Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini: The Essential Reference: 500 Recipes, 275 Photographs

Elizabeth Schneider

	Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini: The Essential Reference: 500 Recipes, 275 Photographs
	Published: 04 December, 2001
	Our price: List price: As of: August 22nd, 2008 01:28:21 AM
	Author: Elizabeth Schneider

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Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini: The Essential Reference: 500 Recipes, 275 Photographs

Comcast Does About-Face: Declares Love for P2P

After testing an experimental file-sharing architecture in July, Comcast looks like it's softening its position on file sharing. The architecture, P4P, lower network costs and increases download times. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:67063c15aae63495e7f62bb4f876b801:0bVob8bdXjsmX1l0BVcge%2BrCO%2BjE6iIRjosUzjTNdo1VFnm4Y87Pz75rK8xu1r22fc28pJcfZVVGzQ3jD%2BCNaipRXBwwBMbrFPG35XQldfI%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:c75380bd0c23aaf5bb8ec6fbcfc6d65d:jYyJ40xnZAlmLcqLaBUqiLdGSZpDIDNQamtrPVyVOWZyZ5AySPV%2F4IHbdkwmZ2Fltay8carMo6BEdkvPRqSFi3LS6bhmy8hXFa7XKo5Tjbw%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:6ef6abfdce0f0508d9df29aeb2627611:URQo6Ui4rWuDemINtOnicpJWwzbi7WVdcZD%2BPJztkZmdUh5uTuQCHLfKRsUN3WLtBmCffU%2B6pVgnusfADM0J8DugqaxrOuGu5SeNCpMpyC0%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:c1926efa22ad29f991b7ea3d757574a7:nirkruS2aA1plO5s2ffbtj9aR%2BVxicyREnNq40CBJhWql05e6DZ3jQ71y%2Bc2PM5hfbYrXOUDcuOi64eLJtdCYnrVFRdgI4XUN8A4kIMpibU%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=e6c06750f41446ffca9974f597d5d16a" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=e6c06750f41446ffca9974f597d5d16a" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=og8tyK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=og8tyK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=cIvmfk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=cIvmfk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=6mUQAk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=6mUQAk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=MGN5DK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=MGN5DK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/371339210" height="1" width="1"/>

Scott Brown Rails Against Machineless Time Travel

I fear for the future of time travel. Not the real thing: That seems to be coming along swimmingly, according to a handful of renegade physicists (more on that in The Future! of this column). No, I'm more worried about that venerable pop institution fictional time travel. It's getting airier, subtler, distressingly less Rube Goldbergian: No fewer than four extant network shows — <cite>Heroes</cite>, the soon-to-return <cite>Lost</cite>, and two newcomers, <cite>Life on Mars</cite> and <cite>Fringe</cite> — involve some form of time travel minus any obvious chronos-crunching machine. The new time travelers epoch-hop on pure longing, head injury, or strength of will alone — sizzling portals and sparking gizmos are now rendered beside the point. Sure, some might see this as the genre maturing, but to me it looks an awful lot like downsizing. Hello? McFly? Whither the DeLoreans of yesteryear? Outta time, it seems. Which says something about The Present. Time-travel stories are wonderfully dated, pristine core samples of the ages that birthed them. In <cite>A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court</cite> (1889), an early instance, Mark Twain was essentially refighting the Civil War in satire. His mode of transport? A bump on the head. Twain was in the machine age but not of it. But just a few years later in 1895, H. G. Wells embraced the industrial: <cite>The Time Machine</cite> was an au courant postcolonial parable, but more to the point, it described time travel via device in detail — and became a timeless source of inspiration for future generations of geeks. One of these is Ronald Mallett, a University of Connecticut physics professor who is, in all seriousness, working on a time machine. As you might expect, his tastes fall along the gizmo end of the spectrum: "I'm into the realm of technology and control. My leaning is definitely toward science fiction based on some sort of instrumentality." Mallet's design involves a circulating ring laser that could hypothetically twist spacetime the way a spoon swirls coffee. Time machines stayed in fashion through the atomic age, undergoing both design and thematic updates that often cast them as vehicles for cautionary tales of science gone awry: See Ray Bradbury's seminal short story <cite>A Sound of Thunder</cite> (the "butterfly effect" urtext) and the BBC's <cite>Doctor Who</cite>. The sober political retrenchments of the '70s gave rise to <cite>Time and Again</cite> and <cite>Somewhere in Time</cite>, in which time travel is a form of reflective meditation, accomplished via hypnosis. In the '80s, heavy metal resurged with <cite>Back to the Future</cite> and <cite>The Terminator</cite>, two films that differed radically in theory and tone (<cite>BTTF</cite>'s zippy Freudian destiny-defiance versus <cite>T1</cite>'s grim, apocalyptic determinism) but shared the muscular, plutonium-fueled ethos of the Reagan era. <cite>Quantum Leap</cite> may have been light on tech, but it was almost neoconservative in its morality: Sam Beckett traveled the timeline, righting wrongs — the continuum's beat cop. And Bill and Ted's phone booth? A thing of naive, idiotic, self-congratulatory excellence, much like triumphal glasnost America itself. For these time travel shows, history was like other world problems — ornery but correctable. By 1991, <cite>Terminator 2</cite>'s happy ending seemed to be telling us that the timeline was finally fixed. And then, for the rest of the '90s, the time machines were scrapped. We didn't need them anymore. That's been the case even as, in the last couple of years, time travel has returned to the cultural forebrain — sans the machines. <cite>Lost</cite>'s Desmond has seizures of chronology fueled not by plutonium but by romantic longing and the drive for redemption; for <cite>Heroes</cite>' Hiro, era swapping is a personal test of will; and the time traveler in <cite>Life on Mars</cite> may either be trapped in the '70s or a coma victim dying of guilty nostalgia. (Talk about a parable for our times!) Methodology-wise, though, we're practically back to <cite>King Arthur's Court</cite>. This is time travel in the cloud era: The DeLorean would never even pass emissions, and classical Wellsian futurism has given way to pure wish fulfillment. But in the next yet-to-be-writ age of time-travel fantasy, I say we re-commit to the machine. Be it Mallett's circulating ring laser (Spike Lee has already bought the film rights to the prof's life story — really) or a mylar-sided Prius (Mr. Spielberg, that one's on the house), let's mechanize something, not just squint hard and wish. Let's get ambitious again. Let's shoot sparks. Let's burn rubber. Heck, maybe just once, for old time's sake, let's go back and father ourselves. Email <a href="mailto:scott_brown@wired.com">scott_brown@wired.com</a>. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:bd915feacd6d27258851f9f85c1bd940:Qa9lIVQ0KkM5fObjGwiuEOnuovPB49iuN1HECxDZLC1E1jduAsAZcis5WJfAeBJxaaOs0oVz5mrJbu%2F8hSoQFP2qbrk7BEXenBprBZ3Urxo%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:8d793f1b27dd1a1500bca5d8d7810255:Ix%2BrQA%2BVLnn4GD9DugdEO%2FLSEjD%2FTM3CDEKHnxoN4iHU1bh7c9RUC0kUrvVc4rva0lUu2P%2FvsJdz0TjdwyyuVRbxLnTls9%2FLnlKF4tnssKk%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:8510dfee7a5da7844a08c26dcb0c8c0c:sI9PSpD8ey1XgW8Klyad5CbYHIkm7MATnBhbBIf9rTF9qYSCdojPypUKkBqvTxPtxfbsgzs9GaaJmZmQ4rJpWdirHnDf%2BjQ3g8%2BuNfgeask%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:ac4e4cfbcd831ccc720bcfaef9957943:wEH9l77dCkMN%2Fakg97CfArRYjm%2FUI%2BFAcbWUe%2FUCOlbPIagbpcL%2B44iuNI3KDaA67wqrfSD7CKscfoVdVvSYPFN3la0D0CCZAqtAlflg3eU%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=fa697d3ed7ad69abd935d7439b57dadd" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=fa697d3ed7ad69abd935d7439b57dadd" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=471FbK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=471FbK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=0t5A7k"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=0t5A7k" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=QLqERk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=QLqERk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=kpRL0K"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=kpRL0K" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/370586630" height="1" width="1"/>

Blogs to Riches: Perez Hilton Migrates Into Cosmetics, Fashion and Music

Mario Lavandeira hates to leave the house. He prefers to stay in his gated-community condo, which has all the charm and personality of a just-cleaned motel room, so he can torture the rich and famous from the safety of his computer. He's been up since 4 am, belly-crawling through the blogosphere to uncover juicy celebrity tidbits for his gossip site, <a href="http://www.perezhilton.com">PerezHilton.com</a>. "I work 16, 17, 18 hours a day," he whines as he stuffs his pear-shaped torso into a black and yellow hoodie and matching track pants that make him look like a giant bumblebee. "I'm not exaggerating. That's really how much I work." But chubby Mario from Miami isn't the boss around here. The boss is Perez Hilton, his infamous alter ego. Like a queer-eyed Incredible Hulk, this raging diva persona took over the life of shy, schlubby Mario in 2005. In just three years, Hilton has smashed through the Hollywood elite, muscling his way from bottom-feeding blogger to up-and-coming entertainment-business power player. This particular spring morning hasn't turned up much news—no bold-named breakups, no leaked sex tapes, no tinted-limo treks to rehab. But Hilton has a hair appointment, and it's time to get going. So he throws a few celebrity crumbs to the 8 million devotees who rely on him for their daily dish. As usual, they're delivered in a writing style so breathless you need an inhaler to follow along. Choice samples from Hilton's oeuvre: OMG! ... Justin Timberlake is box office POISON ... Jesse Jackson is in Deep Shiz ... Amy Winehouse! Her performance was a hot mess!"My site is for people just like me," he says as we bullet through West Hollywood in his Toyota Camry. "Regular folks." Of course, most regular folks aren't greeted by name at the valet parking stand in front of this chic Beverly Hills beauty salon. Inside, a fawning hair stylist squeals, "My family in Arkansas just loves you!" She takes more than two and a half hours to coif his thick black hair into a spiky 'do with a Flock of Seagulls wave falling over one eye. As he admires the effect in the mirror, I'm reminded of a drawing I spotted above his living room sofa: Hilton as a grinning vampire perched atop the Hollywood sign. "I want to be the gay Latino Oprah," he says. "Anything is possible!" Perez Hilton as a bona fide celebrity? OMG!It's really happening: First there was Hilton's wildly successful site. Then came his four-episode TV special, <cite>What Perez Sez</cite> (which aired on VH1 to respectable ratings), followed by a nationally syndicated on-air gossip gig with ABC Radio. In early 2009, Hilton's first book, a satirical tell-all titled <cite>Red Carpet Suicide: A Survival Guide on Keeping Up With the Hiltons</cite>, will hit bookstores. Then there's the recently launched Hot Topic clothing and accessories line (brace yourself for armies of teenage girls in Team Perez T-shirts and shiny pink Hilton-brand lip gloss). Now the guy who prefers Bette Midler to Arcade Fire and knows all the lyrics to Paula Abdul's "Vibeology" is working with Warner Music to launch his own boutique label, with acts handpicked by the blogger himself. "Record labels release so much crap these days, I think I could do really well," he says as we head back to the condo. "Nothing coming out of my label will be crap. But if it were, it would just be a single. If there's one crap single that has the potential to make a shitload of money, I'd release it." As we pull up to a four-way stop, Hilton gasps. "Look! It's Seth Green!" Sure enough, the red-haired actor from <cite>Austin Powers</cite> sits in the next car, staring blankly out the window. "I should say hello to him," Hilton says, then pauses. "He should say hello to me." The blogs-to-riches story of Mario Armando Lavandeira Jr. is the stuff of online legend. In 2004, during what he calls "the worst year of my life," he was a fame-obsessed loner who had just been fired from a reporting job at <cite>Star</cite> magazine. ("It poisoned my soul," he says.) Dreaming of becoming an actor, he moved from New York to LA, unemployed and broke. Too cheap to pay for Internet access at home, he set up shop at a local Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. There, enjoying the free Wi-Fi, he stumbled across a few personal blogs. He thought of writing an online diary of his own but concluded that his life was too boring. <div id="embed"> <div id="pic" style="margin-bottom:12px;"> <img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/mf_perez2_f.jpg" alt=""/> <div id="caption">Hilton and his fave act Girlicious at the MuchMusic Awards. Photo: Getty</div> </div> </div> Then he had what his idol, Ms. Winfrey, would call his a-ha moment: He realized that it was easier to be a famous blogger than a famous actor—all you needed was an oversize persona to stand out from the keystroking horde. In September 2004, he set up a free site using Blogger, chose a bland beige template, and began tapping out his musings. Over the course of a year, they evolved into what is now the hot-pink PerezHilton.com. (The site's original name, PageSixSixSix.com, had to be changed after the <cite>New York Post</cite>, home to the "Page Six" gossip column, filed a lawsuit.) Snarky celebrity-focused news sites were nothing new, but Hilton delivered his as childlike graffiti scrawled over photos. Even in Hollywood, his vicious, eye-clawing approach stood out. (Two of the site's more benign entries: "L. Ron wuz here," scribbled over a shot of Tom Cruise, and the word "Fake" branded on the breasts of actress and reality show regular Brigitte Nielsen.) He also became known for having the juiciest pictures, most of them pilfered from other sites. The result was a lot of traffic and a few lawsuits from photo agencies. "Perez is the outsider—the gay, the Latino, the interloper," he says of his persona. "And Hilton is the mainstream—Hollywood, pop culture. So I'm this outsider commenting on this wacky world of celebrity who managed to become an insider but is still, in many ways, the ultimate outsider." In the hands of Hilton, the outrageous antics of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, and Paris Hilton (the ubiquitous, ridiculous celebutante and inspiration for Hilton's garish nom de guerre) are distilled into photo-driven, text-message-length morality plays gleefully deconstructed and critiqued by his legion of <cite>Us Weekly</cite>-loving, mostly female fans. He promoted his site by posting a bulletin on Friendster; soon PerezHilton.com was generating 20,000 pageviews a month. The reaction from mainstream media was immediate and scathing: <cite>The Insider,</cite> a tabloid TV show, dubbed his site "the most-hated in Hollywood" for its tacky takedowns of untouchable stars. Old media attacked Hilton's integrity (is he a journalist or just a pathetic celeb-hound with a blog?), and other bloggers derided his oily, relentlessly self-promoting manner. One site referred to him as a "professional canker sore." But the scorn only boosted his traffic. Within a year, monthly pageviews had topped a million. "Without the attention from the mainstream media, I'd probably be seen as just another gossip site," he says. "Anyway, it's not gossip—it's celebrity news. It's facts." And Hilton seems to relish the notoriety, Googling himself daily to see what people are saying about him. "The fact that they attack me on my own Web site and leave all these negative comments keeps my head in check," he says. "I'm happier this way than if I was universally adored—like Reese Witherspoon." Critics are one thing, copycats are another. In July, Hilton filed a lawsuit against <a href="http://perezrevenge.com">perezrevenge.com</a>, an uncannily similar celebrity site (which also pokes fun at Hilton), claiming, among other things, trademark infringement and cybersquatting. ("Don't dish it if you can't take it, my friend," responded the editor on the Web site.) Somehow, Hilton has converted notoriety into legitimacy. In 2006, he pitched a reality show based on his day-to-day activities—blogging and bitching about celebrities—and VH1 snapped it up. When he announced on his site, incorrectly, that Fidel Castro was dead (Hilton's family fled Cuba for Florida in the '60s), the Huffington Post and the Drudge Report picked up the item (albeit with skepticism). When Bloomberg invited him to be its guest at this year's White House Correspondents' Association dinner in Washington, he was seated next to Tracey Ullman, who gushed, "I read your site every day!" For his LA-based novel, <cite>Bright Shiny Morning,</cite> author James Frey interviewed Hilton and modeled the character of a flamboyant gossip monger on him. Not that Hilton needs the publicity. Ads on his homepage fetch up to $54,000 a day, and his overhead is minimal—his only employee is his sister Barby, who fields emails and corrects typos. Which means he's pulling down millions a year. The site now averages 198 million pageviews a month, according to the Web ratings service Quantcast. Nielsen Online estimates that while visitors to <a href="http://www.tmz.com">TMZ.com</a>, one of his main competitors, stay only 15 minutes, those on Hilton's site linger for 45 minutes. That kind of stickiness confers influence. When Hilton posted tracks by an unknown singer-songwriter named Eric Hutchinson, thousands of fans rushed to iTunes to download the album. Three months later, Warner Music signed Hutchinson—and began sniffing around Hilton. "Maybe it speaks to the music industry's desperation," muses an employee of a rival company, "but we want to make the new media our friend." Soon, Hilton and Warner were talking boutique label and a $100,000 advance against an even profit split for his discoveries (the deal's not done yet, and Warner has declined to comment). "Because he gets so many hits and he's on TV and the radio, he can be helpful with lesser-known acts," concedes one major-label publicist. "In that respect, he's valued." If the Warner deal falls through, Hilton insists he'll start a label on his own within the year. "I remember running into Perez at a restaurant while we were midway through the TV show," recalls Jeff Olde, a VH1 executive, "and he was meeting with someone about his own record deal. That's when I realized this is one very ambitious guy." At 5 o'clock the following evening, Hilton is changing out of his Peanuts pajamas for another big outing. He's been invited by KIIS FM to appear at the radio station's concert in Irvine, featuring Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. "I can go to an event like this and get more addresses for my address book and bring a lot of opportunities my way," he says as the black town car pulls up to the amphitheater. "But now, the people come up to me. " As Hilton steps out of the car wearing a yellow T-shirt reading "Hot Mess", Perez-mania erupts. A young woman at check-in gushes, "Your site is my favorite!" A concert rep leads him to the red carpet, where an <cite>Access Hollywood</cite> reporter sticks a microphone in his face as paparazzi snap his photo. Hilton is then whisked into a VIP goody-bag tent, where he's laden with free jeans, T-shirts, and self-tanning lotion. Back outside, he's approached by TV producers and a radio station executive eager to have him on the air. "For me, it's just work," Hilton says of all the fuss. But occasionally he seems to miss the safety of being Mario, the socially awkward recluse. At one point in the evening he retreats to a mostly empty tent, takes a seat, and calmly eats the low-fat fish-and-rice dinner he has brought in a plastic container. Then it's time for Hilton and a local radio personality to do their bit. Security guards lead them to seats in the middle of the amphitheater. A camera zooms in and transmits their images to large screens above the stage. Perez Hilton is on. "Lindsay Lohan is in the house!" he bellows to the assembled teenyboppers. "And she's drunk!" And then: "I just saw the Danity Kane girls—I think they're scared of me!" On the way home, Hilton is still on fire. "I'm so fucking jealous of Seacrest!" he shouts, referring to the <cite>American Idol</cite> host, who was also at the show. "He helicoptered in and out!" But it's not hard to imagine Hilton taking off in a chopper himself one day, heading skyward as the rest of us scratch our heads, wondering how he ever got up there. David Browne (<a href="mailto:david@david-browne.com">david@david-browne.com</a>) wrote about the death of the music album in issue 15.03. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:c8aaac85371c0f42c0675d2c56a82a2e:LY2thdclc0UWTZwmUO4Dt7BUVC54wIJ0fGkh1kRTdwZehjtHZ%2FDEaFOJqcOb5yrpjNpaxoVskiVdZNvHwi7gVSAO0JsnA22%2BkuN3Y4DHp9M%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:737797ab315438989bde4f910d5a9dcc:az2tsg2sq6j5SDSdnQPWGj0NfR3Tn6sbqP31KUTCI8mMS%2FPPkjGu95lR9ACCR6xVUIZ26an%2B8jDBV%2BLC9%2F4Y3AmfQaXIunCFH%2FPT%2FM0ksnw%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:7bcf62e16ce82f9c4116ce51bdb67ef8:%2BJ3f12Vqzu6rN4jhU5%2FM3CdFi3zpalxqc4lkm6%2FxyaQJ874mQa4RTW0rjN3gRfLajp%2Fx%2B3csxAEhJ9q%2FrlmKisoNqkYOU%2BS20uK01CSANmo%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:43c52e8422ffe20c0ca77d30bc6c33b0:5Vh71e%2BNrnSQoOLxk9ldxdu3s9nYmvGTtkG63BFMJ6l%2F0RzqH8BAbUHT2rpi32JMw3AESKHucX8oGpf72getKuK7pDhq6fJ9PLXL0vBo6R0%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=4ac5061ea492dbc911d5a1c9356d8d1a" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=4ac5061ea492dbc911d5a1c9356d8d1a" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=1MIM8K"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=1MIM8K" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=JEEOYk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=JEEOYk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=BHEv4k"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=BHEv4k" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=nQDPfK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=nQDPfK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/370586631" height="1" width="1"/>

Facebook Ads to Turn Friends Into Marketers

Facebook's new social ads could put friends in the uncomfortable position of marketing products that they may not even be aware they're selling. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:a740fc0d4584c19e4ae6951b3f0238d3:vBMFKdFlu07bboRGV%2BqDxlH8I9ANzTHhBqcZrOPejf6oP1wxHcc9Q0ZCrhWCoXC6%2FMj6GFOoMEUTwMscIKDQSFcVrlos3OLNTJ2bjFcIW1g%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:42daa95b55d0059c8f7bdfda1f360258:vEczBYQgxn5E%2F7S48ir3pAH3DdNX5gwRL1YSu6oiFOfdoRtk6Gio7ZKHP%2FoMur%2ByBdxWr9l5GZiyrvnwsljxLBgCKXhWSNqsYPzKUbJ1e1s%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:637455a0faba4dd7b59f43b2cc446b01:JE6DcoSkZ2z0D6e0%2B1%2FMuESOw2Y6XzsJeuqbaa7n4pFaKdz4O6tClB%2FSj2kCDaU%2Fnj%2BPuucAKb66V5VCs6k5bCL7ZgOcEzUXSWb%2Ftg2zFFA%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:8a8e85f42e8449bf457e5fe0d1a07b7f:%2B%2F6HrEtNNugczz%2F0igVRjUn%2FZg6c%2FMCuzNHsUd1Nl37ZARkkastcWzMmipp7xiza4cGEOtak6wCHNBQ4orks8JWkOT67eU8Y97ufE3hh1H4%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <a href="http://www.pheedo.com/click.phdo?s=0ac92e6e0269e9cf6186c61f03c52cee"><img alt="" style="border: 0;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?s=0ac92e6e0269e9cf6186c61f03c52cee"/></a> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=0ac92e6e0269e9cf6186c61f03c52cee" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=bfXstK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=bfXstK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=WxNCzk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=WxNCzk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=1EEbxk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=1EEbxk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=twPo9K"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=twPo9K" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/370398043" height="1" width="1"/>

Techies Open Up Fantasy Sports Field

Open source is coming to a fantasy football field near you. A slew of tech veterans think fantasy sports could be the next killer app for sports online, driven by open APIs. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:d17d538dd049c74ec7830bc24da8d10a:sGrRzjoOxyQg7F%2BmkSLevsm4JDLek6FzBRWvwgVqs8kWo8p2%2FDz7f1QyFnC8CMCGBWE7T3IsBmXq3NXlNgNRYdIpQ5da8129KT2xQayiQMA%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:beb55df6a12cdd398d4fd76912f407f5:w7di6RGlNtysM42P9n7seYaV5wWSXXDhTvhUsymKbEZlPqHL2L2Jv5pg61kECzU%2BSQlr%2BFcBKeYqhA8H34fM7x5MVVUbEbBesUxG%2FGgluBA%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:ed62cbaf535d49ee5b2a17653d4e761f:8yrP59SGnpwOEL%2FYuW9re2rvgqLRtwJ3Xd8p4Lx0HWMD%2BKHguWsfY3RuBC%2FxYVMB389FbfK0jZtVVRKEQTbhZXEXjgTRdpucAT5LV90iiU8%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:41d12940ad8129406a61b77464dc1c62:U1t8O5UzKka7FmVu504Zo%2FQTLfu1aWUrAeQt38aVVBayahLVwMDmhMqNC0Bw0TZIRyGy%2FuH67sBbx%2BKx%2Fz0vsVX1%2B5oH7hnZE1Q3cL6965s%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=280324176e734766959745a74acba70b" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=280324176e734766959745a74acba70b" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=A6jTMK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=A6jTMK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=LCsuMk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=LCsuMk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=JVQW6k"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=JVQW6k" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=PkkvxK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=PkkvxK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/370398044" height="1" width="1"/>

Could Satellite TV Get Creamed by Cable?

Satellite-TV providers are in a sticky position. At a time when pay-TV services are supposed to be growing, Dish Network is losing subscribers. The company faces several industry-wide challenges, including heightened competition from cable operators. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:8d95c8c53d944a361e7246c2b060e562:1X4YND42WpbuGLul%2BFfUpKX%2BGl6hRSWDnw%2Fp5m8aiEbzLJLoIRfrwadfzt%2BkDdWcbXOguvpU2ZBoMIYmplgpz6dNIjqM8sb1NfbQ4Y6BHUY%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:b08f11ac0364edffe19977c7f13e022d:H%2B5YhbEpKIYF0Gab3gkAoN8oQo%2Fa2UKF6b1XuonCslX0x8tV4eir2hFHeZbEQdwHihSxefy05Rr2g3WmpZYufm2TsMF8rvfTsTBcH%2BNCUAM%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:b67ba650677fa6e778c779261e4a5518:%2BXHvt6%2BtPdPMjKsLRQke0EZ6Rp%2Fg4gWFZowdxCl9IBgy5Y%2Fj8Za4nbtO8zPi%2BfKr29uyuPbWQ3vmYz1fErFq86Prg28OBIV9tzI%2FZ0dG8WA%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:00a665715ae3d3ed2ae35a5a1fedb6e5:G%2B2TEb9SUe4535UzpSjLPIscJyZODtrAS2fMimc3uRIJjP8mtU7s6o7WZQiD17Qp%2B7LpP355dQ3siIMGRL7LwzY1tmu21tRbL81ME2SOpwQ%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=c47430c84608f82d41ba62c6e73629b8" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=c47430c84608f82d41ba62c6e73629b8" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=zN6MOK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=zN6MOK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=XVjP5k"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=XVjP5k" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=ZdX67k"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=ZdX67k" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=2Vkf5K"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=2Vkf5K" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/370398045" height="1" width="1"/>

Training for Space: Centrifuges, Spinning Chairs and Vomit Comets

<cite>Wired</cite> contributing editor David Kushner describes the grueling training regimen that all cosmonauts (and millionaire clients of Space Adventures) must undergo. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:d52f7be04d748104fef235fd52252afa:cfmd8ym%2FN1%2FN1simpDQfhTU8oHGv98RAB7Wxyrdz8TVT7QgguTLc5%2FLzzz79y2vwHTzP%2FVcFGRhTAGOdS6iUG0Vk8hc%2FlCUDPf7F2mDvAIg%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:c1ec30240cb78a234125e4b59452553f:xgzNdlbJQpfT0EheCKGkA0S6OLEh14Xri8I2PimvZEBczpY5XF3hwDJzZmgWXRH7d6Y8ayXSeYG%2BGdh8kvOnTQiLYvdNkBTuN5dxqckWyco%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:148364ff8e805f94e090f6cc3e27cd9f:1jsMaR1Lfp%2BVl9YPFeUbotwemZ4d0l3%2BuZawBlXoY76KHozfQ326hINmybP8ay8G%2BaH3ZU%2FLvSecdCJld5VKqBTEjy36Ry1jQ9KnSNYr3nY%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:53bf5a0c2848dc43615a2e1ae9fdb35b:dfy7PyPIIMVwdxXuYFPQ2IArnhLVge02fwhMHzb%2FI5%2BQjkEi0T0QmkPJ8TS23dA%2BchkW1m6jJ96UDJRGRgBD9JY0OhANGeSxvNgpQsBrVcI%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=aee437db7c0ac785fc2f7031b4c2f3bc" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=aee437db7c0ac785fc2f7031b4c2f3bc" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=AXGWPK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=AXGWPK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=4HaeYk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=4HaeYk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=ry7Npk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=ry7Npk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=kvVcUK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=kvVcUK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/369644006" height="1" width="1"/>

The Space Tourist Who Wasn't

I met Daisuke "Dice-K" Enomoto in Star City, Russia, in August 2006. Enomoto, 37, is slight with tired eyes and a shock of bleach-blond dyed hair. His idea of space travel comes from comic books and <cite>Star Wars</cite>. He grew up as a self-described <cite>otaku</cite>, coding his own computer games and dreaming of space—or, at least, space as it was portrayed in <cite>Star Wars</cite> and manga. His favorite anime show, <cite>Gundam</cite>, chronicles a future full of giant robots in which humans are abandoning this planet for the stars. "People who live on Earth, their souls is tied up by gravity, you understand?" Enomoto says. "I sympathize with this idea. Maybe in the future people should live in the space." Enomoto applied his programming skills to building Internet companies, making millions. He bought a swanky wraparound penthouse loft overlooking Tokyo's famous electronics district, <a href="http://www.wired.com/gadgets/miscellaneous/multimedia/2006/04/akihabara">Akihabara</a>. He tooled around in Porsches and Segways, and threw raves. He redecorated the moon-age pad himself, tricking it out with sinuous white walls modeled after the International Space Station. But life was bearing down on him. He married and divorced, had a couple of kids. One of his former companies, Livedoor, was embroiled in criminal lawsuits over stock and accounting issues. He needed to get away from the money, the demands, the scandal. And what better place to go than space? "I just want to go up there," he says, "and chill." This giddy club kid paid $20 million (the price of a trip to the International Space Station at the time) to Space Adventures. He left behind his sci-fi penthouse and moved into a tiny two-room apartment in Star City to train for his 10-day space trip. He bunked with a Russian translator named Sergei, who stayed up every night shoving wads of newspaper into the window cracks to keep out the freezing winds. <div id="embed"> <div id="pic"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_enomoto2_f.jpg" alt="" /> <div id="caption">Daisuke "Dice-K" Enomoto shows off his official cosmonaut jumpsuit in Star City, Russia, in August 2006. Photo: David Kushner</div> </div> </div> The months of intensive cosmonaut training was hard on the keyboard jockey, especially the fitness regimen. When he arrived, he could do only two chin-ups. Swimming 800 meters took him 26 minutes. He was also unprepared for the antinausea conditioning in the whirling vestibular chair. Enomoto had his own technique for trying to deal with the looping around. "I imagined that I was driving in the PlayStation game Ridge Racer," he says. It didn't work. Within minutes, he was spewing borscht all over his blue spacesuit. The longer Enomoto stayed at Star City, however, the more he came to enjoy the simple life there. Gone were the pressures of life in Japan. "I realize life is more than just money," he says. The broadband access in his cramped Star City apartment and several seasons of 24 on DVD didn't hurt. Enomoto had big plans for his ride into space—and not just the ultimate iPod playlist he put together for the trip, a meticulously arranged mix of techno and trance. He also intended to take cosplay to a whole new level. He would dress like his favorite anime character—the mighty Char Aznable from Gundam. He had his assistant make a custom space suit, an orange and black number complete with a homemade Dice-K patch stitched on the front. Every Space Adventures client can do experiments during his or her trip to space—most have chosen to conduct scientific research. Enomoto decided to see if he could assemble Gundam toys in weightlessness. Enomoto explains, "I make robots in these bags!" as he reaches his hands inside what looks like an elaborate Ziploc filled with robot parts, "just because it's fun!" <div id="embed"> <div id="pic"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_enomoto3_f.jpg" alt="" /> <div id="caption">Enomoto displays a couple of toy Gundam robots, an example of the sort of toys he wanted to see if he could assemble in the weightlessness of space. Photo: David Kushner</div> </div> </div> Enomoto's space dreams came crashing down one August morning shortly after my arrival in Star City. The discovery of a kidney stone means he can't fly. Enomoto's backup, <a href="http://www.wired.com/science/space/news/2007/04/ansari_qa">Anousheh Ansari</a>, a 41-year-old Iranian woman living in the US, will be taking his seat in the next Soyuz launch. After a visit to the hospital, he's sitting in his apartment with a steaming cup of tea. Enomoto's phone rings off the hook from friends just getting the news. But Enomoto is all smiles. "My flight isn't canceled," he tells his friend on the phone, "it's just postponed." With his training complete and his condition treatable by a blast of ultrasound, Enomoto is in even better shape. He'll be up in space in no time. Best of all, he says, now he can work out some final details like getting the space station manuals translated into Japanese. And, he says, maybe he'll use the extra time to negotiate a spacewalk outside the ISS. In the meantime, he's happy Anousheh is getting her crack at the flight. Any chance he'll let her assemble one of his robot toys in space when she goes? "I don't think so!" he says, with a nerdy laugh and a snort. He spent $20 million, and the robots are coming with him. As of August 2008, Enomoto hadn't returned calls, and Space Adventures wouldn't comment on his future flight status. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:437ed1a69873c97e728d039c9a21ba2d:Omup0YrzOmz2EnAjpwm5X%2B5ss3y8Q%2FnUKU0OpUe9c8oTj%2B4cyU96urFnMwhJe%2FSFwrxFpV3UaNJ5S9B4HNzx0hYIBwCNUs4nqUlIKaEAgWw%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:ba8d5b9c8bb31ba230a5e5af0fe1285d:PLZlteC9Wmq2oH0Y5XbeCi8zr58JTDFWr42RZtkMfEUKDRxLYBQndFFXMJvvWpafXFC91jEzw5n6piMQBCET1qmoVcL0fe7%2Fkqv67jyyO1U%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:7e720992bc53562daa1318c480b394e8:KGiHZrjhsvnWQcVwx1HHwCzNR9ckla9Da%2Fp6ZZC5sLkZPaPqi2CGMyqjw0uqktQYHF5C%2Ffb3XZpuiHxsK97iE7J7o0arSkPP8H3cC8nADVg%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:901d4bf63d6f95fa9fd2544eac117da6:G5kvbdYWGWvkfS%2BxqcGzUIiCGiDNLnRWFOpwc2rj0UNTyWO8Uiv2shCQ%2BTV3G0m%2FBMNslS9wsI6urMXcHUbmhOkNomGs8HqdpY4bFZxqkEg%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <img alt="" style="border: 0; height:1px; width:1px;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?i=d3db3c8dc871133b4f42b2ae62cfca22" height="1" width="1"/> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=d3db3c8dc871133b4f42b2ae62cfca22" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=hq3AOK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=hq3AOK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=l4xOhk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=l4xOhk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=G5FkKk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=G5FkKk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=ZYYDfK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=ZYYDfK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/369644007" height="1" width="1"/>

Inside Russia's Camp for Cosmonauts

<img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity13_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove In the woods an hour outside Moscow, a sign on the road reads zvyozdny or "star." You are now approaching Star City, home of the Russian space program where cosmonauts have trained since the time of Yuri Gagarin. Clients of Space Adventures who shell out tens of millions of dollars for a trip to the International Space Station can expect to spend up to eight months training here before blastoff. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity2_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Star City cosmonauts and workers, and their families, reside in these apartment buildings. Some 8,000 people live in Star City year round. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity16_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Buses wait outside the entrance to Star City. There is a security booth, and nearby is a kiosk selling cigarettes, snacks, and souvenirs. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity4_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The Cosmonaut House is the main community center in Star City. It has a theater for events, a indoor flea market, and a museum that includes Yuri Gagarin's office and artifacts. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity27_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove A sculpture outside the Cosmonaut House represents Gagarin flying effortlessly through a ring that symbolizes earthly limitations. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity9_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove This photo collage at the entrance to the Cosmonaut House is just one of many memorials to Yuri Gagarin around Star City. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity5_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove This is a replica of the MIR mock-up/trainer inside the Star City space museum. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity18_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Inside the Star City museum is a simulation of the Soyuz vehicle. The two holes lined with bright aluminum are parachute containers that pop open at lower altitudes for a soft landing. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity21_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove A MiG monument stands at the air base entrance of Star City. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity10_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Artwork celebrating flight shows the MIR at the center, surrounded by images of planes. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity11_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Richard Garriott, dressed in his flight suit, stands in the stairwell near his one-bedroom apartment in Star City. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity8_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Rostislav Bogdashevsky, the renown Star City psychologist who has been training cosmonauts for more than 45 years, instructs Richard Garriott and Nik Halik with the aid of a translator. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity7_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Rostislav Bogdashevsky conducts psychological training of the cosmonauts inside this room. Note the picture overhead of a smiling Gagarin, one of his former pupils. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity20_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The bare-bones gymnasium in Star City houses exercise equipment, a pool, and a locker room. Space Adventures clients may spend several hours a day in here. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity6_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Gagarin's locker, preserved behind glass in the Star City gym, holds his tennis racket, shoes, and towels. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity17_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The Soyuz TDK 7 showing the habitation chamber atop, and descent module below. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity28_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove A peek inside the Soyuz TDK 7. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity23_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Richard Garriott, bottom, and Nik Halik, top, train in the Soyuz TDK 3. Richard Garriott points out: "Note the very close quarters that in real life are even tighter. If you see the green at the bottom of the screen, that is where a door has been cut into the side for easy access. In reality, that is where the parachute compartment sticks into the passenger area. Nik and I are going line by line in the Flight Data Files as the sim progresses. Each line has a time and action to perform and the result we expect. Note that I have a stick in my right hand. When strapped in, especially when in a space suit, it is hard to reach some buttons, so that device is for reaching and pressing buttons that might be hard to reach. Near the right of the screen, you can see the small periscope viewport. At this moment in the sim, our attitude is aligned with Earth. This is likely just after insertion, or just before reentry." <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity26_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove This building houses the TsF-18 centrifuge. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity24_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The TsF-18 centrifuge is one of the largest and most advanced in the world. It can simulate the gravitational forces that cosmonauts experience during liftoff and landing—up to nine times as much as Earth's gravity. Space Adventure clients don't endure the full level of the machine's torture—30 gs for unmanned runs—but they are warned to keep their mouths shut at all times, as the extra gs can break their jaws. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity30_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The Hydrolab is an underwater training facility used to simulate a spacewalk outside the International Space Station. The mockup section of the ISS shown here can be lowered by the crane into the tank. Cosmonauts wear Orlan spacesuits as they perform spacewalk maneuvers. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity12_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove The Soyuz Café is a private gathering place for cosmonauts and others celebrating special events in Star City. The blue chamber to the side of the lodge is modeled after the Soyuz, except it contains a wine cellar and comfy sofas. <img src='http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity15_t.jpg'></img>photo: Photo: Benedict Redgrove Richard Garriott holds the old Star City planetarium, a handheld device. A sheet of black paper with holes would be slipped into the viewer and held up to the light. <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:e7174c0c8f0639b5f17374ecc69365ad:f39RuATmb0EV2aaCpg3r7XMywe6USd3U6Pfx%2FbeNsuBwtmQev6i77a7ONYo3LTfANfpplwrkM9jTbxwRx1ZTZufcNxja0K6TH3uZmjXRb0I%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Reddit' alt='Add to Reddit' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/reddit.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:728e23b61bc9af91e414a9008f5b3ce8:ZaIptSvL%2BQkQhkL1qgWuNJS4Bd3WjFf62ufAjUO56ofDFUVeLiIUfZup7NixE%2BGE%2FovBcsuRM%2BokfXWhuKPAO9hxpm5WU3wmvATSO%2Bm3Gvk%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Yahoo My Web' alt='Add to Yahoo My Web' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/yahoo.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:6a0baa176c2dfee909e5b78a52033f63:No%2FmVMuvJdt5ARD8YEdhXh91WqSOplLZj8EtSymfvauJw0t5quEe%2F4cP5ii5GeBwUhNbDHcph5qy%2BnUMigpxYSDUd2XfmIEYaJ3zSnTy7xI%3D'><img border='0' title='Add to Google' alt='Add to Google' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/google.png'/></a> <a style='font-size: 10px; color: maroon;' href='http://www.pheedo.com/hostedMorselClick.php?hfmm=v2:8c13cf9d4756370f75ab0426580e15ad:WXrybWSJjdUmoj7R1gDpScYlPP1fYMFkJoEU9v6ZeD%2BusETbR3YmY58kcizn5qe1LOV9joxogzatpSg5vt%2F1gfuhQdB5qqP2M8otcjJgvCw%3D'><img border='0' title='Survey' alt='Survey' src='http://www.pheedo.com/images/mm/poll_survey.png'/></a> <a href="http://www.pheedo.com/click.phdo?s=aeba82d4ea4c5f3c4d69cd9e00df0528"><img alt="" style="border: 0;" border="0" src="http://www.pheedo.com/img.phdo?s=aeba82d4ea4c5f3c4d69cd9e00df0528"/></a> <img src="http://www.pheedo.com/feeds/tracker.php?i=aeba82d4ea4c5f3c4d69cd9e00df0528" style="display: none;" border="0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=5femcK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=5femcK" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=xLSypk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=xLSypk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=HvUqKk"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=HvUqKk" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?a=jJLPyK"><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~f/wired/techbiz?i=jJLPyK" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.wired.com/~r/wired/techbiz/~4/369644008" height="1" width="1"/>

Going to Space? First Stop: Eight Months of Grueling Training in Russia's Star City

Do you want to be the commander or the engineer? It's exactly the kind of question you'd expect to hear from Richard Garriott, the 47-year-old father of massively multiplayer online gaming. His titles, which have sold more than 100 million copies, let gamers assume the role of magician, warrior, or sci-fi super-soldier. In real life, Garriott goes by the nickname Lord British and dresses up in Elizabethan garb. But on this May afternoon in a cramped classroom northeast of Moscow, Garriott is not playing a game. He's fiddling with a joystick, but he's training for a real-life mission as a cosmonaut. In front of him is a simulation of the control panel of the Soyuz spaceship. "I know you are great computer gamer, so here you go," his instructor jokes in a thick Russian accent as he fires up the videoscreen so Garriott can practice a descent. <div class="feedroomstoryembedlarge"> <iframe src="http://video.wired.com/linking/index.jsp?skin=oneclip&fr_story=c0f1e0820c846d6ce7cdef6a53344d4a6d448576&hl=false" width="404" height="346" scrolling="no" frameborder="0"></iframe> <div class="storyimagecaption">Welcome to Star City, Russia, the tiny town where cosmonauts have trained since the 1960s. Today, clients of Space Adventures should expect to spend about eight months here (after forking over millions of dollars) to learn the ropes before blastoff. <div class="storyimagecredit">Producer: Annaliza Savage, Editor: Michael Lennon, Camera Operator (Moscow): Benedict Redgrove, Additional Footage: Space Adventures, NASA For more, visit <a href="http://video.wired.com">video.wired.com</a>. </div> </div> </div> When the Soyuz TMA-13 spacecraft blasts off from Kazakhstan on October 12 and travels to the <a href="http://spaceflight.nasa.gov/realdata/tracking/">International Space Station</a>, Garriott will be on board. The Soyuz can accommodate three people. US astronaut Mike Fincke will sit in the left seat, and mission commander Yuri Lonchakov will occupy the center seat. Garriott didn't have the right stuff, but he did buy the right seat. Garriott will become the sixth private citizen to join the most exclusive, most high-octane clique on the planet: Call it the 240-mile-high club. Membership includes Greg Olsen, who made his fortune developing infrared cameras; Mark Shuttleworth, the software engineer who spearheaded Ubuntu; and Charles Simonyi, former chief architect of Microsoft. What they have in common, other than tremendous success in the tech industry, is a willingness to pay tens of millions of dollars for a week and a half in space. But here's the fine print: That ticket to the ISS comes with a stopover. Before they blast off, the wealthy adventurers must spend as many as eight months at Russia's cosmonaut training ground, Zvyozdny Gorodok, aka Star City. They live in cramped dormitories in the Prophylactory Building, or Prophy, which looks more YMCA than <cite>Star Trek</cite>. They slip and slide down frozen walkways past dilapidated Soviet structures. They subsist on cafeteria food slathered in mayo. They bury themselves in textbooks or ride "vomit comets" and centrifuges. "Everybody knows you can go to space if you are a perfect physical specimen and incredibly smart," Simonyi says. "But what if you are kind of normal?" Then you have to fork over $30 million to Space Adventures, a company that serves as go-between with the Russian space program. Just don't call its clients space tourists. "That term implies you are there to take photos and hang out," Garriott says. "I'm trying to prove you can actually be a valuable contributor to the activities on board the space station." He notes that he'll be conducting research on protein crystal growth on behalf of a biotech firm. But he doesn't deny that he's really going up because it will be a friggin' blast. "I'd be misleading you if I didn't admit that it's a very selfish activity," he says. <div class="feedroomstoryembedlarge"> <iframe src="http://video.wired.com/linking/index.jsp?skin=oneclip&fr_story=33352765effdc545ec7dcadea97a2ce5ae6b9bae&hl=false" width="404" height="346" scrolling="no" frameborder="0"></iframe> <div class="storyimagecaption">Centrifuges, spinning chairs, and vomit comets: <cite>Wired</cite> contributing editor David Kushner describes the grueling training regimen that all cosmonauts (and millionaire clients of Space Adventures) must undergo. <div class="storyimagecredit">Producer: Annaliza Savage, Editor: Michael Lennon, Camera Operator (Moscow): Benedict Redgrove, Additional Footage: Space Adventures, NASA For more, visit <a href="http://video.wired.com">video.wired.com</a>. </div> </div> </div> Selfish, and potentially risky for the rest of the crew. "There are a million ways I can screw up and kill everyone," Garriott says. That's why he's getting remedial cosmonaut training. Today's descent simulation is uneventful at first. But then the instructor ups the ante with a malfunction, and Garriott's capsule veers off target. "I don't want to kill us!" Garriott yelps, flicking his mouse. "No way, dude!" Too late. The descent simulation ends. The instructor checks the results. "Your landing is very bad," he says gravely. Luckily, here in Star City they can restart and try again. Zvyozdny Gorodok is the birthplace of spaceflight. Ever since the Soviets built the cosmonaut training center in 1960, this city of 8,000 has been shrouded in mystery, even left off maps. After Yuri Gagarin trained here and became the first person to travel into space, Star City became a sort of Bolshevik Oz in the minds of the Russian people, with highly evolved star men living in gleaming silver towers. The reality, Garriott discovers as he checks in at the security booth on his first day of training in January, is a bit different. Nearby, an old woman sells chocolate and cigarettes from a tiny kiosk. Garriott makes his way past the solemn armed guards at the gate and follows a trail through the towering pines. Grim cement buildings covered in peeling paint rise from the cracked pavement. An enormous babushka trudges past, lugging a grocery sack.  <div class="wide_img"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_feature2_f.jpg" alt=""> <div class="wide_caption"><div class="wide_caption_txt">A statue of Gagarin flying through a ring that represents earthly limitations. Photo: Benedict Redgrove</div></div></div> Tributes to Gagarin are everywhere. There are paintings of him, like religious icons, in all the buildings. There are statues and busts of him outside the Yuri A. Gagarin Russian State Science Research Cosmonaut Training Center. There's a bizarre futurist sculpture of him flying through a symbolic ring in front of the so-called Cosmonaut's House. The building houses a museum, but it's also the site of a flea market, where locals haggle over G-strings and furry hats. Garriott arrives at his new quarters, a drafty little apartment on the third floor of the Prophy. He tacks up inspirational pictures of Gagarin, as well as posters of some of his videogames. On the door, he has put up a picture of himself and penciled Richard Garriott lives here underneath it. "It's like going to a monastery," says Simonyi, who stayed here from September 2006 to March 2007. "You have a small bag and a toilet kit and move into a dorm. You have to live very simply." "The whole lifestyle of Star City was very different from what I was used to," says Space Adventures' fourth orbital client, Anousheh Ansari, a 42-year-old US-based Iranian woman and a sponsor of the <a href="http://space.xprize.org/ansari-x-prize">Ansari X Prize</a> (a $10 million competition to develop a reusable manned spaceship). "You can't count on hot water. A lot of time, the water that comes out is dark brown and starts lightening up only after 20 minutes. I'm lactose intolerant and need a special diet. But over there, I had to learn to live with what was available." Garriott thought ahead and packed a stockpile of gamer meals: candy bars and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. He lined up his rations on a shelf when he arrived, then sat on the edge of his bed. Gone were his personal assistant, his 6,000-square-foot mansion, his sprawling 13-acre lawn, and his private observatory. But he was as giddy as a kid on his first day of college. "I grew up in a place like this, where everyone I knew went to space," Garriott tells me over a lunch of veal and cabbage at a dreary Star City cafeteria. The place he's talking about is Nassau Bay, a Houston suburb favored by NASA employees because of its proximity to the Johnson Space Center. His father, Owen Garriott, rocketed to Skylab in 1973 and to Spacelab-1 in 1983. "I always assumed that my future would include going into space," he says. But there was a problem: His vision sucked. When Garriott was a preteen, his family doctor at NASA showed him the results of his eye test. "I'm so sorry, Richard," he said. "You'll never be accepted as an astronaut." "It was just kind of a shock," Garriott says, sawing away at his glistening pile of meat. "But I went from shock to dismay to 'Who is he to tell me what I can't do?'" Young Garriott spent his days monkeying around with electronics and his nights playing Dungeons & Dragons. He turned his love of role-playing games into a career, coding the <cite><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ultima_%28video_game_series%29">Ultima</a></cite> franchise and cofounding the development studio Origin Systems. In 1992, Electronic Arts bought Origin for $35 million in stock, making Garriott a very wealthy geek. He spent some of that on a mansion he dubbed Britannia Manor, outfitted with secret passageways. Garriott may have made his riches designing adventures for others, but he has also orchestrated plenty of adventure for himself. A symbol representing his motto, "Ethical hedonism," is tattooed on one of his ankles along with a ring of additional tattoos, each marking a memorable experience—like diving to the <cite>Titanic</cite> or hunting for meteorites in Antarctica. But those terrestrial exploits weren't enough for Lord British. So in the late '90s, Garriott became a donor to and board member of the X Prize Foundation, the organization created by Peter Diamandis to foster private space initiatives. He also invested in Diamandis' parabolic flight company, <a href="http://www.gozerog.com/">Zero-G</a>, and became an investor and board member of <a href="http://www.spaceadventures.com/index.cfm">Space Adventures</a>, a company that had just been founded as a kind of space travel agency. In 1998, Eric Anderson, president and cofounder of Space Adventures, pitched NASA and the Russians on the idea of selling a seat aboard a spacecraft. NASA balked, but the cash-starved Russians were game. Though Star City had been top secret until the end of the Cold War, it was now opening up in a bid for tourism money. The Russians told Anderson they needed funding for a study on the feasibility of selling a ride on the Soyuz.  <div id="embed"> <div id="pic"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_feature3_f.jpg" alt="" /> <div id="caption">Richard Garriott, who bought a trip tto the ISS. Photo: Benedict Redgrove</div> </div> </div> Garriott, flush with wealth from the sale of Origin, says he gave hundreds of thousands of dollars to finance the research. Around the year 2000, the Russians came back with an answer: Space Adventures could purchase a seat in the capsule ... for $20 million. Garriott didn't flinch. He signed up, figuring he was first in line. His trip was set for April 2001. Then the dotcom bubble burst, taking most of Garriott's cash with it. In his place went US investor Dennis Tito, who would go down in history as the first citizen space explorer. "It was devastating," Garriott says. Four more multimillionaire cosmonauts and six years later, Garriott finally scraped together the dough for the trip, which now costs $30 million. "I'm spending the majority of my money to do this," he says. When he arrived at Star City on January 20, 2008, Garriott found a comrade: Aussie-born playboy Nik Halik, a 39-year-old fellow millionaire who made his money in real estate and stocks. Halik now travels the world as a motivational speaker and self-described "thrillionaire." Halik told Garriott of his childhood spent indoors with chronic asthma. While other kids played outside, he would sit in bed thumbing through <cite>Encyclopaedia Britannica</cite> and compiling a list of the 10 things he wanted to do before he died. By the time he got to Star City, he had crossed off the bulk of his list: mansions in Mykonos and Morocco—check. Chasing tornadoes—check. Lunch in a submersible on the <cite>Titan</cite>ic—check. A night in the sarcophagus of the King's Chamber in the Great Pyramid of Giza—not on his list, but bloody wicked. "I've got three more to go: the space station, Everest, and the lunar surface," he says. "After that, I'm done." Technically, Halik isn't signed up to fly until at least April 2009, but he coughed up an extra $3 million to come here early ... just in case. Garriott points at Halik and jokes, "I'm the one going to space, unless this guy breaks my legs." Halik grins broadly. Though Space Adventure clients pay a fortune for their trip, there's no guarantee they'll actually make it. The slightest ailment could scuttle their plans. In 2004, an x-ray turned up a spot on Olsen's lung, and the infrared-camera developer had to wait a year for clearance to fly. The 37-year-old Japanese dotcom millionaire Daisuke Enomoto suffered a worse fate. Just a month before his 2006 liftoff, he was diagnosed with a kidney stone. Ansari took his place. Enomoto has yet to make his flight. Garriott had a close call of his own. Just before departing for Russia, doctors found a hemangioma on his liver. Though the small, benign lesion could have been with him his whole life and never caused a problem, there was a slim chance it could rupture and bleed in space. Garriott underwent surgery to have it removed. He shows me the 6-inch scar on his belly. All winter, the two wealthy adventurers carefully navigate the icy sidewalks, knowing that a minor injury could ground them. In the cafeteria, they usually eat alone. When they pass cosmonauts, all they get is a grunt and nod of acknowledgment. It's not hard to imagine why they're having trouble fitting in: Though the months of preparation seem daunting to Garriott and Halik, a cosmonaut spends several years training for a flight. And the outsiders' eccentricities haven't exactly endeared them to the locals. Garriott wears two rattails, which he's been cultivating for more than 20 years. He has them rebraided occasionally and is working up the nerve to ask someone at the Star City barbershop for help. But that's nothing: Before Enomoto was grounded, he talked about dressing up as an anime character during his flight and trying to assemble a toy robot in space. The chores assigned to the travelers are rather unglamorous. During his 2002 space trip, Shuttleworth drained the sewage. Garriott will be tasked with similar grunt work, like pumping out condensation. And while he is trained to perform all roles in case of an emergency, he will have no mission-critical responsibilities. "There is nothing the right-seat person is doing that couldn't be done by one of the other crew members," he says. "Even if the person in the right seat faints, the crew is perfectly capable of flying the vehicle. The minimum training for us is 'Don't mess with things.'" Marina Driga, a military captain and press liaison, confides what some around Star City think of its high-profile trainees: "People say it is better to send monkey."  <div class="wide_img"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_feature4_f.jpg" alt=""> <div class="wide_caption"><div class="wide_caption_txt">Garriott and fellow trainee Nik Halik (right and center) are running simulations on the Soyuz control panels — even though they won't have any mission-critical responsibilities. Photo: Benedict Redgrove</div></div></div> "Ya doomayoo, ya mogoo,ya boodoo," says a hulking old Russian with a blue V-neck sweater, a gray comb-over, and two gold teeth. "Now you repeat," his translator tells Garriott and Halik: "I think! I can! I vill!" "I think, I can, I will," the two trainees respond lifelessly. It's early afternoon in a Khrushchev-era building in Star City. We're gathered in a wood-paneled classroom. Nearby, there's an anatomical model with an exposed brain. A chart hanging from a cabinet shows a man in what looks at first glance like an electrode-studded diaper. Halik and Garriott sit opposite their instructor, Rostislav Bogdashevsky, a psychologist who has been training cosmonauts for more than 45 years. Behind him, there's a large black-and-white photo of his star pupil, Gagarin, smiling down. The mere mention of that Soviet hero elicits a hearty grin from Bogdashevsky. "There vas no one like him," the psychologist says through the heavily accented translator. "He vas good at adapting to everything. He vas himself all the time." And now, Bogdashevsky is training the psyches of a couple of wealthy foreigners. Problem is, his nuggets of wisdom don't always survive the journey into English. As the translator says things like "Stress is yourself," an assistant cycles through a slide show that rarely syncs with the lecture. "Can you tell me how many psychic states we can have?" Bogdashevsky asks. Garriott shrugs. "Seven?" Bogdashevsky smiles and shakes his head. "You make mistake. There are 63." It's one thing to adjust to life in Star City—but quite another to endure the confounding, confining, and sometimes just plain goofy training regimen. The first challenge is the language. Garriott is an autodidact wunderkind who persuaded his high school teachers that learning Basic code counted as fulfilling his foreign-language requirement. He won't be as fortunate at Star City. All of the instructions, instrumentation, and communications in space will be in Russian. So, for four hours a day, Garriott and Halik slave over fat, dusty language books in class, then tote them back to the Prophy to study more at night. The grueling physical training is a relief from all the Cyrillic lettering. Some of it is standard conditioning in the drab smelly gym. No Tae Bo or aerobics—just medicine balls, a pool, and weight machines. (The most interesting thing in the gym is Gagarin's old locker, the contents sealed behind glass.) Other training sessions involve what's called a vestibular chair. All trainees routinely get strapped into this torture device. The black chair sits on a round wooden platform in a small, dank room. Once someone is buckled in, the chair spins like a midway ride, clockwise and counterclockwise for as long as 10 minutes at a stretch. As Garriott gyrates, he's instructed to tilt his head forward and back—the better to create disorientation. "You can feel this kind of ... sloshing in your inner ear," he says. "NASA stopped using it, but the Russians still believe it helps desensitize you so you don't get motion sickness." Sometimes the lab coats pepper the cosmonauts with math questions while they're strapped in, just to see how their brains are functioning. Nausea is also a problem during the dozens of trips they take on the vomit comet, a plane that follows a parabolic trajectory, letting you experience weightlessness in 10-second increments during the drop. Trainees are advised to pack several plastic bags for the trip, since they're likely to fill more than one with the contents of their stomach. As a veteran of 150 parabolas on Diamandis' Zero-G flights, Garriott passed without losing a beet. All this is nothing compared with the TsF-18 centrifuge. Weighing 300 tons and measuring 59 feet long, it looks like a giant blue phallus. It spins at 170 miles per hour, and riders are instructed not to open their mouth while in motion because the pressure will break their jaw, according to Driga. "It is like nightmare," she adds. "Imagine being buried deep in sand and wanting to move but cannot." This ordeal is preparation for the inevitable physical challenges of the mission. During launch of the Soyuz craft, cosmonauts experience four times the force of gravity. As if that weren't harrowing enough, the past two reentries were "ballistic," meaning that instead of controlled descent, the capsules were essentially in free fall—hitting up to 9 gs. (NASA shuttle descents typically hit only 3 gs.) "I'm not a worrier," Garriott says. But the fact that no one is sure what caused those ballistic descents can't be a comfort. When he's enduring 9 gs in the centrifuge, he can at least clutch the "dead man's stick," a controller with a button he can release if the savage gravitational force becomes unbearable (or if he passes out).  There are no dead man's sticks in space. And no matter how stressed anyone gets, they can't even enjoy a little release by manipulating their own joystick: One of the effects of weightlessness is reduced blood flow to the lower half of your body. The rumor in Star City is that many have tried in vain to get it up out there. "There vas top-secret program of this," Driga says. "But the man could not perform. Viagra vill not help." Going to the bathroom in space may be the trickiest docking maneuver of all. In a Star City museum that includes replicas of the MIR space station and Gagarin's capsule, the first thing everyone wants to see is the space toilet. It's a small plastic bucket with a crotch cup and a vacuum. To use it, Garriott will have to position himself over the bucket, and a suction tube will Hoover up his crap. During tours, the guide paints a pristine picture of the process, involving a seamless deposit of waste into a bag that's sealed for storage until landing. "This vay," he says, "everything is clean and nice in space!" Not quite. After Olsen took his spaceflight, he phoned Enomoto with urgent advice. "Always have napkins with you," Olsen said. "There's an old saying that no matter how you shake and dance, the last few drops go down your pants. That happens in space, too." One space tourist (whose identity is closely guarded) forgot to switch on the vacuum in the ISS toilet before off-loading. The results were disastrous, and the chamber was splattered with feces. Even worse, the unlucky traveler had to float over and tell the other cosmonauts in halting Russian about the urgent—and potentially life-threatening—spill. As the psychology training winds down for the day, the good Bogdashevsky leans over the table and passionately gestures at his two students. For the past two hours, they've discussed how to resolve any negative emotion in space. The lecture closes with a series of physical exercises they can do while strapped into their space chair. "Throw away negative emotion," the translator says as Bogdashevsky rubs his ears. "Warm up your ears!" the translator says as Bogdashevsky rubs his stomach. "Massage your internal organs! Three or four times a day for five minutes!" Garriott and Halik nod dutifully. "Now you not have problems," Bogdashevsky concludes. "You understand positive thinking. He who manages to do this is immortal soul." By April 12, after four months of isolation, stress, and discomfort, our civilian spaceniks are finally starting to settle in. It's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cosmonautics_Day">Cosmonauts Day</a>, a holiday honoring Gagarin's first flight into space, and in Star City the celebration lasts late into the night. The thrillionaire wannabe-cosmonauts haven't been invited. But they show up anyway. It's held in a giant yurt covered with camel hair; inside are famous cosmonauts and their families. Many of the men are wearing traditional Uzbek robes and are seated around an enormous table overflowing with food. But everyone is staring at Garriott and Halik as they walk in, and the two feel like they've been caught trespassing. After an awkward pause, they are welcomed in broken English, and a long, alcohol-filled night ensues. "That was when we first got to know all these cosmonauts really well," Garriott says. He and Halik may have been perceived as effete space tourists (or monkeys) at first, but they learned enough Russian to make themselves understood, and they stuck it out long enough to prove their commitment. Garriott and Halik can now joke around with the residents of Star City. Halik chums it up with the bosomy, middle-aged woman who runs the cantina. Garriott later finds the unlikely pair in the kitchen, where they're seeing who can down more vodka shots. After that night, the American and the Aussie increasingly felt accepted as members of the Star City family. Before one cosmonaut came back from space, Garriott and Halik talked the Prophy housemothers into giving them the key to her room so they could wrap every bit of her place in toilet paper, all the way down to the grapes in her fridge. The older Russian cosmonauts even showed the pair a secret way into the building in order to dodge the standard postflight quarantine. But no amount of camaraderie and training can prepare Halik and Garriott for the worst part of the journey, worse than the grueling training, worse than the punishing gs of takeoff, worse than the indignities of space bathrooms. "The hardest part of the trip was coming back," Ansari says. "You realize that you may never experience this again." It's difficult to readjust to life on Earth, to go from being a temporary cosmonaut to being a normal civilian. Olsen is known to wear his old Star City jumpsuit to schools and youth groups, happy for the opportunity to recount the story of the greatest moments of his life. Garriott has a simple solution for post-orbital ennui: another ticket to space, which could now be as much as $45 million. "I'm already strategizing how I can earn the required funds," he says.  <div class="wide_img"><img src="http://www.wired.com/images/article/magazine/1609/ff_starcity_feature5_f.jpg" alt=""> <div class="wide_caption"><div class="wide_caption_txt"> This full-size training version of the Soyuz capsule is used to practice launches and descents. Photo: Benedict Redgrove</div></div></div> There's a full-scale Soyuz replica in a Star City facility known as Building 1. Garriott and Halik squeeze into the fake spacecraft and slip on their headsets. It's time to run through another descent exercise, an instructor tells them over an intercom. And this time, no one is nearby to help them. The capsule is so cramped that Garriott and Halik can't lean forward in their seats to reach certain buttons; they have to jab at them with 18-inch metal wands. The exercise today involves separating the Soyuz from the ISS and returning to Earth. They go through the motions of releasing the latch from the space station. Garriott begins the countdown in preparation for firing the thrusters. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ...," he says. His finger is poised over the Manual Fire button in case the thrusters don't kick in at the right instant, which could cause the Soyuz to skip off the edge of the atmosphere like a stone on a pond. But the thrusters work fine. One minute later, Garriott begins a second countdown, this time to signal the end of the thruster burn. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ..." The thrusters click off. Just before entering the atmosphere, the Soyuz separates from the habitation and instrumentation chambers, and, as Garriott puts it, "we wait to fall out of the sky." This simulated landing is a success. No ballistic reentry. Touchdown complete. Aside from surviving the trip, Garriott has one more wish—to earn the title of astronaut. As a gamer, he cares deeply about the difference between character classes—whether a ninja, merchant, or citizen spaceman. But the moniker he has dreamed of all his life is not coming easily. NASA has strict rules about how it titles its explorers, and Garriott cannot qualify, no matter what he does, because he's a private citizen. Instead of an astronaut, they'll call him a space flight participant. Garriott thinks that's ridiculous. "Every dictionary says that astronaut and cosmonaut are synonyms," he says. "It means anyone who trains for or participates in space flight, period. And once you start training at Star City, they call you cosmonaut." But they sometimes call him something else, too. As Garriott steps out of the Soyuz, a Russian guard in green fatigues is there to meet him. Garriott has never seen him before, but the dude—clearly a diehard <cite>Ultima</cite> fan—knows him. "Hail Lord British!" he says, in his thick Russian accent. Velcome home. 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