Fun on base

The Institute depends
(clicketty clacking before dawn)
On Uncle Ken

Is that a complaint or merely a critical observation?  Please don't take it personally when the posts to this forum don't meet your perceived schedule of frequency, but this has been discussed before.

One of the pitfalls of modern life is that we have become habituated to immediate communication and responses; we want everything now and don't allow ourselves the luxury of contemplative thought.  I was enjoying the discussions around Uncle Ken's pal Steve and the trip down army memory lane I share with Mr. Beagles but then current affairs reared it's ugly head and all I can think of is "meh!"  Back to the same old shit and I am not inclined to give it much thought any more as it seems a waste of my time except as entertainment value; part comedy, part horror show, and both beyond my control.

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When Mr. Beagles mentioned the way that he was classified 1-A by the Alaska Draft Board I immediately thought of Trump and his excuse of bone spurs to the New York Draft Board.  All Draft Boards were local, I think, and had their own quotas and methods of meeting them.  I can imagine the Alaska folks looking at Mr. Beagles draft status and saying, "This guy was born in Illinois, screw him!"  Likewise the New York folks might be thinking, "Hey, I know this kid's father and bone spurs sound like a grievous medical condition to me; deferment granted!"

Bone spurs still sound like a weak excuse to me but what flies in New York doesn't fly in Texas, which has it's own standards for deferment.  When I was stationed in Alabama I worked with a guy from Texas who was drafted at age 26, kind of late but they must have been getting desperate.  I may have told this story before and if so, I apologize.  Anyhow, this guy was a true Texan, first name was Houston, a highly ranked rodeo rider in his teenage years and had the steel pins in his legs to prove it.  As a schoolteacher and a parent with a couple of small children he could have been deferred even if the pins in his legs wasn't enough to disqualify him for military service, but no such luck.  He still got drafted into the army but was exempt from any "prolonged marching, standing, or sitting," which covers an awful lot of ground.  But he knew how to work and tool leather, so that's what he did, teaching that craft in the army Special Services division on base.  Most civilians have no idea of Special Services, the cushiest jobs in the army.  Some guys were lifeguards at the swimming pool on base, other guys worked at the golf course (I bet Uncle Ken didn't know a lot of military bases had golf courses), and there were a lot more non-military jobs like teaching photography or ceramics.  I was in charge of the painting studio but there was little interest in it at the time so I spent most of my working hours goofing off.  Most of the folks that did show up weren't military though, they were military dependents, which included wives and daughters.   Hubba, hubba, if you get my drift.  I will neither confirm nor deny any allegations at this late date.

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Had a slight nicotine relapse the other day, dammit.  I used to roll my own with Bugler (Blue) tobacco, and instead of tossing the butts on the ground I put them in a pocket for proper disposal at a later time.  Any half-smoked cigarettes went in the same pocket and that's what I found in a rain jacket, a stale, half-smoked cigarette and I couldn't resist.  I fired it up and it was both disgusting and heavenly, so now I am quite conflicted but have been able to resist any further temptation for a fresh pouch of Bugler Blue.  There's a certain irony at play here.  When I was smoking I never gave smoking any thought, I just did it without thinking.  But having quit, smoking is all I think about and I don't know which is worse, the physical or mental toll.  At least I can take comfort in the fact that the fingernail on my index finger is no longer tobacco-stained in that sickly shade of yellow.