Gene's Buffet

"Macbeth falls for his horoscope." -- Kenneth Branagh, indefatigable

The writer Dorothea Stillman had an urban legend about Gene Roddenberry stopping her car to ask directions to a party, reinforcing his image as a horse's ass who always needed to hypersexualize babettes to shore up  insecure virility, causing me to stop and think how many of us have Famous Contact tales, myself included, and I'd trade everything at this moment, including Shakespearean English professors who rejected my father's studio apartment while igniting my emotional investment, for the fuck of the century with Stewart in his prime (I promised myself no slut and drool buffoonery in writing this post, but alas). Patrick Stewart must have been the absolute lay in his day. I envy the real wife, whatever the reason for the dissolution of her marriage to his once magnetic masculinity, good god.

But the man falters in Nemesis. The strongest post Trek films I've seen, before Abrams did prequels, are Undiscovered Country and the dark Picard post recovery in his battle with the borg queen. The rest are a bit thin, and Stewart himself seems wooden up against his fanatic alter-ego. Data's death blowing up the radiation ship contradicts other suggestions about his future life off the Enterprise-- and yet, Next Generation has a wondrous magnitude about it, one that countermands cauldrons. What angers me so much about Josie's meddling into my fresh water date fishing is I feel it was calculated.

"Woo he's got a thing for you!" She emailed this to me after reading one of Cecil's posts on my dead letter Yahoo Group, and then almost immediately afterward lashed out at him, and she knew beforehand how much pain I was in about my career, what had been done to me: Yes, she published me me in a PA state chapbook which she did not edit, and is a piece of shit, despite my essay about Matrix and fieldwork; yes, she expressed remorse, and briefly teamed with me on New Mobility, and to make up for what she did, broke a meal with me, but it is difficult for me not to get rejected by ambulatory men, even if the Argentine would have went there on his own. She interfered with my prospective pleasure, and I relish the prospect of setting eyes on her in the future. She will need the host of angels Jesus could have sought from the Father. I'll make her MS symptoms seem like a picnic.

I know: If I want another another shot, then dust off my knee pads, but how many walking men would give me a chance, being decent to boot?