Send A Christmas Card Into Space

I did something fun the other day: I sent the people on the International Space Station a cyberpostcard for Christmas.

It’s free, it’s easy, it’s a nice thing to do, so why don’t you have a go?

Click on the link:  http://www.nasa.gov/externalflash/postcard/

One thing puzzles me – I’m sending it through cyberspace, which, technically, doesn’t exist; into outer space, which is, I suppose, nothing.  Does that mean it will end up in the same place as the post that comes through my local sorting office i.e. nowhere?

Joke 190

Two astronauts who were dating put an end to it because they both needed their space.

Space: The Final Is Here

Image via Wikipedia

Tomorrow is the last Space Shuttle mission. Does this make you, happy, sad, or indifferent? Why?

Okay, it might not be tomorrow; it might already have happened because I’m writing this yesterday but in the future of the moment the prompt was given.  So it might be tomorrow, or not: Space Shuttles are notoriously unreliable.  I guess any plane that needs a parachute to land is going to have glitches, however, so I don’t hold that against them.

I am truly sad that the era of the Shuttle has come to an end.  We should be out there in space, doing stuff.*

*Bear with me: I’m an enthusiast but not so hot on the technical details.

Stuff is what we do: search out new lives and new civilisations.  Boldly go where no split infinitives have gone before. 

It started with the bloke who thought, ‘This village is all right but there must be more than just us out there,’ and went to see for himself, dragging his missus and kids along so there was always supper on the table and someone to haul the water. 

Having found he wasn’t alone in his universe and there was, in fact, another village over yonder (with his missus sighing, ‘It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it: they eat their bread butter side down.  I blame that Seuss fella’), he felt the urge to search out more villages, maybe one with a posh hotel and a shower: ‘Clean me up, snotty.  I’ve travelled five miles to get here.’

And so he (it’s always a he because paternalistic attitudes prevail even in these enlightened times when a woman can’t get elected President because she doesn’t cry and people don’t like it because she’s hard and then she does cry and people don’t like it because who wants a cry baby as leader of the free world?) conquers the villages he visits and moves on to the next.  On to towns, cities, shires, countries, new worlds across the sea, taking care not to fall off the edge on the way.

Finally, he thinks that space might be a good idea because those pesky communists wanted it first.  Illogical, yes, but great motivation.

In 1969 he makes one giant leap for mankind (have you tried walking daintily in those huge suits?) and celebrates with a game of golf and a growth industry of conspiracy theorists who claim there was no way he got a hole in one with no shadows to prove it. 

Some of his mates follow in his moon boots then bam!  1972 passes and nothing…no more moon walks that don’t involve a single white glove.

How did that happen?  It’s like someone decided: been there, done that, got the space shirt; now we have a parking garage and huge garbage dump and we can live happily ever after.

Maybe they have a point: despite all the movies, we haven’t been invaded yet.  What self-respecting alien wants to live in a world that uses space trash instead of ozone to keep the temperature ambient?  And who doesn’t want a follow-up to velcro?

Clearly, our prime directive is to save money and stay at home, avoiding the neighbours.

Of course I’m sad.