As a teen, I grew up with the original show. My older brother was a science-fiction addict. One of his favorite authors was Robert Heinlein. Since I loved to read, I picked up these books and was introduced to the science-fiction world. So when Star Trek hit the air waves, my brother was hooked and I watched along with him.

Dad, however, would almost always turn the channel. This meant I didn’t watch every show, but I saw enough to know the characters and to develop a keen interest.

Years later when the series entered syndication, I was able to watch all I wanted. When the first movies came out with the original stars of William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy, I saw those too.

When this 2009 “remake” was announced—and especially with the advanced special effects—I was eager to see what the writers would come up with.

I don’t call myself an expert regarding the storylines of Star Trek. But I’ve learned what I like and what I don’t like.

I do like the actor who played Spock. Zachary Quinto captured the character well, acing the Vulcan’s mannerisms, and sounding almost exactly like Nimoy.

Karl Urban as ‘Bones’ is perfect. He looked as I’d expected a younger Leonard McCoy to be. I loved getting to know how he and James Kirk first met.

In the old series, I never realized Kirk was so full of himself. In this new movie, it’s quite a revelation to see how Chris Pine plays a womanizing, ultra self-confident James T. Kirk.

Simon Pegg as Scotty and John Cho as Sulu are both great picks.

Actress Zoe Saldana plays Lt. Uhura. She’s certainly attractive enough to showcase the leading female role.

But it’s her characterization of the communications officer that I frown and go, “hmm.”
And here is where, to me, the movie does a major “hiccup.”

I’d like to ask the writers, “Why did you change Uhura’s personality?”

The television series’ Uhura understood that the U.S.S. Enterprise was a military ship and she was an officer respectful to rank. Today’s Star Trek writes Uhura as smart-mouthed, carrying a ‘chip-on-my-shoulder’ attitude.

That is so not realistic, nor in keeping with the original version.

Another disloyalty is that Uhura attempts a romantic relationship with Spock. Yes, he’s half-human, so his emotions are stronger than a pure Vulcan. However, he strove to always restrain that ‘handicapped’ side. To show him and Uhura in caressing embraces is, in my opinion, an insult to Gene Roddenberry.

Still, the movie is action-packed and full of adventure. I laughed out loud during the comedic scenes. And the special effects were thrilling. If I were a reviewer, I’d give a four-and-a-half star out of five rating.

I hope in any forthcoming sequels Uhura’s character will be critiqued and appropriately ‘ship-shaped’.

Copyright 2009 by L. M. Thomas

That order was given countless times by Mom when I grew up. We kids displayed our attitudes toward being disciplined with either a scowl, pouty lip, or—though, rarely–tears of repentance. But the one in particular that Mom meant was when we sassed back. That kind of attitude usually produced a ready switch in her hand that she swatted against our fannies.

As I’ve matured, I’ve often reflected on attitudes. People with a smile on their face or laughter in their voice is the kind of folks that can brighten my day. I enjoy their company and want to share time with them. Likewise, the persons who can engage me in a calm, intelligent conversation are the ones who help to keep me mentally alert.

Just like Mom, I find I don’t care for, nor do I even bother to tolerate a belligerent attitude. That’s not to say that each and every one of us is always on Cloud Nine and we don’t have a bad day that might turn us into a bit of a sour puss. Sure, that happens. But when the argumentative, confrontational behavior is so ingrained in someone’s character you can see it etched on their face like it’d been stamped with a cookie cutter, then in an instant my hackles will rise and my palm itches for that switch Mom carried.

So, what am I leading up to?

Now there are two things I don’t discuss: religion and politics. My reason is simple: they’re firecracker issues. Wars have been, and now are, fought over the conflicting opinions of the populaces. Because these subjects are so explosive, I make it a habit to steer clear of them. However…

Yep, there’s come an however.

Enter Sarah Palin. The running mate of presidential hopeful, John McCain, and the self-described hockey mom and lipsticked pit-bull.

I watched that clip where she mentioned the pit-bull. She applied it to herself like it was an asset, trying to “wow” her audience with the reference that she was a true aggressive fighter, one of the traits known to this breed by those who make merchandise off them in illegal dog fights.

And she also wanted it firmly understood that she was just as brave and courageous as any of those dogs. She has no fear about going to Washington and butting heads with the bureaucracy there because, hey, she’s a roaring, growling, snarling pit-bull.

Plus, she’s a woman. If the nation isn’t already aware of it, then she’s more than eager to announce that’s the prominent quality which makes her—oh, I don’t know, how about a hundred?–times tougher than any man that’s gone before. Yep, Sarah Palin’s ready to take on the world. You didn’t need to see the sparring gloves to get the message.

You know, I like pit-bulls. I’m an animal lover and dogs have shadowed me all my life. While I know pit-bulls are trained to be vicious, I also know they aren’t that way naturally. They yearn to be treated like a regular canine — fed regularly, romp in the yard, and cuddle beside you on the front porch swing. They don’t ask for the life so many are forced to endure.

But here is a woman who is chomping at the bit to step inside a dogfight ring. She says things like, “Bring it on!” Ms. Palin boasts of her fierceness and her strength and her position is clear: get out of the way, you wimpy men. This hulk of a pit-bull is gonna chew you up and spit out your bones. Growl. Snarl.

So now I have a question.

If she’s so courageous, if she doesn’t blink (as she stressed to Charlie Gibson), if she’s made of sterner stuff than a whacking hockey stick and she swears she’s ready to don the mantel of Fearless Leader…Why does she hide behind the coat tails of—dare I say it?–mere men?

If it weren’t so two-faced, it’d be downright laughable. Why is John McCain and his cronies circling around her in a protective gesture? Why won’t they allow her—and better yet, why doesn’t she insist—on talking head-on with the media? Why are they pressuring the Alaskan body (regarding Troopergate) to halt the investigation?

And now this is exactly the kind of smug and arrogant attitude that annoyed Mom in the past and annoys me to no end today. Because Sarah Palin has a chip on her shoulder. More than that, she wants the public to believe she’s the very thing she’s proving not to be. Where’s her courage? Where’s her willingness to face down opposition? Where’s strength???

She doesn’t need men—gasp!–protecting her, does she? Don’t they remember she’s a pit-bull? She can fight her own fights, right?

I don’t see her taking charge. Sure, she spouts off a lot of hot air, but when you get right down to it, she’s being babied and coddled like a prima-donna. If she claims she’s so ready to take on a vice-president/president’s job—which traditionally has always belonged to a man—then why can’t she stand up and act like a man?

You’d think it’d be so obvious. I’m sure the last time she looked in a mirror she didn’t see a man wearing her lipstick.

She didn’t see a pit-bull either.

Copyright 2008 by L.M. Thomas

I just stare at it and go, “Bleech!” and then dispose of it.

Years ago, the business where I worked gave all employees a two-pound vacuum-sealed can of ham. Not to be confused with Spam, because this ham came in a larger container. We unpeeled it, dropped that weight onto a plate, looked at it, and gave it to the dogs. Guess what? The dogs smelled it and looked back at us. You could hear their thoughts going something like, “You don’t expect us to eat this stuff?” The memory of my canines’ expressions have always stayed with me. I respect their intelligence. If they refused ham, there’s got to be a reason. So I no longer touch the stuff.

And now there’s this blob of Spam. Kinda reminds me of a miniature ham.

Interestingly enough, with the internet and email, there’s something else going around called spam. Could there be a connection to what I’ve been talking about? I wonder.

This spam sure gets a lot of bad rap. No one likes it and no one wants it. Even though it’s very popular and shows up everywhere, folks want to get rid of it. When I read about it, I recall my dogs’ looks.

I find spam crammed in my own email boxes. I never ordered the stuff. I don’t care if it is free. Why are these ‘spammers’ wanting to push it on me? I get the same revulsion I had when that pale pink ooze slammed onto the plate—“Bleech!”

I wonder about those folks in Hawaii. If they like Spam so much they’re willing to pay for it, does that mean I can sell my free spam to them? Hmm, now there’s an idea.

http://missmaesite.com

copyright 2007 L.M. Thomas

WHIM OF THE WIND

You arrive as the sun yawns over the horizon. You glide slowly, almost hesitantly to the ground, skimming the top of the silent pool, careful to disturb not a ripple. You moan with dismay as you swirl over the victims of last night’s rampage. You didn’t flatten the grasses to lifeless straw; the icy-hearted hailstones murdered them. You didn’t scorch the mighty oak to a charred stump; the crackling lightning sizzled it. You didn’t smash the anthill and flood its tunnels; the pelting rain drowned it.

You had no hand in those things. Instead you attacked the pine tree. You buffeted it with your fists, bending it to one side and then twisting it to the other. You ripped off its hairy needles, its explosive pops of pain from snapping limbs swallowed up by the roar of your demented screams. Deer raced from you, their white eyes and flaring nostrils begging for mercy. Rabbits scurried away, their giant feet tripping over the knot of broken branches you scattered in their path. Your mad howls nipped at their heels, deriding their fear.

You’d spied something lodged in a crotch of the pine’s waving boughs. Whirling over, you’d seen a lone fledging cowering in its fragile nest. Outraged that you’d missed this in your earlier assault, you’d snatched the tiny twigs and hurled them to the ground. You’d watched, watched, watched as the helpless bird plummeted to the forest floor, the sticks that’d been its home stacking tent-style over its still form.

Satisfied that your authority went unrivaled, you’d swirled upward, tightening yourself into your most commanding posture. You’d ordered all the dark clouds to cluster around and, together, you’d merged and shaped into one being, billowing into a raging monster. Your staff of lightning, hailstones, and rain joined you to wage war. Nothing withstood your fierce army. Yet after the onslaught, when the lightning ceased and the rain halted, your fury abated and you’d slunk away like a defeated coward.

All through the night, you’d remembered what terror you elicited. You’d regretted how the forest animals distrusted you. You’d cried at the thought of how you mutilated the pine tree.

But, oh, the worst—what anguish torments you now with the knowledge of the life you stole. You recall during the spring how you’d watched the baby bird grow as its parents nurtured it. You’d smiled with the realization of how in two more days it’d join its older siblings when it’d take the first brave step at leaving the nest. But then—the sun angered you. During the long hours of yesterday, your resentment had risen along with the relentless baking degrees. By evening you’d lashed out in defiance. You’d robbed the sun of its strength. Because of your combat, the suffocating temperatures dropped to those reminiscent of a cool fall day. But, at what cost your victory?

Now you whisper between the strands of grass that survived. You find the spot you’re searching for beneath the skeletal pine tree. Gently, carefully, you blow away the twigs that’d been the nest, and then you see it. Downy feathers ruffle under the sigh of your breath. And then, one little eye blinks open. The bird shakes itself and stands to its feet. Stretching its wings, it lifts itself and you, with joy singing in your heart, provide the support it needs. You cup the fragile life in your hands and carry it to a high branch where its mother is only now awakening. As chick and parent greet each other by lightly touching beaks, you breeze away to seek out the deer and rabbit. Today you’ll caress their fur with gentle fingers. Today you’ll soothe away the fear of the storm during the night.

copyright 2007 L.M. Thomas

http://missmaesite.com

http://missmaesite.blogspot.com

My mom was born August 18, 1930, the eldest of five children. At three years old, her eighty-year-old father died. Her widowed, much younger mother remarried a kind man who my mom often spoke of with fondness. But when Mom was eleven years old, her mother died from complications of producing a child for this man. Though he tried hard to keep his brood of six together, times being what they were in this country, the man reluctantly made a difficult choice. Mom said he cried when the siblings were separated. They went to various relatives, Mom going to live with a harsh aunt and uncle. Each had their own stories to share of what they endured during those years.

So my mom never really knew her mother and she received no maternal affections from her aunt. But God gave Mom a gift. As natural as breathing, this woman knew how to love. She devoted her life to her husband, her children, her grandchildren with the depth of selfless sacrifice you only read about. Yet I, and my older brother and sister, lived each day sheltered in the security of her love. We always knew she supported us–even when we were wrong (not always the wisest thing, perhaps!). But her faithfulness and loyalty was a thing we never doubted. Whenever life dealt us a blow we felt too big to handle, we went to Mom. Like the reassurance of a concrete wall in a hurricane, she stood steadfast. Not once–ever–did she let us down.

We grew up, moved away, had our own families. But Mom was only a phone call away. And when she felt inclined to call one of her kids, as soon as she finished speaking, she’d call up the others. She shared equally, and generously.

For 46 years she and Dad were married. He died on March 11, 1996, right in the same bedroom of the old homestead where the two had spent their wedding night. Poor Mom had to watch the man she loved slip away, telling him, “I can’t live without you.” After his funeral, she worked to put her affairs in order. She bought more life insurance, went to the lawyer and drew up papers to leave that home in equal parts to her children. Then, on April 11, 1996, like she told my dad she couldn’t live without him, it came true. She passed away in her sleep in the same bedroom where she’d had to say good-bye to him.

Though setting aside one day in the year is a good tradition to nationally recognize and honor mothers, I have Mother’s Day at any given moment (and Father’s Day too, I’d like to add). My mom is always close. All I have to do is remember her smile or the touch of her rough, work-calloused hand and I can imagine myself again as a little girl when I’d crawl to her and Daddy’s bed after a nightmare. She’d throw aside the blanket and open her arms where I’d snuggle against her chest. Sighing, I’d fall back to sleep, knowing nothing would hurt me with Mommy there.

Her phone calls are silent now, but her love lives on with all the memories she gave me. Mommy is still near, tucked forever inside my heart.

To Him I humbly give thanks.

http://missmaesite.com

http://missmaesite.blogspot.com

An online friend made his own wittism about my new book, “Said the Spider to the Fly.” I wanted to share it with everyone…

“Come into my web, Mr. Fly.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yea, why…Give me one good reason why I should.”
“I spent all day spinning this web. I just want you to tell me if it’s, like, soft enough.”
“Soft enough?”
“Yes. I don’t want a web that’s abbrasive, or anything.”
“Well, I don’t wanna go into your web.”
“Why not?”
“My mother told me NOT to trust spiders.”
“Look at me. Do I look like I would do anything bad…”
“You’re a spider. I’m a fly. Somehow that is not good for me.”
“Oh, C’mon! That’s an old wive’s tale! I wouldn’t do anything bad…Like EAT you, or anything!”
“You wouldn’t? Wait a sec..Why not…I’m not GOOD enough for you?”
“It’s not that. See, I like plump bugs. You’re kinda thin.”
“Whataya mean, thin! Geez, I workout! I fly all OVER the place! I mean, I’m in GREAT shape!”
“Naw.Not interested. By the way, Mr. Fly…”
“What…”
“Where’s your mother…”
“Why?”
“She’s kinda plump, isn’t she?”
“Yea, she is. She could go on a diet..Wait a sec..You don’t mean…”
“Just asking.”
“I got a BETTER idea. I got this Mother-In-Law….”

Well, wouldn’t you know? Our out-of-work neighbors can, that’s who. Okay, maybe you like fireworks, and I agree they’re beautiful to watch as a display at fairs. But when the Fourth came and went and it was silent next door, I was sure fireworks was a luxury no one in our neck of the woods could afford. Then comes Friday night. And Friday night ends the Fourth, right? Isn’t the logical thought to welcome in the anniversary?

After the Fourth has ended, we hear these “squeeeeels” from across the fence. Yep, those pop-pop-pops ain’t popcorn gone crazy. It’s fireworks and bottle rockets.

And after I’d gone to bed. After my dog has gone to bed. After we’d gone to sleep.

The “celebration” has started.

I thought for sure Friday night would be safe. I lay there, blinking my sleep-heavy lids and wonder if the folks next door got their timing all messed up. Well, they have my sleep all messed up, that’s for sure.

The dog gets up, goes to the back door, watches all that weird light sparkling and crackling and hissing, tucks her tail between her legs and heads back to bed. Together, she and I lay there, waiting for the merriment of the Fifth of July party to wane.

Hmm. Maybe they’re wanting to start their own tradition.

http://missmaesite.com

http://missmaesite.blogspot.com