Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Daily Kvetch
OK, so as I'm working, the Blue Angels—those shimmering, dazzling reminders of the beauty of the machinery of world domination—are screaming overhead "rehearsing" for the big air show tomorrow. (C-Baby: "They're supposedly practicing, but everybody can see them—I mean it's not like they're behind a curtain or something.") I try to think of them as descendents of the old barnstorming daredevil pilots of the early days of flight, but somehow that point of view has been ousted ever since screaming flying things hurtling over cities became a little bit more nerve-wracking a few years ago. And even after I've reminded myself that it's just an air show, I still get a a little queasy every time they roar by. Last year, as they were rattling the windows of my apartment while I was on the phone with old buddy Clare-bear, he was talking about the inappropriateness of warplanes showing off their military might over civilian cities while essentially the same planes were busy raining down destruction over Afghanistan, etc. "But these are just showplanes," I said. "There're no bombs on them."

"Yeah," he replied, "That's what they want you to think."

More realistically, consider C-Baby's thought: "I just keep wondering how much this is costing me." Not more than the yearly salary of a few dozen teachers, probably.* (I know, this hardly sounds like the words of someone who went to Space Camp, but I guess I lost the air and space bug when I found out that astronauts have to do a lot of math.)

*According to the Navy's website above, the team uses approximately 3.1 million gallons of airplane fuel per year. I'm sure they get a good deal on it, though.