It's getting harder and harder to believe what's been happening, and I don't expect you to. It's like a slow-motion wreck involving several 18-wheelers, narrated by Steven King and produced by Dino de Laurentiis.
The obvious biggie: my father dying. The next: my 19-year-old nephew dying. The next: the economyshotoHellyadayadanojobandnoprospectyadayadablahblah . . . .
But this one has to have been th' biggie of the year.
Here's what I did, my precious readers: I actually woke up at around zero hour, nine a.m., if you want to recall an old song, and then I went to Mars.
Mars is a very long haul. At last count, it's at least 36 million miles. That's on a GOOD day. (You just don't want to go there on a perihelion mark of 54.8 million miles, let me tell you).
I hear NASA is contemplating it but they just don't seem to have the "Right Stuff" to actually do it. Because I just did it. And if their army of scientists can't come up with an army of astronauts to do what I just did, then I'd fire them all.
Because I just returned from Mars. I not only returned, I returned in one piece. That piece is a little questionable, judging from A View From Brigitte, but I did what John F. Kennedy said: "Before this decade is out, to transport a man to the moon and return him safely to Earth".
(Maybe that was John *G.* Kennedy but you kinda get the picture).
As I speak, I just got on a plane; no, several, I've lost count -- and left this tiny haven I call home to crawl, at multiply anxiety-ridden lengths, half way across THIS FUCKING PLANET, in THREE -- COUNT THEM< THREE<<<< FUCKING DAYS and all I have to FUCKING SHOW FOR IT is a huge pain in my shoulders and calves and a son who's sleeping in the room next door.
If Brigitte were not ALSO sleeping in the room next door, the only possible option would maybe be the balcony (more on that later) and not this here beer I'm having instead.
Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids, People. In fact, it's cold as Hell.