My dear departed grandfather always warned me never to rant publicly while still steaming hot angry. “Let it rest,” he’d say, “Cool down, get some perspective.” So, respecting his sage advice, I resisted the immediate urge. I took a seven-day rainy holiday, landed two major pitches, and dutifully wrapped up my quarterly invoicing and taxes. Yet here I am, still seething and plenty grumpy. Sorry, grandfather, your wisdom is usually spot-on, but this one’s had plenty of time to cool, and it’s still burning hot. So here goes:
Remember when space exploration was apeshit crazy and genuinely inspiring? Back when it wasn’t just a flashy, hollow marketing exercise or another checkbox for billionaires’ bucket lists? Think back to Katherine Johnson and the brilliant NASA calculus girls, mathematicians whose painstaking manual computations literally navigated humanity’s first fragile leaps into space. Women like Dorothy Vaughan and Mary Jackson who, without recognition or celebrity fanfare, quietly rewrote history from a crowded, segregated office, breaking cultural, ethnical and gender barriers that truly mattered.
I’m in awe for Valentina Tereshkova, hurtling through Earth’s orbit in 1963, inside a metal Vostok capsule barely more sophisticated than a tin can. She wasn’t up there for likes or sponsorships, she was smashing glass ceilings at terrifying speeds. Fast-forward to Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins: these weren’t photo ops. They were meticulously calculated missions of courage, vision, and grit. When Armstrong took that legendary step, it symbolized a collective human achievement, not a personal brand opportunity. It was fucking heroic. A collective achievement. Those were times when “astronaut” stood for the absolute best of humanity: intelligence, perseverance, raw bravery, and scientific genius. Where spacetravel meant pushing against impossible odds to discover new worlds, new materials, new mathematics, yes even new ways of understanding ourselves and working together. These were real heroes, inspiring entire generations to dream harder and aim higher.
And now that mindboggling bewildering scene, where Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin has thoroughly trivialized space exploration into something closer to a cringe-worthy Netflix reality show. Welcome aboard the NS-31 mission, starring Katy Perry, Gayle King, Kerianne Flynn, Amanda Nguyễn, Aisha Bowe, and, of course, Bezos’ own plasticized fiancée, Lauren Sánchez. If you blinked, you probably missed their entire “space journey,” as they briefly floated inside Bezos’ dildo-shaped rocket in a spectacle that managed to be simultaneously ridiculous and utterly depressing. Space as a circus. Panem et circenses
But what truly petrifies me is the eager complicity of media, social media, and journalism in amplifying this circus. Headlines and trending hashtags are treated as meaningful accomplishments, as if every carefully choreographed Instagram story represents a profound leap for humankind. Journalism once stood as a bastion of truth, accountability, and critical analysis; today, it risks becoming just another amplifier of superficiality and sensationalism. Why do media and social platforms play along so eagerly in this charade? The short answer: attention and profit. Clickbait headlines, trending hashtags, viral posts: they all generate traffic, engagement, and revenue. But at what cost? What societal price do we pay when sensationalism replaces substance, and spectacle is valued over genuine achievement? Why do we allow ourselves, as a culture, to be seduced by a plethora of shallow narratives masquerading as significant progress?
Let’s talk Katy Perry, the flashy pop icon who prepared for space flight by skimming through Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos” and dabbling lightly in string theory. I kid you not. Adorable. Let’s be real, celebrity posing as genuine scientific curiosity isn’t exactly inspiring young women to dive into astrophysics. Her theatrics, particularly the melodramatic kissing of the ground post-flight (a 10minute flight that is), were less authentic awe and more choreographed Instagram bait. The internet mocked accordingly. Honestly, Perry’s theatrics felt about as sincere as a mid-tier reality TV reunion special. Should this be Tara’s new role model?
There’s the broader issue: the devastating message sent to aspiring STEM girls everywhere. This Barbie-fied extravaganza seems to say: forget about rigorous academics, relentless research, and genuine scientific breakthroughs. Forget about setting your eyes relentlessly on a goal, and get there, as astronaut Jessica Meir did. Instead, it implies, if you want to be an astronaut, just build a social media following, strike a pose, win a Karako contest or two and secure a billionaire fiancé. It’s like STEM-lite, without all the pesky substance. Without the work. Without the merit. Without the scientific goals. Without purpose. Well, without meaning basically.
Critics were swift and sharp: Moira Donegan didn’t pull punches, labeling this spectacle a “hollow vanity project.” Ms. Magazine lamented the missed chance to spotlight actual scientific pioneers, while Al Jazeera and Buzzfeed termed the entire display “faux feminism,” just another shiny distraction from genuine women’s empowerment. Fair points all around.
What Bezos has orchestrated here isn’t progress, it’s regression. It’s the absolute antithesis of what real space exploration once represented. Space used to inspire awe precisely because it symbolized humanity’s greatest collective aspirations: discovery, knowledge, courage, and unity. Now, it’s being reduced to yet another elitist playground, an overpriced photo-op for the privileged few, wrapped in flashy erotized branding. It’s heartbreaking to watch something once revered become little more than a billionaire’s plaything. This isn’t simply a lost opportunity: it’s actively corrosive. It tells future generations, especially young girls dreaming of making genuine contributions to science, technology, engineering, and mathematics, that the path to achievement is paved with fame and spectacle rather than hard work and dedication.
Bezos’ rocket, with its unsettlingly phallic shape, is emblematic of the entire project: flashy, absurd, and fundamentally empty. Instead of pushing humanity forward, Blue Origin’s superficial celebrity-focused stunts pull our collective gaze downward, back to vanity, ego, and frivolous self-promotion.
Let’s not forget the contrast with the women who truly made space history. The hidden figures of NASA, the quiet, diligent scientists laboring tirelessly in labs, the astronauts who’ve faced genuine danger and uncertainty, all overshadowed by a billionaire’s vanity parade. It’s frankly embarrassing. More than embarrassing, it’s damaging. It makes me angry, even after a three week cool down period.
Congratulations, Jeff (and the media circus you’ve so masterfully manipulated). You’ve turned the final frontier into a shallow carnival ride, complete with plastic smiles, Botox-infused drama, and carefully staged heroics. You’ve officially made space uncool. You’ve Barbie-fied the cosmos. Let’s sincerely hope the selfies were worth it: because, trust me, the damage you’ve done to inspiration and ambition might just be irreparable.
