Because I bought this cassette out of the $2 bin at Newbury Comics when I was sixteen (for those keeping score: 1994) just because of how Peter Murphy looked in the opening of The Hunger, and because I had the tape in my little army surplus purse on the disgusting hot summer afternoon like these last ones, and I was somehow spending time in those days at this share house in Jamaica Plain sitting on the floor, skirts hiked up, the sweat on my shoulders a little violet from rolling off my hair right after I dyed it, flipping this thing from A-side to B-side in the stereo, fingering the case where a chunk was cut out, and then putting it back in my Walkman for the walk to the Red Line. Eventually I got the CD — probably scammed BMG for it, the collection notices piling up in my mother’s house long after I moved out. (Napster-by-postcard. No one told you this most awesome thing about the 90’s.) I got fishnet sunburns those summers. I took over a room on the MIT campus to DJ the first time because I was too young to get into the clubs in Central Square. I tagged along at the end of the night, after everyone else piled out, and sat on boy’s laps, drank their milkshakes, stole their lipstick, crushed on their girlfriends, rode in the backs of their cars with a half-dozen other kids, watched the moon go all yellow and cake-like the longer I stayed out, slept on their mattresses on the floors of their dorm rooms, left with my underwear stuffed in my pockets, and slipped into bed before my mother woke up. I’d put it all down in letters, blow glitter in the envelopes, and send them off to the girls in Vermont and Ohio and California and New York and Pennsylvania who gave me the soundtrack in the first place. We were that one girl in all of our towns, that only girl. We were so sure. I owed it to them.
(I don’t know where any of those girls are today, except one (who is on Friendster — of all the social networks for a formative goth girlfriend to choose). But in their collective memory, and until I run out of songs, I’m celebrating them here as the somehow made-good old goth that they made me.)
My Drawing for Sequential professor shows us industry artists at the beginning of each class. 6 weeks in, and he still hasn’t shown a female artist. I asked him if he could change that, and he said that it was hard to find, and that he didn’t want to cheapen it by only…
Another great hero of the Gophers was One Lung Curran, who, when his girl bewailed the lack of a suitable fall coat, strode into the street and blackjacked the first policeman he encountered. Removing the uniform blouse from the prostrate officer, One Lung Curran…
Google+:HI I FOUND ALL YOUR FRIENDS AND PEOPLE YOU KNOW ON GOOGLE+
Me:...I don't know any of these people. I've never heard of these people.
Google+:THESE ARE YOUR FRIENDS
Me:No, I've never seen these people before in my life.
Google+:GOOGLE+ SAYS THESE ARE YOUR FRIENDS THESE ARE ALL YOUR GOOGLE+ FRIENDS NOW DO NOT FUCK WITH GOOGLE+ GOOGLE+ TALKS TO GOOGLE STREET VIEW SO GOOGLE+ KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE DO NOT FUCK WITH GOOGLE+ THESE ARE YOUR FRIENDS NOW YOUR ONLY FRIENDS GOOGLE+ SAYS SO ALSO YOUR NEW GOOGLE+ NAME IS "BITCHTITS"
Now that Atlantis has taken her final flight, how do you feel about the end of the indefinite halt of manned space flight?
I’m not sure what you mean by “indefinite half,” but I will say this:
Barring some huge fluke, or a massive pivot in political will due to unforeseen circumstances, crewed American spaceflight is over for ten years, and possibly thirty.
That, of course, doesn’t mean the end of crewed spaceflight per se. The Russians will happily take American dollars to cab Americans up to the ISS, until the ISS has to be de-orbited — I’m not sure a Russian module can do the occasional docked burns that the Shuttle would execute to do gross correction on the ISS’ orbit, which means it will eventually fall out of the sky.
The Chinese will continue to develop their spaceflight programme. I don’t think they’re close to the fine control required to dock at ISS yet, but if they were, I guess there would be options for prolonging the station’s life. At current levels, the Chinese would have a better chance of hitting the moon.
SpaceX are supposed to be rolling out a new booster that would be capable of reaching ISS orbit, but only ballistically. And you can’t just fire a missile at the ISS, you have to navigate to it. And they don’t have a crew-rated module anyway.
And ISS is shit anyway. It’s 220 miles away. If it wasn’t, you know, straight up, you could drive there in an afternoon.
Private crewed spaceflight is, at this time, at the level of the first suborbital lob crewed by an American, fifty years ago. Imagine someone selling you a television for a million dollars that does no more than a television did in 1961. It’s sort of like that.
The Space Shuttle was beautiful, but I somehow never loved it. It was a negative political object and it was a death trap. I won’t miss it. But I will miss all the things people associate with it: that it was an emblem of humans still going to space.