Ridicule, The Final Frontier For The Ladies Of Blue Origin
M.D. Kittle
When I was a kid, I got to take a tour of the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Fla. Enterprise, NASA’s first space shuttle orbiter, had arrived at the complex earlier that year. My parents got me a 7-inch cast-iron space shuttle with wheels. It was the coolest thing I had seen in my seven years on earth, and I had watched my older brother and his reform school friends construct some pretty awesome backyard forts.
I knew in that humid Florida moment what I wanted to be: An astronaut. The Star Wars franchise of the late 1970s and early ‘80s sealed the deal for me. I begged my parents to send me to Space Camp in Huntsville, Ala. I got a cherry red, Free Spirit FS100 dirt bike instead.
My astronaut dreams dissipated during my junior high years, disappearing altogether when a teacher informed me that an interest and actual skills in advanced math and sciences would likely be required for a career at NASA. Journalism was my FS100.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have given up on my astronaut dreams so fast. This week we learned that literally any moron can be shot into space. You just need to be famous, or quasi-famous. Maybe a dimwitted pop star or an AARP-carrying co-host of a low-ratings network news morning show. It helps if you know a billionaire or, better yet, if you’re sleeping with a billionaire.
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https://thefederalist.com/2025/04/18/ridicule-is-the-final-frontier-for-the-ladies-of-blue-origin/
