To boldly split infinitives...

When I first saw that pretty-boy Chris Pike was trying to fill William Shatner's moonboots, I sighed. The humorless trailer confirmed the worst: my favorite childhood show had become commodity fodder for overly intense acting. I mean, how could a cast of slick, name brand actors like Winona Ryder and Zoe Saldana carry the dorky sentimentality of a show that only rejects (and closet rejects) loved? Loved? NO. Obsessed over: this was the TV show that spawned its own language (Klingon dictionary, anyone?), a host of inside jokes ("Beam me up, Scotty!") as well as conference-attending fans with an encyclopedic knowledge of the show's fictional realities. And - even an encyclopedia, as if a true fan couldn't tell a Romulan tricorder from a Klingon one.

Ahem. So, it was only with intense persuasion (and a severe lack of other Friday diversions) that I agreed to see this unforgivable marketing ploy. Then 11-year old Captain Kirk drove his stepdad's vintage car off a cliff (in Iowa? They have cliffs?) and clawed his way back over the top. I was hooked for the rest of the movie. Like, rewind-it-and-watch-it-again-hooked.

Overall, the film was an outstanding tribute to Star Trek, as well as a kickass action flick in its own right. It had enough nerd-fodder and self-depreciation to tickle Trekkies, but not so much as to alienate (heh.) future fans or the casual moviegoer. In fact, the story is completely palatable without even a working knowledge of Star Trek - however, the impact might not be quite so strong. My little Trekkie heart soared to see the Enterprise floating on the big screen once more, and virtually crumbled at seeing Leonard Nimoy (the franchise's true long-lasting champion) looking so old but starshipping it up nonetheless.

Hell, Star Trek was better than Star Trek. Face it: Kirk was never this hunky, Scotty was never so funny, and Uhuru was never as hot in the original series. But, like any good nostalgic look into the past, it's always better in hindsight. This photo-album into the futuristic show's past nails it. Not only has Star Trek lived long, it has most certainly prospered.

'Apocassession' for Writerkind

Last week, the Eugene Weekly was "Pregnant with Possibility." This week: laying off five of its media darlings, among them, my writer buddy Charles Quincey Adams.

With a recession-proof spirit defying paystub-less blues, Chuck's glib: off to fence, travel, and climb. But for a budget-strained weekly, the future looks grimmer.

Weeklies are newspapers' hipper foils; blogs' papery counterparts. Good for tearing apart mass media conventions, excellent for grassroots and local business advertising, perfect for blending art and sass, and even better for papier mache. And now: disintegrating faster than they do in a dirty gutter, fueled by a Eugenian drizzle.

We gave up gasoline. We've given up our foreclosed homes. Now...we're slowly bidding farewell to the paper-thin fabric that binds an artistic community. That, and an excellent commode companion.

"Love your local newspapers this year," warns Chuck. "In a year, they will all be gone."



Also, all in favor of the new moniker of Apocassession - say aye. Courtesy of CQA.

Age and grace

Today's presidential inauguration speech was written by Jon Favreau, a 27-year-old writer who penned speeches from coffeeshops and then stayed up til 3am writing even more. Speech days were for blearily, wearily, gratefully and proudly watching said speeches roll off the tongue of the Presidential hopeful (and now President).

Freelancers: clearly, he's one of us. (Except he looks waaaaay too pulled together. Maybe it's an East Coast thing.)

In the same vein, Nora Hardwick bore all for a local charity calendar. Pretty sassy for a lady who's 102 years old. http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,312234,00.html

Which is all to say, age matters! Mostly because of the fact that when it comes to doing what you love, it really doesn't.