"When I directed Star Trek V, I got a good performance out of me because I respect me so much." The One True Shatner, Futurama

 

The Boy shows his best photographic skills: inappropriate special effects combined with a finger over the lens and bizarre subject matter.

Passing the torch is a duty that’s important, one that I take nearly as seriously as Lindsey Lohan takes modesty. What? She posed nekkid? Dang. I guess I take it more seriously than that.

One thing I do like about Houston is that one crappy independent UHF station (TV 55) has the best possible Saturday night lineup: Star Trek®, followed by the original Battlestar Galactica©, followed by yet more Star Trek™. This allows me to pass the torch.

This is three hours of Bliss for The Boy. The Boy and I sit and watch the young, thin William Shatner struggle with emotions and struggle even more with that thing called acting (it seemed really cool when I was seven). Then we get to see multiple-mouthed singers (What evolutionary mishap led to that trait being a good idea? Having to eat multiple cheeseburgers at the same time to stave off anorexia, like Rosie O’Donnell?) sing a disco song in a laughingly bad plot interspersed with very good and emotional gritty dialogue from an aging and carbohydrate-enriched Lorne Greene.

Both, however, teach more about morality and manhood than is typically allowed in today’s society, mainly because Kirk didn’t have to care about other people’s feelings: Kirk was going to do the right thing, unless it was the evil mirror-universe Kirk, or the Kirk android, or the Kirk who had his mind transformed from one body to another or the Kirk who . . . nevermind. Starbuck? Starbuck is going to smoke cigars, flirt with girls, back up his friend, kill Cylons® and disco-dance.

The Boy sits and watches these aging space-operas, and I sit with him and watch. Both shows are as uncomplicated as Paris Hilton’s answer to a thermodynamics question (“Whoa, that’s hot”).

Regardless, The Boy and I watch.

I watched when I was a kid, too. I would ride the bus home from school, zooming through the 15 miles from the school in a stunning 45 minutes. I would get home, and since the nearest kid was ten miles away and it was likely to be below zero outside, anyway, I’d plop down and watch, wait for it . . . Star Trek©. Sadly, since there were only 79 episodes and 210 afternoons a year, I saw the same episode three times a year, every year, for years, probably amassing a total of viewing of well over a thousand hours of Star Trek®.

Obviously, I hadn’t discovered beer and girls yet.

This massive over-exposure to the Federation left me with the hideous ability to identify a Star Trek® episode, by episode title, after seeing it for an instant. This ability, as cool and ultra-hip as it may seem, still did not help me get beer and girls. (Note to readers: I’m not a convention-going, pointy-ear wearing nerd, just a regular nerd who by chance knows way too much about Star Trek™.) Admission? I admire the decisions that Kirk made, based on morality, justice, and bad scripts. I wanted my own starship, and even nearly went to the Air Force Academy. Fortunately at 16 I realized that the Air Force wouldn’t be having warp drive anytime soon and headed elsewhere.

So, I met The Mrs. (then known as “The Miss”) and fell madly (not the psycho, eat your liver madly, but the good kind) in love with her. We dated, married in a whirlwind and then had another moment of realization when I discovered her Starfleet uniform as she moved in to with me. She looked embarrassed.

“Hey, that’s cool. I always wanted to be Captain Kirk.”

“Funny,” The Mrs. responded, “I always wanted to marry Captain Kirk.”

Sadly, then, The Boy gets his love of Star Trek from both sides. He’s doomed. Unless Dr. Corbin makes an android copy of him. Then it’s anyone’s bet.