Lost In Space

Your tax dollars at work. 

Image by nini kvaratskhelia from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.   

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"If you are in a spaceship that is traveling at the speed of light, and you turn on the headlights, does anything happen?" -Steven Wright

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

Remember NASA? Well, they're in the news again and trying to get the most powerful rocket ever built off the ground so personkind can once again walk on the moon, perhaps even Mars... eventually.  

{The people that invented Tang, right?}

Those of us, well, many of us of a certain age (there were, and are, no shortage of Citizens of the Republic opposed to spending money on space exploration) fondly remember watching Neil Armstrong taking "one small step for (a?) man, one giant leap for mankind" on the surface of the moon. However, nobody has walked on the moon since 1972.  

{What's that (a?) about?}

Long story. Anyway, NASA — for those of you too old to remember, too young to care, or too busy to notice, NASA, a.k.a. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration — is the government entity that managed to get Mr. Armstrong to the moon. On 5/25/61 President John F. Kennedy asked Congress for the money to put Americans on the moon before the end of the decade. Neil Armstrong went for a walk on 7/20/69. 

{What was the hurry?}

The "space race" was one of the battles of the Cold War 1. America used to be able to get at least some things done relatively quickly. Compare that to California's effort, with a bunch o' billions tossed in by The Fedrl Gummit, to build a high-speed rail line from L.A. to San Francisco. They've been at it since 2008; a radically dumb downed version is (currently) scheduled to be completed by 2033.

NASA is still very much with us, but like the old gray mare, it ain't what it used to be. 

Until Tony Stark (Elon Musk) built his rocket ship we were completely dependent on the Russians to shuttle our astronauts/scientists to and from the International Space Station. The tickets are even more expensive than those for a Strolling Bones concert.

NASA's been building the most powerful rocket ever built — to return personkind to the moon, and theoretically, take a stroll on Mars — since 2011. 

The ship was supposed to be ready by 2016. It's currently being tested and NASA hopes to launch a return trip to the Moon in June but without any spoons. It will be an unpersoned flight that orbits the Moon, but doesn't land, and then returns home. 

{Doesn't that make it the ultimate drone? Now that's a kit I'd buy.}

Better start saving up then. The original estimate of $2,000,000,000 per flight is now $4,000,000,000 per flight for a rocket that can only be used once. NASA's spent about $23,000,000,000 on this project, so far, and will probably be looking to recover some of its investment, like any well-run government agency.   

And it doesn't come with a lunar module, the part that will actually land on the moon. Building that has been handed off to SpaceX, Mr. Musk's company. Or not.

Although SpaceX got the contract by beating out the likes of Boeing and Blue Origin, NASA recently announced that it will be seeking bids for someone to build a second lander, while simultaneously expanding Tony Stark's contract.

{This is a goof, right? You made that last part up.}   

Nuh-uh. Follow the link or do your own research. 

The good(?) news is that NASA hopes that someone will be walking on the Moon as early as 2025, the culmination of a 13-year-long project. However, please note it only took them eight years, half a century ago, using computers that were less powerful than the phone in your pocket.

Which brings us to Bill Nelson. 

{It does?}   

Clarence William Nelson, who will be 80 years old next September, has been running NASA for the last year or so. Mr. Nelson, a professional politician since the last time someone walked on the Moon, is highly qualified for the job. 

He grew up near Cape Canaveral and was the second sitting member of Congress to fly in space on the space shuttle Columbia, 35 years ago. Before getting his current job, he served on the NASA Advisory Council for a couple of years, one of 12 committees that meets 3 times a year and offers advice to NASA.

Former Senator Nelson was confirmed by unanimous consent (without a vote) by his former colleagues. 

In other news, Elon Musk, asked if he is worried about NASA getting to Mars before he does while eating lunch, started laughing, and choked on a sandwich. An unknown hero administered the Heimlich maneuver and tragedy was averted. 

{Now I know you made all that up!}

Only the part about Tony Stark Elon Musk's close encounter with a sandwich.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

P.S. 4/19/22, "NASA’s huge 'Mega Moon rocket' is being removed from its launchpad and sent for repairs after failing three fuel tests in two weeks. Following the failures, NASA has said that the rocket’s slated June launch window will be 'challenging' to meet."

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My Favorite Mormons

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Story.  

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.   

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance." -David Mamet

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

My favorite Mormons (no connection to the early sixties sitcom) live in the house next door to Casa de Chaos. I've mentioned them in previous episodes of Mr. Cranky's neighborhood. Both Mr. and Mrs. Morman are 80ish. Both, as you might expect, suffer from a health problem or three. 

The weather in early spring in the Hooterville metropolitan area is often a study in sharp contrasts. You can wake up to snow and 15 degrees one morning and the next day the high temp can shoot up into the sixties. 

Recently, the temperature remained in the civilized zone for a few days before a blast from Canada came through and reminded me of why I'm glad Tricky Dick ended the Vietnam draft just before I might've been forced to decide if I wished to become a Canadian citizen. 

I happened to glance out of our kitchen window and saw Mr. Mormon tinkering with his Can-Am Spyder, an extremely cool-looking three-wheeled motorcycle, gently throttling the engine up and down. Unlike a certain brand of motorcycle that shall remain nameless, the Can-Am's motor is as quiet as its competitor's motor is loud, a gentlepersons sort of motor. 

{You've also made mention of this old dude's bike in other Mr. Cranky's neighborhood episodes. What's your point?}

I have two points actually. First, my big brother Eddie taught me a long time ago that in the case of non-birthing persons over the age of 30, with (temporary) exemptions for men caught up in a midlife crisis, the louder the motor, the smaller the penis is likely to be. You can look it up. 

{Are you trying to get your butt kicked?}

Second point. I was completely unaware that Mrs. Momom had ever/would ever awkwardly and carefully climb onto the back seat of the trike and join her partner of multiple decades for a spin around the neighborhood, neither of them wearing a helmet. 

When I expressed my surprise to my daughter, who's always much more in tune than me with what the denizens of our hood are up to, she told me I was reporting old news and that the two of them taking a spin was not uncommon. 

When I pointed out they weren't wearing helmets and they're even older, much older, than I am, she helpfully pointed out that they, like most people, aren't actually that much older than me. And given that it has three wheels, that he doesn't go very fast, and they don't go very far, they were both likely to survive the journey. 

I'm happy to report that they survived and that the next day I saw Mrs. Mormon awkwardly and carefully descending her porch steps while grasping the handrail with one hand and the hand of a toddler, one of her many grandkids, with the other. 

I still take a daily walk around my neighborhood most mornings; you need to keep moving if you want to keep moving, which brings...

{Wait-wait-wait, I wanna write that down.}

Which brings us to dogs and canes.  

{Well, obviously.}

I use a HurryCane, the preferred cane of cool kids everywhere, because I suffer from something called lumbar spinal stenosis and osteoarthritis. Actually, suffer is too strong a word, I'm somewhat inconvenienced by both conditions, but I refuse to have back surgery if or until it's absolutely necessary (right, Ben?).

I give my cane full credit for enabling me to walk away from a recent encounter with a Pit Bull unscathed. Fellow geezers and geezerettes, if you use a cane, or perhaps even if you don't, and regularly walking is part of your fitness routine...

{Maybe even the only part.}   

And if you prefer walking around your neighborhood to walking around your local mall...

{I hear that's a good way to meet chicks.}  

Get yourself a cane like the HurryCane, one with three or four, stabilizers(?) on the bottom. Something a barking, growling, drooling beastie can't fail to notice when you point it at its face while slowly inching sideways towards safety, never taking your eyes off of the little furry little... 

{One of them babies with a large, four-pronged frame on the end would be great. You could have a prong with a point added in the middle that's shorter than the others so it wouldn't touch the ground. Then...} 

Because even if Cujo's owner comes running and begins screaming at the dog because it seems reluctant to pass on a chance to have fresh human for breakfast, you might still have a chance if it chooses to be a bad doggie.

{Do they still make sword canes?}  

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

P.S. No canines or writers were injured in the course of the events that led to this column being composed. However, I must confess that I (only briefly, of course) fantasized about reenacting the Caning of Charles Sumner with the assistance of the dog's owner who mumbled a brief, insincere sounding apology in my direction while screaming at his dog to go back to the house.

I noticed he didn't attempt to grab it by the collar (no chain in sight); he must have been smarter than he looked.    

Scroll down to share this column/access oldies. If you enjoy my work, and no advertising, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal/credit-debit card.    

Feel free to comment and set me straight on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays, other things other days. Cranky don't tweet.

He Said She Said They Said

Surviving in the Dizz/Misinformation Age

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.   

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"The country would be better off if we stopped having comment sections. And if we got rid of Twitter." -Colin Powell

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

Like many people that watch/listen to two too many podcasts...

{That's your idea of a killer first sentence?}

Once I typed to two too many, there was just no going back.

...I've heard the word heuristics oft bandied so I went a-googlin' and the very first hit returned was a definition. 

{Oft bandied?}

Heuristics are mental shortcuts that can facilitate problem-solving and probability judgments. These strategies are generalizations, or rules-of-thumb, reduce cognitive load, and can be effective for making immediate judgments, however, they often result in irrational or inaccurate decisions. 

Perfect. And oh, please note, "...they often result in irrational or inaccurate conclusions," more on that anon. And oh yeah, a tip o' the hat to The Decision Lab for supplying the definition. 

For example, a pair of hungry Homo commonsensicusses emerge from a forest/jungle into a clearing at the same time as a huge, hungry, saber-toothed bitecherfaceoff. Having been around the forest/jungle a time or three they don't stop to debate and plan their strategery.

Their brains — based on past experience, available weaponry, the size of the bitecherfaceooff, how long it's been since they last ate, etceterate — rapidly recommends that they either prepare for battle (bitecherfaceoff steaks kick-ass) — or run like hell.  

{What's any of this got to do with he said she said they said?}

Patience, Tonto, patience. 

{Bite me, Kemosabe, bite me.}

I've never understood that phrase, it doesn't make sense.

{I know, right? But still...}

Scott Adams — cartoonist, author, daily podcaster, and former public speaker (more on that anon), the Dilbert dude — has noticed a powerful heuristic shortcut that's powered by the internet.

In Episode 1681, Scott Adams: Facts Don't Matter. It Only Matters How Much We Hated You Before You Spoke, Mr. Adams points out that "...we have completely stopped caring about topics and we only care about people," and provides examples of "...the personality being more important than the fact." 

Once a person reaches a certain level of notoriety and the kids on your team have identified him/her/they as being uncool, you're no longer burdened with discovering exactly what it was they actually said, in what context, and deciding if it was a valid, factual statement. 

Who said it is more important than what they said

This is a very handy shortcut when navigating a passage through the Information Ocean in search of the truth... or at least a friendly harbor where you can catch your breath and stock up on provisions. 

Who's got the time to watch/listen to all those podcasts, watch all those videos, or read all those articles, blogs, and columns? Even if you do have more time (and energy, and motivation) than the average Joe or Joan Bagadonuts, how do you know who or what to believe?

Worse yet, there are powerful people loose in the world whose power is based primarily on their ability to exploit our ubiquitous media, particularly social media, although their accomplishments in the real world, in meat space, are negligible. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortes comes to mind for some reason.

{But you digress.} 

Indeed.

Anyways...  Although he didn't mention it, Scott Adams is a perfect example of this phenomenon. Long before the election of the Donald in 2016, he predicted in a blog he no longer maintains that His Royal Orangenes would be the next president. This was when everyone else, including me, was saying no way; it's just the Donald marketing the Donald.

Mr. Adams, who wasn't a Trump supporter at the time, and whose political opinions are all over the map, merely set out to explain how it is Trump did/does what he does. Adams calls him a master influencer and set out to explain his power from the perspective of a trained hypnotist. It was really quite fascinating. 

{Did/does what he does?}

Cool, right? It also put an end to the Dilbert Dudes' lucrative sideline as a popular public speaker invited to lampoon the corporate weenies he lampoons in his comic strip — at corporate events sponsored by corporate weenies.

Although he went out of his way to explain he wasn't a Trumpie, that he was merely explaining how the Donald does what he does, a handful of rabid anti-Trumpers declared him a supporter of the evil one. Twits who had never read his comic strip, much less his blog, began twittering and the noise triggered an avalanche. 

As far as the corporate weenies were concerned he was now potato salad that had been left out in the sun. An income stream evaporated overnight. Fortunately for Mr. Adams, he had already accumulated FU-level wealth. But what about all those little fish trying to pay their bills that live in large ponds polluted with Wokie ideology?

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share this column/access oldies. If you enjoy my work, and no advertising, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal/credit-debit card.    

Feel free to comment and set me straight on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays, other things other days. Cranky don't tweet.