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122 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 24, 2012


A bunch of Occupy types [from the Occupy social movement of the early 2010s] came and set up their own sector of camp where those in need of inspirational political analysis could get jacked up on ideology in the morning before work began. [...] Over the entrance to what became known as Camp Coffee they hung a banner that read, "Occupy Space."NEW (Badasstronauts):
A bunch of Occupy types [from the Occupy social movement of the early 2010s] came and set up their own sector of camp where those in need of inspirational political analysis could get jacked up on ideology in the morning before work began. [...] Over the entrance to what became known as Camp Coffee they hung a banner that read, occupy space.This next one's impact may be less obvious. This takes place when they speak over radio to Bobby who is stranded on the International Space Station (the window is the time they can broadcast to him; he doesn't literally fall out a window). The rocket planned to come rescue him has just been named.
But by then, Bobby Junior had fallen out of the window, and the ISS continued its crazed orbit around a planet that no longer cared. Only Space Jesus could save him now.NEW (Badasstronauts):
But by then, Bobby Junior had fallen out of the window, and the ISS continued its crazed orbit around a planet that no longer cared. Only Space Jesus could save him now.Changes to the actual content are certainly Hendrix's doing. Most of them don't add anything meaningful, as discussed earlier, and I don't see the point in most cases, but maybe his 10-years-wiser writer brain took issue with the original in some way. The change that stood out the most for me was this particular character:
... everyone turned to stare at Ginger Flynn, hovering in the doorway. She was seventeen years old and she looked like a poodle. Bleach blonde hair blown up in a puff, big across the chest and extreme in the rear end. Too much make-up and clothes that proved all taste was in her mouth. "Beauty pageant's another night, darlin'," Walter snarled.NEW (Badasstronauts):
... everyone turned to stare at Tiara Flynn, hovering in the doorway. She was seventeen years old and she looked like she'd wandered in from a toddler's beauty pageant. Less than five feet tall with the makeup and nails of Whitney Houston, wearing big body curls that she'd lacquered with too much product, wearing a jewel pink hoodie and a pair of shoes made for a chihuahua, it seemed clear to everyone that all her taste was in her mouth. "Strip club's down the road a ways, darlin'," Walter snarled.For whatever reason she was renamed Tiara from Ginger, consistency matters: TWICE later she is still referred to as Ginger, leaving the Badasstronaut-only reader wondering, who the fuck is Ginger? "Find and replace all" was a bridge too far, it appears. It also struck me as odd when, one time half-way through the book, "the fact that she was Black" was thrown in as the reason why some Black people showed up to join the rocket-making crew, when this could have been established when she first appeared before a group of white rednecks in the most racist state in a racist country, rather than a detail tacked on later to be able to say, "some Black people were there also". Maybe I'm simply oblivious to subtext in her new introduction? Does "makeup of Whitney Houston" mean she's Black?
I have tried and tried to write serious, but I just can’t manage it. My hard drive is full of very dark, very intense stories I spent years writing and they are all loathed by everyone who reads them. In college I even wrote a very, very serious play about AIDS that won an award. The play was performed once and the (small) audience spent the entire three hours peeing themselves with laughter. Afterwards, people came up and told me how funny they thought it was. I wanted to make a bold statement. Instead I made people laugh. I came to realize that that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. In terms of tips, I’ve only got one and it’s not even mine. John Waters once said “Good taste is the enemy of art.” Replace “art” with “comedy” and you’ve got the formula that works for me.




• Real people began to flood the farm, mostly weekend warriors with good tools and a tendency to injure themselves. They’d heard about it online, they’d seen stories about it on the news, usually buried way back in the human-interest section right before stories about puppies who could bark “God Bless America” and newts who did geometry. Their numbers grew outcast by weirdo by outcast: six kids from a Boy Scout troop who’d been suspended from school after their homebrewed nitro-burning funny car had exploded and put two teachers in the hospital, a one-eyed amateur astronomer from Hawaii who couldn’t find work anyplace, a little person named Grekky who seemed to know an awful lot about wiring, a pair of registered nurses from Cleveland who were relentlessly upbeat no matter how many broken fingers, torn rotator cuffs, and burns they treated.
• Paul had a crew up all night making rollers out of wood, scrap steel, anything they could get their hands on, and these were placed underneath each of the massive rockets which were laid horizontal, then they began to move them. They moved them the way the Israelites built the pyramids: almost one thousand Rocket Zombies pressed close, pushing hard, using nothing more than human muscle. The Father went first, and as it left rollers behind, Rocket Zombies raced them to the front just in time to catch the Father’s nose, like moving a Viking ship from dry dock to the sea. News crews were tripping over each other’s cables as they walked backwards, filming the most primitive rocket rollout in the history of man. It was one part NASA, two parts caveman. There was something intoxicating about this exercise in brute force, and the few people not in the horde began to clap and cheer and the cheers turned to chants and the clapping became rhythmic and it took on the qualities of a pagan ritual.
Extracto de la introducción:
• Nothing depresses me more than footage of Jeff Bezos and Richard Branson shooting themselves into space. Nothing leaves me colder than a bunch of billionaires measuring their dicks. But it’s only a matter of time before people start looking up at the stars and thinking, “Why not me?” And then they’ll start tinkering in their backyards and their basements, they’ll start crunching the calculations and reaching out to other people who feel the same way. They’ll start pooling their spare time and their resources, matching their skills, sparking their torches, putting on their welding goggles, and when that happens it’ll only be a matter of time. After all, going into space is just a problem and the thing about problems is they all come with solutions as long as we’re willing to do the work. Why wait for someone else to take us to the stars? Why let someone else have all the fun? Why not do it ourselves?
After all, the sky belongs to everyone.