Do Tell

I was a draft dodger back in 1969. I'd do it again.

In late 1969 I got a letter from the U.S. Government telling me I was to be part of the Army. I knew that in 1968 over twelve hundred U.S. Troops were being killed per month, and in 1969 over a thousand a month. I wasn't going to be part of that. The Vietnamese had not invaded the United States, nor attacked us in anyway. And if you look at what happened after the U.S. withdrew, it makes you wonder what the hell it was all about. Vietnam is now a peaceful country, and the rest of Southeast Asia did not fall like a row of dominoes as LBJ, and Nixon said they would.

I arrived at the draft board induction center on Van Buren Street in Chicago with a bunch of fellow inductees from the south suburbs. We were ushered into a large room where some guy started going on about what was what. At one point he asked if anybody was for the overthrow of the government. I raised my hand. He looked away. Then he asked if anybody had ever been associated with any anti-American groups. He started reading off a list of those groups, and when he said 'Women Against the War' I raised my hand. You see I had bought some Christmas cards from them the year earlier. "War is not healthy for children and other living things" was their slogan. Again, I was ignored. When it came time for my hearing test I did not respond to any of the sounds in my ear. I passed. When I took the eye exam, I would read the first line and then feign blindness. I passed. It was late in the day and I was getting to the end of the induction physical. I needed to do something or by Christmas I'd be in a rice paddy trying to figure out how to shoot somebody.
"Excuse me sir. What about if I like boys? You know, queer."
It wouldn't be hard to convince these guys, because it was true.
I was immediately ushered off to see a psychiatrist.
"What kind of sex do you have? Where do you go to find it? How many times?" Stupid questions, that I had answers for. Turned out that the United States did not want me after all.
At the last station I turned in my stack of papers to a guy behind a counter.
"Faggot, you got out but you'll never get a good job." He told me.
Thirteen years later I was working in the Great Lakes Naval Base computer room. It was a pretty good job.

I bring all this up because on Friday evening I walked into my favorite gay bar, and it was full of sailors, United States Sailors, in uniform. It was fleet week here in Fort Lauderdale, and because of President Obama none of these American service men and women had to hide from who they are. I was very proud to see them there. The only problem I see is if we ever have another illegal, immoral war, and the government institutes the draft again, how the hell would you get out of that? I guess you'd have to go on Facebook and call the president a jackass

Photo Friday; Melanzana

After fifteen years Mark has finally produced a really good garden.

He has kept it weeded, and watered. Now the tomatoes are almost six feet tall, 

and the garden has produced exactly one tomato, and one Chinese eggplant.

 

Video Thursday; And it was a good run too.

Wait for it, wait for it...

I Rave About Special K

As a kid, I was a cereal hound. I ate cereal every single day for breakfast, except for those rare occasions when dad would bring home donuts from Klepper's Bakery. Then I was a Boston Cream filled Bismarck hound. When it came to the cereal, I liked rice puffs. They were kind of fun to eat even though they tasted like paper. You did have to pour at least a half cup of sugar on top of them to keep them from floating out of the bowl though. Wheat Chex were also on the breakfast list but also required a ton of sugar. Not because they floated, but because they taste like cardboard. Then there was Frosted Flakes. They were perfect, didn't float, didn't taste like crap, and needed very little sugar added.

I got away from cereal in my adult years, but recently Mark has been buying it again. Usually whatever is on sale. My favorites now are Honey Nut Cheerios, and anything with fruit in it. This week Mark brought home a new one for me, Special K. I don't know what the hell Special K is. It doesn't tell you in the name other than it's special. Turns out this Special K that Mark brought home is special because it has red berries in it. Not blueberries, not strawberries, not raspberries, but something called red berries. Little red disks, that when milk is added to the cereal, turn into slimy mush. I've found that if I put enough sugar on them though, they are almost palatable.

Curb Your Yourself

I'm sitting in the living room watching television at three in the morning because Mark ate supermarket deli fried chicken, half a bag of Milano Raspberry cookies, and drank a strawberry/banana smoothie before going to bed. I know, only half a bag of Milano cookies, I'd have finished that thing off easily. Anyway, he's in the bedroom moaning with his gut churning away, and gassing the place out, so I opted for the television in the living room. I flip through the channels and there's not much to choose from. Very early morning television is even more of a vast waste land than usual. There is nothing on except infomercials about mops, abs, and diets, so I downloaded three 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' episodes. 'Curb' has been on HBO for many years apparently, but I just discovered it two years ago. I love the show, however it seems that I might just love it for the wrong reasons. From what I see, Larry David is supposed to be an uncaring, and selfish person. My problem is that I identify with Larry David. I can see where he's coming from. Sometimes people in wheelchairs are assholes (season 4 episode 1). Sometimes I say the wrong things out loud just like Larry David, but that doesn't mean they're not true.
Anyway, after two hours of Curb Your Enthusiasm I went back into the bedroom. The air had cleared, so I shoved the dogs aside, climbed into bed, blew a fart, and fell asleep.

Going Postal Part II

You can read my original post by clicking here, but in a nutshell this is the story. I needed a second mailbox on my building for my tenants, who apparently have deep dark secrets that would be exposed if I were to rummage through their mail. So I bought a new mail box and while I was putting it up the mailman came by.
 "No! You can't do that. You need permission."
So after four calls to the post office to obtain permission, I finally got frustrated and contacted the United States Postal Service, Customer Service, via email. What I did was copy and paste my little blog post, and send it off without any other explanation. What that got me in return is a call from a very irate lady named Joanne who wanted to know exactly what I said to her manager. I started to repeat my plea for two mail boxes, and that the guy on the phone had said Donna would call me. She stopped me, "Oh I know all about that. Donna's sick. I want to know what you said to Leroy, my boss."
She said this in a demanding and accusatory voice. Joanne was angry.

The fact is that I already have figured out what it is that my tenant didn't want me to find out. It isn't anything I haven't seen before, and I really don't care. So I think I will keep just one mail box. No sense in antagonizing Joanne. After all, going postal is more than just a saying. It has basis in fact.

Photo Friday; Peggy's Birthday

Happy Birthday Sis.