>A Grendel sighting! Glad to see ya.
>We need to run more Star Trek threads.
Like my namesake, I lurk at the borders. Nice to be remembered. I hope you are doing well, Corky.
>"Spectre of the Gun": This was just plain weird, even for die hard Trekkie's, the weakest of the Earth stories.
I loved the weirdness: the incomplete sets--the saloon missing a wall, things hanging in midair against a blood red sky, the way the Clantons had a rather blank affect as they walked to the OK corral. I loved the playing around with reality being an illusion of the mind.
>"Requiem for Methuselah": Awful, even with that nice Capek reference.
I disagree. This variation of Shakespeare's Tempest had some great moments.
This is one of my favorites
MCCOY: Physically human but not human. These are earlier versions of Rayna, Jim. She's an android.
FLINT: Created here by my hand. Here, the centuries of loneliness were to end.
SPOCK: Your collection of Leonardo da Vinci masterpieces, Mister Flint, they appear to have been recently painted on contemporary canvas with contemporary materials. And on your piano, a waltz by Johannes Brahms, an unknown work in manuscript, written in modern ink. Yet absolutely authentic, as are your paintings.
FLINT: I am Brahms.
SPOCK: And da Vinci?
SPOCK: How many other names shall we call you?
FLINT: Solomon, Alexander, Lazarus, Methuselah, Merlin, Abramson. A hundred other names you do not know.
SPOCK: You were born?
FLINT: In that region of earth later called Mesopotamia, in the year 3834 BC, as the millennia are reckoned. I was Akharin, a soldier, a bully and a fool. I fell in battle, pierced to the heart and did not die.
MCCOY: Instant tissue regeneration coupled with some perfect form of biological renewal. You learned that you were immortal and
FLINT: And to conceal it. To live some portion of a life, to pretend to age and then move on before my nature was suspected.
SPOCK: Your wealth and your intellect are the product of centuries of acquisition. You knew the greatest minds in history.
FLINT: Galileo, Socrates, Moses. I have married a hundred times, Captain. Selected, loved, cherished. Caressed a smoothness, inhaled a brief fragrance. Then age, death, the taste of dust. Do you understand?
SPOCK: You wanted a perfect, ultimate woman, as brilliant, as immortal as yourself. Your mate for all time.
But to each is own.