It’s said that life is like a roller coaster, baby baby. Ups and downs, and a little crying and a little throwing up. I’ll make a less-educated guess that the proper metaphor for The Grandee Army of The Republic is found on the other side of the Galactical Fun Park, right next to the scary-ass waterslides.
The short answer to the long statement is thus: I got another one of the “more problems” promotions. Whereas before I was busy defending the Troop from the Red Tape Hordes, now I’m working on the Squadron level. It’s roughly the equivalent of just-barely getting the hang of city politics, then pissing off enough people to get thrown into the State arena. There’s a lot of blood up here.
The glamorous answer to the long statement is this: we Staffers bust our assess on the Science of War. Troop movements, cross-Battalion coordination, cutting orders, developing graphics, you know – all the
sexy shit they show in Hollywood.
Anyway, we rock the science of war so the Squadron Commander can rock the art of warfare – who to flank and when, whereabouts to feint, and the rest of the fun shit. It’s usually uglier than an albino tiger, but sometimes – and only sometimes – it’s fun as all hades.
Enough to make a man proud of his profession.
The good news is that I finally swam the goddamn Rio. It’s been a goal of mine since I hit the Republic. The EPT was founded, in part, because that’s the point where the Grande stops heading south and starts heading east, towards the gulf. And so I cleverly avoided the worst of the industrial pollution by crossing up in the New Mexico area – about a half hour drive (15 in my batmobile).
Here’s the proof:
contemplating the deeper meaning of life
rocking the deeper meaning of life
conquering the deeper
the end of the deeper