It occurred to me some people

might think I was psycho back in 1980. If I was, I was in good company.

My friend Chuck, who was artistically bedeviled, painted an Easter bunny on a cross dripping blood and displayed it for all the supervision to behold.

This same Chuck (who was artistically inclined) was told on Friday by the Commanding Officer to beautify our barracks with a brand new coat of paint. Chuck painted a psychodelic choo-choo train which ran from the first floor all the way to the third floor. Very nice purple smoke puffs, Chuck. On Monday the Commander made him erase the entire train scene with solid "olive drab"...and never asked him to paint anything ever again. Chuck is now a social worker in Philadelphia. God save Philadelphia.

Then there was the "skeleton." Our First Sergeant inspected his room and discovered three feet of old pizza and hamburger left-overs. First Sergeant not happy. First Sergeant make Skeleton sleep in tent for two weeks. BUT the skeleton blew a fuse...ripped his own khaki shirt off popping every button...piff...poof...pzing. He then karate kicked the door to his room, broke his ankle and lay in the hallway sceaming and wailing until someone rescued him.

So don't think I was psycho. I was just trying to fit in.