What My Mother Taught Me About Space
I have never understood the ways of aliens.
Today I scan the headlines to find that the Space Shuttle Endeavour will make its final journey through Los Angeles—by truck—after piggybacking atop a specially-outfitted (I’d assume—I only read the first paragraph) 747 from Florida to LAX.
Prior to that it had been in Space.
Because it is so big, City of Los Angeles work crews have spent the past month knocking down trees and re-routing power lines throughout the Shuttle’s parade route in South L.A., clearing the way to its final resting place at the California Science Center south of Downtown.
Neither the Mayor nor the Governor have raised concerns over alien stowaways.
I am not a rocket scientist, but I know that you don’t just squeegee down the Space Shuttle, Febrezing as you go. I imagine there was an industrial-strength delousing going on to rid the vehicle of party crashers.
But if I could drive home from my kids’ soccer practice yesterday with someone else’s kid, then certainly it is possible—using Space ruses—to secret an alien landing force beneath the seat cushions of Endeavour.
I would hate to imagine the Shuttle turning the corner from MLK to Crenshaw (by the Macy’s) and suddenly disgorging hordes of multi-nippled and frank Beings intent on, I don’t know, questioning our way of life and then killing us when we don’t have the answer, even if it wasn’t really a question.
So I plan to not be aware of stuff that day, as my mother once told me that if you don’t pay attention to them, they’ll stop bothering you. It never worked for bullies but it just might for aliens.
I’m thinking she’s got to be right some time.