#REVIEW: Challenger: A True Story of Heroism and Disaster on the Edge of Space, by Adam Higginbotham

In what might be the least surprising book recommendation in the history of the blog, I thoroughly enjoyed reading a history of the Challenger disaster. This is known; I’m an astronomy nerd, and I’m 50, so I was in fourth grade when the Challenger exploded, and I dressed up as Ellison Onizuka for some sort of history performance thing later that year that I can’t really remember the details of. I do remember several other people in my class were other Challenger astronauts; I don’t think we had all seven, but there were a good three or four of us, and the thing involved everyone standing around in the gym dressed as their chosen person and giving speeches about our lives and our contributions to society to whoever happened to walk past. A history fair of some kind? Maybe. We finagled matching fake space suits from somewhere, I remember that.

I also set part of the prologue of my book Skylights on January 28, 1986, and the Challenger disaster is what gets the main character interested in space. The book is dedicated to the fourteen astronauts we lost in the Challenger and Columbia explosions, but I had to look up the names of the Columbia astronauts. I have been able to rattle off the seven Challenger astronauts by name since 1986.

The book begins with the Apollo 1 disaster, where the pure-oxygen environment in the cabin caught fire and burned the three astronauts to death before the rocket even took off. Higginbotham then goes into the history of the development of the Space Shuttle, which, my God, was an incredible clusterfuck, and it’s amazing that any of them ever flew at all. There’s a fair amount of attention paid to the process used to select Christa McAuliffe as a payload specialist, some biographical information of each of the other six astronauts, and then once we get to about mid-January of 1986 the book shifts to practically an hour-by-hour description of the run-up to the explosion and the multiple investigations afterwards. Higginbotham is an impressive storyteller– I’m going to find his first book, which was about Chernobyl, as soon as I can– and the book is detailed and authoritative without ever getting dry, with an impressive amount of footnoting at the end for anyone who is interested in checking his sources.

This is– okay, I can’t say objectively, really, but I’m gonna do it anyway– objectively a good book, but it’s also a book that there was no way I was going to be able to put down once I picked it up unless it was an absolute travesty of a hack job, and it won a bunch of awards. I read it in a day, mostly because I couldn’t put it down. I learned some things, and I remembered some other things I’d forgotten, and I’m much angrier at 1980’s era NASA than I was before reading it. None of these people should have died. None of them.

I think a lot of you are like me and knew from the title whether you wanted to read this; I would recommend you follow that impulse if you do, and if your initial impulse wasn’t immediately “This book exists? I should read it!” you should read it anyway. I will talk about it again in December, there is no doubt of that.

50

I appear to not have taken a proper selfie on my actual 40th birthday, but my brother’s wedding was in late June of 2016, so we’re going to let that one be close enough. Other than the beard, I’m really not sure I look a whole lot different, but who knows.

We are not really doing a lot to celebrate. I spent the morning reading, which is not exactly an abnormal activity for me, and I just watched Norway beat Brazil, and I’m really hoping to watch Mexico trounce England in a couple of hours. In between, there will be burgers and more reading. I am nothing if not predictable.

Oh, and because my wife is the greatest of wives and the greatest of women, I get to feed capybaras next weekend. Which makes this the greatest birthday since the one where I got to pet a rhino. I wanted to go skydiving for my 50th birthday, but it turns out you can be too fat to skydive, and I am, indeed, too fat to skydive. And it wasn’t by like 10 or 20 pounds, either, where I could have done some sort of crash diet thing; nah, it’s by a large percentage of a normal human’s body weight. So that’s not a thing that’s going to happen absent a plane crash.

I was also really hoping something horrible would happen to someone horrible last night, and it didn’t happen. There’s still time left in the day, though, right? Come on, little blood clot. Do your thing.

Whatever

Did you know the Indiana Dinosaur Museum exists? And it’s an actual dinosaur museum, and not a secret shrine to creationism, like you might expect from Indiana? One of my wife’s cousins is in town, and we were supposed to meet her and my brother- and sister-in-law there, and well, we did, but instead of exploring the Indiana Dinosaur Museum I got abruptly and rather disgustingly ill, and ended up spending most of my time either in the (impressively clean!) bathroom or the car waiting for them to finish the tour. Then we came home, cancelling the lunch that we were supposed to be hosting, and I went to bed for a few hours. I got up and watched France squeak by Paraguay, and … well, now it’s going to rain. There were no real plans to watch fireworks tonight (the Fourth of July has rarely been treated as much of a thing by my family, to be honest) and the rain would be preventing that anyway, so I’m watching it get dark super early and waiting for the sky to explode.

Speaking of disappointments, I was hoping for some horrible people to have bad things happen to them today, but it appears that that’s not happening either. I’m turning 50 tomorrow, and I’m not happy about it, and I really don’t know what kind of day tomorrow is going to be. I know I’m watching both of the World Cup matches– my devotion to watching soccer over the last month has been surprising even to me; it’s the only sporting event I pay attention to any longer, but I wasn’t expecting to prioritize watching nearly every match I could, and that’s what I’ve been doing.

So, yeah. America 250 is officially blech. We’ll see how Luther 50 goes tomorrow. What did you do with your holiday?

Watch this

I came across this video while helping out a friend who is having jambalaya tonight, because having and especially cooking jambalaya without listening to Fats Domino is kind of sinful. I’m sharing it with you because of the two absolutely outstanding saxophone solos and also the completely inexplicable yo-yo guy. The one guy waving a hankie ends up playing the trumpet eventually. The other guy? He’s a mystery.

#REVIEW: you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love, by Olivia Rodrigo

I know, I know, the number of people on the planet who were hoping to find out my opinion on this album is approximately zero. That includes my wife. No one needs this review. You’re getting it anyway.

I just looked, and I’ve talked at least briefly about all three (yes, three; she released a kickass live album last year) of Rodrigo’s previous albums in this space. I owe the fact that I pay attention to Olivia Rodrigo at all to the fact that I’m a teacher; I never wrote the entire post and at this point it’s irrelevant, but her first album creeped me out on a deep and fundamental level as someone who is supposed to be an advocate for kids, and I never said a whole bunch of things about the people responsible for her career when she was a minor because I know how the internet works and they would be interpreted as me talking shit about her. And then Guts came out and bad idea right? was a world-class banger and a lot of the trepidation I had went away; it was clear pretty quick that the no-longer-quite-a-kid had more maturity and control over her own music than I’d been giving her credit for, and if the adults had been steering her wrong as I’d thought, she’d either gotten new adults or started ignoring the old ones.

All that said, I can boil the “review” part of this down to a single sentence if I want to: the last time an album has dominated my listening time as thoroughly as yspsfagsil was Dark Matter, Pearl Jam’s most recent album. That should be enough for anyone who has paid attention to my opinions on, well, anything; Pearl Jam is my favorite band of all time and at this point in my life is not going to be dethroned. This thing came out on June 12 and I’ve probably listened to it at least twenty times all the way through since then. I’m not sure there’s a song on here that I like as much as bad idea right? but the duet with Robert Smith, what’s wrong with me, is her best song.(*) drop dead, stupid song and maggots for brains are great tracks. Hell, I’d say the first five tracks on the album– those three, plus honeybee and u + me = <3 (**) are as good an opening five as any other album I can think of. I don’t love less, I suppose– in general the higher-energy songs rank higher in my esteem, and less is all high-register and piano; I kind of want to know what Billie Eilish would do with it– but there are no weak songs on here, and the most amazing thing is Rodrigo released a pop album in 2026 and the shortest song is still over three minutes long. I have grown so tired of music clearly written for TikTok. There’s none of that.

I genuinely can’t wait to see where Rodrigo’s career goes in the future. I started that sentence off saying “in twenty years” and then remembered I’m turning fifty this weekend. Let’s just say the future and go with that. Either way, this kid’s the real thing and if you have any interest in pop music at all and you haven’t at least streamed this yet, get on that.

(*) Olivia Rodrigo being singlehandedly responsible for making The Cure relevant to an entirely new generation was not something I was expecting of her during the Sour years, and I love it. Recall that The Cure’s latest album was also unexpectedly fantastic.

(**) yes, she literally says “you plus me equals a heart” in the refrain.

Monthly Reads: June 2026

Two things about June’s books:

  1. Book of the Month is She Knows All the Names, by Michelle Jabès Corpora, with Radiant Dark and The Lion Women of Tehran in close runners-up; and
  2. One book is not a book I read in June! I read a Secret Project of comparable length to that book by the same author. I’m not sure the author even wants confirmation that the Secret Project exists, so you’re just going to have to either wonder or do research to figure out which one.

Unread Shelf: June 30, 2026

This represents genuine progress from last month, believe it or not. Everything I bought in January has been read! February I bought a whole damn lot of books.

It’s bloody hot

That’s the thermometer in my back yard, at 7:37 PM, and you’ll note that thermometers don’t know what a “heat index” is, so I can only assume it’s the literal apocalypse outside right now. It’s supposed to be like this all week. I’m not excited about it.

I watched both World Cup matches this afternoon; Brazil-Japan was exciting despite ending the wrong way; Germany-Paraguay was a textbook example of Everything Americans Think is Wrong with Soccer, not only featuring a truly ludicrous amount of flopping (if I took a drink every time I said “you’re fine, get up,” I’d be dead) but ending in a shootout where the pivotal miss on the German team’s part, the kick that more or less decided the game, soared ten feet above the goal.

I don’t think I’m being unreasonable when I suggest that, given a stationary ball and no one defending, any professional soccer player should be able to hit the fucking goal. Someone out there– possibly not someone reading this, but someone— will surely disagree with me on that. I could put a ball in the goal from that distance when I was playing soccer at ten. The goalkeeper is basically relying on vibes and luck to choose which way he jumps; he’s only barely relevant. All you have to do is hit the goal. The damned thing is twenty-four feet wide and eight feet tall. 192 square feet. Come the fuck on. And he wasn’t the only player who missed the goal! He was just the worst example.

The dude who missed that shot should walk into the ocean, is what I’m saying. Imagine NBA games that ended with each team shooting free throws and one of them airballs. That’s the rough equivalent here. Maybe one player from the opposing team gets to throw a ball at the ball to account for the goalie.(*)

The third game of the day features my Netherlands; I will have to cheer for a European team against an African one, which rankles a bit, but they’re my team and that’s that. I just wish I remembered why.

(*) No, an even better example: a football (our football) game where the game was decided on five extra point attempts. Any kicker who missed that badly wouldn’t make it off the field alive, and if he did he wouldn’t be taking his kicking foot with him.

OH AND ALSO:

Anthropeum.com
Jun 29 2026
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