Blue Angels and the Bad Timing Award
When I was a kid, my mother occasionally took us to some military base in Alabama to watch the Blue Angels perform. It was always exciting, because, well, there wasn’t a whole lot to do in Mobile, Alabama. But now I’m all grown up, not to mention there’s a war on, and I feel less enthusiastic about this noisy display of military prowess. I’m using a friend’s house on Alamo Square today–book deadline looms, sitter is at my house with the youngun–and I’d just settled in with a cup of coffee and my laptop on their comfy leather sofa, happy to hear the rain on the windows, watching the dog-walkers get wet in the park–when something seemed to rip a hole in the sky. Having grown up in the Bible Belt, I was bred on the Apocolypse. These planes make a noise akin to something the fire-and-brimstone preachers of my youth promised on the day of reckoning. Which is to say the Blue Angels are unpleasant. Anachronistic. Fun for toddlers, I suppose, but not exactly my thing. Sorry, mama, but it’s true.