Reply #1: The Story of Seabag the Clown.

[evlbstrd]

edit:
Mabus made me do this. She threatened to instill into me a fear of clowns. Now I must explain why I'm immune.

In high school, I was an art and theatre geek. It was all that kept me in high school. In the end, I didn't graduate because a hernia bestowed upon me during the weightlifting segment of PhysEd left me unable to complete one half of a credit.The Coach, who is still a nazi football coach at a local private high school, offered to let me clean the locker room in lieu of physical participation for the half credit. He didn't believe I had said hernia, despite the documentation of the physician, who was at the time the head doctor for the Kansas City Chiefs. The fucker hated me and I hated him. I declined his offer.

So, I needed a GED.

Now, the war in Viet Nam had just ended. I had absolutely no college prospects. I had auditioned for, and been accepted by the Actors Studio. I had also won some fine art prizes. I couldn't afford to pursue either one. My family was in no position to help me. I decided that a stint in the military was my only option to get to a slightly better future. Much like the economic draft we now have. The difference is that there was no war and no real national stomach for one. That alone made it more safe, although the military is inherently not safe. I next decided that joining the Navy was the best option. In addition to no battle assignments, I wouldn't have to shoot at people or have them shoot at me. Join the Navy. See the World.

The Navy recruiters arranged for me to taked the GED exam, and I passed.

I took that last summer after high school off. Completely. My parents never complained. It was probably the best three months of my life. But that's another story.

In August of 1974, I was put on a bus and taken to Great Lakes Naval Training Center, where they removed my freak flag and did their best to make me into a good, compliant Sailor. I learned to get up way too fucking early (O Dark Thirty), march, fire weapons and put out fires. And fold my clothes in a very certain way. Then, with the USN's expert testing guiding the way, I was sent to Meridien, Mississippi for Naval Supply School. I was to be a Storekeeper. The Army calls it Quartermaster. All of the terminology is weird. And that's yet another story I won't tell just yet.

After Supply school, I got my first orders. I was hoping for some really exotic duty. Something tropical where you could buy cheap electronics. But, no.
My first assignment was for a year in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. It was not considered one of your plum duty stations. Guam and Diego Garcia rank lowest after Gitmo. And only because it's closer. Also, the U.S. didn't have illegal prisons there at the time. Or fast food joints.

Fine. At the very least, I figured I could still draw and paint. It wasn't a ship, after all.

Nope.

The barracks down there were arranged according to the department in which you worked. (The Hospital Corpsmen had the best shit.) I got the room with the two biggest jock neat freaks in the Supply Department. They were stars on one of the baseball teams on the base. They strongly objected to painting with oils in the room. And they didn't drink. I needed an outlet.

Turns out, Gitmo wasn't near as horrible as everyone made out. There were Walk-Up Movies. Like drive-ins, but with canvas chairs set up, a hamburger stand and beer. And there was a theatre group.

They were auditioning for the musical "The Fantasiks," one of the longest running shows on Broadway (and also starring Kevin McCarthy of original "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" fame). I tried out and got the role of Mortimer, the Man Who Dies. Let's just say there was much physical comedy involved. We played for two weeks to great success, while I took metric tons of shit from most of my erstwhile peers.

To be continued. It's late.