{"id":197686,"date":"2026-07-08T20:31:02","date_gmt":"2026-07-09T04:31:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=197686"},"modified":"2026-07-08T20:36:59","modified_gmt":"2026-07-09T04:36:59","slug":"frank-kern-a-biography","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=197686","title":{"rendered":"Frank Kern: A Biography"},"content":{"rendered":"

Frank Kern<\/a> (b. 1973) stood in the driveway of his house in Macon<\/a>, Georgia, talking on the phone. A man in a white golf shirt climbed out of a burgundy Ford Ranger<\/a> pickup, walked up to him, and asked, “Are you Frank Kern?” Kern said yes. The man handed him seven pounds of paperwork and left. Kern later recalled that the process server looked apologetic. The paperwork came from the Federal Trade Commission<\/a>. Kern was twenty-eight years old, and the government of the United States<\/a> had just made him a defendant. The episode became the hinge of his career, and, in a turn that says as much about internet marketing as it does about Kern, it eventually became part of his sales copy.<\/p>\n

Kern is an American direct-response marketer, copywriter, and consultant whose career tracks the migration of old mail-order salesmanship onto the internet. He belongs to the lineage of Claude Hopkins<\/a> (1866-1932), David Ogilvy<\/a> (1911-1999), Gary Halbert<\/a> (1938-2007), and Dan Kennedy<\/a> (b. 1954), men who measured advertising by the coupon, the phone call, and the order form. Kern’s generation moved that logic into email sequences, video launches, webinars, and paid social advertising. His question was never whether an advertisement looked impressive. His question was whether it produced buyers.<\/p>\n

The early biography follows the shape of an American sales story, and Kern tells it that way. He grew up in middle Georgia. By his own account, a 1994 flood in Macon cost him what he owned, and he moved into a single-wide trailer in Milledgeville<\/a>, Georgia, with plywood floors, a mattress on the floor, and a peach crate for a table. He worked at a Greek fast-food restaurant for $4.25 an hour and later sold cars at a cousin’s used-car lot. He then took a job selling credit card processing systems door to door in Macon, absorbing rejection daily, and around this time borrowed Tony Robbins<\/a>‘s Personal Power cassettes from his stepfather. Robbins (b. 1960) would reappear in the story fifteen years later, under different terms.<\/p>\n

The door-to-door years supplied the founding insight. Kern rated himself the weakest social performer on his sales team and hated the daily rejection. He wanted a way to sell without personal refusal, and he settled on the computer: sit behind a screen, hide all day, and sell to strangers who could not slam a door in his face. The origin matters because it inverts the standard picture of the charismatic salesman. Kern’s persona, loose, funny, casual to the point of insolence, grew out of a man who by his own testimony could not work a doorstep. The internet did not amplify a natural extrovert. It rescued an awkward one.<\/p>\n

His first vehicle arrived in a real estate licensing class. In August 2001, bored, Kern started thinking about the internet-marketing products he had bought and noticed the era’s fashion for master reprint rights. He bundled a group of ebooks that sold separately for about $80, added his own screen-capture tutorials on FTP<\/a>, web editing, and credit card processing, and sold the package for $47 as Instant Internet Empires. He also sold buyers the right to resell the package itself, using the sales letter he had written, with his name, his bank statement photo, and his earnings claims in it. Within months strangers ran websites doing business as Frank Kern, spammers promoted the product under his name, and a telemarketing operation called his customers claiming to be him or his partners, selling $4,000 coaching packages.<\/p>\n

The FTC read the structure differently than Kern did. The product promised buyers could make more than $115,000 a year. The Commission calculated that to reach that figure, each buyer would have to sell the product to 2,400 more consumers, each of whom would need 2,400 of their own, so that by the third generation the scheme would require more than 13.8 billion sales, over twice the population of the earth. The arithmetic is the closest thing the case has to a thesis. The promise was structurally impossible, whatever Kern’s intentions. In 2003 the Commission filed FTC v. K4 Global Publishing, Inc., et al.<\/a>, naming K4 Global Publishing, Inc., Kern Family Enterprises, LLC, and Irwin F. Kern, IV, also known as Frank Kern. The stipulated final judgment barred the defendants from making false or misleading income claims, from participating in chain marketing schemes, and from giving others the means to violate federal law. Based on the defendants’ financial statements, $247,000 went to consumer redress, with a clause making the full $634,222 in gains due if the financial representations proved inaccurate.<\/p>\n

Most careers built on income promises end there. Kern’s did not, and how he survived tells you what kind of operator he is. He retreated into anonymous niche businesses. He sold pet-training manuals to dog owners and parrot owners, running a site teaching parrots to talk and a dog-training business under the pen name Dean Rankin that he claimed did over a million dollars a year selling cheap information products. The niches did two things. They gave him income the FTC could not object to, real products sold to real hobbyists. And they gave him a new story: the man who could make money in markets where nobody knew his name, which is a stronger proof of method than making money selling the dream of making money.<\/p>\n

The niche years produced his first teaching partnership. With the Australian marketer Ed Dale, Kern built the Underachiever Method, a system for testing a niche with an AdWords<\/a> campaign and then hiring a ghostwriter to produce the product. The pair ran seminars, including one in Melbourne<\/a>, and their launch marketing showed students Kern’s parrot sites, his Labrador retriever sites, his Japanese gardening sites, and the income they produced. Then came the launch era. Kern wrote and ran a string of enormous product launches back to back: the Annihilation Method, which beat John Reese’s famous Million Dollar Day; StomperNet, which Kern billed as the biggest launch in internet marketing history; and Pipeline Profits. Whatever discount one applies to self-reported records in a subculture built on income claims, the industry treated these launches as landmarks, and Kern’s price for teaching how he did it became the industry’s standard ticket.<\/p>\n

That teaching arrived in January 2008 as Mass Control, and the buyer’s side of the transaction survives in an account worth reading closely. A customer named a marketing blogger described sitting in his living room on launch day, American Express<\/a> card in hand, having just charged nearly $2,000, feeling a twinge of fear as a voice in his head said he had wasted a huge amount of money. The servers buckled under launch traffic and he could not log in at first. He concluded the course repaid him, and his testimony captures the strange loop at the center of Kern’s business: learning how Kern had persuaded him to spend the $2,000 made him glad Kern was good at it. The customer buys the method, and the proof of the method is the purchase he just made.<\/p>\n

Mass Control codified Kern’s signature moves. The launch stretched persuasion across a sequence of videos, emails, case studies, deadlines, and follow-ups, each step engineered to move the prospect to the next. Kern taught marketers to build a character with a backstory and what he called, with typical looseness, magic powers. He named his own: the ability to conduct giant launches yielding millions of dollars in hours. He taught Behavioral Dynamic Response, the principle that marketing should change according to what the prospect does. A person who watches the video gets one message. A person who ignores it gets another. The old salesman’s instinct to read the room and adjust the pitch became software. He later packaged the list-building side as List Control and the reconciliation of branding with direct response as Intent Based Branding, in which familiarity and trust exist to lower resistance when the offer finally arrives.<\/p>\n

Consecration came in 2009 from the man on the cassette tapes. Tony Robbins<\/a> launched an interview series called The New Money Masters, and the first edition featured Kern. Robbins introduced him as a brilliant businessman who had helped one company generate $18 million in 24 hours across four promotions. The trailer-to-teacher arc closed on camera. The stepfather’s borrowed tapes had become a seat across from Robbins himself, and Kern used the footage in his marketing for years. In the same period he moved to La Jolla<\/a>, California, married Natalia, raised four children, and perfected the visual grammar that imitators still copy: the surfer hair, the casual clothes, the man filming from his house who appears too successful to need to impress anyone. The looseness is part of the machine. It makes the engineering feel like conversation. A commenter on the Warrior Forum described watching two men in business shirts in the front row of a Kern seminar, taking earnest notes while Kern riffed profanely about getting paid. The comedy and the commerce were never separate acts.<\/p>\n

The critique arrived in force in 2012. Jason Jones, a Chicago lawyer blogging as the Salty Droid, had spent years cataloguing the industry’s casualties, and on May 10, 2012, The Verge published Joseph Flatley’s long investigation “Scamworld,” which treated internet marketing as a predatory ecosystem and Kern as one of its central figures. The piece exposed the Syndicate, a private mastermind of top marketers. Member Andy Jenkins described it as a mailing list of about fourteen people begun around 2006, himself, Brad Fallon, then Kern, mixing technical discussion, entrepreneurship, launch coordination, and, in his phrase, a heavy ration of juvenile humor. Jones read the same arrangement as a machine for manufacturing social proof, and the most notorious video on his site, titled Frank Kern’s Criminal Confession, showed Kern advising students to form syndicates of their own. The Verge’s structural point cut deeper than any single accusation. Kern himself divided his affiliates into an A-Team and a B-Team, noting that in one launch seven affiliates produced ninety percent of his sales while four hundred others split the rest. The insiders promote each other and prosper. The outsiders buy the courses and supply the testimonials. The article also pressed on the industry’s darkest channel, the boiler rooms that bought leads from marketers and sold desperate people coaching packages by phone, and Kern felt obliged to respond on Facebook<\/a>, condemning the practice. The exchange fixed the two readings of Kern that persist. To his students he is the man who teaches the grammar of online selling. To his critics he is the most talented resident of a bad neighborhood, and the talent makes it worse.<\/p>\n

The later career reads as a long professionalization. The market changed around him. Regulators grew alert, buyers grew skeptical, traffic grew expensive, and the easy-money aesthetic began to look cheap. Kern’s center of gravity moved toward established businesses: consultants, agencies, service firms, owners with balance sheets who needed lead flow, appointments, and paid-media economics rather than a fantasy of escape. He built the Frank Kern Inner Circle, sold programs such as Mass Conversion, Info Business Blueprint, Client Acquisition System, and Ultimate Webinar Blueprint, and took part ownership in the marketing software platform Kartra<\/a>. The premium product became proximity to Kern himself, his judgment, his feedback, his private frameworks. He did not invent the model in which access to the expert’s mind is the top of the price ladder, but he did as much as anyone to normalize it, and the coaching economy that surrounds every trade from real estate to fitness still runs on his sequence: find buyers with money and a painful problem, give away enough useful material to build trust, track behavior, follow up according to what people do, make the offer, ask for the sale, repeat.<\/p>\n

In recent years Kern has folded AI<\/a> into the same logic, using it to draft emails, posts, and lead magnets while insisting that the tool cannot rescue a weak offer or a confused audience. This is continuity, not conversion. Email gave him leverage, then video, then automation, then paid traffic. AI is the newest amplifier bolted onto the oldest test. Response remains the standard.<\/p>\n

An assessment has to hold both halves of the record. Kern’s strengths are real. He understands attention, reluctance, and the crooked path buyers travel, hesitating, clicking, disappearing, returning. His systems assume resistance rather than pretending it away, and his best teaching, on clarity, sequencing, and disciplined follow-up, would have been recognizable to Hopkins a century ago. The weaknesses are equally structural. When every sentence exists to move the prospect to the next action, the audience stops being a public and becomes a behavioral object. Open loops shade into manipulation, scarcity into pressure, authenticity into costume. The FTC’s arithmetic from 2003 stands as the permanent caution: a persuasion engine this good can sell an impossibility as easily as a product, and Kern’s worst imitators learned only the hype. His career is not the story of a theorist. It is the story of a Georgia door-to-door salesman who hated rejection, discovered that the internet let him sell without facing it, got sued for the excesses of his first success, and then spent two decades proving that the old sales psychology had not been abolished by the internet but made measurable, scalable, and intimate. The man in the driveway took the seven pounds of paperwork, and then he took the lesson, and then he sold the lesson too.<\/p>\n

Notes<\/p>\n

The driveway scene, the real estate class, the $47 bundle, the reprint rights, and the telemarketers impersonating him come from Kern’s own first-person account, \u201cFrank Kern FTC: What it’s like to be sued by the FTC<\/a>,\u201d on his Mass Control<\/i> blog, mirrored here<\/a>. Note this is Kern’s version, told with his usual charm; I flagged it as his account in the text. The truck color, golf shirt, and seven pounds of paperwork are his details, not extrapolations.<\/p>\n

FTC case page<\/a> with the stipulated final judgment PDF. The 2006 FTC press release<\/a> has the $247,000, the $634,222 avalanche clause, and the 13.8 billion sales \/ twice the earth’s population arithmetic. Contemporary press coverage: PCWorld<\/i><\/a>.<\/p>\n

Trailer in Milledgeville, 1994 flood, $4.25 Greek restaurant job, peach crate table, credit card machine sales, Robbins<\/a> tapes from the stepfather, birth date of August 30, 1973, La Jolla, wife Natalia, four children: these circulate through secondary bio sites of uneven quality, including ArticleBio<\/a>, Markethink<\/a>, Everipedia<\/a>, and Medium<\/i><\/a>, and all trace back to Kern’s own storytelling. Worth a caveat if you want one; I kept \u201cby his own account\u201d doing that work. Note the EverybodyWiki Syndicate page, The Syndicate<\/i><\/a>, claims Kern used an inheritance to break into business and got his start at his grandfather’s car lot, contradicting the poverty narrative; it is weakly sourced, so I used only the cousin’s used-car lot detail from Kern’s own telling.<\/p>\n

The \u201clowest-scoring member of the team\u201d and hide-behind-a-computer origin story: Medium<\/i><\/a>.<\/p>\n

Underachiever Method<\/i> with Ed Dale<\/a>, Melbourne seminar, parrot and dog and Japanese gardening sites, Dean Rankin pen name, the launch trilogy, Annihilation<\/i>, StomperNet<\/i>, Pipeline Profits<\/i>, the \u201cmagic powers\u201d teaching, and the A-Team quote’s context: the Mass Control 2.0<\/i> course transcripts leaked online at PDFCoffee<\/a> and IDoc<\/a>. <\/p>\n

The Mass Control<\/i> buyer with the Amex card and the launch-day server failures: GoToGuy Enterprises<\/a> and Frank Kern’s Mass Control<\/i> Course Reviewed<\/a>. The blogger is a satisfied customer, which makes the \u201cglad he is so good at what he does\u201d line more revealing, not less.<\/p>\n

Robbins, The New Money Masters<\/i><\/a>, 2009, first edition featuring Kern, the $18 million in 24 hours introduction: the workbook text at DocSlide<\/a>; the product itself at Tony Robbins Store<\/a> and Amazon<\/a>. A YouTube version<\/a> of the interview advertises $23.8 million in 24 hours; the numbers vary across Kern’s own promotions, which is itself a data point.<\/p>\n

\u201cScamworld,\u201d<\/a> The Verge<\/i><\/a>, Joseph L. Flatley, May 10, 2012; full text mirrored here<\/a>. Andy Jenkins’s description of the Syndicate list, the boiler room material, and the A-Team\/B-Team affiliate breakdown are all in it. Salty Droid on Kern and the Scamworld<\/i> aftermath<\/a>. Kern’s Facebook response<\/a> on boiler rooms. The \u201cCriminal Confession\u201d video title is per The Verge<\/i>.<\/p>\n

The Warrior Forum commenter<\/a> describing the two note-takers in business shirts.<\/p>\n

Inner Circle<\/i>, Mass Conversion<\/i>, Kartra part-ownership, and the product roster: Marketers Blueprint<\/a>. The AI-era material, using AI for posts, emails, lead magnets, insisting it cannot replace strategy, comes from your draft and matches his current public content; his own site and YouTube channel are the primary sources if you want a link, and I did not find a single citable article that pins it down, so treat that paragraph as extrapolation from his marketing.<\/p>\n

Extrapolations without links, which I judged self-evident: the character of door-to-door sales work, rejection and doorsteps; the general economics of the launch era, traffic costs rising and buyer skepticism; the visual grammar of the relaxed-wealth persona; and the closing assessment, which is analysis rather than reporting. The Hopkins<\/a> \/ Ogilvy<\/a> \/ Halbert<\/a> \/ Kennedy<\/a> lineage is standard direct-response history and needs no citation.<\/p>\n

Frank Kern and the Hero System He Sells by the Seat
\nErnest Becker (1924-1974) argued that a man cannot live with the knowledge of his own death, so his culture hands him a hero system, a set of roles and values through which he can feel of lasting worth, a contributor to something that does not die. Most men inherit their hero system and never see it. Frank Kern manufactures them, prices them at $1,997, and ships them with video tutorials. That makes him a different kind of subject. The question with most men is which hero system they serve. The question with Kern is what happens to a man whose hero system is the retailing of hero systems, who teaches students to build a character with a backstory and magic powers, and who therefore knows the costume is a costume while wearing one himself.
\nStart with the two terrors, because everything in the Kern operation runs backward from them.
\nThe first terror has an address: a doorstep in Macon, Georgia. Kern rated himself the weakest social performer on a team selling credit card machines door to door, and he has described the daily rejection as the thing he could not bear. A door is an honest instrument. It opens on a man’s face and it shuts on it, and the shutting is personal. Becker calls this the terror of insignificance, the creature’s fear that he does not count, delivered in Kern’s case in retail quantities, one refusal at a time, by strangers in Georgia who looked at him and said no. His founding insight was an escape route: sit behind a computer, hide all day, sell to thousands, and let the refusals arrive as unopened emails, which do not have faces. The entire architecture of internet marketing that Kern helped build, the sequence, the autoresponder, the tracked click, can be read as machinery for harvesting acceptance while quarantining rejection. The buyer who ignores the video never gets to watch Kern’s face fall. Behavioral Dynamic Response is, among other things, a system that ensures no human being ever again says no to Frank Kern directly.
\nThe second terror has a floor: plywood, in a single-wide trailer in Milledgeville, after the 1994 flood took what he owned. A mattress on the floor. A peach crate for a table. Four dollars and twenty-five cents an hour at a Greek fast-food counter. Whether every detail is exact matters less than that Kern has told the story for twenty years, because the telling is the point. The trailer is his memento mori, the reminder that a man can be erased by water and poverty without anyone noticing, and his career since is one long act of distance-making from that floor. The house in La Jolla is not shelter. It is altitude.
\nNow the subtraction. Take away the launches and their records. Take away the Robbins consecration, the surfer hair, the Inner Circle, the Kartra equity, the seminar stages, the four children in the good school district, the ocean out the window. What remains is a Georgia salesman who could not take another slammed door and who discovered that a screen would take the slamming for him. Every layer Kern added afterward is armor over that man, and the armor is unusually honest about being armor, which is the strangest thing about him. He tells the trailer story himself. He tells the FTC story himself. He converted his own process server into content: the man in the white golf shirt, the burgundy Ford Ranger, the seven pounds of paperwork, “Are you Frank Kern?” “Yes.” “This is for you.” A weaker operator buries the wound. Kern learned that a displayed wound outsells a hidden one, because the audience wants a hero who has been to the floor and returned. He turned his mortality reminder into his origin myth, which Becker would recognize as the oldest move in the heroic repertoire: the descent, then the resurrection, then the teaching.
\nHis sacred values are three: Freedom, Proof, and Leverage. Each looks like a common English word. Each is a term of art inside his hero system, and the same word means something else entirely one hero system over.
\nTake Freedom. In Kern’s system, freedom means never again standing on the doorstep. It means income arriving while he surfs, the calendar empty of bosses, the body in California and the money in motion. Freedom is the absence of the face that can refuse you. Walk the word next door and it changes species. For the career infantry officer, freedom is what his constraint purchases for other people; he is least free so that the civilian may be careless, and Kern’s version looks to him like desertion with a tan. For the Carmelite sister, freedom is the cell itself; she subtracted the market, the audience, and the metrics on purpose, and a man who checks his conversion rates from the beach is to her a prisoner checking his bars. For the Nigerian anesthesiologist who carried her family’s hopes through two immigration systems and a residency, freedom is the license on the wall, credentialed, examined, revocable, the opposite of Kern’s unaccredited sovereignty; his freedom looks to her like a man who skipped the exam and kept the title. For the Teamsters shop steward, freedom is the contract, the grievance procedure, the thing the weak built together so the strong could not pick them off one at a time, and Kern’s one-man empire is to him not freedom at all but the boss’s dream wearing board shorts: no colleagues, no solidarity, nobody to strike with. Same word. Four hero systems. Four different immortality projects, each certain the others have misread the term.
\nTake Proof. In Kern’s system, proof is the bank statement, the income screenshot, the launch total, the leaderboard. Response is the only honest judge; the market cannot be flattered; money is the one testimonial that cannot lie. This is his deepest article of faith and the one the FTC arithmetic wounded, since the Commission demonstrated that his proof implied more buyers than the earth has people. Cross into other systems and proof transforms. For the bench chemist, proof is replication by a stranger who wants you to be wrong; a screenshot is an anecdote, and an anecdote from a salesman is less than nothing. For the Pentecostal pastor in Rio, proof is the changed life, the addict clean, the marriage rebuilt, and money as evidence of grace strikes him as the heresy his movement is forever accused of and forever flirting with. For the appellate litigator, proof is what survives cross-examination under rules of evidence written by the adversary, and Kern’s proof, self-published, self-selected, disclaimed in eight-point type, is precisely the category her profession exists to exclude. For the Icelandic cod fisherman, proof is the catch, weighed on a scale he does not own, in a season he does not control; nature audits him, and no funnel can adjust nature’s follow-up sequence. Each of them would look at Kern’s sacred number and see no proof at all. Kern would look at each of theirs and note, correctly, that none of it closes.
\nTake Leverage. In Kern’s system, leverage is the multiplication of the self: one email touches a hundred thousand men, one video sells while he sleeps, one launch pays for a decade. Leverage is how a man who could not survive one doorstep now addresses a stadium of doorsteps simultaneously with none of them able to shut. Elsewhere the word curdles. For the Suzuki violin teacher, there is no leverage; the fortieth student takes what the first student took, an hour of her attention, and the impossibility of scale is what makes the work honorable. For the hospice nurse, leverage is the thing her vocation refuses; you cannot automate a hand held at four in the morning, and a man whose relationships are all one-to-many has, on her ledger, no relationships. For the quant at the hedge fund, leverage is a borrowing ratio with a margin call attached, a number that ruins you at speed, and he finds Kern’s usage sentimental, leverage without a lender, upside without the visit from the risk desk. For the Bedouin elder, leverage is kinship, the cousins who show up armed, and a list of email subscribers who have never eaten with you is not leverage but noise. The subscribers, notably, agree with the elder more than they know; when the boiler rooms called them, no cousins came.
\nHere the essay has to do something the previous ten did not, because Kern’s case demands it. He is not merely a man inside a hero system. He is a hero-system wholesaler, and his product line is the thing Becker said cultures produce. Mass Control taught students to construct a character, select a backstory, name their magic powers, and stage a resurrection arc for commercial deployment. This is Becker’s theory converted into a syllabus. The launch sequence is a liturgy: the anticipation, the free offering, the testimony of the transformed, the deadline that functions as a memento mori (the cart closes, all carts close), the purchase as conversion moment. What the buyer purchases, sitting in his living room with the American Express card and the voice in his head saying sucker, is not information. It is a transfer between hero systems: out of the cubicle system, where his worth is set by a manager, into the operator system, where his worth will be set by response. The twinge of fear he reported is exactly what conversion costs. He is betting his old immortality project on a new one, and the new one arrives with Kern’s face on it.
\nAnd the industry’s tragedy, visible from the A-Team arithmetic, is that the hero system Kern sells works mainly for its priests. Seven affiliates produced ninety percent of one launch’s sales; four hundred others split the remainder while supplying the congregation. The B-Team buys heroism by the seat, and the seats face the stage.
\nSo what does Kern know about himself? More than almost any subject in this series, and the knowledge has a hole in the middle. He knows the costume is a costume; he teaches costume design. He knows the story is a story; he sells story templates. He named his FTC case, named his trailer, named the trick of naming things, and this candor is itself a persuasion technique he could diagram on a whiteboard. What he shows no sign of seeing is that his own deepest belief, that response is the honest judge, that the close is the truth test, is not the exit from illusion but simply his tribe’s illusion, the seller’s hero system, no less arbitrary than the chemist’s replication or the pastor’s changed life, and considerably worse at answering the question it was built to suppress. A man can know every gear in the machine and still not ask why he cannot stop cranking it. Kern retired rich years ago by any sane accounting and keeps launching, keeps teaching, keeps the leaderboard lit, because the alternative is silence, and in silence a man can hear water rising in Macon.
\nHe stands where the mail-order tradition met the internet and became intimate, a Georgia door-knocker who built the world’s largest apparatus for being told yes. What he risks now is not poverty but audit, the possibility that the metric he made sacred will someday be read against him the way the FTC read it in 2003, arithmetic against faith. And the death he is outrunning has never changed addresses: it waits on a doorstep in Macon, in the pause after the knock, in the two seconds when the door might open on a face that says no, and every funnel he has ever built is a corridor leading away from that door, lined with screens, each one glowing yes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Frank Kern (b. 1973) stood in the driveway of his house in Macon, Georgia, talking on the phone. A man in a white golf shirt climbed out of a burgundy Ford Ranger pickup, walked up to him, and asked, “Are … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[42870],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-197686","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-self-help"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t