To Be Frank

The first guy I knew named Frank had a mullet.  Frankenstein was not a monster, but the doctor who created the cerebral mummy/zombie outcast.  A lot of Franks are deemed “tanks” presumably because of their ability to chug booze.  Sir Francis Drake was a booty pillaging pirate.  What happened to the respectable nature of the name Frank?  Was it thrown overboard with the moral compass of Sir Francis only to be bred for eternity as a label for the misunderstood and callous?  Was it once revered as a normal nomenclature for sane men?  Will it ever be again?  There are undoubtedly many a normal Frank whose existence is being overshadowed by alcoholics, monster makers, weirdos and 16th century bullies but when will the judgement end?  My middle name is Francis but I wouldn’t tell you that.

Do I have the correct spelling?

My first blog was years ago. I had found a remnant of red crayon in the corner of my elementary school cubby and wrote precisely what I thought about the teacher on the wall of said storage space. My friends did indeed comment and my statistical feedback was nothing but stellar. All agreed that Mrs. Mac was definitely as smelly if not more smelly than a pile of old bananas. With all the glory of such jubilant reviews, there was sure to be a negative side to my scene-bursting post and truth be told, Mrs. Mac kept me late to pound erasers against each other while hanging my upper half out the window to avoid asphyxiation. I wasn’t afraid of the chalk dust making me sneeze or drying my eyes, but the composting banana plant aroma which I was doomed to inhale until the late bus would drive me home safely. Later that week I signed on to the internet for the very first time.