Rock Tumbling Is For Chumps!

I don’t know what it was, but as child I would practically shit my pants at the site of a shiny, smooth rock. What was it about shiny rocks as a child that compelled me to such heights of “specialness”? I know I’m not alone here. I remember looking through children’s science magazines as an adolescent and there was always an ad for some cheap rock tumbler, allowing me to do-it-myself (ZOMG!).

The climax of such wonder-seizures habitually occurred when I stepped foot in the “Natural Wonders” store at the mall. It was an orgy of rain sticks, gyroscopes, and albums called “Whale Songs.” They even had a type of gumball machine where you could put a quarter in and donate to the rainforest; and do you know what came out? Satisfaction!

Now I see the error of my youthful ways. No more, my friend! I’ll leave the rock tumbling business to the professionals. These forward-thinking entrepreneurs figured out a way to steal three dollars from unsuspecting customers, only to fill that hole with an invaluable knick knack with which they can adorn the inside of their junk drawers. Cheers to you, my capitalist friend, but I’ve moved on to collectible spoons.

NASA Is For Chumps!

Forgive my nostalgia kick as of late and come with me…to the eighties! I was in elementary school at the time and it was a more innocent era to say the least; a time when watching a guy in a blue jumpsuit float through the air gathered as many oohs and ahhs as seeing your first pair of real boobies.

Gee whiz, those astronauts were so cool! Look, he did a flip! OMG, he’s spinning a banana! Holy crap, he’s drinking little spheres of floating water! FUCK ME, THEIR ICE CREAM COMES IN BAR-FORM! So much excitement for such a young child, “Mrs. Roberts, may I go to the bathroom?”

Of course, looking back on it as an adult, I see how far we’ve failed to come. We’re still using that same junk-heap shuttle to launch us into the atmosphere; NASA has to take a wrench to that thing more than a Harley. The once-vaunted international space station is now a laughing stock due to its rent-control-worthy toilet. Our several attempts to gather data from Mars have come up empty of any tangible evidence of life.

And what has it gotten us? Other than velcro and a pen that writes upside-down (OMG), I can’t think of anything society has truly gained from this wasteful science other than bragging rights over Russia and China. I guess that counts for something.

In any case, the most painful element of this angry outburst has its roots firmly gripped in personal jealousy and lament. What I regret is the fact that, as an adolescent, I was never able to visit the one place where children can truly be happy. This is the single locale where smiles grow on trees and farts smell like rainbows; where pony rides cost a nickel and ice cream is dehydrated—Space Camp.