Our fallen child of space

Oh, what of our beloved astronauts? Once engraved in our great American consciousness as individuals greater than our selves—because, well they are. I guess they have always had that “edge” being both reckless adventurers and embracer of claustrophobic spaces, while chasing after the speed of sound , or orbiting the Earth all alone just to prove we are greater than a Russian dog.

Always our well groomed nerds; capable of solving the Rubiks Cube blindfolded with one hand while reciting a hundred and eight numbers of PI backwards as if the numbers were as sacred as the names of Ganesh. And let’s not forget those underground outer space experiments of psychic energy. Which gave all hope of a greater age.

Sure our money in the late 50’s and 60’s went to technology driven education instead of defending the Bible’s notion of evolution. Nor did it go towards America’s poor and disenfranchised, who would never be given the chance of being great enough material for a Tom Wolfe novel.
But now one has fallen.

And what should we now make of the billions spent on creating these apostles of the infinite?
How dare this commander of multiple hemispheres race though the highways and coastal towns of Southern Florida on her escapade with nothing more than a BB gun, set of wigs, knives and latex gloves. But perhaps we should commend her on her focus. After all not just any one would wear "a diaper during the 14-hour drive so that she wouldn't have to stop for bathroom breaks.”—unless like her we were also wonderfully in love.

We can only hope her last luxury was a good old bottle of home brewed gin to guide her on that final quest. Crazier than a Rick James fantasy and slightly more interesting than a Hollywood romance, she has forever tarnished my image of astronauts…and all for love.
Idiot…