Bless me, blog readers, for I’ve done sinned. And I deserve to forfeit my military ID card.
It begins the beguine this way every time, with weensy transgressions. Friday’ll roll around with its usual hallo Sailor. And I’ll be facedown, stone cold, sprawling the Miramar brig like an octopus. A penny pressed to my forehead and an invisible elf striking my head with a pickaxe.
This beguine began with a herd of birds, on my usual drive home, up San Diego’s 15 freeway. And from the cozy confines of m’coupe, I saw me a flock of fowl. Black and majestic. In perfect formation. And they all turned together. A buncha robots. Equal distance apart, some smarter feller might mutter equidistant. The bizarre thing? Every single driver ’rounds me slowed to gawk ’em. A pack, a division, a flock of blackbirds. Us and them roosters.
I drove closer, the birds flew closer. Everyone’s closer. Like a Christmas hugging contest. With a sudden screw-this, they broke formation. And I saw they’s not birds. But those BLUE ANGELS! They were in town. And I’d been had. What kinda Sailor was I anyway?
I felt sheepish. So much so I shoulda been drivin’ a Dodge Ram. I slid down in my car seat. Feeling sheeply this way brought out my inner, and outer, vulnerability. (Hold me.) Like someone was gonna run clippers over m’soul. And call me shorn ‘enuff. I would deserve that there shearing. And then the shearer would knit a sweater (size extra-tiny) out of my meager body/eyebrow/brain hair. Wait, jes’ hold up, can you even shave a hairbrain?
It’s like I just spent the weekend in the Miramar Brig. Only figuratively though. Not literally. I hadda eat some serious crow with this here post. Those Blue Angels’re something else. I should know, I’ve seen ’em everywhere. One even jumped on my lunch table and stole a french fry from me today! Fighter jocks. . .