military service

Yesterday I thought Don’t Ask Don’t Tell had died when I saw a rainbow flag flying over the National Guard Armory on 16th Street, a brick fortress big enough for tank maneuvers. Then I remembered the building had been sold to a company making adult films. I guess the flag meant that they’d moved beyond drunken heiresses raped by their big dicked chauffeurs to include men sliding their dicks into other men’s greasy holes. Pornography is big business and the better parts are moving out of the San Fernando Valley to a San Francisco neighborhood where more and more gay men and lesbians are living. If I hear about a call for extras I’ll post it here.
Some gay men and lesbians want to serve in the military and they should get to do that. IN 1968 I had two options. I could check the box and say I’m queer which I wasn’t able to admit or be sent to Viet Nam where I could have by balls shot off in some rice paddy. I opted out by signing up for the Peace Corps building houses and handing out surplus American food in Santiago, Chile. I made friends with socialists, saw American movies six months late and learned how to make ceviche and empanadas. The draft system was so fucked that by the time I got a Presidential pardon I was already 28. The irony is that it was a pardon from President Nixon, not something you want on your resume but he let me spend my 28th year in Chile with my wife and my son was conceived there. I didn’t go back to Wisconsin and ended up moving to San Francisco, so in a weird way Nixon sent me home, and it’s reassuring to know the historic Moorish Revival armory building made of gorgeous clinker bricks that once housed tanks and guns is now safely in good hands.

About Chuck

Ivy education, long-time San Franciscan with two dogs and two homes. Have traveled most of the world and spend my days writing.

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