The Baboon Congress

The Crazy Uncle in My Attic

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Today’s guest blog is by Steve Grooms

I spend a lot of time alone, except . . . (sigh) . . . I’m never really alone. More accurately, I am “alone with my thoughts,” and my thoughts are a noisy, jeering, vulgar and confusing partner. A slightly more pretentious way of putting this is to say I’m stuck at all times with “the voice of my interior monologue.”

Most of us, I believe, have a sort of voice in our head, a voice that we often ignore (which just encourages “him” to natter on more). I know the voice of my interior monologue—too well—but I have no sense of what this is like for anyone else. My fascination with that question led to this guest blog. I’m fascinated to find out what others will have to report on this issue.

Much of the time my interior monologue is just a quiet voice muttering in the darkness, with nobody paying attention. I might be totally unaware of the voice and then happen to notice that he is singing the Sesame Street song for the 403rd time in a row. He’s easily amused, my interior voice. I’ve noticed that he has a quirky obsession with unusual names. While the real “me” is concentrating on some frustrating task, my interior monologue might be chanting, like a stuck record, “Hayden Panetierre, Hayden Panetierre, Hayden Panetierre.”

At other times the voice of my internal monologue is an articulate and intriguing personality, a sort of splendid copy of me who has a similar range of interests and abilities. When I try to solve a problem, this voice pitches in and makes shrewd suggestions, like, “Why not whack this little dingus with that heavy wrench? Whadda you got to lose?” I know this sounds a wee bit schizophrenic, but I feel like “two heads are better than one,” and I appreciate it when my interior monologue does something constructive. Anything constructive. Because, just between you and me, on most days that voice is queer and undisciplined, a parrot with a disgusting vocabulary and a contentious disposition.

For example, the voice of my interior monologue often judges me, and he isn’t a generous judge. If I miss I throw a snowball at a tree and miss by a humiliating margin, my interior monologue groans and observes, “Sheesh! You couldn’t hit your butt with a frying pan.” If I am slow to perceive an obvious fact, he sneers, “Stevie Wonder coulda seen THAT!”

Part of the complication of being me is that I live with two codes of acceptable conversation, the polite “official” one and the vulgar voice of my interior monologue. I am not known for having a potty mouth, but that is because I usually can filter out the foul, blasphemous things my interior monologue is saying. But when I am sufficiently startled, the words that pop out of my mouth are his, not mine. If something unexpected and scary happens, I might whoop, “Christ on a crutch!” That isn’t me speaking! Heck, I don’t even know what he means by that!

It is strange having this voice in me, this voice I cannot escape. I once was playing racquetball when I tore the cartilage in my right knee. The knee made a clicking noise, locked and suddenly I was falling. “Oh my,” my interior monologue commented wryly before I hit the court floor, “your dancing days are done!” If I clobber my thumb with a hammer, my internal monologue usually informs me in a detached, ironical tone: “Geez, in ten seconds that’s gonna hurt big time!” Although he is me, he doesn’t seem to have much sympathy for me. Do you see how bizarre this is?

Once when I was hunting pheasants I walked nearly to the end of a line of cornstalks before turning to seek birds somewhere else. Spluttering with indignation, the voice of my internal monologue broke in to say, “What would that smartypants writer Steve Grooms have to say about this? That self-appointed ‘expert’ has written that you should always work out the cover to the very end.” Groaning, I went back to hunt the last 20 yards of corn. When a little rooster flushed from the end of the corn row, I managed to hit him. I didn’t need the smug voice of my interior monologue to tell me, “Told you so! Told you so!”

As I experience life, then, it is complicated. I have this voice in my head that I cannot evict, even though he doesn’t pay rent. He is part of me, part of the confusing, weird and goofy experience of my life. He virtually never shuts up and often says stuff I wish he wouldn’t. I have mostly gotten used to him although he is something like the crazy uncle who lives in my attic.

Do you live with a second voice chattering away in your head? What is that voice like?

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Be Kind to Your Arts Volunteer

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The Minnesota Fringe Festival begins this evening, and if you haven’t considered attending a few shows this time around, you should. Almost anything can happen on stage with one major exception – the show can’t last more than an hour. This is a major draw for theatergoers with active bladders, as well as those who want their entertainers to get to the point or at least get it over with.

One reason to be hesitant – the festival relies on the support of an army of volunteers who take tickets and run the stages while being informative, courteous and efficient. Another reason – I am one of those volunteers.

Given what we know about my memory (or at least what people tell me about my memory), “informative” can be a challenge, sometimes. Especially when there are 168 shows at 18 venues. Still, I stand by my off-the-cuff statement to one curious patron last year that the show “An Adult Evening of Shel Silverstein” did not include an actual appearance by Shel Silverstein. I totally guessed on that one because Silverstein is dead, and I turned out to be right in spite of the strength of Fringe shows that feature zombies. “Courteous” is a strength area – I’m fairly certain I do OK on that one. “Efficient”? I admit I’m a work in progress.

Here’s my dirty little secret: though I have been in the employment pool for over 35 years, I have never had a paying job that required the physical handling of money. There are no burger joints in my background, no movie theaters, no coffee shops – in fact, there are no cash boxes anywhere in my resume. Also, I am a uni-tasker. I do one job at a time and I try to do it carefully, even if that’s not the fastest way to move the line (and it never is). You could say I’m retail – impaired.

This is a significant, self-inflicted handicap. In the crush time before a show starts, Fringe volunteers need to quickly decipher and make note of each type of admission various patrons will present, including the “all show” Ultra Pass, the 10 Show Pass, the 5 Show Pass, the Kid’s 5 show pass, and single show admissions. They must keep track of discount admissions (senior, student or MPR member), and if the patron cannot produce a Fringe button, the volunteer must explain that one is needed along with the ticket. It’s a one-time purchase ($4) but an every-show requirement, and if you forgot it on the kitchen counter you will have to buy a new one. And volunteers must be firm if anyone attempts to enter the theater after the doors have closed. All Fringe shows begin on time and there is no late seating.

Did I mention that I freeze up in a confrontation? Not total paralysis, but there might be long pauses, stammering, sad eyes and some gulping – more than enough to dull my persuasive powers. I’ve learned that people will not cede an argument out of pity.

Fortunately, Minnesota Fringe volunteering is the perfect entry-level experience for someone with my unique collection of shortcomings. The audiences are polite art lovers who have a high tolerance of ambiguity. They come to the festival predisposed towards forgiveness, whether they are being patient with an artist who thought he could build an entire monolog around his cat’s tumor, or a volunteer who can’t add. It is a rare and beautiful quality for an audience to possess an open and adventurous spirit. People at the Fringe expect to have their expectations challenged.

Note to one of last year’s customers: The blank look, the fumbling around in the cash box and all the finger-counting that accompanied the process of my making change for your fifty dollar bill was not, as you may have thought, incompetence. I was presenting a tiny drama about the value of paper money when offered in exchange for the fruits of a creative mind. Question: Can anyone truly “buy” an idea?

I hope I gave you something to think about, and I encourage you come back. I’ll be at the same place wearing this year’s volunteer shirt. My new show asks if it’s really possible to “control” a crowd.

If you had to create a piece of solo performance art, what would it be about?

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Oldie But Goodie

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Today is Tony Bennett’s birthday! He’s 85, and he has a new album – more duets with people 1/4th his age.

In celebration of longevity and recycling proven material, two things Tony is known for, I offer a reprise of a blog entry from long ago, when Tony was a spry 83!

Dr. Larry Kyle of Genway, the supemarket for genetically engineered foods, has announced a repeat of his Bennett birthday special!

While other old bananas turn brown and quietly liquefy, the Bennett Forever Banana stays a vivid, tasty yellow with firm, flavorful flesh! Just when you think it’s as good as it can get, it gets a little bit better! That’s a remarkable advance in fruit preservation, all thanks to a little bit of Tony’s DNA, which he graciously contributed one night by putting his hand on a pen I gave him to sign a concert program.

In fact, these Bennet Forever Bananas are SO GOOD, I’m still offering some of the bunches I put on sale two years ago. They’re as fresh and yellow as a taxi in a car wash!

Look for Genway to use the magic of Bennett DNA on a whole line of fruits and vegetables that will benefit from extended shelf life. Lettuce, grapes, strawberries, asparagus, broccoli … even Tony Tomatoes and Bennett Beets will amaze and delight you long past the time you thought they’d be compost.

It’s a brand new day for the produce section. Find these beauties under the Bennett Forever Banana banner and pick up a banana hat for yourself or the kids! It’s not an actual hat, but rather, a new way of carrying a bunch of bananas (pictured) that I think has great potential to be a fashion trend for the rest of the recession! Carmen Miranda on a budget! That’s the kind of innovation you expect from Genway, the supermarket for genetically engineered foods!

Do you eat food that’s past its “best by” date?

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Roughing It

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It has been almost one month since we heard from perennial sophomore and chronic underachiever Bubby Spamden. I started to think he had gone on vacation with his parents … but no! The Spamdens never go anywhere!

Hey Mr. C.,

I’m kind of bummed today because it looks like the U.S. government won’t go into default after all. I have to admit I was kind of hoping it would.

Oh, I know what people say –that it would bring an economic catastrophe that would last a long time and seriously wreck my Potential Standard Of Living, not that my P.S.O.L. was ever anything to get excited about. In fact, each time my teachers at Wilkie hold me back for another year, they make it a point to sit down and have a talk, lowering my expectations about the kind of future I might have. It got to the point where I was kind of hoping a national economic super-collapse would create a level playing field where everyone could be down at MY level of sub-standard achievement, just so I wouldn’t feel so alone.

See, the teachers always tell me when I don’t hand in my assignments on time – “You better learn how to get your work done, Buster (yes, some of them still don’t know my name!), because out in the REAL world if you don’t get your work done, you wind up all out of money and not able to pay your bills.” Like that’s so unusual! It describes, like, everyone I know!

I mean, I used to think it would be horrible to be a no-account deadbeat, completely unreliable and financially stressed all the time. But this summer it’s just another name for government!

I see the U.S. might still lose its AAA bond rating, even though they got a deal worked out. Just as well. I always thought three A’s all bunched together like that was kind of showing off. What’s wrong with a C or a D thrown in there just for variety, huh?

So the next time a teacher calls me a lazy bum and predicts my personal economic collapse and a future that’s all about living in an appliance crate and eating cat food casserole every Wednesday night, I’ll ask what diff does it make and how does she like her under-funded pension plan?

I’m writing down the names of the teachers I will invite to share my cardboard box someday! It’s a very short list.

Your pal,
Bubby

Ever go camping in your own back yard?

The Baboon Congress

Happy Trails

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Happy Monday, Baboons!
I had a nice, artful post prepared for today, all based on the idea that a Deficit Ceiling Deal would still be nothing more than an elusive fantasy. Oh well. My loss is everyone’s gain!

Fortunately, faithful regulars are standing in the wings with prepared entries.

Today’s guest post is from Plainjane from the West Side.

I don’t know how often these two artists have appeared in the same sentence, but I find it striking that one, Bill Morrissey, who I’ve enjoyed for years, should pass at the same time as one, Amy Winehouse, who I was mostly aware of because of her notoriety. Clearly both were tremendous talents and very troubled souls. Bill’s autopsy blames a heart ailment, but it is widely known that his health was damaged through years of alcohol abuse. In Amy’s case, she struggled publicly with addiction. I think of her as the English Janis Joplin.

I’ve read the comments on Facebook about both of those deaths, and I’m truly saddened by the lack of compassion expressed by some of my younger “friends” at Amy’s passing. I’m guessing that the more compassionate remarks about Bill’s death has to do with the age of the commentators.

I’ve been pondering the connection between creative genius, talent, mental illness and addiction. We have so many examples of people with extraordinary talents that have led, by most ordinary definitions, miserable lives.

Depression seems rampant among many of the creative people I admire the most, and I’m wondering whether there’s a connection between the sensibility that allows you to immerse yourself into the pain of others and the creative urge. Although I’ve never counted, I’m guessing that there are far more love songs written about love gone wrong or betrayal than falling in love.

And unless you’re a fan of “True Romance” I’m guessing that most of us think of conflict and pain as a very real part of life and great novels.

I love happy endings, but at the ripe old age of 68, I’ve come to the conclusion that truly happy endings are uncommon. One of the most idealistic love songs that I can think of is Bill McCutcheon’s “Last First Kiss, written as an anniversary gift to his wife. It’s lovely, but you have to ask yourself if many real relationships actually fit this description:

Sunday morning, coffee’s on
The kids are gone
I’m thinking of that moment when
All you had to do was speak
My knees went weak
Yeah, I’m twenty-two years old again

You were my last first kiss
I never imagined love could be like this
You are the woman I still can’t resist
You were my last first kiss

That Friday night at your front gate
It was getting late
A long, slow walk home from the dance
You said you had a real nice time
Slipped your hand in mine
I closed my eyes and took a chance

Been to heaven
Been through hell
Since I gave you that ring
Now heaven knows
I wouldn’t change a thing

Sunday morning, coffee’s on
The kids are gone
I’m thinking what a ride it’s been
Still all you have to do is speak
My knees go weak
I’m twenty-two years old again

©2001 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP) & Steve Seskin/ Larga Vista Music/ Scarlet Rain Music ( ASCAP)
Swannanoa, NC July 2001

Compare that to the distance and lack of communication that mark the relationship described in this Bill Morrissey song – “Birches”.

Which seems more “real” to you? And does “reality” matter, when it comes to art?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Dear Dr. Babooner,

I’m very, very involved with my whole extended family. Maybe too involved.

I’m the de facto leader. They call me “The Power”. Everyone looks to me for making key decisions and being a fair referee. It’s like I’m the government or something. Of my whole family, which is, you know. Weird.

And while it’s true I have a bit of a problem controlling my spending, every dollar I drop goes to pay for a good thing that’s really important (to me). I do like to be a key player in a lot of things all at once. When I see that my brother or sister is hungry, for example, I buy lunch. Is that so wrong?

When our whole family gets together it can get pretty intense.

There are cousins who really encourage me to keep stepping in and being generous and taking control whenever things look even a little bit bad – they see me as a “safety net” for everyone else. And there are the cousins who say I’m always “in the way” and if I would just step back, it would free them up to do all the things they want to do and be who they really want to be – J.C.

That means “Job Creators”.

But I don’t see what’s stopping them. I think they’re just using me as an excuse. They might have slight delusions of grandeur and could maybe be a little bit jealous. I don’t mind. I’ve got bigger problems.

I’m about to run out of money.

I can’t ask the family to chip in any more dollars to tide me over. The complaining gets so loud when I do that, and everybody is already irritated. The cousins who have the dough don’t want to hand over any more. The cousins who need stuff want to camp out on my front stoop until this is resolved. I’m afraid I’ll have to step over their starving bodies before long. Ish. And I did promise grandma I’d help pay for her teeth. Nobody wants to watch her gumming fried chicken at the next reunion picnic.

Dr. Babooner, we’re a family! I know we can agree with each other if we try! It’s just the money that poisons the atmosphere. Or is it the power?

Sincerely
Uncle S.

I told Uncle S., that the money/power combination is usually at the heart of most arguments, and they are seldom separated. Some say the key to happiness is to give up both, but I say hang on and buy some earplugs.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

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happy birthday don, archy & mehitabel

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Today is the birthday of Don Marquis (pronounced MAR-kwiss, I believe).
He was from Walnut, Illinois. Born there in 1878.

A newspaper man with an active imagination, Marquis wound up writing so much more than the usual police reports and obituaries. He was a playwright and a poet, and for a daily column he created some characters to carry the weight. Among them, a literary cockroach named Archy, who submitted his poems by hurling himself at the keys on Marquis’ typewriter, one letter at a time. Thus there are no capital letters, since it would require two simultaneous keystrokes, and a cockroach has only one body to sacrifice for his art.

In honor of Don Marquis on his birthday, (and for our leaders in Washington as they play a game of economic chicken), here’s archy on the irresistible lure of recklessness.

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

If you are a moth, what’s your candle?

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Not So Long Ago …

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… it was the most miserable, relentless winter, ever! Remember that?

Our memories are amazingly short and I suppose it’s a human survival strategy to focus so intently on the conditions that are right in front of us that we assume it has always been, and will always be so. At least it feels that way, and that’s why I am always ready to complain.

Summer 2011 is an endless sauna. I have had it with heat and humidity. Really, it’s exhausting.

Last February, snowstorms were lined up from here to Montana, each waiting for its chance to fill my driveway with another three feet of snow. Just like now – exhausting. I thought I would never feel warm again.

Alas, it all changes and you can be sure that six months from today I’ll use the arrival of yet another cold front to wistfully recall how gorgeous it is to go for a walk on a summer night. At dusk a day in July feels perfectly suited to human habitation. This is how we were meant to live – in shorts and sandals, our hands and heads uncovered, our feet and toes exposed to the fragrant air.

Except on THIS particular July night, I’m closed up inside my air conditioned box, not at all inclined to go out. Instead I’m thinking about how cozy it would feel to be decorating the Christmas tree while alarmist weather-folk warn us to stay off the roads. I’d sip a hot toddy and gaze out the window, safe and warm while a holly jolly snow decorates the yard.

I guess conditions are never quite ideal, except in some far-off, half-recalled, make-believe time.

Perpetual Summer or Endless Winter – which would you choose?

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Mr. Convincible

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The latest newsletter from my favorite Congressman.

Greetings Constituents!

Usually at this time of the year, we members of Congress are back in our districts thinking about the next election – touting our achievements, pressing the flesh and shaking the trees for more money. But this year is different! We’re stuck in Washington, thinking about the next election – defending our principles, stomping out of meetings, disparaging the inflexible opposition and shaking in our boots! We don’t want to wreck the economy but it might have to happen so we can be positioned with the best possible advantages for the Fall of 2012!

Yes, that’s really what it’s all about!

I know some of you are so mad you want to throw ALL the bums overboard, but I’m pretty sure that between now and then I can convince you that the other guys are much, much worse than I am.

I’m not the problem because I like compromise! I compromise all the time. I compromise with the opposition, with people in my own party, and I even compromise with myself!

Many mornings I wake up with this sure feeling that I know exactly what’s what and I will never yield an inch on the points that are most important to me.

Like yesterday, when I started out pretty certain that all this gay marriage that’s going on is just not right and we ought to make a clear statement that some things are simply not acceptable! C’mon! Who are our great couples? Adam and Eve! Tarzan and Jane! George and Gracie! Fundamental stuff, right?

I said something in our staff meeting about how we ought to make an issue out of this, and a couple of our summer interns looked disappointed in me, like I’d really bummed them out. That was too bad because I really like them! That’s the reason I have interns – to help me feel young and hip. It hurt to think that they thought I was even a little bit lame. But darn it, sometimes you have to be tough!

However, maintaining that steely resolve takes a lot of energy, and by early afternoon I was starting to think how great it is to be young and in love. Or even old and in love! Why would we want to ever get in the way of that? I mean, aren’t there enough real problems? Love is the least of our worries, regardless of who’s involved!

By evening I was so tired of hanging out at the Capitol just waiting for all these posturing yahoos in the leadership to get their acts together, I began thinking how nice it would be to make a festive weekend escape to New York City.

By midnight I was dreaming that a pair of my constituents would ask me to officiate their gay wedding at the top of the Empire State Building! What a hoot! Could I wear feathers?

See? That’s real compromise! Sometimes your mind changes of its own accord, and sometimes by the angle of the light! I’m so open to new ideas, I always agree with the last person I talked to – even if it was a radical version of me!

So if our ship of state goes crashing into the rocky shoreline of the Needlessly-Stubborn Islands just because the top people were wrestling for control the steering wheel, please remember that all the while I was on the promenade deck trying to organize a nice, happy party!

Your flexible Representative,

Loomis Beechly

How changeable is your mind?

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Going Up?

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We are blessed with a world full of interesting places to go, but lately I’ve been eyeing the sky because there is something terribly frightening and totally irresistible about the notion of space travel. Scoffers say that like South Dakota, outer space is impossibly empty and it has no taxes. Two great qualities! And space is a lot closer than Sioux Falls – only 62 miles away!

Atlantis Launch 2009, photo from nasaimages.org

Unfortunately, now that the Space Shuttle program’s orbiters are being dressed for museum duty, there is no American-made vehicle that’s suitable for off-planet expeditions. This is a problem if, like me, you prefer a domestic model for all your extraterrestrial trips. Call me fussy – I just don’t care for the fit and finish of those Soyuz capsules. True, I’ve never been in one, but I’ve never been in an Apollo capsule either and yet I have taken thousands of imaginary NASA voyages. Soyuz? Zero. Besides, I’ve made some assumptions about the places where Russian craftsmanship and too much vodka might intersect – probably in the construction of the airtight bulkhead and where the electrical systems meet explosive gasses. Unfair, I know, but on such small prejudices is brand loyalty built.

Still, I am forced to accept the reality of the situation – I am a baby boomer and my pioneer time has expired. My government is not going to send me into space unless it’s with a limited air supply as part of a larger plan to reduce the cost of Medicare. Meanwhile, our decision makers have been flip-flopping on the goal of the next mission. Is it the Moon? Is it Mars? Or should we compromise and aim for an empty spot halfway between the two? It would be hard to get excited about reaching an empty, airless state of suspension with no gravity to pull you in any direction. Job seekers know you can achieve that kind of limbo today, without leaving home.

But there’s good news too! There is new energy behind the commercial space industry, and there are fabulously wealthy wanna-be astronauts who are looking for ways to have a unique experience. These Moon-eyed potential customers will lead us into the next era of space travel! They’ve already accomplished a great deal on planet Earth, and in the process have accumulated sufficient resources to pack a 10-story tall rocket booster full of $1,000 bills. Now it’s a simple matter of lighting a small fire to generate the needed lift. And several private companies are racing to strike that match.

The firm Space Adventures has already sent 7 well financed people on journeys to the International Space Station at a price of 20 to 35 million a head. Sensing a limit to the appeal of near-Earth travel, the company is also selling trips around the moon and back inside a three-seat capsule. It’s basically the same route taken by Apollo 13, but without the unplanned explosions and near-death experience. The ticket cost? 150 million. One spot has already been taken and one seat is needed for a pilot to fly the thing (go figure). That still leaves one space open for travel into open space. Late seat assignment note: you might not get the window.

For potential cosmic voyagers with a thinner wallet, Space Adventures offers some bargain astronaut/cosmonaut-like experiences, including solely terrestrial trips to watch a launch in central Asia. The real attraction here is an opportunity to pay almost $16 thousand dollars to spend a few hours in a Soyuz flight simulator, which according to the Space Adventures website, “has been in use since the 1960’s.” Enticing! And if that price is too steep, I can arrange a domestic excursion where, for half that amount you’ll get to spend the whole day sitting in a Chevy Corvair which has also been in use since the 1960’s. Extra bonus – when the session is done you can take it home!

Elon Musk’s commercial venture, SpaceX, isn’t flying passenger missions right now, but the company is trumpeting last Spring’s receipt of a contract from NASA to figure out a quick way to get the 7 passengers in its Dragon capsule safely back to the ground in the event of a sudden launch emergency. That’s an exciting scenario, but only if you have the pleasure of watching other people deal with it!

And then there’s Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic. The company is already building a spaceport (Spaceport America!) in New Mexico, and claims to have a list of at least 400 people who have signed up to take a sub orbital flight in a vehicle called SpaceShipTwo (you know a vehicle is tight inside when there’s no room for spaces in its name). The plan is for the craft to be released at 50 thousand feet from a large, two-fuselage carrier plane called Virgin MotherShip Eve. A rocket then propels the 8 passenger SpaceShipTwo high enough to see inky galactic black above and a thin line of Earthy blue below, with five minutes of recreational weightless time before you have to strap in for your glide back to the ground. In this sense, Virgin Galactic is expanding on the proven success of the Disney World scenario – high entry price/long wait/short ride. Sorry for the delay – there will be no flights until at least 2013. But a 20 thousand dollar down payment is due immediately against your final cost of 200 thousand. It does guarantee you a spot in our airtight teacup, though. So go have a hot dog and watch the fireworks – a Cast Member will call you when it’s time to strap in.

Realistically, these space travel options could only appeal to adventurous people who combine extravagant wealth with exceedingly deep reserves of patience and a suppressed fear of death. It would also help to have a good imagination. How many people do you know who combine all these qualities? If anyone comes to mind, salute them with a glass of Tang and a package of space food sticks, because they represent the next frontier in human flight!

You’re weightless! Now what?