The title of this post should really be “Growin Up.” But I’m an English nerd as much as a science nerd, damn it, and I just couldn’t do it. The lines “My feet they finally took root in the earth, but I got me a nice little place in the stars” are, of course, plucked from this song, which made me happy-sad earlier today. (It’s someone’s fault that there isn’t a better word for that than “bittersweet,” just not mine.)
It has not been a thoroughly cheerful year for my weirdly varied pop culture interests. Clarence Clemons died this past weekend, Elisabeth Sladen died while I was studying for finals, and, shortly before her, Nicholas Courtney.
As always, when confronted with spooky things like the steady passage of time, I turn to the data. For once, those data are not entirely comforting. For instance, 12 people have walked on the Moon. The youngest was born in 1935. Of those 12, 3 have died already (a fact I was unaware of until today, and which almost makes my point for me).
A practical solution to this unavoidable problem? Make sure that someone is watching Tom Baker’s cholesterol levels, that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin are always within the reach of capable cardiologists, that Ray Bradbury is kept well away from factors known to cause pneumonia. Etc.