am.”

“You’re really not making this very easy,” he said, an accusation.

“Excuse me? Were you under the impression that I came back here with you to willingly convert? Oh no. I’m here so my mom’ll get off my ass about this whole religion thing for a few days. It’s not my job to make this easy for you. Besides, you’re making this very easy for me. Maybe if they’d of recruited someone with half a brain. Shit, you’re just some pompous wannabe enlightened one who can’t even make a half-witted argument for the religion that you teach for a living. In fact, this is too easy. I think we’re done here.”

He scoffed, sitting up quickly in his plush chair. The look on his face, boy. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to jump over the desk and strangle me or go cry in the corner. He decided to restrain himself and pretend to take it as a rebel being rebellious. I stood, pushed the chair away a little too hard, breathing a little too fast and turned. He said nothing as I pulled the door open harshly and walked out into the silent church, ready for a whooping that night when word got out. I just hoped the jackasses from school found out first, that way maybe Mom’d go easy.

10:25am: SAVE ME!!!!
Last night, at the movie theater, a couple of girls saw me sitting by myself (don’t worry, I see hundreds of movies alone) and invited me to sit with them. I was so foreign to human contact, I had no idea how to interact. Normally, I would have at least gotten their numbers at the end of the movie. I felt so awkward, though, that I ended up bolting as soon as the credits started, leaving them to ponder who the hell I was and why the hell I was so antisocial.

I’m tired. It doesn’t help that I stayed up until, well, all night. It doesn’t help that this is my first day off in a week and I just vomited up my breakfast (sorry, had to be said) or that I just ran five miles. But none of that can explain away my tiredness. School’s starting soon. For most, that means getting back to their lives and getting back to having a reason to be up before, well, four in the afternoon. For me, that just means reaffirming that I have no purpose in life right now. It just reminds me that everyone else is getting back to life while I am stuck in suspended animation for the next three months of my life.

It used to be that the end of summer represented a change for the negative. It used to be that I would want nothing more than to lounge around for days at a time. Now, though, it just feels like all I ever want to be doing is something other than what I’m already doing at the time. No matter what, I don’t feel like there’s much purpose in my life. I’m not a student. I’m not really working at an important job. I don’t hang out that much. My only job is to wait. I don’t want to wait anymore. Why can’t I just get started with the rest of my life like everybody else? ARGH! So damn frustrating. For the first time in my life that I can remember, there’s no real pattern or schedule. There’s no structure anymore. No school to force me up in the morning. No sports or extracurricular activities to occupy my free time. There’s just sitting around and waiting.

Don’t get the wrong impression, though. I’m not depressed, just bored and unimportant. Even with my parents, it seems as if no one really knows what to make of my predicament. Girls don’t want anything to do with me for two reasons. Firstly because I sleep on my mom’s couch half the time. Secondly, because what’s the point? I’ll be leaving soon, anyway. All my friends are too busy with their lives right now to make time for me. Or they’re off at college, which probably hurts the most. I’m supposed to be with them, partying it up, living the life. Instead, I’m stuck in Dullsville, CO, where, if I want to spend time with someone, they have to “pencil me in” or tell me that they’ll call me and then, two weeks later, there’s still no call. I NEED MEANINGFUL HUMAN CONTACT!!!

It’s actually a good day, today, though. You probably can’t tell from this downer of an entry. My workout is going well. I actually have some muscle now. Not much, but enough to notice. I have money. I have time on my hands to write, something I never use to have. It’s good, some of the time. And then, I get to thinking about all the students out there having honest to goodness conversations with each other and get jealous. Somebody, for Christ’s sake, please call me, have lunch with me, stop by and visit me at Coldstone. Yeah, I sound desperate. Yeah, I am desperate. Just help a bored, ignored brother out. Help me learn how to talk again.

4:07pm: Daydream in Church
For those few of you still reading, this is a continuation of the previous entry. Hell, who'm I kidding. I'm the only one still reading. Meh.




“Doubt is part of all religion. All the religious thinkers were doubters.”
~Isaac Bashevis




Church in Clarksville was a religious event in the sense that everyone went every Sunday. If you didn’t go to Church, you were either the Jacobs family (Jews) or you were a dirty, despicable rebel. Seeing as I wasn’t Jewish, that made me a dirty, despicable rebel. Cool, right? Not really. Me showing up to Church after a one year absence caused a flutter of gossip. Small town, big gossip.

“Is that the Taylor kid? The one who worships Satan?” one person would whisper.

“No no no, he’s a Muslim, remember? He joined the Arabs,” another would respond.

This was how it was. But, again, you learn to take it. It just becomes second nature to walk by as they point, as the children snicker, as the elders scowl. I was so used to it after a year, that school bullies stopped even caring, that my peers actually began to, not accept, but, at least, tolerate, my “condition.” I could even call a few of them my friends. A very few, but a few is better than none.

The Church, a nondenominational affair, was built in the traditional small town way. It was a tall, white building with a large steeple with the cross sticking up offensively into the sky. It looked almost New England small towny. It looked like a building that didn’t want me. The front lawn of the Church, much like the front lawn of every house in the town, was red dirt.

Several people milled about the dirt encased by a white picket fence. They were all wearing, with very few exceptions, the tatters caused by the loss of the mill. Very few wore pressed three piece suits. Few wore new Sunday dresses. The children played tag or pushed each other innocently, as children do. But they did so in tattered clothes handed down from Goodwill or, for the more unfortunate, older siblings. The teenagers stood about toward the back of the crowd, some trying too hard to look too cool, others just bored and tired.

“Is that, could it be? Do mine eyes deceive me or has Caleb Taylor graced us, those beneath him, with his presence?” Charles Bell, the All American in every way, called out from the center of a gaggle of adoring fans.

“Hi, Chuck. Nice day for God, isn’t it?” I said. Bored with me, he turned back to his adoring fans, most of which were female.

I took my place at the far reaches of the teen group, alone, arms crossed. I didn’t want to look as though they forced me to the back so I turned away and looked out over the bleak plains behind the Church. I leaned on a post and tried my best to imitate James Dean. It didn’t work. Nobody saw through it. I was the outcast once again. But I didn’t mind. The Church bells began to ring and the assortment of sinners filed into the dirty white building, ready for another waste of three hours of their lives.

My family, a normal, average, typical etc. family, took its place in the middle of the pews, in the middle of the church, surrounding ourselves with other normal, non-rebellious families. The pastor, a small man in many ways, young and already balding, took his place at the podium. As the Church slowly filled in, I noticed several furtive glances in my direction, as if an impure being had dared disgrace the Church. Even Pastor Frederick seemed to glance my way once or twice. He seemed to perk up when he saw me.

“Please, take your seats. We have an exciting sermon today on Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. You won’t want to miss this,” he said, almost giddy.

The people didn’t appear to be too worried about missing such a wonderful sermon. In fact, as is typical with any church, most began to ignore the pastor as soon as he began to speak. The sermon started without any hesitation despite most people still making their way into their seats. I began to daydream as the pastor droned on and on. I dreamt of my alter ego, the cool, beautiful, smooth James Colewell, named aptly after the most famous rebel of all times: James Dean.

James Colewell revved his ‘67 Mustang Convertible. It was no use. No one could hear him. But it did make him feel like a man. Only men drove Mustangs, he thought. Not a car passed him down the street. No cars even sat in the driveways. It was Sunday. All the cars, minus the cars on blocks, were parked down at the church. All but his. He sped up, going fifty, passing empty box houses, spinning up dirt.

The air-conditioning didn’t work anymore in his Mustang, but he had the top down anyway. His long, curly locks, some even said girly locks, waved in the wind behind him.

“I’m king of the world!” he shouted as he zoomed by the empty houses and onto vacant Main Street, the hub of Clarksville, not that the tiny Oklahoma town had much of a wheel to need a hub.

Heat waves floated off the road, shimmering and then disappearing as if even the heat waves couldn’t take the heat. The sun beat down on James’ neck, but he was too preoccupied claiming the town as his own to care. He hit the end of the street, just half a mile from the start, at the old paper mill. The mill sat in ruins, grey steel and broken glass, boarded doors and broken dreams. Half the town once worked at the mill. Nobody worked their now. Nobody even wanted to look at it anymore. Not with jobs in the can and money nonexistent.

James stopped to look. His dad worked at the mill two years earlier. He’d worked there for nearly twenty years. James himself worked at the mill the summer before it closed. He didn’t want to remember that job. Not after what it did to his dad. Not after that.

The town clock chimed ten. Church was in session. James stepped out of his car, looked to see if any stragglers on their way to church were watching, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took a slow drag, leaning on his Mustang and picturing James Dean instead. A stray dog strolled across Main and James spat into the dirt, watching the spit seep into the ever-present dust. He kicked a rock, hopped back into his car, and smiled. God was watching, he hoped, and frowning down upon him.

The breeze from the west did little to ease the heat. It felt as if the heat was being pushed into the body, pulled into the heart, slowing it down and boiling it. Air-conditioning was a must, but some families, most families couldn’t afford any. James needed to cool down. He needed to swim. Main disappeared in his rear view mirror as James accelerated passed the middle class neighborhood just outside of downtown, passed the semi-slums of the cheap apartments and into shanty town, the dirty, disgusting, growing home to all the millworkers waiting for employment.

Houses, if you could call them that, were one bedroom affairs, some lacking indoor plumbing. A family was lucky to have a mobile home. A family was lucky to have anything, after the town disappeared. Clarksville would soon become a ghost town, if things didn’t change. James couldn’t look at these houses. His mom kept saying that, if things didn’t change and change soon, they’d have to move to the shanties. Things weren’t going to change. James knew they weren’t. With stifling heat upwards of one fifteen, people were too damn hot to make things change.

The stereo blasted Jimi Hindrix, not that it mattered. James wasn’t listening. He was too busy picturing the look on his mom’s face when she realized that he’d ditched church, again, and after all that hassle. The music faded with the sound of rushing air and James’ own imagination. He pictured a pew, then a Bible in the pew in front. Then a bright flash and the Bible lit on fire. It sent black smoke spiraling up and then, pulled by the grips of evil, down into the abyss of hell, down into Satan’s grasp. Satan, who looked much like Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones in James’ imagination, was laughing, a cigarette in one hand and a can of cheap beer in the other. Satan inhaled the smoke, laughing.

James rode out of town, not looking back. If he had, he wouldn’t have seen anything, anyway. The forest, a minute clump of trees fed by one of the tiny streams fighting the heat and dirt of Oklahoma, was ahead. James pushed the Mustang as hard as he could, already feeling cooler, already feeling wet. The watering hole, a tiny little pond caused by a dip in the landscape, waited.

A car slowly appeared on the horizon, sending up a plume of dirt behind it. James paid no mind to it, figuring it to be a wayward tourist or a farmer driving in from his farm for church. He pulled off the main road and onto a dirt road headed toward the scraggly trees. The road was never planned out, but the creation of two decades of teenagers cooling off in the unsullied waters of the unnamed watering hole. James pulled over just in front of the trees and killed the engine.

There was no more sound. It was too hot for the birds to chatter and the wrong day for swimming. James hopped out of the car, pulling his Van Halen Die shirt off, looked down at his chiseled abs and perfectly tan, perfectly shaped chest, and kicked off his shoes. The path to the pond was hidden under dirt, but James knew the way. He jogged the rest of the fifty yards in just his socks, sending up clouds of dust with every step. His white socks disappeared and became brown within seconds. He fiddled with his belt buckle as he ran, finally managing to get his belt off.

The pond, clean because of a constantly flowing stream, was a hundred feet across and ten feet deep at the deepest. A rope swing dangled off of a weeping willow on the far side of the water. The water did not move, not even a little. There were no ripples. It was possible, when the snows melted in the Rockies in the spring, to see the bottom of the pond. A beach of Oklahoma red dirt surrounded the water. There were visible footprints from the people who had used the pond last.

The trees, weeping willows closest to the water and rotted cottonwoods around the outskirts, obscured the pond from the road. James dropped his faded jeans and boxers in one motion, kicking off the dirt stained socks just after.

James paused, naked, to relish in the glory of the moment. He stood naked, feet from the water, hands on hips, letting the heat cover his unclothed, offensive body, letting the sweat run down where sweat runs down. He waited to step in the water, waited for the moment to pass, waited to feel completely and utterly at ease with his own nudity, completely at one with the nature around him, completely relaxed knowing that he could be at church hearing bullshit about God and reading the Bible with the other poor saps. There was no God in his nudity. There was no God in his fun. In the ultimate gesture of blaspheme, James raised his right hand, his middle finger, and, in one giant, guttural heave, shouted “Fuck off, God.”

The water beckoned, cold and fresh. James backed up a few feet and ran, ignoring the pain of coarse sand digging into his bare feet. He hit the water at a sprint, sending up waves. The drop was quick and sudden, going from ankle deep to knee deep to shoulder deep in just teen feet. James gasped as the cold water covered every inch of his torso and legs, engulfing his arms and throat. He dunked his head under, opening his eyes to cool his brain.

The water was significantly colder than the air around. It was eighty degrees, not cold at all, but, compared to the hundred and fifteen degree heat just above the surface, it felt much colder. James shivered, his hair in his eyes. He swam easily to the far side of the pond. The dirt where he had ran still hung in the water, creating the illusion of unending depth. A car passed by on the highway. James ignored it, swimming a lap of the pool, trying to warm up. He stood up on the far side of the pond and walked ashore, walked to the tree with the rope swing attached. The tree had little handholds carved out, handholds used by two generations of overheated Clarksville and Andersonville teenagers. Many a disgruntled, rebellious teenager had done just as James and skinny dipped in the pond. James eased himself onto the thick branch, careful not to crush his manhood on the branch. He crawled out to the rope and pulled it back to the tree, tying it around a small bush on the edge of the pond. The rope was worn and ragged, but still safely secured to the thick limb. James took a running start and then launched himself over the water, swinging wildly and howling. He let go, flying fifteen feet into the air and then crashing belly first into the water, sinking below the water. The water was choppy as James breached the surface.

A twig snapped. Then another. There were muffled sounds from across the pond, from where James had parked his car. From where James had left his pants and boxers. James spun in the water, wading in the center of the pond, trying to see through the rough foliage. He saw a quick movement, a human arm. Then a giggle, unmistakable. There were more than two or three. There were girls. James swam toward the rope, but, before he could make it, one of the girls stepped out of the trees on the far side holding James’ boxers, tattered with several holes. James stopped in the shallows, sinking down to his shoulders, hoping to hide himself. Modesty had won out over curiosity.

The girl, from what little James could see, was about his own age, well endowed with long brown curly locks and very tanned skin. She wore a white tank-top and knee length shorts, a towel hung over her shoulder and bikini swim straps visible just outside of her top.

“What have we here? A skinny dipping Clarksville boy not in church? What would God think?” she said, stopping just before the water.

Another girl stepped out of the woods, shorter and stouter than the first. Then another and another until, all in all, seven teenaged girls stood on the shore giggling at the naked boy. James moved into deeper water, hoping to churn up water and keep himself hidden from his peers. Despite the coolness of the water, he could feel sweat dripping down his neck.

“You know, this could be interesting. Do you think we should give him his clothes back now or have him beg for them?” the first girl said.

The others, in unison, said “beg.”

“Hey, I ain’t beggin for no shit. You think I have a problem with a bunch of beautiful women seeing me in the nude, you got another thing comin’,” James said.

They giggled. The first girl, the one holding his boxers, shrugged and pulled her tank top off, revealing a skimpy little piece of cloth covering two very large pieces of flesh. James gulped. She pulled her shorts off and tossed them behind her. One of the other girls caught them, smiling. She put her toe in the water, testing, and then ran in like he’d done, shrieking and laughing.

She paused when neck deep.

“Have it your way.”

As if signaled, the other girls stripped quickly and hit the water running. The water and giggles and girlish screaming echoed off of the surrounding trees, confusing James’ ears. He dove, touched the bottom, hitting rocks and dense sand, resurfaced to find that, no, the girls weren’t a figment, but real and just as beautiful as ever. Oklahoma farm girls, each and every one.

“What do they feed the girls in Andersonville?” James muttered.

“Beef, and lots of it,” said the first girl, the one who had unceremoniously tossed away his clothing. “Let me join you.”

She reached behind her back and pulled at the strings of her bikini and . . .

“I would like to end my sermon today by requesting you all to remember that regular church attendance is key to trusting God and believing God. Remember, you can’t be a lamb of God unless you regularly congregate with His flock.”

And, with that very clear message to me, Church ended and my dream was over. Pastor Frederick made his way unmistakably towards my family directly after the sermon. He looked eagerly at me, as if I was some long lost relative that he was dying to give a hug.

“Well, if it isn’t the perpetually lost sheep of Clarksville. I’m glad you’ve seen God’s grace,” Pastor Frederick said as he reached out for my hand.

I shook his hand with very little conviction, wanting to escape. The other church goers watched interested, wanting to watch the atheist boy get what was coming to him. Mom grinned her fake grin. She associated the pastor with a free ticket straight into Heaven. That’s how she played Church, as her ticket to a better life.

“Do you have a few minutes, my son? For us to chat a bit?” he said.

Mom nudged me harshly in the ribs. I rolled my eyes without her noticing. The pastor didn’t seem to notice, either. I looked over at Jilly and she nodded as if to say “trust him. I know.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll meet you guys back at home.”

The pastor practically squealed with delight. He had no idea what was about to hit him. Call it a spiritual assault, a massacre of a weaker man. Now, looking back on it, I’m not sure if I feel bad about it or slightly proud. Either way, at the time, it only seemed natural. Pastor Frederick asked to speak with me. I had some questions for the good Pastor.

1:41am: The Beginning of an Odd Boy
Just a note, read previous entry first, so you know what's going on here. It should be just below this behemoth. (Don't worry. I don't actually expect anyone to actually read it. Just pretend you did and that'll do. There won't be any questions about this chapter on the final, so don't bother reading it, right? Honestly, I didn't even read it, well, except to edit it, oh, and when I wrote it, and just after I posted it.)

“There is no greater drama in human record than the sight of a few Christians, scorned or oppressed by a succession of emperors, bearing all trials with a fierce tenacity, multiplying quietly, building order while their enemies generated chaos, fighting the sword with the word, brutality with hope, and at last defeating the strongest state that history has known. Caesar and Christ had met in the arena, and Christ had won.”
~ Will Durant "The Story of Civilization"

This is not the story of a man who knows something or wants to share what he has learned. This is the story of a confused boy looking for what he doubts he’ll ever find, yet looking all the same. I am not Caesar, I am not Christ. Put me somewhere in between. That’s more faith than I have. Put me as the wanting observer to the great fight of mankind. A side note in the history of faith. A believer, a doubter, a beaten soul bombarded from all sides looking for the path. This is a reflection on a life lived in confusion, a life which I spent looking for what I never thought existed. What I found is beyond fact, beyond faith. I’m not really sure what I found.



It was Sunday in Clarksville, Oklahoma. It was a hot start to a day that would surely be even hotter. July heat, which meant nothing to no one. July heat ain’t no different from June heat which ain’t different from August heat. The house stirred with the sounds that all houses stir with on a Sunday morning. Two children running from two very hot, very tired parents. And me, but I wasn’t running from or after anything. It was too damn hot for running. I sat in my room, staring out the window, begging what isn’t there for some rain. There won’t be any rain. I don’t need to know about God or science to know there won’t be any rain. There never is, God or not.

“Caleb, come help with your brother. He won’t listen to me,” a frustrated voice called out from the hall.

I sat up, shirtless and look down. Three months of working out and nothing. Three months and nothing to show for it. Nothing doing. A drop of sweat lazily snaked its way down my bony, unmuscled chest. It was hot. No air conditioning, hottest room of the house, no fan. Hot.

“You get him. He ain’t my kid,” I muttered, slipping a dirty t-shirt on, putting some pants on and ignore three months of fruitless efforts.

The hall was dark. The light didn’t even have light bulbs. Hadn’t in a while. The floor vibrated with the thud of little feet, the sound of a mule charging me. Before I could even turn, a body, half naked and flabby, hit me from behind, buckling my legs.

“Hey, bud. Now, Jed, you listen to Mom. Elsewise she’ll whoop me for it,” I said.

The pudgy hands slowly unwrap from around my backside and four years of overeating stepped around me. Jed’s head looked too big for his body, which was some feet, seeing as his body looked too big for a four year old. He wore just a pair of too tight Batman underwear and a neon pink sock. Lord only knows where he got that from.

“I don’t wanna go to Church. I wanna be like you,” he said, his bowl cut head looking up at me.

Mom and Dad thought giving him a bowl cut would make the fat look a little cuter. It gave him the appearance of being a baby seal with a mop taped half hazardly to its head. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance. He stood tall and put his hand up for a high five.

“Get dressed, bud. You’re goin’ to Church. You don’t wanna be like me, trust me,” I said.

He ran back down the darkened hall, shooting up dust from the tattered carpet. His arms flailed out beside him, useless flabs of flesh wobbling to and fro as if sacks filled with water hung from his shoulders. He giggled the whole way. I wondered how his underwear stayed on his fat behind.

I mustered up the energy to walk down the wooden stairs, careful not to skid my foot on the ground so as to avoid splinters. The builders never sanded the wood for the stairs. That’s what you get, I guess. I knew what would happen that morning. I knew, but no way to avoid it, decided to take it, again. When you take it enough, you get used to taking it. You get to a point where you don’t even think about it. You don’t even dislike it anymore. If they stop giving it, you think they stop caring.

The sun shone through the window at the bottom of the stairs. It was red light, hard and unobliging. Outside, the wind blew hard, sending the dirt from the plains across our front lawn, waiting for us to open the door. Mom sometimes yelled at the wind as if it would listen. She assumed yelling at it to stop would help just like she assumed yelling at Jed would help. It never did. The wind blew and Jed did what Jed did just to spite her. As if God himself reached down and wound up the things that would push her buttons as some sort of cosmic joke. He probably had a great laugh of it, watching this Midwestern woman yell and scream herself horse over the wind.

“You ain’t wearing that to Church! Don’t pull this crap on me again, Caleb. We had this talk,” Mom screamed at me from the top of the stairs, her voice already showing signs of going and it was only nine.

I pretended not to hear her and waltzed into the kitchen where, as usual, Dad sat at the rusted out metal slab we called a kitchen table. He built it himself one day out of a piece of an old Ford pickup he found in a ditch a ways behind our house. Dad, a big man, hairy, hands always black from oil and grease, read the paper every day. Front to back. Every story. He did this while Mom screamed at the children upstairs. He never blinked, no matter how loud it got. He just sat and read until there was nothing left to read, no paper left to hide behind. The paper was already in a pile in the center of the table.

“You’re momma snappin’ at you, again?” he said, his voice deep, almost too deep to hear. It was more like feeling what he said than hearing it, feeling it vibrate deep in my stomach.

“Yep.”

I sat down across from him, grabbed a slice of bread and the butter.

“Shouldn’t cross her. Makes it worse for all of us.”

“You think I should go, then? Think I should pretend?”

“I ain’t your mom, kid. You gotta convince her, not me.”

And that was all he had to say about that.

The stairs rattled and I did my best to look small. She might not see me.

“Caleb Isaac Taylor, you get your scrawny hind parts back upstairs and get dressed for Church right this minute,” the woman bellowed, before even making it into the kitchen.

“I ain’t goin’,” I said as the door slammed open, nearly tearing off its hinges.

“What did you say?” she said.

I turned to look at her. She wore her Sunday best, a blue, poorly sown dress frayed at the edges and a tad bit too tight. She wasn’t a fat woman, not in the traditional sense. It was more of a disproportionate sort of thing. Her legs and her arms were normal, as was her head, but her neck and chest swelled out grotesquely and her stomach pushed in front, a nice little pouch, but nothing compared to her neck and chest. Her hair, thin blond and stringy, gave her the appearance of a bag lady. Her face was vain ridden and very pale, an oddity unexplained to me seeing as she spent most of her days sweltering away in the yard, trying to find ways to stop the wind from blowing dust into the house.

“You heard the boy,” Dad said, looking her right in the eyes.

“Oh, no, I didn’t. See, what I thought I heard was him refusing to get up and change for Church. That can’t be right, though, so I assume my ears just temporarily failed me.”

I stood, but not to leave. Taking it had gotten so dull that, despite years of fear, the tirades of my mother were now routine.

“I’m not going to Church today because I don’t believe or disbelieve in the existence of a Supreme Being. Thus, if I went to church, it would be in a purely observational capacity. But, seeing as Pastor Frederick has nothing to teach me about the Bible, God or anything else, I don’t intend on attending services today or any other day. I bet he can't even do basic math, the idiot.”

She looked at me, stunned. She looked more confused than angry, but I knew that it wouldn’t last long.

“I don’t know anything about that gobbldy gook, but I do know you’re going to church if I have to drag you there myself.”

“You always seem so surprised. I’ve refused to go to church every Sunday for a year, yet, every morning, you pop a vain in the head and go insane. You’re clearly not very good at seeing trends in behavior. Goodness, women. You must be dense or something. I AM NOT GOING!”

The second it all came out, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Dad hissed and moved backward from the table, seemingly afraid that the beast standing across the room from him would lift the two hundred pound hunk of trash and throw it at me. Mom’s face suddenly went from ash white to cerise. Her eyes bulged from her lopsided head.

“Get the hell up those stairs and into your Sunday clothes or I’ll beat your atheist ass from here straight down into hell. I’ll save God the trouble,” she said softly.

If she had screeched at me or charged me, I wouldn’t have been scared in the least. For some reason, the calmness of how she threatened me sent my feat in the direction of the stairs. I couldn’t even muster the courage to curse her in my own mind. I’d never heard the woman curse in my seventeen years of existence. Damn was as bad as it ever got, and that was rare.

Back in my room, I sat down at my desk and looked out over the dirt and grime for miles. Below, a tree struggled against the wind, dead already. It looked as if it would break against the strength of God’s wind, as if the will of God was too much for the frail tree. But, still, the tree held strong, resisting the wind, the force pushing it. It held its ground. If only I could have said the same. I put my khakis on and a decent button up shirt which we had bought from Goodwill two years earlier. It didn’t entirely fit, but, because my body hadn’t really seemed to grow out but merely up, it wasn’t too tight. Church beckoned. God beckoned.

There was a knock on my door. Nobody knocked, sept for little Jilly. She was the only one.

“Come on in, Jilly.”

“You really made Mom mad, you know that?” she said, opening the door and stepping in.

Little Jilly really wasn’t that little. She wasn’t big physically, granted. I mean she wasn’t young or anything. Seems her and myself got the oddball genetics and ended up skinny. But Jilly was tall, five feet tall and only nine years old. It didn’t make her a freak, though. In fact, she was real actually pretty, objectively speaking, of course, her being my sister and all. She had the cutest little dimples, classic features and long, raven hair. It was her eyes, though, that got most people. Honey colored, with little specks of green in them and the size of saucers.

“Yeah, guess I did. Shouldn’t have said what I did, though.”

Jilly sat down on the bed, rifling through a beat up copy of Sports Illustrated off of my night stand.

“You should go, though. Just because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Really? You’re nine. Why should I take my spiritual advice from someone half my age?”

She looked up at me with those eyes and the specks of green flickering and her dimples and I couldn’t say no. She’d never asked me to go to Church before. If she had, I would’ve gone. She put the magazine back down and leaned against the wall.

“Shelly Volson asked me about you the other day. She thinks your cute.”

Coming from a nine year old who still favors the “cootie” theory about boys, I didn’t take this to mean anything.

“Yeah? It’s pretty hard to tell, what with her practically stalking me,” I said.

Jilly giggled. She gave me a knowing smile, something she’d learned from Dad and sat up.

“You like the attention. Besides, you could use a few friends right now. I think you’re about as popular ‘round here as the plague these days.”

I sat down in my desk chair and rolled my eyes. She was right, though. That was the worst part. Even Shelly Volson, a dumpy junior with thick glasses, editor of the yearbook and oddball of Clarksville was better than everybody hating me.

“Get up, squirt. I don’t need your advice on woman, either. What next? You gonna be giving me career advice, too?”

“Pastor Frederick says I’m really mature for my age, though. Says I could pass as fifteen. He also says I have a really strong connection with God.”

“I’d say Pastor Frederick probably knows less about God than Jed. He’s not exactly the best judge. Didn’t know you and Pastor Frederick were such good friends.”

“Yep.”

“Great. You here to convert me? And I thought you were insightful.”

“Nope. Ain’t my job to make you believe what you don’t want to believe. Just as long as you know you can talk to me.”

“Likewise, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid. And hurry up. When Mom get’s mad at you, she takes it out on Dad.”

“He’s tough.”

“Yeah, but Jed ain’t. You don’t want to make Jed and me sad, do you?”

“You know, kid, you’re too damn smart for your own good sometimes.”

“I know.” She grinned.

And with that, she was gone, scuttling down the stairs, careful not to splinter her feet.

1:32am: Different
I'm gonna be doing something a little bit differently starting today. Most of you don't know that, along with writing goofy, often pointless quips about travel, movies, women, well, lot's of stuff about women, I guess, but I also write fiction as well. Bad fiction that is very much my life only more glamorous, but fiction none the less. Any comments or suggestions are greatly appreciated. And if you all agree that I should stick with the old crap, just let me know and I'll stop posting the other half of my writing, no questions asked. Thank you and good day. I say good day!

1:42am: Why not to ever invite me to a religious function of any sort.
As some of you may know, I am not a Christian. In fact, I’m agnostic, which, in my case, means: well, “none of the above.” The crappy thesaurus on this computer has “doubter” and “noncommital” as the only synonyms, which is somewhat accurate, but it’s more complicated, and also far more boring than that. I won’t get into in full detail because, as you may have noticed, I’m already starting to bore you, and it’s only been 75 words. Yes, I actually looked up how many words it’s been. So sue me. I digress, as usual. Anyway, the reason I bring this up is for two reasons. First, because of my trip to Idaho with the Mormon kids and second because of a recent trip to a youth group. In both of these situations, I was put into an awkward situation due primarily to my, shall we say, unique beliefs. Wow, what a really long paragraph, get on with the story. Phew.

In Idaho, there came a time when, of course, due to me visiting people at a religious school, religious beliefs came into the conversation. Naturally, being used to the game “twenty questions” in reference to my religious choices, I kept them low key. But, as always, the question arose “are you a Mormon, then?” When no didn’t suffice, they began the game. “So, what’s an agnostic?” “Why don’t you believe in God?” “Why aren’t you just an atheist?” “How long have you been a jew?” By the way, that’s a real question asked by a real person. My answer: “About two and a half hours. It was a crazy time watching a Woody Allen movie. We all make mistakes.” My personal favorite: “do your parents know?” What? That I’m a crack addict? Oh, that I don’t believe or disbelieve in the existence of God. Yes, they know. I don’t mind answering all of these questions, but, as you might imagine, having to answer them repeatedly does get a bit old. Again, though, back to the story.

So, the first night in Idaho, my friend, Nick, one of his roommates and myself were partaking in some innocent fun shooting off water balloons across the parking lot separating the girl apartments from the guy apartments. This can best be described as harmless flirting. Nick’s roommate kinda pulled a tad bit too hard on the launcher for one of the balloons, and, to make a long story even longer, we shattered a window. This may sound like a horrible thing to do that would anger the girls and cause not only the police to be called, but this somewhat innocent future Navy hero to be detained in Idaho. Not only did that not happen, but the girls came over and gave us hugs! I kid you not. Granted, we did clean up the mess and Nick and his roommate had to paid for the window. The point is, at the end of the entire ordeal, after being introduced as “Josh, the God hater from Littleton, which is, well, just say he’s from Denver,” a party, (a Mormon party in which thirty people watched us clean up glass wondering who the hell I was and why Nick and his roommate would bother hang around with such an odd kid) there was a group song and group prayer.

You may be saying to yourself “wow, all that explanation just for that? What a waste.” Stay with me, here, folks. I’m headed somewhere with this. So, two weeks later, after a vicious sun burn that, might I add, got infected after an even more vicious game of basketball, I was invited to a youth group. Don’t ask me how, but, through some strange twist that I’m still confused by, I ended up in the middle of a Highlands Ranch Xtreme style youth group. In fact, I think the word Xtreme was in the title of the youth group. Again, there was praying (wow, what a shocker) and singing and dancing and crying and then more praying and then the passing of a money basket so some Chinese girl can learn about Jesus and so on and so on.

The whole while, in both situations, all I could think about was “I wonder if God’s watching all of this, you know, if there’s a God, and laughing at us. I wonder if us singing Him songs really does anything for him.” I’m kidding. I was actually thinking “where the hell’s the nearest exit? How long can they pray? Should I pretend to pray or just look around bored? And do they really expect me to follow along with the staged choreography? When are they going to ask about my beliefs? God, what if they make me get up there and have them all pray around me like they’re doing to that girl? This is awkward. When’s the torture going to end? God, if you’re up there and have a kind bone in your figurative or literal or whatever sort of body you might have, show me some mercy and just kill me now before I die of embarrassment when they realize that I have no business anywhere near them and am just an imposter.”

In the end, the situations ended relatively painlessly, although, in my most recent disastrous meeting with religion, I’m afraid a few of my friends might have been offended when, after they asked “so, how was it?” I replied “well, at least you enjoy youth group.” I was being serious, too. What I think of their youth group is blatantly unimportant seeing as I’m not exactly the ideal judge of youth groups out there. But, if I offended anyone, I’m sorry. And God, if you’re up there, if you could please, PLEASE help the Dolphins have at least one more winning season before I die, I’d be mighty thankful.

9:25pm: Please help save America, a letter to the US Government
This letter was mailed to every single US Senator. It was written by myself. Feel free to copy and paste it and add your signature to the letter to get the point across. It just so happens that Senator Biden was the name I last saved the letter for.


Dear Senator Biden,

It’s time for a change, my friend, in the functioning of the American Government. It is time for the American government to stop functioning for itself, to stop functioning for party affiliation and partisanship. It is time to bring America’s government back to, well, America.

For some reason unbeknownst to the American people, the taxpayers and, ultimately, benefactors of the government which supposedly serves them, our government, thanks directly to the politicians controlling the government, has turned its back on America. You heard me, my friend. YOU have turned your back on America by supporting and taking part in the stagnation and school yard behavior of current legislation. It has become blatantly obvious to the American people that we don’t matter. What matters, then? Democrat or Republican. That is what matters.

When, in the news every night, we hear the words “partisan” and “opposition” more than the words “agreement” and “moving forward,” something is wrong. It is mostly time to stop focusing on the walls built up by partisan politics. Stop blindly supporting your party. That wasn’t the intention of government. We might as well not have specific candidates, just a box that says “Republican” or “Democrat.” Individuals don’t seem to exist within Congress or, especially, the White House. It’s like listening to two very boring robots yell at each other about nothing. “No, you are the one who is wrong!” “No, it is your party that is ruining America.” “All (liberals/conservatives) want to take advantage of the American people.” “If you support this party, you are supporting terrorism.” “Your party is like a party of Hitlers.” Enough is enough.

The worst irony about government is this: those who should be the leaders never run and those who run, in general, aren’t the best candidates available. George Washington never wanted power. He cared too much about the future of the country to take power. Don’t get me wrong, Senator. What I’m saying is that, if politicians thought less about power and more about what’s right for America, we’d be living in a strong, productive, safe country. Instead, we are lead to believe that our best bet is fear. I would blame the media for this, but it is far more obvious that the government is not helping matters in the least. The terror alert system serves no purpose other than to create a feeling of fear. Both the Democrats and the Republicans want the American people to believe that the opposition party will make America more dangerous. Both are right. The system in which two bickering parties is allowed to flourish is the system most likely to cause weakness and danger. We should fear what we have now, not a change.

I am not attacking you as an individual, merely asking for your help. I am not attacking you, your party affiliation or the state of Delaware, but attacking the lack of communication and effort put forth by all politicians in the Senate. Heck, I doubt if you, Senator Biden, will ever even see this letter. I doubt whether this will change much of anything. But, as an American, I believe it my duty to speak up when presented with the blatant abuses of power by our elected officials we are seeing right now.

I will tell you right now, before you get suspicious, that you are not being contacted by a member of your party, that I’m 100% independent. You might be saying this is impossible. “It’s impossible not to pick sides.” Oh, believe me, in the current state of “competition,” it is incredibly easy not to pick sides. Firstly, the government is not about competing. It’s not a sport to be won. That seems to be the biggest mistake politicians are making recently. Every election cycle produces little heated debate over timely issues, but more “who’s the better person” mudslinging campaign tactics.

In my government class, as a project, we were told to create a political advertisement. Sadly, my group received and A for the project. This is sad mostly because the advertisement mentioned no positive qualities for our fictional candidate, but slandered and attacked the opposing candidate. Our teacher called it the most “believable and influential” ad she had ever seen. Even more sadly: my group did it as a joke, parodying the campaign “season.” We expected our teacher not only to give us a lower grade, but to illicit a laugh at the line “Bob Smith is a liar, a cheater, a thief, a terrorist and a bad, bad man.” We received applause and our teacher told us we should seriously consider politics. It nearly made me cry.

All I ask is that you stop giving up on the American people. You assume we are stupid and weak. You assume we are incapable of making informed decisions or incapable of seeing through the blatant flaws in the system we have created. We are very aware. We just don’t know how to fix the monster we have created. I ask you to fix it before we give up on America, too. Also, I ask for you to change your focus from liberal/conservative to one of American. The senate seems full of opponents. Two opposing parties. Opposition seems like the flagstone of the US Senate. It is, frankly, a sad joke to the American people. Stop behaving like surly school children and start acting like you care for the future of America.

You are probably (by you, I mean the poor staff aid for Senator Biden who will most likely be the only person to ever read this) saying “this is some punk kid fresh out of high school who just enlisted in the Navy. Why should I care or even consider what he has to say? Shouldn’t he be more concerned with his next big date, his dead end job or his acne problem? Why is he wasting his time and my time by bothering me?” Because I’m a disgruntled, idealistic, taxpaying, confused kid who believes that, when the citizens speak, someone out there, some magical entity inside of our government, listens, even just a little. Don’t break my idealism just yet. Please hear me out. I will be sending you a letter a week about a key topic, a REAL topic, as apposed to the fake topics (Terry Schiavo) debated far too often in the Senate. My position on this topic is beside the point. The point is that I’m doing my part as an American citizen to keep you focused on the important things. Please, don’t give up on America or her citizens. Please don’t be powerful just to be powerful. Don’t only feel free to contact me, I ask that you do so with your opinions. Believe me. I can handle and understand them. Thank you very much for your time.

Sincerely,

Josh Franklin
10418 Christa Circle
Littleton, CO 80125
thejoshfranklin@aol.com
720-299-1803

4:26am: My rant that will anger either Shadi or Mr. Collins or both or ALL!
Wait one second there, folks, I’m not done for today. There’s something on my mind that I have to get out of me. WHY THE HELL IS BONO SO DAMN STUPID?!?!?!?!? WHY ARE WE ALL BUYING INTO THIS “LIVE 8" CRAP?!?!?!?!? WHY AM I STILL WRITING IN ALL CAPS?!?!?!?!?

The “Live 8" concerts are a sham! Nobody buy into the falsehood that they actually help anybody other than the stars who take part in them. They are just being used to promote the music and have nothing to do with helping starving people anywhere. Do you know how much money these great concerts are raising? Hold on. I should restate the question. Do you know how much money these concerts are raising for starving people? Not a pretty red penny, directly, anyways. What’s the point, then? Protesting the G8 convention, sort of. Bob Geldof (the self righteous douche in charge of the Live 8 concerts as well as the Live Aid concerts of the eighties, which actually did raise money for people other than the greedy stars involved) wants to use these concerts to influence the politicians. Right. “On July 2nd in London, Edinburgh, Philadelphia, Berlin, Paris and Rome millions will be coming together to call for complete debt cancellation, more and better aid and trade justice for the world’s poorest people.” Or so says the official Live 8 website. Here is their idiotic slogan:
“LIVE 8 is calling for people across the world to unite in one call – in 2005 it is your voice we are after, not your money.”

Here’s a thought that might have occurred to someone. How about we get people to give both their voice and some money, thus, actually helping poor people instead of being passive aggressive liberals (no, I have nothing against liberals seeing as, in some cases, I am one). This is a typical problem I have with events like this one. Sure, fine, great let’s all join hands and sing songs and maybe some of us can smoke some weed, myself not included, of course. But, in the process, let’s actually do something afterward. Talking amongst one and other helps no one. Singing songs helps no one. Coming up with gimmicky little ribbons helps no one. Awareness is a wonderful thing. I’m not trying to say that we should stop with the ribbons. It makes some people feel good. The bracelets do the same. What we should avoid is the whole pop culture phenomenon that sickens me. Lance Armstrong started a nice little trend. It should have stopped there. Within a year, every single cause in America had a stupid bracelet. People started wearing them because everybody else was wearing them. It had nothing to do with finding cures or raising awareness but more to do with fitting in. STOP DOING THAT! CARING IS NOT A POP CULTURE FAD!

Kids in Africa most likely don’t give a flying fuck if their food comes from one very aware billionaire or thousands of partially aware hippies. They just want some damn food. Give them cures, give them tools to build a future upon, give them an education, give them books, don’t give them your pity. They’ve seen enough of that. No one in the world, at least, no decent human being, is going to say that what’s happening in a majority of Africa is good. It’s not a matter of awareness, it’s a matter of relief. Save your pity for the members of the Supreme Court. They all seem half dead anyway.

My message to U2 and all the other “we’re single handedly responsible for all the good in the world” bands: do us all a favor and stop wasting our time with the same old crap. Some people remember when you guys used to do good. It all got to your heads. You never had Ghandi asking for publicity or Mother Teresa saying how she was going to end hunger in the world. Instead, the quietly went about their work of saving humanity by not bringing attention upon themselves but upon the people who needed help. Don’t you find it ironic that all these people trying to save Africa aren’t even staging any events in Africa? That’s because this isn’t about Africa. It’s about Bob Geldof and Bono. It’s about the entertainment industry doing what it’s famous for doing: pretending to care.

3:25am: Why I should never leave home, regardless of want or need
It’s the typical right of passage for a teenage guy: the summer road trip. In fact, it’s so much a given, my dad didn’t even blink when I told him (that’s right, I didn’t ask for permission but blatantly stated in defiance) that I was going on a road trip in five days. Hah, suck on that, old man. Granted, it’s with a Mormon girl to BYU-Idaho to visit, you guessed it, more Mormons. Either way, it’s me without parental supervision for four days out on the open road.

Let’s analyze why this is, in fact, a horrible idea. First, I’m going with a girl with a boyfriend. Thus, my ideal of hitting up a girl on the road (because, as we all know, hitting up a girl on the road doesn’t actually count) is not really an option. Of course, for those of you who actually know me, this is a joke. Liz, don’t worry. I wouldn’t actually try anything, boyfriend or not. Next, part of my mission on this trip is to obtain fireworks illegally from Wyoming. Does anybody trust me with anything bigger than a sparkler? Does anybody even trust me with a sparkler? If you answered yes, then you obviously don’t know me. Lastly, who here trusts me with directions? I’ve gotten lost going from my house to work, a trip I’ve made thousands of times. How sad is that? I just know that, somehow, when it’s my turn to drive, we’re going to end up in Iowa. I know this as fact. No matter how easy my job, even if it’s just to drive straight and stay on the same road, we will end up in Iowa. Trust me.

With a road trip comes the eternal and overused comparison to “On the Road.” This is a four day trek to Idaho, people, not some sort of cultural rebirth or mental revolution that takes me the rest of my life. It’s just a nice little day drive to visit a couple of friends. Hell, half the time I’ll be surrounded by Mormons. Wow, how exciting. Watch out, we might see some making out! Uh oh, a wine cooler! Did someone say Charades? Girls Gone Mellow is here handing out t-shirts to girls wearing the most clothing. Let’s have a dry sweatshirt contest! Who can show the least cleavage? You win!

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a baby step in my rebirth as a functioning adult. But, I plan on having far more adventurous trips this summer. As a matter of fact, I’m planning a trip to either Vegas or, depending on the response to my solicitations for people to go with me, somewhere in Mexico, preferably northern Mexico, such as, but not limited to, Tijuana. Granted, as I’ve state before, I don’t drink, thus, this trip would be entirely for sightseeing. Oh, and to watch the people I’m going with get either drunk, smuggle drugs or solicit prostitutes, resulting in everyone on the trip being arrested and stuck in Mexican jails for ten years. One of us will be raped, another stabbed to death and one of us will fall madly in love with a female guard, later marry that guard only to discover that “she” was just a fat man with large man boobs and the inability to grow facial hair. Please, God, let me the one stabbed to death!

The travel bug hit a long time ago. Now, though, the opportunity and the money as well as the allowance by my parents has finally arrived. I can now go on the road! For those of you who wish to join me, I am accepting any and all takers and offers. Call me, write me, pull up at either my house or my work on your way out of town and I’ll go. I don’t care where or when or how, just give me a day’s notice, hell, half a day’s notice and we’re gone. You think I’m kidding? Try me. No matter what the event is, as long as it’s out of the state of Colorado or, at least, sufficiently far enough away from Littleton that it requires at least four hours of driving, and I’ll go.

On this trip, I plan on sleeping a lot, maybe pissing off some truckers at a rest stop, looking at the stars somewhere in Wyoming (the timing might not be right for this), making out with a hot potato farmer’s daughter (in my dreams, maybe) and going streaking at least once in either Salt Lake City or on the campus of BYU-Idaho. Oh, and lots of blaspheme! Those Mormons don’t know what’s about to hit their pretty little world. I’ll update you all on my wild adventure as soon as I return. And, anyone looking to go to either Vegas or Mexico in late July, give me a holler and we’ll set something up. If worst comes to worst, I’ll go all alone, just as long as I go at all.

12:30am: My first stepping stone into manhood.
Just recently, and this may shock a few of my loyal readers, I had my first beer. Yes, that’s right, Josh Franklin, king of prohibition, sultan of strict, had a beer. Not only one, but one and a half. Not only did I have the beer, I was at a quasi-party in which several people got so drunk, they couldn’t stand anymore. People spent the night because they couldn’t drive. The context for me being at this quasi-party will be explained below. Believe me, I wasn’t just randomly at some party with random people.

And do you know, my friends, what I discovered about drinking and drunks? First, Miller Light tastes a lot like ass, not that I’ve ever tasted ass. After the first beer, which I drank because I lost a bet (goddam Pistons had to lose to the Spurs), I realized why so many people get wasted: they have to drink a shitload in order to ignore the taste. By the second, I gave up halfway through, switching instead to what I thought at the time was lemon aid. It turns out there was a tad bit of Vodka in this lemon aid, but, I didn’t realize this until after the second full glass and after my speech began to slur slightly. Apparently, I would be a nice, touchy-feely drunk, if I were to ever be a drunk, which I won’t and wasn’t at this party. I was just a tad buzzed.

Also, drinking really isn’t that fun. I spent most of the time out on a porch talking with a friend about how crappy our jobs are and about how neither of us has any luck with women. You know, basically what two loser guys talk about. The drunks all either wandered around in their boxers threatening people with knives (I kid you not) or passed out on random pieces of furniture. The biggest victim of the drinking was the hostess’s dog, who was repeatedly let out and then forced back in by confused drunk kids who couldn’t figure out what the hairy thing walking around was. By the end of my stay, people were either hooking up in bedrooms or trying to find someone passed out enough to write on with a sharpy. Oodles of fun for two sober kids like Josh Greathouse and myself.

To explain why I was at this quasi-party, I was there to see off a friend who was leaving in the morning for college. This friend worked with me for nearly two years and the two of us were close. He is Mormon. The party was full of drunks. Let’s just say, he didn’t exactly fit in at his own party and decided to leave. This made me very angry later when I realized exactly why he had left. He left because, at his party, organized by a co-worker, most of the people there had no idea who he was. And you wonder why he left? He said goodbye and only two or three people at the party, counting me, knew what the fuck the kid was talking about. Sad. I’ll miss you, Nick. You must come back soon and tell us all of Idaho.

I won’t be drinking much anytime soon. My experience was negative enough to leave me still pondering what the big deal is. Why would anyone want to get drunk? What is the appeal? Maybe I’m just impulsive enough and have fewer inhibitions than most that drinking doesn’t really help me. I’m crazy without adding alcohol into the equation.

1:54pm: Nostra freakin' damus
That's right, I'm the reincarnation of the great oracle, the great predictor, that code guy, Nostradamus himself. Why, you might be asking, am I claiming this? Simple. I predicted Mike Tyson would lose his fight against the Irish dude, Terrell Owens would never win a Superbowl and that the Pistons would start slow against the Spurs and then pick it up after a quick awakening lead by Big Ben Wallace, the greatest man to ever play the game of basketball. Tyson lost. Owens is now a Raider (pretty much guaranteeing no Superbowl wins) and Big Ben led the Pistons to an easy win against the Spurs. Who called it? That's right, womens, I did.

If you're still reading, I would like to take this time to apologize for my previous entry. It was far too long and far too random. From now on, I'll keep it shorter and more on the funny side. Again, sorry, and hope you are all having a summer that would induce you to read my crazy, unintelligible writings. Thank you for understanding.

2:52am: Long rant on the Navy and life. Beware, over 1400 words
Can you believe that it’s actually summer? It feels like this is life, my friends, and that’s the best feeling in the world. Waking up at two pm? Sure, go right ahead. Stay out late, party alone at the gym, do whatever whenever however with whoever? Why not?

Life is flowing so smoothly now, when November rolls around, something tells me that this little sailor is going to have some adjusting to do. But that’s fine. Right now, things just seem right. Although, I do wish I had more contact with my ex-Heritage classmates.

Sometimes, it feels like I’m living on an island stuck with nothing but Coldstone employees and my escape raft floating just off shore, waiting for an occasional visit to mainland. Don’t get me wrong. Coldstone is a great job and the people I work with, at least, a good majority of them, are great people and people I would consider some of my closest friends. The memories at that store go way back and dominate a good portion of my brain’s hard drive. I need more, though. I need to see people outside of a work environment.

It is daunting, the idea that my childhood has ended officially with no ceremony or elegance like in the coming of age stories we read about in school or saw on the big screen. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but still. There was no one moment I can identify, no specific image, no transition from boy to man. The tossing of the mortarboard didn’t do it for me. The last day of newspaper, while emotional and embarrassing, didn’t do it. I don’t think I’ve reached that transition quite yet. There’s still some Peter Pan left in this child’s soul. Hopefully, there always will be. I’m guessing there always will be. I still watch cartoons, still watch Disney movies and, no matter how hokey, find ways to relate, still feel rebellious and obnoxious and young and innocent, sheltered. This won’t always be so.

It seems as if just yesterday (a cliche, yes, but so real) that I could get away with being immature and childish, I could throw things for no reason and dance just because. It seems as if I could say dirty words because that’s what immature little kids do. Giggle, skip, flirt (one of my most favorite, albeit least advanced, pastimes), belch, sing. Adults don’t do these things. Then why is it that I can’t stop? Somewhere, there is an unwritten code for adult behavior that says what is acceptable and what is not. Screw this code and its rules. I’ll do what feels good and what feels right. The rest of the world can kiss off.

People continuously ask me what made me join the Navy. I’m sick of answering this question, so, here is my answer for the world to read. Adjusting is what I want to do in the military. I want to adjust to what the real world is like. I want to adjust to the reality that it’s time for me to make a difference, a direct, measurable, comprehensible difference. The military has taken a beating in recent days. This is not fair. The military, if used properly, can and does help innocent people. There are people in this world who can’t help themselves. They face persecution, poverty, abject shame and hardship.

There are people who have nothing, who literally cannot help themselves. I am a firm believer in doing what you can to help yourself before allowing others to act as crutches. Some people in this world don’t have anything left to give. Some people have nothing left but the little meat left on their bones and the stories they have to tell and the hearts they have to move. Some people have done everything they can with what they’ve been given and can’t do any more. There is no worse of a feeling than utter helplessness. There is a difference between being uncomfortable and somewhat low on the necessities of life and absolute poverty with no access to food or water. We have no idea. I want an idea.

While, no, I don’t believe it is the duty of the United States government to act as the world police, it is the duty of those who can to defend America from hostile threats. By hostile threat, I mean direct threats to the Constitution of the United States or threats to American soil. That is beside the point, however. I am not doing this as a patriotic American, although, if the situation presents itself in which that quality is needed, there are deep feelings of patriotism in me. I am doing this as a citizen of humanity. Because of good fortune, my life has been relatively easy. In fact, compared to the average human being, I have lived a life of wealth and leisure. Thus, it is time to pay my dues to the world. No human deserves to live so easily for so long without paying for their trip on this planet. It is my time and my turn. It is my turn to sacrifice for the sake of others. If all goes well, I will end up in a situation where I can directly aid in humanitarian aid or liberation of persecuted souls. If all goes according to plan, I will protect the innocent from both mistreatment by their own governments and peoples and by the US military. Through honest and observant journalistic integrity and reportage, I hope to protect those who can’t protect themselves. That is why I chose journalism as my desired field. To give those whose voice has been denied a voice, to give those whose faces have been blurred and erased from the hearts of the world a picture to hold fast to, to hold on to, to hold as proof of what is being done and what is being done to stop it.

Maybe due to some innate sense of chivalry and knightly endeavors, or maybe due to some absurd image of a soldier, a warrior, of what a man should be, strong and proud and meaningful in an intellectual sort of way, but for whatever psychological reason, the military seemed right. Every human being has an ideal picture of themselves. Mine is hokey, it is lame and it is blatantly cinematic and insanely egotistical. But it is my ideal. My ideal image of myself is two years from now, standing at the top of a hill overlooking a valley. Below are hundreds of thousands of people of all races, ages, religions. They are the people I have been a part of liberating and helping, saving from harm. I am dressed in full Navy gear, saluting, ripped beyond belief (we’re all shallow.) After saluting, I lean on a post and watch as those I’ve been a part of helping save the world. I have a camera and film the entire thing to show what the world could become if only enough people cared enough, if only people could see what is really happening to real people. I honestly believe that this image, in some sort of way, in some crazy, unbelievable way, could happen. Obviously, there will be no hill or valley of the saved, but you get the idea. Sounds so optimistic, it might shock a few of my loyal readers. Shocking as it may be, I’m an optimistic person, deep down.

Let’s not forget the financial rewards associated with military service. They will both pay for college and four years worth of room and board. They will, inadvertently of course, end up paying for my room and board throughout college as well as well as independent travel during my duty. With the financial security comes the rewards of forced travel. While, I won’t be choosing my destination, the goal is combat. You may be saying “but Josh, why would you willingly get shot at?” Well, the true measure of a man is if he can see his fears (death, bullets, pain) and push through them. The only courage comes from a man who is truly scared and ignores that fear to do what he knows is right. Enough of me being quasi-honorable. I’m doing it to meet chicks. Kidding, Cassie. Besides, from what I’ve seen and heard, combat chicks aren’t that much to look at. They don’t exist, actually. Wow, this rant took a very unique direction I didn’t expect. Don’t worry, though. The semi-funny Franklin will return soon, hopefully. I’m not too good at this “virtuous” bullshit.

9:47pm: Piston Basketball!!!
The Pistons just beat the Heat. It's a good day. While my man Ben Wallace didn't play that well throughout the series, and Dwayne Wade played like a king with his rib injuries, the Pistons still won. That's all I can really say right now about it because I'm still overwhelmed with excitement. Why, I'm not sure. They are the defending champs and all. The Spurs had better watch out. Duncan, meet the Wallaces. Manu, you have no chance to throw them elbows. Rasheed might not like them too much. And when Sheed doesn't like what you're doing, you know it. It's a good day for basketball. Too bad for the Heat. They played well.

4:51pm: The greatest film ever made
There are very few amazing movies made per year. There are very few movies that redefine morality and courage. Last year, “Man on Fire” was that movie. This year, with a unanimous decision, “Cinderella Man” has caught the collective heart of America.

With perhaps the most touching sports story in the history of American competition, James J. Braddock puts athletic competition into perspective. In the modern era of sports, athletes seem to believe that, if they aren’t making more than they can ever spend in a lifetime, they aren’t making enough. James J. Braddock took fights just to pay for heat to keep his children alive. Athletes in the modern world sit out and pout when their demands aren’t met. James J. Braddock worked the docks to pay for scraps of food. Modern athletes are called heros when, in reality, all they do is do what many Americans do for free. James J. Braddock stood in a ring taking blow after blow after blow despite being badly injured most of the time and ignoring his wife's wishes just to pay for his family to survive. There are things that modern athletes can learn from this great man, but most won’t ever bother to take the time to care. Most won't see this film. It's a shame that those we now admire don't even come close to comparing to those we have forgotten of the past.

Plenty of movies about sports have very intricate, well planned, visually appealing sports scenes. “Remember the Titans” had big hits and muddy football. “Friday Night Lights” tried to copy “Any Given Sunday” in its lighting and music, but failed miserably, most likely because I read the book and it was definitely different from the movie in tone and plot. Oddly enough, it was a true story. Funny how a movie based on a true story can mishandle the plot. “Radio” is one exception, but that was less about the football and more about Cuba Gooden Jr. trying to win an Oscar. While all three of these movies tackle hard hitting social issues and important topics of conversation, none are as deeply connected to the human spirit and social injustices in this world as “Cinderella Man.”

This movie is about the desperation of realizing that you’re doing everything you can to save your family and it still isn’t enough. It’s about fighting so hard to stay afloat, you’d die to protect those you love. It’s about the courage to keep fighting when it doesn’t seem like fighting is worth it any more. It is about what good people do when times are bad. And none of that has anything to do with sports. This is more than just the story of an underdog. Jimmy Braddock was not an underdog. He was predicted to die in the ring, let alone win. The most moving scene of any movie I have EVER seen was when Russell Crowe’s sad wet eyes trudges into the Madison Square Garden managers area, hat in hand, begging for loose change from the men he once worked with. The humiliation and despair of this scene literally brought tears to my eyes. Only two other movies can make the same claim (“Hotel Rwanda” and “I Am Sam”). It was a man who would do anything other than take from others brought so low that he has no option but to beg. James J. Braddock was not a begger. He was a fighter. He had no fight left in him and the men in that room, in their fancy suits with houses and heat, knew it. No man should ever be forced to his knees. No man.

“Cinderella Man” did not mishandle the plot. In fact, it kept to the truth of Jimmy Braddock’s life very well, including the scene in which he returns the emergency relief money given to him earlier in the movie. Max Baer really was a dick. The Braddock family really was desperate. But, the most accurate thing about the movie was the tone. Most movies that try to cover such a poignant human interest story fail to capture the tone of the event. “Seabiscuit” came close, but, even there, the tone was not quite as desperate. Ron Howard has done a splendid job portraying the squalor and degradation of depression-era families. From facing creditors to sending children away, families had very little to be proud of or happy about. That is, until a down-and-out boxer suddenly appeared out of nowhere who represented everything they faced every day. Jimmy Braddock gave off the impression of someone who was fighting for you. Every punch this courageous, moral, virtuous man took was like a punch straight to the viewers' guts. That is the sign of a great movie. If this film doesn’t walk away with every single award and accolade known to cinema, the movie industry has failed.

I give this movie four thumbs up and seven stars on a five star scale. It is by far the greatest movie I have ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of movies. See this film or you are missing out on one of the greatest men to ever live and one of the most inspiring stories ever told.

5:06pm: My answer to Mat Volkel, in more ways than one
Sorry for the long delay in posts. I've been busy. Ha, by busy, I mean lazy. It's summer vacation. What do you expect? Besides, now that there is a woman in the picture, actually, the woman is the picture, it's hard to write about much else. But, I digress, so, here is another wonderful installment of the "Josh Franklin is manic depressive" for all of you lovely people to read.

It is unusual for me to focus on the future to any sort of large extent. My philosophy is: it's there, it's gonna happen, I'll be fine. Recently, however, the future has been a focal point of my insomniac delirium and personal rants. What the hell is going to become of me? Of the class of 2005? Of the world in general? You may be saying one of two things. First "how bleak." Second "how unbelievably amazing." If you said the first, you're a pessimistic fool. If you said the second, congratulations, you are ready for the rest of your life.

There are years ahead of us in which we must decide how to fill. There are decades for us to witness, trends and fads and doomsday predictions to pass by before our eyes. Just last night, I decided one thing. I made a promise to myself. The promise: when I die, I want to be able to say that I've not only seen the passing of history, I've influenced and taken part in that history. I've helped steer the country, the world in the right direction. Whether that's in a minor way, lightly influencing people through humorous yet, often, misguided and sometimes annoyingly serious rants or through political involvement or through in depth looks at important issues in the world, I have yet to decide. With this promise from myself, I have the same expectations of every single Heritage grad. We have before us the tools and the potential to shape the path of history. We have what it takes to stand before God and say "we did what we did and we'd do it again." That is power.

Now that I've thoroughly pepped you up, time to remember the good times. Once, I got a free Coke from the lunch ladies. That was pretty cool. And the time it snowed sophomore year so hard that we ended up getting two weeks for spring break instead of just one? Again, pretty cool. Having Austin Sullivan threaten my life was awesome. But not everyone is as nice as Austin. In the movie "The Girl Next Door," one of the philosophical perplexities (the movie is full of philosophical perplexities) is "I will always remember . . ." leaving the answer blank for the seniors to fill in. Well, here goes my answer. I will always remember editor nights, pissing people off, realizing that half the school can't read, going from pinky commy to neo-con to fed up with the system, Bronk'd the hell out of me, no grandpa, hell isn't a bad word, Hurley had a baby, eat more babies, drowning and brick kicks and, most importantly, "Josh, do you want to go out this Friday?" What an odd year it's been.

That was my attempt at a graduation speech, because I didn't get one. Mat, I'd say yours was a tad bit better. Just a tad. Besides, how would you spell that sound Howard Dean made? Iehghieeeaahh? Either way, thank you and good luck to the class of 2005. Jordan Leon, put your pants back on. Mr. Moritz, wake up, it's your turn to water the buckets of the class of '05 one last time. We're done and we're ready to tackle the world. But first, let me tackle falling in love with Cassie Courtnage and having the most amazing summer break ever. The world can wait a few months. And don't worry, loyal readers. There are more entries to come very soon. I promise few delays.

11:50am: Let the Mother F-er Burn (hey, cursing is BAD)
Senior Scram was yesterday. My skin shows the direct results. I am about the same color as a lobster and have half the taste. Apparently, when the school recommended sun screen, they weren’t kidding. In all fairness, how likely was it to be ninety degrees? Honestly, it’s only summer time. Scram wasn’t even fun enough to deserve getting a sunburn over. Actually, it would have been fun if the hotdogs hadn’t been sitting in the sun for a couple of hours before I got to them. They didn’t agree with me.

Scram felt more like a social banquet than an actual “fun day.” We paraded ourselves around, mingling with each other and taking any excuse we could to get naked. Tops came off for reasons so trivial, it’s surprising there wasn’t a mass orgy because “the grass is good for the skin.” The dunk tank might as well have said “hormone tank.” Girls went in for the excuse to get wet and have certain areas accentuated by clinging, nearly see through fabric. Guys did it to show off their sculpted chests and rock hard abs. I stood by and watched the glorified wet t-shirt contest in disgust.

Some guys were shirtless before even getting to scram. It’s just not fair. The guys who had their shirts off just don’t care about those of us who can’t take our shirts off. Nobody wants to see bone sticking out at odd angles mixed with a paleness that Michael Jackson would envy. Nobody wants to see a twig walking around in a pair of pants. Colin Christ should have put his shirt on and given the rest of the school a chance to keep their dignity. How can I compete with that? Women flock to him like flies on ham.

After taking a nap, it hit me. By it, I mean that shade of red that means you’ve been baked alive like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Turkeys aren’t baked alive on Thanksgiving, thus, my analogy is null. I digress. I looked down at my arms and, for a second, thought I’d fallen asleep in a puddle of red die. Oh well. Now I know what taking a shower with second degree burns feels like. Trust me, it’s not a good feeling.

But, with the bad comes the good. At work, the women were all over my hot (ha, get it? Hot?) body. I got more tips from teenage girls than any guy could hope for. Teenage girls were flirting with me like I was attractive, funny or smart. Weird. Hey, I’m not going to complain, though. If Arapahoe girls want to give me their money, they can give me their money. Maybe getting skin cancer down the line isn’t so bad if it leads to women digging my bod. I kid. Even middle school girls seemed a little too giddy and chatty with me. Hell, the older women tipped well, too! What, am I living in the Twilight Zone now? Since when did women like me? Again, no complaints, here.

4:18pm: Good God, it’s about time! Yet, at the same time, it’s too soon! Why does it have to be so damn confusing? Right when I’m about to get the hell out of high school after four years of begging to get out of high school, I don’t really want to leave. What a freakin’ irony and a half. Today, I cried. Me, the king of anti-sentimentality, decided to pick today, the last day of high school, to turn into a mushy pile of Kenny G bullshit. At least I can still laugh at myself. Yes, problem solved. Oh, whoops. I cursed. Yes! The greatness of not having Hurley censor!

Don’t expect any more tears from Mr. Emo, though. The ducts have been worn out and are taking a break. Senior Scram will be fun. I won’t cry. Graduation will be hot. I won’t cry. Seriously, what happened? One second, I’m the ultimate in machismo (ha, what a funny boy I am) the next I’m holding hands and singing Kum Ba Yah. What a mixed up world we live in.

And speaking of graduation, what the hell is this shit about us not being able to wear shorts? It’s gonna be in the freakin’ nineties! We either have to wear shorts, or they have to provide air conditioning, which might be a tad hard at LPS Stadium. There won’t be a cloud in the sky. So, when the entire class of 2005 shows up to the ten year reunion with skin cancer, we’ll know why. And how did we get stuck with LPS Stadium? Some schools get Red Rocks or Fiddlers Green. They make LPS Stadium look like a junkyard. How cool is it to graduate not only somewhere kind of lame, but somewhere at a completely different school. It’s absurd.

At least there weren’t any stupid pranks. What the hell am I talking about? We needed a prank. There hasn’t been a real senior prank all year. Flowering the halls wasn’t even original. The golf balls could have been cool, but no one really saw them. We need a prank that makes the paper. We need a prank that is so original, it gets other schools copying that prank idea for years. We need a prank like putting a cow on the third floor. That one gets talked about all the time.

With the end of the year comes yearbook signing time. Last year, in a show of ignorant defiance, I wrote the same exact thing in every yearbook. This year, to alleviate my stupidity, I tried being sentimental and unique. The result: a country music song on every page! Kenny Chesney would be proud. I laid on the sentiment and positivity so thick, no one will ever remember the bitter, cold, mean Josh Franklin commonly associated with cynical writings and hateful articles. Instead, they will see me as a hopeless romantic. God how far from the truth can you get? Tomorrow, at senior scram, if you see me, don’t ask for me to sign your yearbook. My hand is so cramped, it hurts to type right now. Kidding, I’ll sign away. It makes me feel important.

Today was our last day of high school ever! But it’s not our last day of schooling ever. Hell, some of us won’t see that until they’re in their mid twenties. Damn, so much more school! What am I celebrating? The fact that, now, instead of getting a zero for not doing an assignment, I have to do pushups. Me, the skinny kid with tiny arms. If only the teachers of Heritage had known of this sort of motivation. I’d have a 4.5 GPA.

GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL! IN TEN YEARS, I EXPECT TO MEET THE MOVERS AND SHAKERS OF AMERICA.