Heat Tile Of My Heart [Feb 3, 2003]

I remember the first Space Shuttle disaster. It was 1981, or maybe 1982, right after the President got shot, and I thought that my innocence would never recover. The night after it happened, I sat at home and hugged my dog, my cat, and my teddy bear, and also my stuffed Spiderman. On TV were the wispy images of smoke and the shocked gasp of a nation in mourning.

"Dad," I said to my dad, "why do our heroes always fall?"

"Huh?" he said.

"When I grow up I want to be an astronaut and serve my country."

"Shut up!" said my dad. "You're never going to be a goddamn astronaut!"

At the time, I found his words a little harsh. But in retrospect, I can say that he was right. I'm not an astronaut. I never even really tried to become one. Maybe dad knew something I didn't: that NASA was already in decline, and that someday they would send a group of eminent scientists and top-notch pilots riding into space aboard a tin rustbucket held together by bows and cheap glue. Creator of the stars, my ass. How many cars from 1983 do you see driving around these days? A good mechanic trumps a barely-disguised Jesus metaphor every time.

The government needs to commit itself to building a new super-spacecraft that will be at the leading edge of flight, with the ability to harness the power of comets and detect terrorists with pinpoint lasers. It must also contain up-to-date home entertainment technology, like flat-screen high-definition television and interactive sex robots. Speaking of, don't you think it's about time that our space vehicles began to resemble penises again?

Forget national health care! Down with unemployment insurance! Onward and upward into the farthest reaches of space! For if we can dream of the stars, perhaps someday we can harness their energy to cure disease or build a very destructive nuclear pre-emption device. May the Star-Creator, bringer of hope to us all, bless these United States of America. Good night.