By now you’re probably saying to yourself, “Wow! It sure is hard keeping up with the Hollywood gossip scene these days.” And you would be right. What with one starlet after another driving under the influence and being hauled off to the hoosegow, not to mention random actors calling people all sorts of ugly names and occasionally eating cheeseburgers right off the floor, it’s hard to stay abreast with what’s been happening in LaLa Land recently. I mean, keeping up with who’s in and who’s out of rehab takes a score card. And now it seems that the over-consumption of alcohol may be spreading to other venues. Yes, the frenzied news of Hollywood hotties operating moving vehicles while inebriated is so five minutes ago because …
Recently we learned that yet another group of noteworthy individuals has been hitting the sauce at inappropriate times. Shockingly, a few unnamed astronauts have apparently been a little tipsy when sliding behind the controls of an outbound spacecraft. Yes, folks, this is alarming news indeed. Houston: We have a drinking problem.
OK, I admit that my response to this was: Duh! I mean, if you had a job that required you to be forcibly squeezed into a giant cylinder, attired in extra-absorbent space diapers, for a voyage outside the vicinity of our own particular solar system without a beverage cart in sight, all the while abundantly aware that you may be abruptly charred into piles of industrial-strength carbon particles, wouldn’t you feel the urge for a little snort right before blast-off?
I mean, you think you have a stressful job! Have you ever hurtled beyond the earth’s atmosphere and entered deep space at g-forces capable of displacing important body parts into tiny, obscure corners of your anatomy so that your first assigned duty in space is engaging in an entertaining game of “Search for My Spleen?” And just forget trying to operate a barf bag when both eyeballs are pushing downward through the roof of your mouth. So if an astronaut decides to down a three-martini lunch before battening down the hatches and hurtling into space at an approximate speed of 43 zillion miles an hour – squared – with the help of a trillion tons of rocket fuel that is way more potent than, say, charcoal lighter fluid, would it be that surprising?
Plus who knows how many times the flight crew has gotten behind the wheel of one of those big, multi-billion-dollar space vehicles and actually managed to find the International Space Station (ISS) only to be informed they have to circle the dang thing four or five times waiting for permission to land? That kind of frustration could render a Southern Baptist minister desperate for a couple of Bloody Marys.
And don’t get me started about the dismal food substances that astronauts must ingest in space. What with the zero gravity situation, it’s not like they can just pull out a Rice Krispy Treat for example. Crumbs all over the dash board would be bad enough but picture sticky RKT fragments floating about the cabin. And forget about chili cheese fries! Sadly, the food in space is so bad that in weaker moments the crew gives serious consideration to eating the other astronauts.
What with the stress of not being able to enjoy a decent meal in space, the mental agility required to fly a space craft is daunting. I don’t know about you but I get fuzzy if I skip lunch. So by approximately Day 57 of the mission, the ship’s commander could be gazing blurrily at the control panel while thinking, “Hmmm … I wonder what this lever does … I’ll just pull it and … oh, oh.”
Furthermore, you can’t overlook all the hazards in space, assuming the astronauts actually get there. I mean, have you ever seen “E.T.?” There are space aliens out there, people, and Lord knows if they’re friendly. Suppose this happened: The vehicle is hurtling through space, and at the helm is the capable commander “Buzz” or “Ace” because the astronaut program requires its personnel to acquire short snappy names in the event of emergency so Ground Control can immediately alert the crew to any impending threats such as the following: “Ground Control to Captain Chip! Come in, Chip! We have spotted an extremely large space invader on your starboard side. This is a flying saucer controlled by fanatical space alien terrorist hijackers. Do not, repeat, do not allow any form of Creatures From Outer Space aboard your vehicle. Do you read me, Chip? Chip?” Now, can you imagine how long it would take Ground Control to notify astronauts of this extreme danger if it was necessary to address the commander as “Bartholomew?”
But take heart, folks, because this alleged drinking debacle is not going unnoticed. Congress has begun to “probe” NASA astronauts based on reports of crew members being too inebriated to fly. This raises an important question: isn’t this a little like putting the fox in charge of probing the hen house? I mean, Congress is doing a probe? Putting an investigation of possible drunken astronauts in the hands of Congress seems a bit dicey. The only sensible solution is to fire Congress and put the probe into more responsible hands such as a boy’s fraternity house at the height of pledge week.
OK, that was harsh, but when the “right stuff” turns out to be 80 proof, it’s not a good thing. It seems the best resolution for this assumed drinking problem is to build a rehab center at the International Space Station. How perfect would that be? No popping out for a Double Chocolate-Mint-Chip Frappuccino Blended Crème Latte or a 30-minute Tahitian deep-tanning session a la trendy Hollywood rehab centers. Come to think of it, maybe we could blast a few of those self-absorbed rehabbing celebrities and politicians up to the International Space Station for a little time out. Yeah, ISS Rehab. That’s the ticket.
Gale Hammond is a writer and free lance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill 24 years. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
