The moving finger rants

I grew up with Captain Jean-Luc Picard. As much as one of the most formative experiences of my adulthood was watching Patrick Stewart alongside Ian McKellen in Waiting for Godot^[0], most of the formative experiences of my adolescence were, at least tangentially, related to learning that—to take an example at random—the first duty of any Starfleet officer is to the truth, whether that be scientific truth, or historical truth, or personal truth. It is the guiding principle on which Starfleet is based, and if you can't find it within yourself to stand up and tell the truth about what happened, you don't deserve to wear that uniform.

That voice! Those assured tones, and that tendency to use them to snap off an impassioned speech at the drop of a space hat. The balance of intellectual nerdiness and understated passion on selected subjects. His origin in, and dogged devotion to, the ideals of a genteel interbellum era that couldn't possibly last, unless he had something to say about it. The confidence to do what's right no matter how many admirals tell you otherwise.^[1] The charisma to have one's crew follow one round the moons of Nibia and through Perdition's flames in pursuit of thos ideals... Starfleet orders be damned^[2]. I learned stability from Spock and interventionism from The Doctor (Who, not EMH), but the moral and emotional core was always mon capitaine. For a man who by his own admission wasn't good with children, Jean-Luc Picard was the best surrogate father a deprived young boy could have.

Which is why I've been totally stoked for the somewhat obviously named STAR TREK: PICARD. I've been waiting twenty years to catch back up with The Further Adventures of Space Dad. And this week he beamed back into my living room as if he'd never been away.

(...but, dad, you said you were just popping out for space cigarettes...)

Ever since TNG ended, I've been rationing my consumption of the remaining episodes that I haven't watched yet, in some possibly misguided application of the inverse taxi driver's fallacy. There are 178 of these in total, there won't ever be any more, and I've already seen more than half. I have, I assume, these three score years and ten in which I get to enjoy the experience of an unseen episode of TNG a maximum of fifty-odd times. Just recently, the projected situation has changed quite radically vis-a-vis hard limits on the scarcity of televisual depictions of Space Dad.^[3] As a result, for purely logical (Captain), economic reasons, my consumption of late has markedly increased.

I've been following the blogs and the listicles telling you which episodes you must watch before ST:PIC drops. They've been okay but all of them have been lacking inna certain something, what the French call I don't know what. It might be to do with the fact that they all focus on plot beats with which you might be expected to be familar, and ignore any considerations of heart and/or soul. Perhaps they're all written by green-blooded sons of bitches, or just by people who don't quite get it. Mostly it's probably that none of them inclue 'Rascals', which I will defend even unto my last breath as a very silly, but nonetheless brilliant, hour of television.

Some members of my team at work have asked me for my definitive Essential Star Trek Primer. I can sympathize with the listicle writers because compilation of such a catalogue is hard work, yo. It must be significantly harder if you're writing to a deadline and you don't have the first clue what Star Trek is actually about. My definitive primer is still in the works, natch, but I promise it will be completed some time before the date of the events it's purported to depict. If there's sufficient demand it might even make its way onto the internets.

And none of it matters anyway, in the end. Plot and continuity are irrelevant. Concordance is futile. Star Trek has always been about journeying to the final frontier and, there, learning about oneself: journeying with them through the magick of narrative, we impoverished Earth-bound mortals discover ourselves. This week, Space Dad returned as if he'd never been away, and I learned about myself that, genuinely and unironically, I love him.

Well done, everyone. We're halfway out of the dark.

And so am I.

Today is my birthday. I am now older than my father was when I was born.

I'm still not interested in breeding—it's cruel enough to bring a new human into this dystopian nightmare world, worse yet to saddle one with my defective genetic legacy. Welcome to the world. The climate's fucked, the government is entirely composed of plutocratic psychopaths, and somehow we're all still racists. Oh, by the way, you have short hamstrings, chronic migraines, and a selection of interesting brain weasels. And stay away from red wine if you know what's good for you. Not going to inflict that on someone.

I do, however, regret the missed opportunity to have a convenient target for dad jokes. I would make the best dad jokes. Or perhaps I mean the worst.

Bloody hell, it's just occurred to me—if I had spawned, I would be a single parent now.

Quite happy staying as uncle pajh. Although I'm considering getting a dog. Or maybe a snake.

I don't think I need to go into too much detail. This year has sucked giant cheesy gorilla dongs. I'd hope for better things from 2016, but frankly, that's setting a fairly low bar.

Half way out of the dark.