SOMETIME IN 2009, a new Star Trek movie will be released, focusing, surprisingly, on the crew of the late-60s incarnation of the show. Not news to anyone reading this blog, I'm sure. I hadn't really been following developments of the shoot, plot, or portrayals of the characters and Enterprise — and it's been a very long time since I had any emotional investment in how that's handled. In that, I am a minority on the Internet.
Judging by replies to stories about the film on Gawker Media science fiction blog io9, interest in these films, or in getting them right at least, is massive. Your average io9 post will pull 10 to 20 replies. Recent Star Trek posts, like this group of stills and this speculation over whether J.J. Abrams has made this film, in possible homage to the original show, deliberately cheesy, pulled four to five times that number of comments. Only posts about the Watchmen film (in which I very much do have an emotional investment) and The Sarah Connor Chronicles have come close. Posts regarding original science fiction creations, relying on no previous and adapted intellectual property, don't usually get this level of attention.
Nor the level of passionate argument. Rightly or not, opinions run hot on the Trek film. The Original Series raised the game of fandom to a new level. Write-in campaigns to save a TV show, fan-organized conventions, fan fiction (including what we'd come to know as slash fiction): Folks owe a debt to those whom Star Trek inspired to express their appreciation in these modes. But some fans have become unhealthily possessive of their experience with the show, and nitpick things that displease them or don't match up with what they saw on TV as children. This might be why these io9 threads are so long. I've come to believe nitpickers and aggressive geek-savants do this because they feel such a lack of control over their lives, they seize upon minutiae, bits of obscure knowledge they polish to a shine in their nervous grips, in their overcompensating attempts to wield dominion over something. And when something threatens this control, they lash out like startled cobras.
In May, I attended a cookout and gathering hosted at the home of my fine friends Dave and Julia. It was a rare summit of geekdom for our group, featuring folks usually several counties or states away. I commented to my buddy Len that I would reserve judgment on Heath Ledger's take on the Joker, comic fans' favorite Batman villain and no doubt a contender for top comic book (and comic movie-adaptation) bad guy. I'd been a bit skeptical about the first publicity image, but I'd decided I would reserve judgment and see how this Joker fit into his own skin. (Two viewings later, I'd say he all but burst the fuck out of it.)
For this film, and for the Watchmen film over which I'm still pessimistic, my best course is just that: See how this Enterprise fits into its shiny new skin, and what Abrams hopes to achieve by doing so. Try to understand why he chose this Spock, that Scotty, and why he leaves out what he chooses to omit. (He's not going to be able to name-check each little bit from TOS in 2 hours, much as we'd all like to see a salt-vampire-scarred redshirt or a scuttling Horta around each corner.) Leave a little bit to faith and enter the theater ready to be enchanted. I can always throw in a DVD or pull a graphic novel off the shelf to revisit what's been done. It keeps a brain fresh to see what nobody's done before, even with 40-year-old character concepts. And without curiously entering the unknown, what's the point of Star Trek — or any science fiction?
Showing posts with label geekery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label geekery. Show all posts
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Inspiring Trip, and Fighting Pessimism
SOMETIMES I THINK PESSIMISM IS as reflexive a response in my system as blinking or breathing. These two functions and others like them don't veer off as unreasonably as does my willingness to assume the worst, however. May they never catch up. Better, may my flights to pessimism be delayed or cancelled.
It is in this spirit that I report being proved wrong in my initial feelings toward the Central City meeting in which I participated this week. I hope my apprehension grew from my anticipated sour experience with midweek air travel, my very real trouble in even getting a company travel account set up, and basic fear of the unknown — I'd never attended an editorial review of this type. I'd scoffed at the need to visit in person, wondering whether the cost of bringing me out there would justify the difficulty of hurdling the TSA and airline obstacles doubtless in my route.
As usual, these spectres fled under the light of actual events.
Tuesday morning found me packed and ready to fly. I used my Las Vegas packing list to assemble my gear; a fun-starved smattering of work-pertinent items and clothing bereft of the usual sunblock, desert hat, copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and poker dough. Naked, I felt.
After 2 hours in the office, I headed home to await the car service. When I wandered downstairs 15 minutes early to dump some garbage, I found him already there, catching some Z's. I awakened him and we got underway. I suspect he was sleep starved, as he spiced his 75-mph race to the airport with frequent drifts into the left lane, or the shoulder. He may have been drowsy, but it sure woke me up.
The first challenge was to get a boarding pass, which I couldn't print through the company 's chosen travel site. The credit card reader didn't recognize my purchase and instead referred me to human assistance. Said human realized my card had not yet been charged for the trips. She did so, then ground out my pass. I was glad I'd gotten there 2 hours early and during the midweek dead of August, rather than close to a major travel holiday. From there I went to the dreaded TSA chokepoint, where the line was delightfully short — shorter even than some of the 6 a.m. lines I find prior to a Vegas run. With such a small hoard of junk, I presented them with a boring X-ray profile, so I was through and clear in moments.
I boarded the Central City flight with ease, and lucked out by getting an empty seat between me (in the window seat) and the other row-occupant. Of course, the flight was preceded by about 25 minutes of delays on the ground. I realize now that the airlines are baking the delays into the ticket times, as they anticipate the impact of departing traffic and arrival snags. Flight itself was brief (compared to the EWR–LAS run) and smooth through clear weather, and with no checked luggage, I was into a cab and hotel bound swiftly upon arrival.
My hotel was one of several clustered near the Central City airport, in the midst of what appeared to be the chain-restaurant district, and across the street from both a mall and the local branch of my company. No need to rent a car. After checking in, I wandered over to the mall, which had the virtue of a local casual-dining choice; I'd scouted the area from home and decided, as with Vegas, why eat on the road what I can get at home? The burger there proved to be a solid choice, though the dessert (you can tell I was using a company card) nearly put me in a coma. Five bucks apparently buys a lot more out there, and I only made it halfway through the platter of death-carbs under whipped cream I received.
As I ate, I noticed a person who was leaving the mall with a plastic bag that advertised Free Comic Book Day. I wondered if there might be a comic shop in the bowels of the mall. A few minutes later, another person emerged with a bag that advertised a business with a fairly geeky name. That settled it. After I paid, I wandered into the mall proper to hunt this source down. No greater love there is for a geek than to patronize one's friendly local game/comic/music shop. Sure enough, not only was there a comic book shop, but two doors down there was a boardgame store. Both sported RPG and CCG sections, as well as tables on which to play them, and the comic shop also was a Warhammer miniatures dealer. Central City was beginning to look more salvageable by the minute.
Fitness and sleep were troublesome, though. The hotel featured a "fitness center," which included an exercycle, a treadmill, and a Universal-style weight center that posed more health danger in its use than its neglect. I elected 30 minutes on the treadmill the first morning I was there, and skipped it entirely the second day, resuming regular gym visits Friday. The first weight-training visit on Saturday actually showed some improvement; this makes me wonder whether I ought to add a little more rest time between lifting visits. As for sleeping, my room was close to the ice machine on the first floor. When the staff began laying out the complimentary breakfast, they needed to scoop up some ice, which they did at 5:30 a.m. both mornings. This is actually later than my usual wakeup time on weekdays, but I'd run into trouble both nights trying to fall asleep (both bed and pillow were far spongier than my home setup), so each morning I was staggering around on subpar sleep.
The next two days were spent primarily at the local office, about which I must be elliptical for security. I must say it's nicer than the one in Jersey, plus they allow employees to bring in houseplants. The first day comprised discussion of our editorial calendar for next year, as well as a look ahead at what conferences we might want to attend to foster development of these articles. It was tough to wing off for a few days for a convention when the headcount on the title was a whopping two, so with a full bullpen we can do this again now.
The second day was the money day. A pair of edit-gurus led a positive, open-ended discussion of what we'd accomplished over the past year, examining our mission, our graphic design (which we'd redone a year ago, so now was the time to see if it was working), the replies to a reader survey, and what our online outreach would accomplish . . . an area that involves me. I didn't get the chance to discuss a blog strategy, because apparently the site will be redesigned soon. We were told a couple of things we could do with the current site, the design of which was rejiggered at the same time as the print pub's, and I made it clear to the two hosts that my ability to address any of this sort of thing had been hampered by the staff shortage; I had been offloading my own web duties to a freelancer during that stretch. Those who mattered at the meeting seemed to understand this, so my ass is not on the line or anything . . . which, over the course of these meetings, I found myself once again caring about.
I took a ton of notes for what we can do in all of these areas, because we had unprecedented access to two keen thinkers on what makes magazines work. I also got the message that the new web design, as well as anything we would want to do in a blog, are up to us. I told them I would need some heavy training in these areas if I am to do anything besides just check to see that monthly content uploads were executed right; it's one of my review goals, in fact. But I presented myself as being part of a future set of solutions, not as any sort of whiner or cripple. I felt very much more part of a team effort, above and beyond enjoying the uncommon privilege of having the rest of the gang there in the flesh.
I think it's time to lay to rest any reference to our being short on staff. I never used it as a hollow excuse, but it was the legitimate reason why we weren't able to do anything besides put a monthly publication out there. With a full staff, I can ease some of my edit duties over to the other folks if the web action becomes more of a daily task — an offer my boss made unbidden after the meeting. I had been nervous about the rest of the staff getting web training that would render my own obsolete. Now there is a chance I may revisit the Central City office (where the head of all things web is based) for further, more specialized training and assistance in enacting the redesign once the staff and managers decide what we need to feature. All of this is possible now that we are well past the crisis stretch.
I thought about the ways I could make this sort of training serve me as I flew home. No trouble getting to the airport or traversing the tiny TSA line helped foster a reflective mood for the flight back. I do feel more enthusiastic about the position, which now seems at my power to craft. A former supervisor of mine used to say, "Once you stop learning, you're dead." I have the chance to stay alive in this sense now, even to flourish. Still wondering if this will truly be my calling, something I strain at the leash to do each morning. But my previous pessimism may be clouding my attempts to see what that might be.
It is in this spirit that I report being proved wrong in my initial feelings toward the Central City meeting in which I participated this week. I hope my apprehension grew from my anticipated sour experience with midweek air travel, my very real trouble in even getting a company travel account set up, and basic fear of the unknown — I'd never attended an editorial review of this type. I'd scoffed at the need to visit in person, wondering whether the cost of bringing me out there would justify the difficulty of hurdling the TSA and airline obstacles doubtless in my route.
As usual, these spectres fled under the light of actual events.
Tuesday morning found me packed and ready to fly. I used my Las Vegas packing list to assemble my gear; a fun-starved smattering of work-pertinent items and clothing bereft of the usual sunblock, desert hat, copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and poker dough. Naked, I felt.
After 2 hours in the office, I headed home to await the car service. When I wandered downstairs 15 minutes early to dump some garbage, I found him already there, catching some Z's. I awakened him and we got underway. I suspect he was sleep starved, as he spiced his 75-mph race to the airport with frequent drifts into the left lane, or the shoulder. He may have been drowsy, but it sure woke me up.
The first challenge was to get a boarding pass, which I couldn't print through the company 's chosen travel site. The credit card reader didn't recognize my purchase and instead referred me to human assistance. Said human realized my card had not yet been charged for the trips. She did so, then ground out my pass. I was glad I'd gotten there 2 hours early and during the midweek dead of August, rather than close to a major travel holiday. From there I went to the dreaded TSA chokepoint, where the line was delightfully short — shorter even than some of the 6 a.m. lines I find prior to a Vegas run. With such a small hoard of junk, I presented them with a boring X-ray profile, so I was through and clear in moments.
I boarded the Central City flight with ease, and lucked out by getting an empty seat between me (in the window seat) and the other row-occupant. Of course, the flight was preceded by about 25 minutes of delays on the ground. I realize now that the airlines are baking the delays into the ticket times, as they anticipate the impact of departing traffic and arrival snags. Flight itself was brief (compared to the EWR–LAS run) and smooth through clear weather, and with no checked luggage, I was into a cab and hotel bound swiftly upon arrival.
My hotel was one of several clustered near the Central City airport, in the midst of what appeared to be the chain-restaurant district, and across the street from both a mall and the local branch of my company. No need to rent a car. After checking in, I wandered over to the mall, which had the virtue of a local casual-dining choice; I'd scouted the area from home and decided, as with Vegas, why eat on the road what I can get at home? The burger there proved to be a solid choice, though the dessert (you can tell I was using a company card) nearly put me in a coma. Five bucks apparently buys a lot more out there, and I only made it halfway through the platter of death-carbs under whipped cream I received.
As I ate, I noticed a person who was leaving the mall with a plastic bag that advertised Free Comic Book Day. I wondered if there might be a comic shop in the bowels of the mall. A few minutes later, another person emerged with a bag that advertised a business with a fairly geeky name. That settled it. After I paid, I wandered into the mall proper to hunt this source down. No greater love there is for a geek than to patronize one's friendly local game/comic/music shop. Sure enough, not only was there a comic book shop, but two doors down there was a boardgame store. Both sported RPG and CCG sections, as well as tables on which to play them, and the comic shop also was a Warhammer miniatures dealer. Central City was beginning to look more salvageable by the minute.
Fitness and sleep were troublesome, though. The hotel featured a "fitness center," which included an exercycle, a treadmill, and a Universal-style weight center that posed more health danger in its use than its neglect. I elected 30 minutes on the treadmill the first morning I was there, and skipped it entirely the second day, resuming regular gym visits Friday. The first weight-training visit on Saturday actually showed some improvement; this makes me wonder whether I ought to add a little more rest time between lifting visits. As for sleeping, my room was close to the ice machine on the first floor. When the staff began laying out the complimentary breakfast, they needed to scoop up some ice, which they did at 5:30 a.m. both mornings. This is actually later than my usual wakeup time on weekdays, but I'd run into trouble both nights trying to fall asleep (both bed and pillow were far spongier than my home setup), so each morning I was staggering around on subpar sleep.
The next two days were spent primarily at the local office, about which I must be elliptical for security. I must say it's nicer than the one in Jersey, plus they allow employees to bring in houseplants. The first day comprised discussion of our editorial calendar for next year, as well as a look ahead at what conferences we might want to attend to foster development of these articles. It was tough to wing off for a few days for a convention when the headcount on the title was a whopping two, so with a full bullpen we can do this again now.
The second day was the money day. A pair of edit-gurus led a positive, open-ended discussion of what we'd accomplished over the past year, examining our mission, our graphic design (which we'd redone a year ago, so now was the time to see if it was working), the replies to a reader survey, and what our online outreach would accomplish . . . an area that involves me. I didn't get the chance to discuss a blog strategy, because apparently the site will be redesigned soon. We were told a couple of things we could do with the current site, the design of which was rejiggered at the same time as the print pub's, and I made it clear to the two hosts that my ability to address any of this sort of thing had been hampered by the staff shortage; I had been offloading my own web duties to a freelancer during that stretch. Those who mattered at the meeting seemed to understand this, so my ass is not on the line or anything . . . which, over the course of these meetings, I found myself once again caring about.
I took a ton of notes for what we can do in all of these areas, because we had unprecedented access to two keen thinkers on what makes magazines work. I also got the message that the new web design, as well as anything we would want to do in a blog, are up to us. I told them I would need some heavy training in these areas if I am to do anything besides just check to see that monthly content uploads were executed right; it's one of my review goals, in fact. But I presented myself as being part of a future set of solutions, not as any sort of whiner or cripple. I felt very much more part of a team effort, above and beyond enjoying the uncommon privilege of having the rest of the gang there in the flesh.
I think it's time to lay to rest any reference to our being short on staff. I never used it as a hollow excuse, but it was the legitimate reason why we weren't able to do anything besides put a monthly publication out there. With a full staff, I can ease some of my edit duties over to the other folks if the web action becomes more of a daily task — an offer my boss made unbidden after the meeting. I had been nervous about the rest of the staff getting web training that would render my own obsolete. Now there is a chance I may revisit the Central City office (where the head of all things web is based) for further, more specialized training and assistance in enacting the redesign once the staff and managers decide what we need to feature. All of this is possible now that we are well past the crisis stretch.
I thought about the ways I could make this sort of training serve me as I flew home. No trouble getting to the airport or traversing the tiny TSA line helped foster a reflective mood for the flight back. I do feel more enthusiastic about the position, which now seems at my power to craft. A former supervisor of mine used to say, "Once you stop learning, you're dead." I have the chance to stay alive in this sense now, even to flourish. Still wondering if this will truly be my calling, something I strain at the leash to do each morning. But my previous pessimism may be clouding my attempts to see what that might be.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
To the Lab, Schizohedron!
OUR OFFICE IS SUBDIVIDING, and with this move comes a great tide of disposal. I managed to rescue two items from the purge that brought me great and geeky joy at the end of a shitty week.
Before he got the sack with the rest of my company's art department, we had an in-house photographer. At the various offices through which this wing of the company has moved, he's had photo studios, where he shot numerous pieces of cover and interior art. These shoots were for healthcare titles, so when needed, he and the art director of the publication in question would order props and costumes to suit the shoot. I myself helped out with one of them, for which I was dressed in a hospital gown from a closet full of medical uniforms.
I found out on Friday that this was only part of the stash the art department had accumulated over several years. I chanced upon the remaining art staffer while she was filling a garbage can with items she was taking from the prop closet. Never having seen the inside of this particular closet, I peeked inside . . .
. . . and immediately emitted a squeeeeeee of delight. Amid boxed, bagged, and bubblewrapped props sat a stash of lab glassware, including several Erlenmeyer flasks. I don't know why, but I have a massive geek-crush on labware, and the king of this peculiar jones is the wide-bottomed glass flask that has sort of become shorthand for chemistry. Want to tell your readers that a chart, or a region of a country, or whatever USA Today–style display element is about the chemical industry? Whip up a little cartoony Erlenmeyer flask icon, maybe half full of some green, bubbly liquid. It's like using an atom with three electrons around it for expressing the nuclear industry or physics.
"An Erlenmeyer flaaaaask," I cooed in a tone of voice usually reserved for greeting a friend's new puppy. I took down from the shelf a hefty 2000-ml flask, and unbidden, the delirious giggle of a child seizing a coveted Christmas gift filled the air. My coworker edged away as I began digging through the collection of labware, locating a clean 500-ml Erlenmeyer to pair with my 2-liter one (for I had already decided that only the cops were going to make me relinquish that Dumpster-destined flask). She pointed me to a box full of bubblewrapped items, which had survived at least one office move and evidently hadn't been tapped as a prop resource since. Inside were even more pieces, including a Florence flask and two HUGE graduated cylinders. A scientist's ransom in glass geekery.
As for the other gear going into the trash, there was clearly a story behind each piece, maybe even a confusing one. For some reason we had eight gavels (and we don't even have any legal journals) and two massive wooden gag gavels large enough to drive stakes for a circus tent. There was a doll pierced with multiple knitting needles. More pertinent to our pubs' topics, there were boxes of rubber gloves, scales, a seemingly functional sphygmomanometer, and a box of syringes. (And me without my heroin.) Some of the medical gear could certainly have helped a local clinic, and maybe the remaning glassware could go to a school science lab, but as for the two flasks in my grip, they were coming home with me. I asked the art person if she was otherwise going to throw them away with anything else. "Take 'em," she said, "it's worth it for that laugh you laughed when you saw them."
I would not be able to dispute an eyewitness report that I skipped back to my desk.
I washed out my treasures and concealed them in my briefcase and the Whole Foods bag I use to haul in my daily ration of health mulch. The last thing I needed was for the anal fistula that is our HR person to spot me toting the 2000-ml flask out the door and start asking questions. As it was, I made it to the car without interception.
The 500-ml. guy sits by my computer, awaiting sunlight to illumine its curves, or perhaps a cut flower. Its bigger cousin is still in the bag, about to be brought over to my friends' house so I can share my squeeeeeee moment with them. (It also spares one of them, a non-lab-based worker at one of New Jersey's fine drug companies, my weekly requests to sneak into one of the labs and jack the biggest Erlenmeyer flash she can find. Or a monkey.) Aside from that, it too will find a place of honor among my knick-knacks.
Now all I need is a single female scientist to come into my pad, lay eyes on these babies, and emit a squeeeeeee of her own. "Yes, Doctor [whoever], they're real, and they're spectacular."
Before he got the sack with the rest of my company's art department, we had an in-house photographer. At the various offices through which this wing of the company has moved, he's had photo studios, where he shot numerous pieces of cover and interior art. These shoots were for healthcare titles, so when needed, he and the art director of the publication in question would order props and costumes to suit the shoot. I myself helped out with one of them, for which I was dressed in a hospital gown from a closet full of medical uniforms.
I found out on Friday that this was only part of the stash the art department had accumulated over several years. I chanced upon the remaining art staffer while she was filling a garbage can with items she was taking from the prop closet. Never having seen the inside of this particular closet, I peeked inside . . .
. . . and immediately emitted a squeeeeeee of delight. Amid boxed, bagged, and bubblewrapped props sat a stash of lab glassware, including several Erlenmeyer flasks. I don't know why, but I have a massive geek-crush on labware, and the king of this peculiar jones is the wide-bottomed glass flask that has sort of become shorthand for chemistry. Want to tell your readers that a chart, or a region of a country, or whatever USA Today–style display element is about the chemical industry? Whip up a little cartoony Erlenmeyer flask icon, maybe half full of some green, bubbly liquid. It's like using an atom with three electrons around it for expressing the nuclear industry or physics.
"An Erlenmeyer flaaaaask," I cooed in a tone of voice usually reserved for greeting a friend's new puppy. I took down from the shelf a hefty 2000-ml flask, and unbidden, the delirious giggle of a child seizing a coveted Christmas gift filled the air. My coworker edged away as I began digging through the collection of labware, locating a clean 500-ml Erlenmeyer to pair with my 2-liter one (for I had already decided that only the cops were going to make me relinquish that Dumpster-destined flask). She pointed me to a box full of bubblewrapped items, which had survived at least one office move and evidently hadn't been tapped as a prop resource since. Inside were even more pieces, including a Florence flask and two HUGE graduated cylinders. A scientist's ransom in glass geekery.
As for the other gear going into the trash, there was clearly a story behind each piece, maybe even a confusing one. For some reason we had eight gavels (and we don't even have any legal journals) and two massive wooden gag gavels large enough to drive stakes for a circus tent. There was a doll pierced with multiple knitting needles. More pertinent to our pubs' topics, there were boxes of rubber gloves, scales, a seemingly functional sphygmomanometer, and a box of syringes. (And me without my heroin.) Some of the medical gear could certainly have helped a local clinic, and maybe the remaning glassware could go to a school science lab, but as for the two flasks in my grip, they were coming home with me. I asked the art person if she was otherwise going to throw them away with anything else. "Take 'em," she said, "it's worth it for that laugh you laughed when you saw them."
I would not be able to dispute an eyewitness report that I skipped back to my desk.
I washed out my treasures and concealed them in my briefcase and the Whole Foods bag I use to haul in my daily ration of health mulch. The last thing I needed was for the anal fistula that is our HR person to spot me toting the 2000-ml flask out the door and start asking questions. As it was, I made it to the car without interception.
The 500-ml. guy sits by my computer, awaiting sunlight to illumine its curves, or perhaps a cut flower. Its bigger cousin is still in the bag, about to be brought over to my friends' house so I can share my squeeeeeee moment with them. (It also spares one of them, a non-lab-based worker at one of New Jersey's fine drug companies, my weekly requests to sneak into one of the labs and jack the biggest Erlenmeyer flash she can find. Or a monkey.) Aside from that, it too will find a place of honor among my knick-knacks.
Now all I need is a single female scientist to come into my pad, lay eyes on these babies, and emit a squeeeeeee of her own. "Yes, Doctor [whoever], they're real, and they're spectacular."
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