Tag: Star Trek II

She’s dead, Jim

First off, fuck all yall for not reading Mer Rouge. And secondly, I want to thank everyone for really putting in the views this month. The blog has been on the upswing viewership-wise lately, so everyone should pat themselves on the back for a job well done.

But enough of that shit. Let’s talk about the important things: Starfleet Academy and the death of Star Trek.

Have I watched SFA? Fuck no. Do I have anything against its existence? No, not really. The concept doesn’t particularly appeal to me, but then again the Alex Kurtzman era of Trek has been fumbled so many times that I kinda quit giving a shit. A few have complained that no one wants “One Tree Hill” ripoff in the Star Trek universe, but I think that’s beside the point. They forget that Deep Space Nine was a huge swing which paid off because fans gave the Rick Berman and the show-runners the benefit of the doubt. The Next Generation was a huge hit critically and financially. Fans were open to the idea of a Star Trek that was a little bit different. The same could have been said for SFA had Alex Kurtzman not shit the bed with Discovery, Strange New Worlds, Section 31, etc. Like DS9, SFA could be the next great Star Trek show but it’s too late. The damage has been done and fans are actively rooting against Alex Kurtzman and SFA.

This was apparent on YouTube when Redlettermedia released their review of DS9 the same day Paramount released the first two episodes of SFA on the platform. Unfortunately for Kurtzman and Paramount, Redlettermedia got more views. But why this was an undisputed W for the Kurtzman haters is because Mike Stoklasa and Rich Evans are effectively the thought leaders in the anti-NuTrek movement. For a studio that presumably spent hundreds of millions on this production, it should be embarrassing to lose to two drunks in a Milwaukee basement. So in essence, this was a true David and Goliath situation.

Honestly, good for Mike and Rich (and that sex pervert Jay Bauman as well). But I’ve reached the zen phase of my grief. I’ve accepted, if not happy over, the death of Star Trek. If there was some good to come out of the Kurtzman era, it was season three of Picard. I’m not talking about the quality of that particular series, because if we’re being honest with ourselves, Picard S3 was just as bad as everything else under NuTrek banner. But it did provide a sense of closure. There was a happy ending for the entire TNG crew, which in my mind at least, provided a happy ending for the entire Berman-era of Star Trek and thus Star Trek as a whole. That’s better than what most cherished IPs will get.

But I have a bad feeling that Mike and Rich (especially Mike) are holding out hope that things will improve. In their DS9 review, they mentioned that younger audiences are rediscovering old Star Trek through reaction videos. While I too think that’s a good thing, I don’t want my hope mistaken for a desire that Trek should continue.

It’s over for me. We should cherish the old and embrace the new. What happened to Star Trek is a sign of the times and it’s not alone in its downfall. Every franchise will eventually face the same fate. While it sucks to see a beloved family member succumb to a slow agonizing death, it’s also a part of the life cycle that we have to accept. And we have to accept that Star Trek is in a deep demented state. It doesn’t have much longer. You can fight it or come to peace with it.

I choose peace.

But I’ll be GODDAMNED if I let Amazon fuck up James Bond…

Back into the hole we climbed out of

Dick was a Hall of Fame stalker.

Or “private eye”, as he called himself.

I shot up on some ‘roids to help with my low T when I got pissed off.

“That mother fucker,” I though. “He borrowed $15 from me ten years ago and never paid me back.”

I was of course thinking of Nicky Wallz, a bouncer at a strip club I once frequented. I lost touch with him after the joint got shot up in a disastrous FBI raid.

“I’m gonna beat his ass,” I thought. But I didn’t know where to find him.

Dick was sitting there, cutting away a slice of deer meat with his sawtooth Bowie, when I asked him: “I need you to find me a Nicky Wallz.”

“Aye mate,” he replied. “The price es steep though lad. Ya donnae have a penny to yur name. I just a might be callin n a favour from ya.”

“Just find him.”

Weeks went by. In my restlessness, I began bulking and sculpting. I fought every shit heel in the bar that wanted some, smashing glass and busting heads…all in preparation for my showdown with Nicky Wallz. But Dick was dragging his ass.

“Hey Dick!” I yelled. “What’s the word on Nicky? I told you to find him seven weeks ago. You better not be cruising the the rest stops again.”

“Oy mate, I see ya lookin’ fit lad. But donnae talk to me like tha again. Or else I’ll stab ya in the scrote,” he replied.

“Oh you want some of this?”

“Aye I do.”

We both removed our shirts, displaying our perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Before we fought, we rubbed each other in oil…down our arms, down our legs…before removing our underwear, where I used the oil to rub his magnificent c—…..

Anyways, after venting my frustrations, Dick asked me, “Aye mate, why you bein such a snoot lately? What is it with this Nicky fella?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

“Perhaps I just haven’t noticed how the time has passed,” I said. “I’m getting older. I’m losing friends, acquaintances. Maybe they’ve moved on and I haven’t. I just feel like I’ve learned nothing. Nothing of importance. Nothing about myself.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

Dick spoke up. “Well lad, I found him weeks ago but didnae wanna tell ya. Maybe let sleepin’ dogs lie yeah?”

Maybe he was right. Nevertheless…

“Where is he?” I asked.

Dick and I went down to the Los Angeles County Hospital, Psych Ward B. The doctor warned us to handle Nicky with utmost care. The nurses were handing out meals to the patients when I walked up to Nicky and slapped the trey out of his hands.

“Recognize me asshole!” I said.

Amazed, Nicky said, “James, you’re alive old friend?”

“Still?! Old friend?!” I said. “Where’s my $15 you piece of shit?”

“Is that what this is about? Money? Nothing else?” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“James, when I was 15, I was homeless and sleeping under a car. An older woman found me and took me in. She fed me. Clothed me. And gave me an education. We were close. Too close. We began a forbidden love affair. It was wrong, we both knew that. We tried to hide it, but the authorities found out. They took her away but not before we sired a child. That woman was Jenny, your mother.”

“Horseshit,” I said.

“Not horseshit. My only regret is never having the heart to tell you. After that strip club got shot up to absolute shreds, I never recovered. That’s why I’m here, because I just can’t bear the guilt of knowing who I am.”

Dick and me left the hospital in quiet contemplation. Could it be true? How could my mother have hid this from me?

We wandered back to the car then I pulled out a cigarette. I said to Dick:

“Damn, I should have asked for more than $15.”