Houston, We Have a Problem: The Circus that is NASA

I know this is old news, but it's too gosh darned amusing to file away completely. Especially in light of the recent developments that have tarnished the image, perhaps irreparably, of NASA yet again. That being said, I thought it was particularly fitting to revisit the matter of Houston having a teensy tiny problem.

A problem? That may well be the understatement of the century. I'd say that when an astronaut stalks and then methodically plots to kill a fellow astronaut-and the scheme involves donning a diaper...Houston definitely has a problem. So does the former spacekateer, Lisa Nowak.

Sheez, no one on earth could make this stuff up. It's too weird for words. Science fiction literally pales in comparison to this three-ring circus. No doubt about it, though, it was one giant screw-up for mankind. A real embarrassment for all of Cape Canaveral. Neil Armstrong probably hid in a closet that day-or at least toyed with the idea.

My take on the crazed affair: The woman in question had either sniffed a bit too much moon dust on her last mission to Mars or lost her tenuous grip on reality while orbiting the earth (and I use the word "tenuous" because those who would fly to the moon on purpose have a screw loose anyway). Whatever the case, she had surely paid a visit to a delusional little world in a galaxy far, far away. Even Captain Kirk would have to wonder on which planet she receives her mail.

Quite frankly, the whole thing was simply too much for my pea-brain to comprehend (and I live in a swirl of chaos and lunacy much of the time). Love-triangles and whatnot. Interplanetary fantasies and other hokum. Astronauts in diapers! Have we all gone mad?!

Not yet, but soon-when millions of us fork over $19.95 for the book, or when 26 million more go and see the flick...because, of course, some idiot will write a page-turning thriller about it and another idiot will see to it that a movie is produced in its wake. (Houston, We Have a Problem is sorta' catchy, doncha' think?) I can clearly envision it now: throngs of anxious people will stand in line for hours, gabbing like fools with the folks around them, giddy as ever and eager to witness the epitome of absurdity unfold before them on the big screen.

On Opening Day, Orange Tang will be served in lieu of soda at concession stands and perfectly balanced meals in vacuum-sealed packages will be available, too. Replicas of the diaper Miss Nowak wore on that fateful day will be on display in theatre lobbies all across America, along with her must-see mug shot and autographed copies of the book for which the film was made. Needless to say, it will be a sad day for our space program as a whole; but a profitable one. Most certainly profitable.

And now there's a new wrinkle in this ludicrous and never ending saga. Recent headlines have read, "NASA Admits Astronauts Drunk at Work." Good grief! What third grader in his or her right mind will aspire to be an astronaut upon growing up?! Perhaps when the astronauts themselves grow up. Or at least when they stop acting like a bunch of ninnies. What's next-selling moon rocks on eBay? Or will it be the sabotage of computers headed for the International Space Station? Oh, silly me. That's already happened.

The sad thing here is that some of our children's biggest and brightest heroes are ostensibly falling by the wayside-right before our very eyes on the evening news. Sports stars, celebrities and now astronauts join the ever-expanding list of those who have made waves in a very public venue, much to the detriment of our impressionable youth.

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt our kids to flip off the newsy-schmoozy stations once in awhile and tune in to something with redeeming value-the classic 1960's shows featuring such virtuous characters as Under Dog and Batman and Robin. At least they possessed some semblance of scruples-a far cry from today's norm.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (in my own little delusional world, sans diapers and Tang, however). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.