See, when I arrived at Berkeley as a freshman some 25 years ago, the city not only helped to transform my political self, but reinforced a cynicism already brewing inside me concerning the meaning of true rebellion. I was a punk in high school, for sure, and embraced generic left wing dogma – for it impressed teachers and even won extra credit in various classes. As a teenager, it also gave me what I craved: attention, some relevance, and a chance to get lucky with hippie chicks. That last desire was never achieved – because I had attended an all boy high school. But no matter, I practiced on the drama students.

But when I got to Berkeley, I saw what true subversion was – and it wasn’t the “subversives” at Berkeley. See, the idea of rebellion means nothing when it’s turned into a personal identity. Dying your hair pink, dipping yourself in tattoo ink and getting ten nipple rings – these acts become not markers of rebellion, but markers of conformity. In Berkeley – the real sheep pretended to be rebels, and those who looked like sheep – were the real bad-asses. The engineering major with back acne was far more rebellious than the coffee house commie in her Crass t-shirt.

Berkeley embraced “subversives,” and they were often called “eccentrics,” which is a nice way of saying they smelled awful. Berkeley celebrated “craziness,” even if it was authentic mental illness – and I am fairly certain a great many of the folks they lauded for their nonconformist behavior would die alone, by their own hands, with no one there to tell them how cool their suffering was.

And so in 1983, I realized that a true rebel blends in, embraces discipline, hard work, and clean pants. I joined a fraternity. I cut off my long crazy mop of hair. I started tanning – I am not sure why, but it seemed the opposite of heroin chic. I also took up the banjo, just to keep it real.

If you’re starting college now, I suggest you do the same.

And if you disagree with me, then you’re probably a racist.

Tonight we have the delightful Ann Coulter, the intriguing Alex Blagg, and the jovial George Wendt.

Opening sentence: “Suddenly I woke up strapped to a chair.”

Strapped to that chair is Charlie West, a typically bright and motivated high school student who has no idea how he got there. The last thing he remembers is a good though unexceptional school day but nothing that connects to the where, how or why of his present and immediate circumstance. Not only has he been tortured, but voices in the hall have just decided to kill him … slowly.

From here Charlie will have to escape, out run and out-wit his deadly, resourceful captors and unravel what happened in-between scoring a first date with his dream girl and waking up in, well,  an Andrew Klavan page turner. The plot never stops moving or thickening and as the pieces come together, Charlie finds himself the only hope between … and that’s all you’re getting from me.

As fascinating as the story is, our protagonist Charlie West, a young man who rebels against lock-step conformity, questions authority and is unafraid to speak truth to power is just as fascinating because he really is all of those things.  Charlie’s a Christian who sees a satisfying future in serving his country and is unafraid to stand up to a politically correct history teacher even if it means a lower grade.

You could fill an ocean with books portraying left-wing teenagers as outsiders, but that’s about as dishonest as you can get. Assuming the anti-American, politically correct default position is The New Conformity – is creating a one-dimensional character – is about as radical as bringing aluminum cans to a recycling center.

Charlie West is not only a refreshing and original burst of fresh air, he’s an iconoclast and an alternative for parents who might like their kids to read about a hero who isn’t a one-dimensional walking leftist cliché, down on America, organized religion and all into Mother Earth.

I’m two decades older than the intended audience, not a fiction reader, nor a book reviewer, but reading something written by someone from our side who not only gets it but can do it so well is the real pleasure in all this. There are two things we conservatives concerned with the culture must do to further the cause. First, support the work created by artists sympathetic to our side. Second, support it only when it’s good.

With “The Last Thing I Remember” you’re doing both.

“The Last I Remember” is published Thomas Nelson and available tomorrow.