ONE (02/28/2015)
Goodbye Mr. Spock. I never
realized until now that I felt somewhat close to you. I have not so many feelings about James T. Kirk and the rest of the crew. OK, maybe a frisson of warmth for Mr. Scott, the engineer. They were cartoons. Jolly cartoons for sure. But not you, Spock. You were the only really strange one, the only one I'd never seen the like of before. I empathized with you. Always.
Your social awkwardness. You inability to recognize others' jokes or gaffes
obvious to others, your inability to grasp the meaning of the females
surrounding you. But you did have a feminine side, Spock, despite
what anyone might have said. You had an utterly wonderful face.
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Now I understand that you were one of the first mixed-race characters on TV. And whereas the other mixed-race characters must have been endeavoring to hide their signal quality from the general public, if not from everyone, YOU, Mr. Spock not only made no "Bones" about it but understood that it was the only thing that qualified you to serve on the Enterprise. Your mother had been human, and you were one of us, so to speak. One day your character may be honored for this distinction...if the chintzy production values don't impede future popularity.
Except for the time
Captain Kirk allowed you to believe that you had killed him in a
struggle over a woman (brought on by your Vulcan “sexual heat”) and
then surprised you joyfully with his reappearance, you never laughed
at people or took the slightest pleasure in others comeuppance,
defeat or pain. You were always visibly a bit defective. You hadn't a
trace of ambition. You never even smiled ironically. You possessed no
irony whatsoever. You were as earnest as a seven-year-old. A big boy
in those knit pajamas. You weren't entirely convincing as a half-human.
I saw you in person once. Disguised as Leonard Nimoy.
In the mid-80s as I was flying from LA to Idaho on my friend
Charlie's very generous dime to go fly fishing at the Flat Rock Club. I had then no idea
how lucky I was. We flew to Salt Lake City and went on by car, Roger
Thomas driving. But it was in the SLC airport, before the drive, that I encountered Leonard
Nimoy, who had unbeknownst to me been on my flight, looking slightly
abashed at all the smiles directed at him as he collected his bag and
headed for the exit. That's all. Oh, I had seen Redd Foxx at the curb in LAX tipping generously.
I confess to you, Mr. Spock, that I
have chosen your departure for the interstellar regions as the topic of my first essay because I had to
write about something in order to launch my blog. I feel fairly
certain that you would have been and perhaps ARE a bit sympathetic to
my situation and don't mind being used this way. In keeping with your
then and eternal emotional state, I can imagine you looking a tiny
bit perplexed at me and asking “Why write a blog? Why now?” Live long and check your punctuation.
TWO (03/02/2015)
I am stuck unpleasantly by the
similarities between Chris Kyle and Brian Williams, both apparently
rather stupendous public liars who have been treated very differently by their
adherents and critics. Kyle seems to have told at least three stupendous
whoppers—one of which cost his estate a 1.8 million judgement. His
fans seem undisturbed by these stories (if they are aware of them--not a lot of readers there)
and “blame” them on the leftist dominated press. Brian Williams
will probably end up sacrificing quite a bit more than 1.8 million in lost
wages, but at least he is alive and free to seek to re-ingratiate
himself with the press and public. I was surprised
with what a natural entertainer BW was when I saw him on Letterman or
somewhere. He might end up making much MORE money if he lands in the
right arena for his talents (and I don't mean replacing Tom Bergeron
on America's Funniest Home Videos.) The sad end of the Chris Kyle
story is treated very fairly and thoroughly in a piece by Nicholas Schmidle in The New
Yorker 21 months ago.
To jump from Brian Williams, who isn't that interesting, to the shocking and ironic end of America's most famous...killer? A man who (under military orders admittedly) shot 250+ people and killed at least 160 of them couldn't be squeamish about being called "a killer" I think. After all, no one is "a soldier" any more--everyone is "a warrior". This distinction deserves an extended comment, but not today.
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The final point to make regarding Williams and Kyle, is the Williams, who is accused of nothing more serious than exaggerating the implicit heroism of his own movements is thoroughly disdained by the public, but Kyle, the actual killer of many score of people in their own country, is adulated back here in his own country.
THREE (03/03/2015)
I have an old friend, an
opinionated and contentious fellow not entirely unlike me, whom I
have advised to join me in the Blogosphere. Yikes! He has twice demurred
with the excuse (or explanation) that he doesn't want to face the
horrible abuse, insults and death threats (I embellish!) that he will
be heir to while riding his white charger forward through the rougher
neighborhoods of the web. I suggested that he might find himself met
by a deafening silence and that such a thought was perhaps more
off-putting than the thought of a bath in the unpleasantness of
strangers. No doubt the truth lies in between. This particular friend
has published a number opinion pieces in conservative organs from the
WSJ to (more frequently) The American Spectator and though I share
few if any of his conscious political or social positions, I do note
the advantage of putting it all in one place and inviting folks to
stop by and try a sample. I hope he will reconsider.
Please understand that I
have very little idea what I am doing, but then this is not an
enterprise for brainiacs, if one goes by the typical offering one
encounters on a given day online. Not that I mean to demean or
otherwise oppugn anyone who beat me to the field of verbal contest.
I'll figure it out as I go along. Yes, "oppugn" is a word. I learned it today.
