People come out to the lakefill to watch the Blue Angels fly over our city—a nauseating extension of the military metaphors by which we are grievously captured: a salute to the “warriors” on the “front lines” by fighter jets reproducing the terror of aerial bombardment as thrill in a population that has never known such terror. Or perhaps we are merely resignedly curious, out to see the spectacle of powerless power for ourselves, as we’d gather to watch a piñata of the president beaten to pieces. The fuckers fly by in formation, their roar a beat behind their idiot beaks.