Word: camped
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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Maybe every campaign needs a mystery consultant, a mad genius who can turn a candidate into something bigger than himself. Inside the Gore camp, that role seems to have fallen to Naomi Wolf, feminist, best-selling author and outspoken advocate of female sexual power, who has quietly emerged as one of the most curious forces inside the ever more curious Gore operation. Just exactly what Wolf does remains a puzzle even to many inside the campaign. But whatever it is, someone must think it is worth a lot. Sources tell TIME that since Gore 2000 set up shop in January...
EDITOR'S NOTE: TIME Daily writer Frank Pellegrini, at a ripe 27 years, has taken a leave of absence to join the Army Reserve. He is currently undergoing basic training - boot camp - and then will spend several months in an Army journalism school. Given the difficulty the armed forces are experiencing in recruiting qualified young people these days, we think his experiences and impressions are worth sharing. His dispatches, some handwritten and snail-mailed (Internet cafes are evidently not part of the standard equipment at basic training), are arriving irregularly. Here is the first, and others will be posted...
...Three sets of underwear (white). Six pairs of white socks (no color bands, designs or logos). What was this, summer camp? Or just a hopelessly big bureaucracy trying to trim costs? The last few days bespoke a lot of the latter. My recruiting station says MEPS (I still don't know what that stands for) has lost my FS-86, a meticulous accounting of my history and friends that took me weeks to complete. (I do a short version - the last three years - in 20 minutes.) My future base in Flushing tells me they haven't heard from my recruiter...
...doing this for the money, for the exercise, for the adventure of it, but also because I want some of what my father and my uncle and my boss and Bob Dole get to look back on when they're 64: military days. I'm going to boot camp at the same spot where my dad went less willingly: Fort Jackson, in South Carolina. I hear the whole place is built on sand. Dad, who shares absolutely none of my excitement about this, has a story about a fellow grunt who thought he was Napoleon, was always standing...
...gonna be summer camp. PT (physical training) will still nearly kill me, and the verbal abuse just might finish the job. Smoking, by the way, is not allowed. (That's a new one for Army life, but good - getting the Camel off my back is part of what I volunteered for.) Nine weeks from now I'll be what John Candy signed up to be - a lean, mean, fighting machine - unless they've dropped that part of it too, along with the free socks. Some things never change, though: I leave the home front tear-stained, and with orders...