Fleet Week in San Francisco Sucks. Birds are Way Cooler. And Quieter.

It’s Fleet Week in San Francisco, when the Blue Angels spend a week strafing The City by the bay with every destructive tool in their arsenal. (Well, except bullets and stuff.)

I hate Fleet Week.

It’s an event that polarizes the area. Some say it’s beautiful, the way the jets simulate bombing runs over downtown, shooting way up into the air while burning thousands of dollars of jet fuel and hundreds of liters of protective ozone every minute.

Others note that the cataclysm of noise is in the middle of our annual hawk migration. Every year, thousands of young birds of prey have no other choice but to test their wings over the Golden Gate between September and November. Woe betide those that choose this week to try to make it across: the jets own the skies at the moment, leaving confused, cold, and hungry raptors grounded and unable to continue south.

So I’ve always hated Fleet Week and the Blue Angels. I really don’t need to know what it sounds like to be under attack. And the virtuosity of pilots pales in comparison with the beauty of birdflight. Let the ships sail into the bay, but the planes should be out in the desert somewhere. You can go watch ’em if you want.

If anything, my hatred for Fleet Week has only intensified since Boobaby came along. Our playground has enough incidental noise from sirens; today, the massive jet engines overhead interrupted our play dozens of times. And naptime? What a joke. The planes fly so low that the windowpanes rattle, and we get a week of sleepy baby.

The only possible recompense is that the shows draw lots of tourists to San Francisco, who forget what we’re famous for and have to buy a lot of sweatshirts. It’s not enough: we need to cancel the jets and line up some convention that’s less offensive, like maybe the International Confederation of Cat-Abusing Porn Star Mimes.