Juliet Bravo, over
August 6, 2010
It’s like a welcome mat, only made out of awesome. The U.S.S. Barry lives outside; the Trieste (WHICH TOUCHED THE BOTTOM OF THE DEEPEST DARKEST OCEAN) and Alvin (SIMILARLY COOL) are inside. Planes hang from the ceiling. Bombs line the floor. There are cannonballs, and mannequins of men wearing very, very silly pants. (Back in the day, officers wore ruffles and more gold brocade than Michael Jackson!)
Ahoy, there, fighting top of the U.S.F. Constitution. And Pirate Silly Outfit there, or whatever era yeoman thought those horizontal stripes were a good look, and not just cheap shirts fleeing the French Revolution.
Did I mention the guns? There are many guns. Countless, countless guns. This is rather disconcerting because the most popular exhibits are the gunseats, wherein you can sit in a seat attached to a gun, press buttons, swirl the thing, etc. This is immensely fun. The whole museum is full of BUTTONS and you can basically play with them for hours and hours. Or you could, if you were five. Or an intern. Ahem. This becomes mildly more creepy when the mini-marines, who are in fact children, only wearing mini-marine camouflage, clamber over the submarine weaponry. (Though I suppose a troupe of mini-marines fully grown to, say, Pug size, would be even more terrifying?)
Number of times I read about flogging a day: approximately 4959. Number of men in uniform: routinely a baker’s dozen; more on Ceremonial Cannon Firing Events. (If I were really in the Navy, this post could be written entirely in acronyms, but I believe in the power of vowels, and the subjunctive.) My Metro-given calves appreciate the waterfront walks, after recovery from the third broken escalator of the day. Today no one said anything about the Romans. It was actually a bit lonely.
