We can put a man on the moon, but we can't go to space?

I’d like to say my story begins with me locked in a three-way steel cage death match with Mr. T and a lumberjack.

But that’s not the truth. It really starts with me zoned out for a couple of hours at my office cubicle, reading a New York Times article about the future of space flight, where I found this sentence:

“Government-financed space travel could stall in the face of America’s growing aversion to risk.”
Wait, what? We’re afraid of risk? In America? The home of the brave?

No way. We’ve all seen some pretty bad space tragedies, but America is the greatest country in the world, and you can’t be great if you don’t take risks.

We wouldn’t even have the America we know if a bunch of religious fanatics had said, “I might get seasick; I can’t get on that boat.”

We wouldn’t have electricity if Ben Franklin had said, “I might get shocked; I can’t fly this kite.”

We wouldn’t have “Hysteria” if the drummer for Def Leppard had said, “I’ve only got one arm; I can’t rock.”

So we can’t say, “Our ship might break; we can’t go to space.”

For one thing, we learn new stuff in space—NASA helped improve eyeglasses, cancer research and even NFL Sunday Ticket. And the space program does cost billions of dollars, but compared to the rest of the budget, it’s really only Stanley Nickels and Schrute Bucks.

We should keep going to space for the same reason we climbed Mount Everest, built bases on Antarctica and jumped Snake River Canyon on a motorcycle--it stretches the limits of humanity.
That’s the whole point of space travel—you blast off in a space shuttle that’s shaped like a middle finger and point it at the laws of nature.

We didn’t let the Russkies beat us to the moon, but we haven’t done anything that jaw-dropping in decades. Our buildings are no longer the tallest, our basketball teams are no longer the dreamiest, people can see our stealth bombers.

My greatest recent accomplishment was hitting 300 straight notes of “Freebird” on “Guitar Hero II.” And even that wan’t a huge deal—those 300 notes were at the beginning of the song, and the solo starts right about note 301.

Meanwhile, the Chinese might beat us to Mars.

We can’t let that happen. Granted, blind patriotism doesn’t always end well—Manifest Destiny and the Trail of Tears come to mind. But Americans—both natives and immigrants like Albert Einstein who knew this was the place to be—have done a bunch of rootin’ tootin’ stuff.

Off the top of my head, there’s the light bulb, the airplane and the American version of “The Office.”

You’re welcome.

But the toppermost of the poppermost was when we put a man on the freakin’ moon. It was a giant leap for mankind. But we could go farther.

I bet even all the astronauts who died in tragedies would have wanted it that way.

I’m gonna go pick a fight.

This article first appeared in the Evansville Courier & Press. Columnist Jacob Bennett can take you thru the center of the dark. You’re gonna fly on a collision course to crash into his heart. He will be your, he will be your, he'll be your rocket, yeah, satellite of love, at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.

Rub me like a lamp, dude

I’m thinking about letting a dude give me a massage at work.

Don’t worry, I won’t get in trouble; the company hires a guy to come in and rub the workers for at least 10 minutes.

As general rules, I’d rather not get massaged at work, and I’d really rather not get a mansage at work.

I prefer to save those for Interstate rest stops. Just sayin’.

But I was walking down the hall the other day and I saw this man mountain going to town on some chick I work with. I admit, it looked pretty relaxing.

I would prefer a Swedish blonde named Ingrid, possibly Ursula, but Mattias there looked like he could really knead some dough.

I might get in line next time. I’ve had a hard time sleeping the last few weeks. I’m getting used to a new position at work and I’ve worked more in the last three weeks than I did in the last three years.

But anyway, that shift in responsibilities is a big reason why I almost never write anything for The Messenger anymore.

I’ve started three or four that I wasn’t able to finish. One of them was too personal and one of them I couldn’t get the tone quite right.

And I couldn’t even think of ways to write about traveling to L.A., San Diego or Tijuana, even though in L.A. I dined just a few tables down from the stars. But I don’t want to drop names.

Niecy Nash.

The stress is causing me to make mistakes at work: I misspelled some kids’ names, and I incorrectly reported that the president resigned (don’t worry, we ran a correction on page 2).

I’m mad at myself because at my high school reunion I forgot to bring up how my old job consisted mainly of going to concerts and interviewing famous people, and now I can’t bring it up anymore. And I don’t want to drop names.

Ted Nugent. David Copperfield. Dog the Bounty Hunter.

Uh-oh, apparently if I interview you, you’re going to say or do something that gets you in trouble. Look out, bearded guy from the Oak Ridge Boys.

No, the other one.

I realize you don’t want to hear complaints about a workplace where you can get a massage. I’m sure they don’t bring in a masseuse to my brother’s bus garage, or my cousin’s construction sites.

My work also brings nurses in to give us flu shots, but for my first 27 years, I never took them up on it. And then last year the law of averages caught up to me and I got the flu. Of course everyone said smugly, “You should have gotten a flu shot.”

So I got one this year, and now I’ve got a cold.

But maybe my story has a happy ending.

I’m sure my troubles are nothing Mattias can’t fix with his magic hands.

When he’s playing pat-a-cake on my back, I’ll tell him to put some stank on it.

And the man at the back said, “Everyone attack” and it turned into a ballroom blitz. And the girl in the corner said, “Boy, I wanna warn ya, it'll turn into a ballroom blitz. Ballroom blitz,” at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.

I Should Have Listened to My Dad

I should have listened to my dad.

All those years, growing up on the farm, he tried to tell me.

He showed me how to change my oil, how to fix leaky pipes, how to grow my own vegetables so I didn’t have to run to Wal-Mart every time I needed a taco tomato.

But, as he liked to say, he might as well have been talking to that fence post.

All those things he tried to teach me, and I didn’t retain a lick of it.

If you ranked me on a usefulness scale, from Paris Hilton to Bob Vila, I’d probably come in about a Pauly Shore. I wouldn’t be much use on a deserted island, but if you owned a comedy club, you might let me sweep up.

So now here I am, owner of $157 worth of a house (the credit union owns the rest), and already I’ve got a long list of honey-dos without any clue.

Dad fixed fighter jets, tinkered on tanks and grew his own cows. He built most of the second floor of our house by himself.

I can barely put together a little living room table.

I looked at the online do-it-yourself instructions for ceiling fan installation, and I might as well have been looking at blueprints for an atomic bomb.

Just persuading my weed eater to start is as hard as picking up girls in college, and I can’t give my weed eater alcohol.

This, of course, isn’t the first time I found out the hard way Dad was right. He always told me to study hard in school, that my future depended on it. Who knew (besides Dad) I’d spend a decade paying, in the form of monthly college loan payments, for not doing my eighth-grade algebra homework.

My little brother’s tuition is paid for at Western Kentucky. And there’s no way he’s smarter than me. Except he knows good advice when he sees it.

I always thought people in Meade County only drove big trucks because it was the cool thing to do; I’m quickly learning my Cavalier is about as useful as I am. I actually considered buying a small truck when I bought that car, but the lot only had manual transmissions, and I was of the opinion that if manual transmissions were so great, they wouldn’t have invented automatics.
So I never let Dad teach me to drive a stick.

Yes, sir, guess I’ll pay that delivery fee. And I’ll pay you to change my oil. And to grow me vegetables.

Eventually I’m going to have to fix a furnace, patch a roof and maybe put in some new tiles.
I saw Dad put in some new tiles once.

It didn’t look so hard when he did it.

Columnist Jacob Bennett is ok, ‘cause you have that affect on him. He needs you desperately; you know he needs you desperately at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.