Like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory, I, too, am a devotee of the iconic Mr. Spock of Star Trek. I never confused him with the actor Leonard Nimoy until I saw the next iteration of him in Zachary Quinto, who seemed 'illogical' on some level. But, unlike Sheldon, I am a woman, and I had this mad attraction to Mr. Spock, as did my college roommate, Jane, and apparently, a million other women.
I made jokes about it, but when Star Trek (the Original TV Show) appeared on Netflix, I started binge-watching it all over again, and, again, becoming infected with my adoration of all things Vulcan and Mr. Spock. Damn you, Netflix, Damn you! Better than ever! No commercial interruptions! and ON DEMAND! I'm am only my only second cycle of the 80 or so episodes.
Now, I was a child in 1967-69 when the show aired, but I remember my older brother watching it. I caught on when I attended college in the 70s and it was on every day at 4pm after Jane and I returned from our classes at our Colorado college. We usually got high and settled in for the daily strange new frontier. Then, on Spring Break, we went to Los Angeles to visit friend Betsy of Santa Monica and she took us on a drive around Hollywood pointing out the stars' homes. Of course, we wanted to know where Spock lived, and she drove by some Brentwood estate, walled in, with no apparent entrance.
I had a flashback to that I Love Lucy episode where she jumps the wall of a movie star's home, but now in retrospect, I think Betsy was goofing on us. Her friend, a snarky surfer, kept telling us,
"Look, its Milton Berle!"
and we would whip our heads around, yelling, "Where?????"
Milton Berle, of course, was dead. We did go to Marilyn's grave, and we did see a 'star' when we passed some premier in action and Micheal York was visible. But, no Spock.
So, Jane and I went back to school and returned to our ritual Star Trek routine with bong,
and lusted like Nurse Chapel at the unobtainable Mr. Spock, too logical for romance, too emotionally distant to be a hot, passionate, steamy romance.
But, when these feeling erupted yet again via Netflix, I became a little more concerned.
I mean, I'm a baby boomer and I'm pushing 60, so this 'schoolgirl' crush caught me offguard.
I had actually seen Leonard Nimoy give a lecture at university where he was on a book tour for "I am Not Spock" and had carved out a post Star Trek career as a writer, photographer, and actor/director.I was of course, disappointed in the mundane Leonard Nimoy. I wanted Spock.
I went to my first Star Trek convention at college, too, and bought a really cool orange tee shirt with the Enterprise stamped on the front. It was later stolen. I still miss that shirt.
and, of course, I watched with interest at the various incarnations of Star Trek in the latter days, but my only interest now was to write for the show. I sent a resume to Gene Roddenberry and got a call from the Next Generation producers who asked me to submit a script, but nothing ever came of it. I wrote a script called "The Aurics," about a race of aliens who had some sort of electromagnetic powers, but in these pre-internet, pre digital days, this script, written on an IBM Selectric, got lost in space, along with my career.
My attraction to aliens waned because I met real ones walking the planet, and, while I had my fair share of romance, I was subconsciously still looking for that coolly, logical, mindmeld with a vulcan. Now, in retrospect, I see that Jane and I, probably adored the unemotional Spock since we came from alcoholic dads, and overemotional mothers, whose lives quickly disintegrated into soap operas, rather than space operas Jane and I detested stupidity and emotional displays, and now, I see why my unrequited passion for Spock and the myth of logical romance became an unrealized dream for me.
I would call it 'emotional logic, ' or a mind over matter approach to control one's passionate nature and not be controlled by it. Self mastery and self discipline became a form of self love for me in an age of excess, sexual revolution, drug and alcohol abuse, and well, all things baby boomer. I battled my own addictions and excesses, and lately, watched as alcoholism consumed the lives of loved ones in ways I could never anticipate. I long for the cool, emotional logic and self discipline of First Officer Spock, the scientific Vulcan with no apparent character flaws except for his keen logical approach, and emotional control. Spock who will remain forever - fascinating.
I made jokes about it, but when Star Trek (the Original TV Show) appeared on Netflix, I started binge-watching it all over again, and, again, becoming infected with my adoration of all things Vulcan and Mr. Spock. Damn you, Netflix, Damn you! Better than ever! No commercial interruptions! and ON DEMAND! I'm am only my only second cycle of the 80 or so episodes.
Now, I was a child in 1967-69 when the show aired, but I remember my older brother watching it. I caught on when I attended college in the 70s and it was on every day at 4pm after Jane and I returned from our classes at our Colorado college. We usually got high and settled in for the daily strange new frontier. Then, on Spring Break, we went to Los Angeles to visit friend Betsy of Santa Monica and she took us on a drive around Hollywood pointing out the stars' homes. Of course, we wanted to know where Spock lived, and she drove by some Brentwood estate, walled in, with no apparent entrance.
I had a flashback to that I Love Lucy episode where she jumps the wall of a movie star's home, but now in retrospect, I think Betsy was goofing on us. Her friend, a snarky surfer, kept telling us,
"Look, its Milton Berle!"
and we would whip our heads around, yelling, "Where?????"
Milton Berle, of course, was dead. We did go to Marilyn's grave, and we did see a 'star' when we passed some premier in action and Micheal York was visible. But, no Spock.
So, Jane and I went back to school and returned to our ritual Star Trek routine with bong,
and lusted like Nurse Chapel at the unobtainable Mr. Spock, too logical for romance, too emotionally distant to be a hot, passionate, steamy romance.
But, when these feeling erupted yet again via Netflix, I became a little more concerned.
I mean, I'm a baby boomer and I'm pushing 60, so this 'schoolgirl' crush caught me offguard.
I had actually seen Leonard Nimoy give a lecture at university where he was on a book tour for "I am Not Spock" and had carved out a post Star Trek career as a writer, photographer, and actor/director.I was of course, disappointed in the mundane Leonard Nimoy. I wanted Spock.
I went to my first Star Trek convention at college, too, and bought a really cool orange tee shirt with the Enterprise stamped on the front. It was later stolen. I still miss that shirt.
and, of course, I watched with interest at the various incarnations of Star Trek in the latter days, but my only interest now was to write for the show. I sent a resume to Gene Roddenberry and got a call from the Next Generation producers who asked me to submit a script, but nothing ever came of it. I wrote a script called "The Aurics," about a race of aliens who had some sort of electromagnetic powers, but in these pre-internet, pre digital days, this script, written on an IBM Selectric, got lost in space, along with my career.
My attraction to aliens waned because I met real ones walking the planet, and, while I had my fair share of romance, I was subconsciously still looking for that coolly, logical, mindmeld with a vulcan. Now, in retrospect, I see that Jane and I, probably adored the unemotional Spock since we came from alcoholic dads, and overemotional mothers, whose lives quickly disintegrated into soap operas, rather than space operas Jane and I detested stupidity and emotional displays, and now, I see why my unrequited passion for Spock and the myth of logical romance became an unrealized dream for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment