Rich thrills
I lack the imagination of the rich — or, rather, if I were rich I’d use my imagination to burn through $200,000, and not blow it strapped to a rocket for a couple of hours in space. My hominid brain can’t fathom the draw of going into space: who cares? And at cocktail parties, sure, you might be able to wow a couple of oil barons with an anecdote about how your bowels feel when you leave the atmosphere, but hell, I’d rather eat through $200,ooo. I guess that makes me philistine.
