Five years ago, helicopters hovered over my neighborhood for a week, night and day. At first, they were a novelty, of interest to me because of my love of flying and flight technology.

Then, they became a signpost in the sky – I could find whatever absurd police/protester/neighborhood interaction was taking place by looking for the choppers.

Finally, after, oh, about five or so days of the increasingly oppressive noise, I began to wish that the whirlybirds would just go away.

I took to raising my arm, sighting down it, and pretending that I was firing a gun at the damnable things. I joked about it, but in my secret heart, I wished that my arm was a firearm.