The first day at my new school

So here I am, all excited for my first day at a new school. Hair combed, beard braided, shoes polished to a switchblade shine and excited as hell.

My backpack holds my dog-eared copies of the U.S. and Wyoming constitutions, an equally rode-hard-and-put-up-wet copy of Barry Goldwater’s “Conscience of a Conservative,” as well as a lovingly fondled, leatherbound tome of Tom Paine’s “Rights of Man.” I have a brand spankin’ new Big Chief tablet and a coupla #2 pencils in there too, sharp as rattlesnake fangs.

I’m wearing my AU/H2O lapel pin, just so my new school chums will ask me what it means. I’ll tell ‘em that it means everything that a red MAGA hat doesn’t. That’ll set ‘em to googlin’!

Mom packed my Hunter S. Thompson gonzo lunchbox — the one with Dorothy Parker’s name scratched inside the lid, above a great big heart — with a peyote and mayo sandwich (my favorite!), and a PBR tallboy. I’m ready for school!

I’ve done this many times in my life — turned on my heel, and wandered off in a new direction. In fact, sometimes when I get bored, I move the furniture around just for fun. Try it sometime. It always works for me.

But I digress. And I don’t want to be late on my first day.

I’m jazzed to meet all my new classmates, and see what they’re all about. I hope this new school has long hallways that I can run down blindfolded, and a big playground with minimal adult supervision. I hope recess is long and generous.

I want to find out if Maggie, Tennessee and Katie can beat me playing marbles, or if they’ll just kick my ass in the spelling bees. Dustin, Angus and Mike look like they’re good thumb-rasslers, and I intend to find out. I’ll teach Anna, Rebecca and Jared how to play mumblety-peg, without being sent to the school nurse for stitches.

Guy, Daniel, Gabi, Josh, Andrew and I should choose sides for a 3-on-3 basketball game, and play for money. Serious money. With the cash I win, I’ll bribe Kerry for his notes on the history quizzes.

The word on the street is that my new principal, Mr. Copeland, is no-nonsense. So I’ll resign myself to spending some time in the corner of his office for griping that the cafeteria serves neither Copenhagen nor whiskey.

Part of why I’m so excited is that I think all my new school chums believe, as I do, that we journalists are here to work ourselves out of jobs.

We’re here to speak truth to power, while we shine a laser in its eyes. If we do that long enough, and hard enough, and we are taken seriously enough, then eventually, politicians and other powers-that-be will stop acting like spoiled toddlers, and will do their jobs honestly, truthfully and openly.

In my perfect world, those with power will finally serve their people, and the need for a Free Press will be drastically reduced.

Then, the Fourth Estate can take a breather and we journalists can focus on weather, sports, lost puppies and advice to the lovelorn. You know … the important stuff.

But that’s a ways off. In the meantime, we have to keep tying firecrackers to the tails of sacred cows, and leaving muddy footprints on the carpet in the halls of power. I’m pretty sure I read those instructions somewhere in the First Amendment.

Whooops, there’s the bell, and I don’t want to be tardy on my first day. But we’ll talk more soon, I guarantee it. You know where to find me.