Uzodinma still doesn’t own a cellphone.
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A down-dirty, grit-covered gem of a book. Mislabeled as humor. Franklin is the pal we all have stories about, like a correspondent on the front lines of a war many of us are afraid to fight. I'd go so far as to say that even if you don't agree with the way he sloughs off society's rules, you've at least wondered about it. You, like me, we've all crunched through pointless jobs, or ones we may even like, and still something's missing. But something's always missing. And this, I'd argue, is what Schneider, would like us to laugh at and understand. Not the evils of culture, or the modern work-week, not necessarily. You can seize up if you want to on the bits about laziness and unemployment checks, but that's the light-hearted, topical fluff. Think about it this way, and it's true: the gifts of the culture we live in were created by thinkers, dreamers, that is, by completely different hands than the ones that use those same dreams to lock us down and enslave us . . . Or maybe that's too far out there. What I like about this guy Franklin though, is that there's no real dogma, no ten-step revolution, nor should there be. He wanted off the 9-to-5 treadmill to become a writer, and thus the book, this book, is the proof that we can create the life we want to live, or go down trying. Thus the saga. Sex romps in unfinished basements. Inter-office pranks. Ten-day benders. The arcade chapter. The dead man in the Porto-Potty. More sex. The sex chapter. More racing, full sprint, down moonlit streets. The lawn mower through the window thing. This is Franklin's saga. Like we each have our own, and it's up to us to stay awake . . .