In 1977 — long before some of you were even born, I’m sad and/or frightened to say — NASA launched from a pad at Kennedy Space Center Voyager 1 and Voyager 2. The initial primary mission of the Voyager program was the exploration of Jupiter and Saturn. (I’m sure no one at mission control ever uttered the words, “We’re going to probe Uranus next.”) When the longer term capabilities of the spacecraft were examined, the program morphed into a interstellar journey just this side of Captain Kirkville.

Being a geek-in-training at the time, I was absolutely, completely fascinated by these projects. (There may even be some NASA employees who recall the regular letters I sent, which, remarkably, were each answered kindly.)

In what some deemed technological hubris and typical human egocentricity, to each spacecraft was attached a gold-coated copper phonograph record meant to convey a series of messages to any alien race that receives it. This was assuming, of course, they were advanced enough to break down the second most common element in the universe: hydrogen. (The most common element in the universe, apparently, being stupidity.)

NASA also, wisely, attached a cartridge, stylus, and a how-to diagram instructing how to play the album. Thus demonstrating, again, high hopes that the recipients would have already cleared the required level of scientific intelligence commonly known as the “How To Program a VCR” hurdle which so clearly delineates intelligent life from lower, insignificant lifeforms known as “normal people.”

As an aside, for those of us who have read L. Ron Hubbard’s book, “Battlefield Earth” or the story from the first Star Trek motion picture, you have to accept the possibility that this might not turn out all that well for the future generations who may be visited by beings less affable, if more attactive than Spielberg’s E.T. But, since Carl Sagan suggests it may be ten billion years before either Voyager spacecraft even enters a planetary system — and assuming the gold album isn’t first melted to create a grill for some gangsta alien — I’ll go out on a limb and state for the record:

Any unfriendly aliens determined to make earthlings their slaves will first have to fight mankind’s other three masters — roaches, McDonald’s Big Macs, and Microsoft.

On the record is found 118 images of earth and its civilizations and almost an hour and a half of music (for some bizarre reason no Led Zeppelin was included), and greetings in nearly sixty human languages and one whale language.

But how do a room full of adult human beings select ninety minutes of music meant to represent humanity when one has to sift through hundreds of years and a multitude of cultures from which to choose? Why, via fisticuffs of course. (Kidding.) Carl Sagan had the final red pen, but he surrounded himself with people more than capable of making valuable suggestions. And the end result is a lovely representation of planet earth’s music as of 1977.

But none of the discussions over which piece of music or image to use could eclipse the “discussions” ensuing over the plaques attached to Voyager’s previous stellar brethren, Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11. To the antenna structure of each of those probes, fired in the general direction of the outer space of 1972 and 1973, was affixed a gold-covered plaque — an interstallar greeting card of sorts — meant to convey our humanness and location in the universe. More hubris in action.

But, as Sagan wrote of the plaque, the reaction to the contents were “both amusing and amazing” — surely one of my favorite phrases.

Among the things depicted on our gold greeting card were drawings of a man and a woman — nekkid as jaybirds. This presented a national crisis in the making since newspapers had to decide how to depict such nudity in print. And then there were the angry letters and phone calls asking why taxpayer money was being spent to send “smut” into space.

There were letters of protest from feminists who were outraged that the woman seemed to be depicted as subservient to the man — as if there was anything wrong with that. Sure she was barefoot, but she wasn’t placed in the kitchen, so I’m not sure I can see what the problem was.

There were the men who couldn’t be terribly happy with the way he was depicted. I’ll leave it at that.

There were those who complained that the depictions of the man and woman were created by only three people, rather than a planetary council which included all races and, therefore, did not actually represent all of mankind. Some even demanded that any future depiction sent into space be by such council so as to not leave anyone feeling left out.

So. Given the relative level of importance of this project, which can legitimately be measured by cosmic proportions, and the fact that so many uninvolved people can nitpick the details, can it come as any suprise that the details that make up any individual performance of magic or mentalism — surely a smaller world than that of the space program — might succumb to the same human tendencies?

While observing our own navel, and those of others, may be a fascinating past time — and even necessary from time to time — what it is we are looking for or hoping to accomplish is something of importance. When we pick apart our performance, or that of another, the intent makes a difference.

Is there much point in complaining that David Blaine used tricks found in a beginner’s magic set? Or that David Copperfield is performing the same illusions from years and years ago? (I could make a compelling argument for for asking why is he no longer featuring Joanie Spina, but I’ll have to save that for a later date.) I’d say, no there isn’t. But studying the effect of either performer on the audience is, I think, time well spent.

But let’s keep our perspective in check. Let’s remember where on the vast piece of cosmic fabric we sit. It might be time better spent to first nitpick our own routines and performances and compare them to the results we hope to obtain when we perform for others. Surely a good starting point may be to observe our relative importance in the world of magic and mentalism before trudging off in some direction of critiquing the performance of another.

One of my areas of deep interest (both personal and fiduciary) is music production. One of our Grand Zen Masters is George Massenburg who, in putting into perspective the relative importance of our work in the grand scheme of things, stated:

“Finally, get some perspective. Pro Audio is but one tiny cell of a fungus on a short hair of a flea on the pink part of a rather large elephant’s ass meandering aimlessly through a huge foetid marsh somewhere on the surface of a tiny, insignificant planet lost in an infinite universe. Don’t take yourself too seriously.”

Indeed.