“The Blue Angels’ mission is to enhance Navy and Marine Corps recruiting efforts and to represent the naval service to the United States, its elected leadership and foreign nations. The Blue Angels serve as positive role models and goodwill ambassadors for the U. S. Navy and Marine Corps.”
Sitting in a dog park with a bunch of white people this weekend, I took some time to reflect upon the Blue Angels, life, and why my ears won’t stop ringing for the next three days.
As a little kid, my relationship with the military was limited to a fear of dying by bayonet attack while in a sleeping bag on Cub Scout camping trips and those terrifying commercials that looked like a game of BattleChess until the rooks turned into Marines and killed everyone with swords.
I was watching two little kids on Sunday, which is what I often do in the park when there aren’t any dogs around. This makes parents really uncomfortable and they usually move to another spot in the park, which is fine, because then someone else shows up and I forget I was being creepy. But, because this was a special day and everyone was picnicking because the Navy was going to simulate a high-casualty air strike above the city, the parents stayed put and allowed me to transfer my own thoughts onto their children and I started thinking that these kids probably hadn’t even seen those BattleChess ads. I doubted they even knew what BattleChess was unless there’s an iPhone app for it (there might be an iPhone app, but I haven’t checked because I could never win on the DOS version which was likely far less sophisticated than the release out now).
It was pretty unlikely that these kids were Cub Scouts either, because I’m not even sure they have Cub Scouts in SF and if they did, they wouldn’t meet in a Church and DEFINITELY wouldn’t get to play with knives which was the best part of Cub Scouts before I learned about bayonets. I resigned myself to the fact that the Blue Angels had found their ideal, uncorrupted audience with these little shits who suffered none of the military-related trauma I endured as a child.
After you watch gigantic death planes fly over your head for ten minutes, you start asking things like, “Why on earth do they do this ever year?” and “Why the hell are the Blue Angels not affiliated with the Air Force?” (this is a completely valid question and one I don’t ever expect to be answered). And my favorite of which, being “Man, Churchill had some ballsack to stand on top of the Treasury Building while the Nazi’s bombed the shit out of London”.
(Not actually a question).
But neither of these kids were bothered by the absurdity of planes belonging to a military branch inherently based in the water, and surely neither had the lung power to finish an entire cigar while running a country and watching bombers decimate your town and eardrums alike (still love you Winston). They just kept cheering. And not like how I cheer, secretly hoping for comical disaster, this was honest-to-goodness GO USA screaming. Their cries, barely audible due to the chronic tinnitus growing inside my skull, began to take hold in my brain. I no longer cared how much of the defense budget was allocated to these show-boating assholes. These guys were protecting us, at that very moment, from the darkness lurking in my very own neighborhood.
I subconsciously traced their Pacific Heights flight path from home to home, noticing a strange triangular pattern that began on Lyon Street, shielding the sun completely from Dianne Feinstein‘s windows. They turned up Broadway, flying so low the flowers wilted from the sound in Nancy Pelosi‘s back garden, and finally, completing their isosceles axis of evil, through Alta Plaza park where they nearly shook the solar panels from the bastions atop Sean Penn‘s seventh home.
axis of evil
They were telling me something, these Blue Angels, and I think I finally understood: God sends the military to San Francisco once a year to remind us that we’re assholes, and that even he can’t get Pelosi out of office.