If I could, I would join the Starfleet.  Its philosophy matches mine: unabashed optimism, hope for the future, and the reassurance that a peacekeeping mission can still be full of adventure–not to mention the pure logic and reason brought to us by the denizens of the planet Vulcan.  Unfortunately, I would most likely be rejected on any of several counts, chief among them being poor physical health- although perhaps the good Dr. McCoy would be able to fix me using readily-available 23rd-century technology.  This is, after all, just a fantasy anyway, and a most enjoyable one at that.

I loved the new Star Trek movie, the origins movie.  Loved it, despite the bizarre product placements (“Budweiser Classic”, Uhura?  Nokia phone in your stolen car, James Tiberius Kirk?) and Leonard Nimoy’s poorly-fitting dentures (JJ Abrams’ budget didn’t allow for a new set?  Or even a couple tubes of Polident, giving yet another product placement opp?), not to mention the gratuitous Uhura-in-her-underwear scene.  It was pointed out to me that I also got to see Chris Pine sans shirt, but I was too busy feeling feminist outrage (and I am not even really a feminist) to pay attention.  And why did young Kirk have to get beat up at every– and I mean what seemed like  every–possible opportunity?   

Ok, so I have problems with artistic distance.  I notice too many details that distract me from theatrical experiences. 

The most distracting thing, though, was that I was already mentally applying for entrance into the Starfleet Academy.  Sign me up.  I imagine that, like  that for the Coast Guard, the Starfleet brochure states that “it is physically and mentally grueling.”  So be it.  Bring it on.  And Mr. Spock, you could talk to me all day, you sexy honest logical pedantic half-Vulcan.  (This may be why I married Jack: he is the most Spock-esque man I know.  He may, indeed, be part Vulcan; one never knows.)

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