There's a million things I haven't done....

I’m pretty convinced that when it comes to Hamilton, the Broadway play, there are two types of people: Fans who are obsessed with the show, and people who haven’t listened to it yet.

I feel I should teach a Hamilton appreciation class - “Intro to the Ten Dollar Founding Father without a Father..” I am not a fan of rap, I’m ignorant of Hip-Hop — and yet I love this musical.

The first time I heard the first song, I had to pause it every few seconds, as I couldn’t believe its intricate lines. It was like seeing the first colour movie, after watching a lifetime of films in black and white. It wasn’t so much, “How did he write that?”, as much as, “How is it possible that something so perfectly written wasn’t written before?” As a wanna-be author, aspiring wordsmith, and not-yet-successful writer, I instantly understood Hamilton the man from that first song, from the verses that talked about his writing:

The Ten dollar, founding father without a father

got a lot farther by working a lot harder

by being a lot smarter by being a self-starter

by fourteen, they placed him in charge of a trading charter….

Inside he was longing for something to be a part of

the brother was ready to beg steal borrow or barter

Then a hurricane came and devastation rained

our man saw his future drip-dripping down the drain

put a pencil to his temple connected it to his brain

and he wrote his first refrain a testament to his pain

Well the word got around they said this kid is insane man

took up a collection just to send him to the mainland

Get your education don't forget from whence you came. And the world is gonna know your name.

What's ya name, man?

Say it with me… Alexander Hamilton… My name is Alexander Hamilton. And there's a million things I haven't done. But just you wait, just you, wait.

I was exhausted just listening to that opening. One minute twenty seconds, and you already know everything about the man’s drive, ambition, passion. In just 80 seconds, the storytelling on display, the sheer force of rhymes and brevity of language… these words will be sung a hundred years now, five hundred. They’re timeless. Why did they resonate with me?

A voice saying Alex, you gotta fend for yourself

He started retreatin' and readin' every treatise on the shelf

I wrote my first story when I was four, dictated to my grandmother on her blue typewriter. It was a diversionary tactic on her part: I would play with the typewriter keys, tapping on them like a piano until they all stuck together in a tangled mess. She, a former teacher, didn’t scold me or put it out of reach: she reasoned I was wanting to create something on the page. “Tell me a story, and I’ll type it,” she said. I dictacted a short story, of friends from school coming to my house for a playdate. Kurt Vonnegut it wasn’t.

But that magic trick of envisioning words, saying them aloud and having them transcribed and solidified onto paper, never left me. In grades five and six, I wrote stories in little notebooks my father brought home from work; in grade seven, I graduated to looseleaf paper in red duotangs; in grade nine, I used a computer. Story after story came; some finished, some not. I did not lack for ambition.

University came, and writing for fun was replaced by essays and research. Sometimes, schoolwork could still be fun: I enjoyed writing essays for Film Studies, and Psych. Didn’t often enjoy the essays in English Literature. After my University degree, I knew I wanted to make TV shows, so off I went to study TV Broadcasting in college. Scripts, outlines, news stories: writing was suddenly fun again. After college, I went from a reearcher on a two week assignment to the Associate Producer, Director, and Writer of a show for Discovery Channel. I finally saw the magic words, broadcast to 82,000 people on premiere night: Written by John Holt.

And now, where I am? Six blog entries in 5 years.

Why do you write like you're running out of time?

Write day and night like you're running out of time?

Every day you fight, like you're running out of time

- Non-Stop, Hamilton

To be fair, I am technically still writing at work: scripts, proposals. Videos I’ve written and voiced and produced have been retweeted by the Prime Minister, and seen by hundreds of thousands. I’m playing a role, if a minor one, in protecting people during a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic. But I gotta say, I miss those little notebooks and red duotangs, where it was just me and my imagination.

Why do you write like it's going out of style?

Write day and night like it's going out of style?

Every day you fight like it's going out of style

Hamilton, the man, was a prolific writer: He wrote 51 of the 85 essays of The Federalist Papers, which are still consulted today. But it’s the writer/composer/star of the musical, Lin Manuel Miranda, who makes me ask: what should I be doing, non-stop? He paints Hamilton not just a man who writes, but as a man who must write: he’s compelled to do it. It saves him from an earlier inglorious death; it will later drive him to his own self-destruction.

There would've been nothin' left to do

For someone less astute

He would've been dead and destitute

Without a cent of restitution

Started workin', clerkin' for his late mother's landlord

Tradin' sugar cane and rum and other things he can't afford

Scannin' for every book he can get his hands on

Plannin' for the future, see him now as he stands on

The bow of a ship headed for a new land…

I have a friend, a colleague off on sick leave, and they are writing a blog post every day. I admire that discipline, and I’m inspired by it.. With 4 kids, a busy job, and certain other impediments, I can’t commit to something as ambitous as that. But I can commit to doing better than before.

There is no perfect time to write. There’s only now.

- Barbara Kingsolver

Perseverance

“Eleven months ago a 1200 pound spacecraft blasted off from Cape Canaveral, Florida. Eighteen hours ago... it landed on the planet Mars. You, me, and 60,000 of your fellow students across the country along with astroscientists and engineers from the Jet Propulsion Lab in Southern California, NASA in Houston, and right here at the White House, are going to be the first to see what it sees, and to chronicle the extraordinary voyage of an unmanned ship called Galileo V.”

- Sam Seaborn, The West Wing (“Galileo”, Season 2, Episode 9)

NASA's Perseverance Rover landed on Mars just 24 hours ago, but you’d be hard pressed to notice it on the news. But it reminds me of the great Sam Seaborn quote above, which in turn reminds me of where I was in my life when that episode first aired. 

I started in government in the fall of 2000. I had a one-year contract (which seemed to be an eternally long time; I assumed I would be eager to leave by its end). I had a steep learning curve in transitioning to “Public Servant”. Turns out that my previous jobs -- TV writer and director and producer; database programmer; and freelance web designer -- didn’t adequately prepare me to work in a 10,000 person government department. I felt lost in a sea of acronyms, hidden rules, and Byzantine org charts. 

I’ll share the stories of my first few months there another time. But let’s just say, by the time Christmas rolled around, I was seriously looking for other options. I just didn’t understand how I was fitting into this huge puzzle around me. I was missing the challenge of being the associate producer of a TV show, making hundreds of decisions a week on our program, and writing and directing episodes that would be seen by tens of thousands of people. 

On this particular snowy day, our extended team was about to have our holiday party at a steak house in Gatineau. Head over for two o’clock, and enjoy a late lunch before heading home. I had volunteered to drive one of my colleagues to the restaurant. She, like me, was new to government; she, like me, enjoyed watching The West Wing, then in its second season. 

There was an excitement in the office as the crew started to file out. The first third of people headed over; then the next batch. I checked in on my boss, to make sure she was on her way over. 

She had her winter boots on, but she was slumped in her chair, staring at her Blackberry, looking defeated. The Deputy Minister had sent out a holiday message to the department, about an hour before; now, our Assistant Deputy Minister also wanted a holiday message to send to the 900 people in his Branch. My boss was realizing that she would miss the party with her staff, as she would have to write the message. “Tell everyone I wish I was there,” she said to me. 

My colleague appeared then, eager to hitch a ride to the restaurant. “(Manager) has to write a holiday message right now for the ADM,” I explained. My colleague nodded. “That’s too bad. Well, let’s go!” 

I looked at my watch. T minus 30 minutes to the party, which was 20 minutes away. “How long will it take us to write the message?” I asked my manager. She shrugged. I think under other circumstances, this wouldn’t be a daunting task for her, but coming as she was literally packing up her stuff to go, it was a disappointing buzzkill that seemed insurmountable. 

She sighed. “I’ll have to ask him what he wants in the message; then write the outline and have him approve it; then write the message, and have him approve that, then translate it...I’ll be here all afternoon.” 

Now, this was one instance where my ignorance at processes, approvals, and timelines was going to be helpful. I couldn’t believe she would miss the big holiday party over an email. I shrugged all that off. 

“I can have a draft for you in…. twelve minutes,” I told her. I was pretty sure I could have it ready in ten, but I had already turned off my computer. 

My manager laughed. “That’s not how things work, John.” She sighed again. “You guys go ahead; I’ll do this.” 

My mind was already racing, reaching for the words.  “ ‘As we reach the end of this long year, it’s a time to rest and relax with our family and friends,’ ” I intoned. “ ‘But it’s also a time to reflect on the many successes we’ve shared, and to take pride in our achievements.’ ” 

My manager’s eyes brightened. “That could work…” 

My feet started heading towards my cubicle, the next words of the message already forming themselves in my mind. “Let me give it a shot. Just let me give a try.” 

My colleague, who was expecting a drive from me, was less than impressed, “Who do you think you are, Sam Seaborn?” 

That made everything click for me. “Yes! Right now, I am Sam Seaborn!” 

At that time, every communications person I knew was at least a casual fan of The West Wing. Any show that could make heroes out of writers was a natural draw. And Rob Lowe’s Sam Seaborne was helplessly idealistic, a wordsmith without parallel, who could elevate the dreariest of messages with his soaring prose. 

The classic Sam scene I quote above had aired just a month earlier. In the episode “Galileo,” he politely rips to shreds the speech for the President prepared by a NASA PR guy. On the spur of the moment, Sam dictates a message that is stirring, historic, and Presidential - on his first take. The President approves, and the mundane script is cast aside. That day, it was time for me to channel my inner Sam, and try to do the same. 

At my desk, I called up the earlier holiday message from the Deputy Minister, to make sure this message would be different than theirs. I wrote the message, reading parts of it aloud as my colleague stood at my cubicle, offering suggestions. I tried to make a link between spending time with family and friends at the holidays, to the teamwork that’s present in successful projects. I finished it, and emailed it to my manager: 12 minutes exactly. 

“Maybe you are Sam Seaborne,” my colleague said, in what may have been the compliment highlight of my career. 

I ran down the hall to where my manager was already looking at the message. “This is good,” she said simply. “Sit down.” I sat; we edited the message together. I remember her highlighting a good two sentences of my text, and deleting it; I bit my tongue. But sure enough, what she replaced it with was even better than my words. In about eight minutes, we were done; a pretty strong product. We had our colleague read it over, and got a thumbs up. Twenty five minutes had passed since the first email requesting the message. 

My manager sent the message off to the ADM. “Let us know what you think, and if you approve, we’ll send you the French version,” she wrote. She started translating the message into French right away. 

“You guys should go to the party,” she directed. I had nothing to contribute to the French version, so off we went. With a shortcut or two, we got to the restaurant just as the first round of drinks was being served. 

Sam Seaborn: Aaron Sorkin’s speech for the stars.

It was fun playing Sam Seaborn for a moment. But just as good was that feeling of sitting next to my manager, someone who would end up providing lots of advice during my first years in government, and earning that “trusted colleague” status. She knew then that I had her back, and I could deliver on short deadlines; watching her edit and improve the message, I realized that she also had ‘the skills to pay the bills,” as another manager of mine would say in the future. If I was Sam (for a mere moment), then she was Toby Ziegler, or CJ Cregg: not just talented, but trustworthy, and trusting. It was one of the first moments, after three months on the job, that I didn’t feel completely lost; that maybe I could be a useful member of the team. Maybe I had something to offer. 

Our manager eventually arrived at the party, about 45 minutes later. I believe she bought me a drink. I remember it was a fun evening. 

And for the next ten years, I was almost inevitably late to staff holiday parties, due to some last-minute random web post to complete, or video to upload. But for that moment, laughing and joking with colleagues after delivering a solid win, I felt like celebrating. It wasn’t landing a probe on Mars, but it was a success. Sometimes, perseverance is all we need..

The Early Drive

There’s a voice that keeps on callin’ me… Down the road, that’s where I’ll always be…

(From the Archives – written before Covid, before the wife and kids.)

There’s something liberating in driving through a city just before dawn.

I’m reminded of that as I ease back onto Ottawa’s Queensway around 5:44 this morning, this final morning of the year. Dawn is almost an hour away; the city is slowly waking up, shaking off its lethargy like a giant creature rising from slumber. I’ve just dropped off my good friend Richard at the bus station; in 16 minutes, he’ll be headed home to Montreal. Richard travelled the highways for two hours to get here, then braved the city’s busses to reach Ottawa’s southern extremities, then walked for 40 minutes, to come for dinner; now, he’s returning home, less than 12 hours later. Quite a journey, for one meal.

Perhaps thoughts of Richard’s journey, as he crowds onto a Voyageur bus to head east to Montreal, are turning my mind to the romance of the road beneath me. I’ve travelled tens of thousands of miles on this continent, on its labyrinth of crisscrossed Interstates and TransCanada highways, and I am amazed this morning how the familiar lights and street signs of my home town have suddenly merged in my mind’s eye with the dozens of anonymous cities I’ve seen from behind the wheel. This pre-dawn quiet before the storm, as a city pauses on the edge of the chaos of a normal business day, is my favourite time to drive. On my many road trips, we would always try to hit the big cities at this time of day, to avoid the inevitable traffic jams that come with sun-up.

You can almost smell the city waking, almost hear the collective snooze alarms being hit in houses and apartment buildings. Of course, there are already cars on the road; fellow early risers speeding along the thoroughfares, their headlights the unblinking eyes staring at the city, daring it to come alive. There’s a sense of peace at this early hour, yet it’s a peaceful anticipation of the motion and energy about to erupt. It’s transitory, this early transit dance of people and their vehicles. Soon there will be a moment of critical mass, when this tranquil motion is replaced with traffic jams and blaring horns, of frustrated drivers and hurried glances at watches and dashboard clocks. At that moment, the sky disappears, the beauty of the city at sleep vanishes under the haze of haste and waste, and drivers focus on their race to their personal finish lines.

But this morning, that jarring moment is still blissfully distant. The city is still asleep, or at least dozing, and the buildings visible beyond the highway walls again remind me that this pause before the day launches is enjoyed right now in all the cities I’ve visited in North America. From Rochester, to Calgary, to Atlanta, to Toronto, they’re all still the playgrounds of the early risers, the folks who need for their own reasons to beat the crowd. In my imagination, this fictional collective of like-minded denizens of the pre-dawn world are somehow more alert, friendlier, and more inclined to be forgiving of traffic transgressions than their counterparts after 7 am will be. In my pleasant little fiction, we early risers are members of an exclusive pre-sunrise club. We are the ones who light the early cooking fires; we who milk the cows or heat the griddles or empty the trash cans, and we take pleasure in the shared victory of a sunrise. Call me delusional, or sleep deprived, but in John’s World of the Early Risers it’s easier to smile at a stranger, or nod at a jogger; easier to welcome the day without a double serving of cynicism and hurriedness.

I click on the cruise control as I reach 90 km/h; no need to rush home at top speed. There are three empty lanes to my left if people wish to speed by. I’m now passing Bronson Avenue, but this could be any highway in any city I’ve ever been in. The names and mental images of the streets and buildings around the Queensway disappear, erased in a second and an eyeblink. This is no longer the city I’ve lived in my entire life; this is now Genericville, a place on the road to someplace else.

I am now in Richmond, Virginia, or Santa Fe, New Mexico. This is Winnipeg or Edmonton or Chicago, this is Savannah or Regina or Seattle. This is Anytown, USA, this is Everyplace, Canada. I’m on a highway, passing through on my way to someplace else, with miles between me and where I’ll sleep tonight. I have no home, I have no idea where I’ll lay my head, and I am liberated.

I’m amazed at how quickly the unbidden illusion has come, shocked at how complete it is. My mind jumps to the old driving habits: I actually check my odometer, my gas gauge, the clock, and start to calculate if I would need to stop on the other side of this city for a gas and coffee break. You always stop on the other side of the city; never know what you’ll get into if you try the downtown or residential sections of an unknown place, and you want to make it back onto the glorious unbroken highway on the other side before the traffic traps you.

CBC Radio plays their morning song, featuring a local performer, at the one time of day they let the entire track play out without fading off to a news report. “Bring my bones to Alabama”, sings a gentleman, formerly of the Barstool Prophets, now releasing his first solo album, or so the host tells me. It’s a twang of country, a dose of nostalgia, and a perfect song to accompany the sound of asphalt beneath the wheels.

In an instant, I consider where I could go. I’m heading west, nominally back to my house, so Montreal and the Maritimes are out of the question. I have half a tank of gas, but my trunk is stocked with oil, windshield washer fluid, and maps. No clothes, no plans, no destinations: it would be illogical to travel on a day like this. Yet that’s part of what tempts me to do it, to stretch myself to some spot where I have not yet gone. The call of the open road is almost too much – it’s still only ten to six, I think, I could be in Windsor by end of the day, or in Sudbury – and my hands feel strong and awake on the wheel.

The music stops; the announcer begins his customary drone about the morning weather and traffic. My anonymous city reforms itself around me as Ottawa; just in time for me to make my exit. Another few minutes, I could very well have reached the 416 and still be travelling right now, headed for donuts and coffee in Kingston – but my wings are clipped by duty, by responsibility, by reality. The credit cards in my wallet need relief from Christmas gifts, not the pressure brought on by a sudden, impulsive, lonely trip. Though I may still flee to foreign destinations, it will not be today.

I cruise to a halt in my driveway. My tired eyes need a moment to focus in the darkness. I consider heading back to bed, or making a pot of coffee for myself.

My watch beeps the hour of 6 am as I enter my house. Richard’s bus is now pulling out of the bus station; in two hours, he’ll be home. I hope he enjoys the drive, for there’s something liberating in driving through a city just before dawn, something magical in the darkness, an infinite stream of possibilities that seems to disappear with the light of day.

Swapping Spit with the Next Governor General

My wife heard the news on the car radio last night, and texted me once she arrived at the soccer game: “Why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend is the next Governor General?”

Ah yes, my dear Julie. I swapped spit in the Florida sun with the woman about to become the 29th viceregal representative, back when I was a young TV director and producer.  Ms Payette was a regular character in my life for about a year, even though we met only a handful of times. 

I was working on a space science show for the Discovery Channel, called “LifeSpace”. Ambitiously, we interviewed more than 30 astronauts, from the US, Canada, Europe, and Russia, having them respond to questions about our current technological exploration of space, and what was to come. Even amongst such a distinguished, experienced crowd, Julie always stood out.

An astronaut's biography reads like a thesaurus entry for "over-achiever" at the best of times, but Ms Payette's even more so. Engineer. Pilot. Computer Scientist. It's hard not be impressed by lines like this in her CSA bio: "When she realized that speaking Russian would be beneficial to her career in engineering, she learned to speak Russian." Sheez. I was proud of assembling Ikea furniture by myself. 

When we first interviewed her, she had finished her astronaut training but had yet to fly her first mission. Still, her enthusiasm blew us away: zero cynicism, complete commitment, and an excitement about exploring the cosmos unmatched by any 12 year old kid. In the battle to find usable interview clips for our 13 half-hour episodes, we used almost every second of her on-camera time. The other 3 associate producers on the show always wanted Julie Payette  clips, as they gave our episodes an adrenaline boost. We sometimes bartered back and forth - trade you that Payette soundbyte for that Marc Garneau and a Chris Hadfield? It became an office joke: Julie was my space girlfriend. My colleague Adrienne claimed an Italian astronaut as hers. My actual girlfriend, also an amazing and gifted and talented treasure, mostly appreciated the joke.

We sent our crews to Houston, Los Angeles, and throughout Europe. I directed segments in Las Vegas, Montreal, Toronto. But the big story in 1998 was astronaut hero and US Senator John Glenn returning to space on the shuttle Discovery. I’m sent to Florida, in the middle of rocket mania, to cover it.

Cape Canaveral is mad about space shuttles at the best of times. Before a shuttle launch, it’s insane. I’m one of more than 4,000 accredited media for the event; we’re told that’s a record for NASA, and possibly a record for most press at a single event, ever. More people are expected to watch this launch than any other, including the Apollo missions, which launched from the same towers. There’s a palatable excitement everywhere: This is the Fourth of July, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Babe Ruth coming out of retirement, all in one.  Everyone knows we’re witnessing a historic event.

NASA's Vehicle Assembly Building, one of the largest buildings in the world. 

Into all this anticipation, NASA PR is trying to keep the press happy. They deploy every astronaut they can find to wander the fields next to the big countdown clock, making themselves available to media. They’re wearing their blue jumpsuits, which can’t be comfortable in the October heat. Having arrived early enough to secure an awesome spot next to the water, directly facing the space shuttle, I’m bringing people to our location to interview them. Perfect Florida sky above, the iconic Vehicle Assembly Building on our left, the bay waters on our right, and space shuttles on the pads in front of us: it’s a great shot. But it’s a good hike from the bleachers and satellite trucks where most of the print reporters and ‘live TV’ folks are hanging out, who are getting first dibs on the astronauts.

I wait patiently as Marc Garneau finishes up with a reporter, from. . . let’s just say a major US paper, who is asking him simple background Q’s that are well-covered in our press kits. They’re basic, elemental questions, but Garneau is unfailingly polite and patient. As they finish up, the reporter notices the Maple Leaf flag on his uniform. “Maybe someday you Canadians will make it into space, right?” the reporter said, condescendingly.

“Actually, we’ve had Canadians flying and playing integral roles in the space program since 1984,” Garneau informs him, with more self-control than I can imagine. If I were him, I would’ve politely noted that I was then a two-time space veteran. Hell, I wasn’t him, and I still wanted to yell it at the reporter.

Captain Garneau is just one of the folks nice enough to agree to appear on-camera for us, making the long trek from the bleachers to our waterfront camera. But the one interview I’m hoping for is with the magnificent Julie Payette. Since our location is locked down, I’m essentially negotiating with astronauts and other experts to come down to answer my questions on camera. Thankfully, “The Discovery Channel” has enough cachet for people to join me.

I approach Julie and ask her for the interview. She smiles but says that she has 3 other interviews already lined up: she’s a popular catch that morning. We arrange to check in with each other a few hours later.

The big TV morning shows are broadcasting live. Since this is a closed environment, press only, there are no handlers around separating me from the national anchors, broadcasting to millions. One throws to a commercial break by noting that President Clinton will be there, “only the second time a US President will watch a live rocket launch”. During the commercial break, the anchor asks out loud who was the first president; when her staff doesn’t have the answer, I call out to her, “Nixon. Apollo 12.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Apollo 12? That’s not even a famous one!” I don’t bother pointing out that Apollo 13 only became famous, y’know, after launching. They come back from commercial, and she informs the world of my Nixon Apollo 12 factoid. Oh, the time before cell phone internet fact checking.

The morning disappears. The weather reports a 100% “Go” for launch conditions. It’s hot, and getting hotter. Finally, I meet the incomparable Julie Payette again. We head out for the long walk towards my camera & crew.

Those blue NASA flight suits are made for the atmosphere-controlled environments of a shuttle, or a Mission Control room, not for the Florida sun. It’s obvious Julie is hot. I have a large bottle of water with me; she does not. (I usually make sure my guests are well looked-after, but it’s not like NASA security would let me bring gallons of water through their checkpoints.)

“I have this water bottle,” I tell her. “I’ve already opened it. I’ve already drank from it. If you’d like some, you’re welcome to have it.”

“Non, I couldn’t,” she said, unconvincingly. I held out the water bottle to her; she grabbed it, and took a small swig, and handed it back. I told her to finish it; she downed half of it in what seemed like seconds. “Merci,” she said, suddenly revitalized.

I wondered how I’d spin this tale back at the office. “Julie and I went for a drink.” “We shared refreshments over a long walk by the beach.” Maybe I saved her life with the water? Too much?

We do our quick interview. In what was not my most professional moment, I asked her if we could have a photo together; the resulting snapshot, of the future astronaut and me in front of the Florida waters, sat on my desk for years afterwards. (No, I don’t have it handy now, but I’ll dig it up.)

So that was my moment in the sun, literally, with the future GG. She would go on to a distinguished career, including two space flights, so obviously my spit from that water bottle didn’t contaminate her.

She will be a tremendous advocate for Canada in Rideau Hall, and I look forward to seeing where her passionate enthusiasm will bring her.

Star Trek at 50

50 years ago today, Star Trek hit the airwaves for the very first time. There’s a galaxy of articles dissecting its impact on culture, on technology, on exploration; thousands of lists of best episodes, memorable moments, and defining characters. That’s all good.

But for a mass-market franchise that continues to earn huge profits, Star Trek was (and remains) a highly personal enterprise for many. (See what I did there? Of course you did.) Over five decades, Star Trek has moved from fame and praise, to obscurity and scorn, and back again. I wouldn’t presume to debate all those who are looking at it from wide perspectives.

So instead, this is a list of how the show has impacted me, how it has intersected and affected my life for most of my time on Earth. These aren’t the top 50 moments from episodes or movies - these are 50 different memories I've had, of a show that’s much more than a show. Like a good cup of tranya, I hope you relish it as much as I.

1.    Sunday mornings in Canada, in the 1970’s. With only three channels, Canadian TV options were limited to religious broadcasts, political shows, or Star Trek. CBC showed the original series every Sunday at 10 AM. We’d rush from 9 AM church to my grandparents’ apartment, say a perfunctory hello, then settle in to watch Star Trek. At age four, I’d cry if I missed the opening credits, since the most important thing for me was seeing the Enterprise fly across the screen. At that age, the best episodes were the ones with a lot of exterior shots of the ship; I didn’t care much for the other parts. But soon, I’d grow to love Kirk and Spock as much as I did the ship.

2.    Grade Two. I bring a Star Trek photonovel to school, and I’m mocked for liking “that stupid show”. I’m told it’s silly, ridiculous, and childish. That’s enough fodder to tease me mercilessly for the remainder of the year. Now we know: trolls predated the internet by at least 20 years. 

3.    “Rainy Day Schedule” at school kicks in when it’s too miserable to go outside. Recess means we head to the gym, and sometimes watch a movie. Sound is always bad, the projector often breaks, and the school only has 3 short movies to choose from. We know most of them by heart. But one day, we get a Star Trek episode instead. A teacher knows someone at the local CBC station, and snagged the reel before that weekend’s airing of the show. (We’re talking 16 mm prints here – real old school.) Unfortunately, the episode is “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield”, which is not a crowd pleaser. They actually turned it off after 20 minutes as no one but me was listening. A great moment to spread the gospel of Trek, but ruined by a dud.

4.    Hunting for Star Trek books at the used book store. On Saturday mornings (and on my way to school at lunch time, if I could spare the time) I’d hunt for Trek books, from novels to comics to photonovels. Eventually I had almost all of the novels ever published. Forget hunting Pokemon; finding long-lost Trek books was a huge natural high.

5.    One of those books was “The Making of Star Trek,” by Stephen E Whitfield. At first I was disappointed it wasn’t a ‘story’ book. I realized a year afterwards what a treasure it was. As the jacket said, it was “The Book On How to Write for TV! The only book of its kind! The complete history of a top TV series - how a television show is conceived, written, sold and produced.” I was enthralled. At 9 years old, I hadn’t considered that TV shows were things people actually wrote, and directed, and designed. From that moment on, my ‘dream job’ was to write a TV show.

6.    It might not be fair to say that Star Trek got me reading as a child, but it didn’t hurt. I was reading Star Trek novels (and other books) by age eight. Reading Trek brought me to other great science fiction authors: Arthur C Clarke, Heinlein, and especially Asimov. Reading all the time gave me a leg up at school; reading helped me to write; writing would later help me land decent jobs.

 7.    Grade Two; seven years old. (Remember, this is the 1970’s – there are no movies, no Next Generation, no Enterprises hanging in movie theatres. Fandom is a lonely exercise.) Halloween. I decide to be Spock, and make a homemade costume. (There’s also no merchandising around to buy.) I cut out the Enterprise insignia, tape it to a blue pyjamas shirt, and make paper cones for my ears. I use an old camera from my father as a tricorder. On our two block excursion, exactly one person properly identified me. She excited called to her husband from the door, “Look, dear! It’s Mister Spock! Come see!” From inside the house, a voice responded, “I’m busy. Does he look good?” The woman looked me up and down. “He’s… well, he has the right coloured shirt.” From inside – “Pass!” She gives me an extra candy and ushers me away.

 8.    As a kid, imaginary Star Trek play always seems close at hand. A bike becomes a shuttlecraft; the garage where it’s kept is a hangar deck. Beaming down to a planet consists of standing still, humming, and rubbing your chest rapidly, as if the transporter effect is consuming you. And usually, it’s your job to fight the bad guys – which works well if you’re playing Star Wars, but is kinda missing the point of most Star Trek episodes. That’s okay, you’ll grow into it.

9.    For a kid, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not. Do we have ships like the Enterprise? No. Have we gone to space? Sure. The Moon? Yes. Other planets? Not yet. Skylab is in the news, we see reports of building the space shuttle program, so I assume that rocket ships and travelling to space have been around forever. I’m shocked to learn from my dad that the first people who walked on the moon did so only 2 and a half years before I was born. This is mind-blowing to me, and sets me off on a lifelong interest in real space travel and technology.

10.  8 years old, finding out that Star Trek is coming back as a movie when my father shows me the ad in the newspaper. To say I was excited to see “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” would be an understatement. I remember loving the Klingon ships (but being confused why the Klingons looked so different); liking the Enterprise flyby sequence (but wondering why the ship looked so different); and enjoying hearing Dr. McCoy (but wondering why his beard made him look so different). When the Enterprise when to warp and disappeared from the screen, the silence in the theater was broken by my little brother Jeff, who asked loudly: "Why did the ship blow up?"

11.  Seeing The Animated Series for the first time. My brother called me up from the basement, to see “Star Trek… as a cartoon!” I didn’t believe him. On two different occasions, he claimed to see an animated version of the Enterprise, but I thought he was very wrong or very much pulling my leg. I eventually saw the last few minutes of an episode, but even then I didn’t believe it was true Star Trek. Only when I saw an episode from the beginning did I believe it… and to be fair, it still seems like a bit of a joke.

12.  At ten years old, my father brought me to my first “convention.” It was really just a show-and-tell in a hotel lobby, by a science fiction club. The Trek component was just a few tables of books and models. I did see a book I didn’t have, and asked the lady behind the table how much it was. She looked at me as if I had spat on her – “These aren’t for sale!” she proclaimed. “This is my collection!” “Then… why bother?” I almost asked.

13.  The Day the Enterprise flew over my house. In June 1983, having retired as a test orbiter, NASA’s Space Shuttle Enterprise went on a world tour, bolted to the back of a modified 747. My dad took us to see it at the airport, but it did a flyby over the city before it landed. I have a picture of it, taken from my front porch, flying over the neighborhood, so low you could read its name on the hull. The noise brought everyone on the street out to see it. It was magnificent.

14.  Our first computer is a Commodore VIC-20. Captain Kirk himself appears in the magazine ads. There’s no Star Trek game (that would wait until the Commodore 64), so I make one myself. It’s my science fair project for the year. It takes 20 minutes to load up, copying data from an audio tape (yes – this predates even disc drives). It’s not a great game – the whole computer has 3.5 K of RAM, let’s not forget – but it gives me a passion for programming. I win a few science fairs if only because the judges don’t really understand what I’m doing.

15.  A local TV station in Kingston, CKWS, hosts a Star Trek marathon in honour of the show’s 20th anniversary, in September 1986. I record the episodes, thinking this is a good way to build up a video library – but the reception is so bad that most of them are unwatchably snowy.
 

16.  I entered a contest for an advanced screening of “Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home”, and won. I remember my father driving me to the newspaper building on Baxter Road to claim my ticket. It was a glossy cardboard invitation, with the movie’s logo in shiny blue ink. I felt like a celebrity going to see the show – and what a show it was. People in costumes, people with makeup, all together to see the film a good week before everyone else. And what a film – in that age of pre-Internet, no spoilers, I had no idea what would happen. What a pleasant surprise to have a film so funny, so well written, and so respectful of the characters – as everyone around me at school would testify, I sang the praises of this film for a long, long time. For most of my teenage years, this was my favourite film of all time.

17.  December 1986. Riding high from The Voyage Home, William Shatner hosts SNL and bags the highest ratings of the season. He performs the controversial but instantly classic “Get a Life!” sketch. “You people turned something I did as a lark for a few years,” he tells a convention, “into a colossal waste of time! It’s just a TV show, people!” Dana Carvey, as a fan in uniform whose faith is being shattered, asks, “Are you saying we should concentrate more on the movies?” No, that’s not what he’s saying at all. It’s hilarious, but shocking in its honesty. 

18.  Summer 1987. A press conference announces that Star Trek is returning to the airwaves, in the form of “Star Trek: The Next Generation”. This makes the summer an exquisite wait until the show airs. As it’s syndicated, it comes to us a month later than anywhere else – November. I tape the premiere episode “Encounter at Farpoint” and watch it about 15 times the first week. Even the “cool kids” in high school give it high marks. Consensus is that the best character is Tasha Yar – the one person who wouldn’t last the first season.

19.  Christmas 1987. We’ve had a wonderful Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my grandparents and extended family, in their small town 45 minutes away. I’m fully satisfied with my Christmas loot. But before my brother and I trudge off to bed, we get “the big gifts” from my folks, which I wasn’t expecting in the slightest. I’m falling asleep as my father heads to the outdoor storage area to get the bounty; thinking its additional stocking stuffers, I’m tempted to tell him to wait until morning. He comes back with a boxful of gifts, almost frozen from the cold. I rip open a long rectangular box – it’s a Casio electronic keyboard, exactly what I wanted, more than I ever expected. The next gift looks the size of a book – but it’s a VHS copy of “The Voyage Home”. Remember, this is before movies were sold for home use; the only way to see a movie was to rent it. Home use videos could cost upwards of $100. My father had spoken with the owner of a video store, and bought the VHS from him. This was a “movie quality” version, not the crappy versions we’d tape off of TV.  As soon as the tape warmed up to room temperature we played it, intending to just see a few minutes, but we end up watching the whole movie. I must have watched it 15 times over the next week, and each viewing seemed better than the last. Best of all, the end credits were in ‘widescreen’ format, so the last glorious shot of the Enterprise going to warp was letterboxed, something normally reserved for Laser Disc films. And, being in stereo, it sounded amazing when I hooked up the VHS player to my audio system. Ahh… glorious!

20.  I’m taping episodes of The Next Generation as they air. Inevitably I watch each one at least one more time, then I’ll share the better episodes with friends when we get together. I had a handful of people who would watch the shows with me. As good as the shows are on their own, they’re even more fun to share.

21.  George Takei comes to town for a convention. It’s a fun time, and I’m waiting patiently in line for an autograph with the original Mr. Sulu. Pictures are forbidden, in an effort to keep the line moving. (Nowadays, they just charge you for the picture instead.) I hear him mention how thirsty he is, just before he signs my picture. I then sprint to the hotel cafeteria to buy him a drink. Knowing he’s a healthy guy, I get him an orange juice instead of a soft drink. The $4 price tag nearly bankrupts me, but I brought it back to him. He’s very grateful, and offers this time to pose for a picture. “Oh, and John… thanks for the drink”, he says, in that unmistakable voice. Best 4 bucks I had ever spent.

22.  Fall 1988. A friend’s grandfather is a war vet, and his squadron is having a memorial dedicated to their memory. Amongst his brethren is Captain James Montgomery Doohan, a fighter pilot whose finger was cut off by shrapnel on D Day. I’m invited down for the ceremony. Sure enough, walking alongside my friend’s grandfather is a familiar figure, dressed in a dark blue suit. It’s Scotty, right in front of me. I walk with him back to his hotel, amazed to realize that I’m taller than he is. I’m also surprised (though I shouldn’t be) to hear him speak without an accent. I’m calm, cool, and don’t go batty in my 15 minutes with him – until my knees go weak back in the car. I walked with Scotty, dammit!

23.  On a high after meeting Mr. Doohan, I felt unstoppable. Invincible. I wanted to take that energy and do something useful. I decided to write a letter to the editor. It was my first published writing credit, printed in the Ottawa Citizen. (This was when “publishing” meant “print”, and the national capital’s newspaper seemed a stretch goal for a 16 year old.) My letter was short, but I knew as I typed it that it would get published: 

“Fact: On October 22nd, actor James Doohan was in Ottawa. Mr. Doohan is best known for playing Star Trek’s Scotty, the engineer often called “the miracle worker”.

Fact: on the same day, the Ottawa Rough Riders earned their second win of the season over Calgary, a win many people called “a miracle”. I do not suggest any connection between these events; I let the facts speak for themselves.”

Damn, it felt good to see my name in print.

24.  Reading a good Star Trek novel. Classics like “Spock’s World” or “Prime Directive”, “The Entropy Effect”, and “Crisis on Centaurus” – life was good if I could get in an hour or two of reading on a Saturday morning.

25.  June 1990. The third season finale of “The Next Generation” airs, the cliffhanger “Best of Both Worlds”. Watching it as I’m prepping for my prom, I’m blown away. That was a long summer, waiting to see what’ll happen. I’m surprised the tape of that first episode didn’t wear out, I watched it so much.

26.  I get a disc of Star Trek fonts for my computer. For the next ten years, any signs or posters I make inevitably have a Trek visual influence. At the restaurant where I work, I see how blatant I can get away with adding Trek fonts to the signs and price lists I make.

27.  Summer 1992. I’m gearing up to go to military college; I’ll be away from home for 4 years. That’ll mean an enforced break from Trek. I watch The Next Generation cliffhanger for the year, “Time’s Arrow”, knowing that I won’t be around to see the conclusion. (That sounds fatalistic – let’s say “I won’t see the conclusion until my next visit home, likely at Thanksgiving.”) The thought of missing the premiere adds to the sadness of my upcoming departure. (That was a journey that ended differently, and my military career didn’t happen.)

28.  October 24, 1991. My grandfather had passed away a month earlier. My father came into my room from watching the news. “Gene Roddenberry died,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He delivers the news as gently as if I’ve lost another member of my family.

29.  By the time Deep Space Nine airs in 1993, novels are coming out twice a month. It’s a hard decision, but I don’t have the finances or the shelf space (or the time) to continue buying everything that comes out. Reluctantly, I give up the title of “owning every Star Trek novel, ever.” Life somehow goes on.

30.  The World Wide Web is just over 20 years old, but the Internet is much older than that. I used to frequent Usegroups – chatrooms  – to talk with fans, read and write reviews, and trade Star Trek pictures. It would take hours to download a photo over dial-up. It would help overcome any fear of technology, and gave me a leg up on future job options.

31.  I had been writing down episode titles for The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine since they premiered. When Star Trek: Voyager premiered, I realized that my poor little  brain could no longer instantly recognize more than 400 episodes by their titles alone, so I started to write down synopses and commentaries of the episodes. The weekly writing exercises were useful practice.

32.  1995. I’ve decided to take the plunge. In a move that felt inevitable from the moment I first read “The Making of Star Trek”, I register for a two-year college program in TV Broadcasting. During that time I’ll meet people who share my love of Trek, and others who will tolerate it; someone who would imitate little Balok’s laugh in stressful situations; someone who’ll take a TNG phrase literally, and a future colleague who’ll work with me on a show that’s as close as I’ll come to working on Trek without actually working on Trek.  

33.  After college, I drive to California for a month-long trip. I try to squeeze in as many Trek-related stops as I can, but I miss the Vasquez Rocks, the Monterey aquarium where George and Gracie played, and the street where Kirk almost got clobbered by a cab. I do get to see the Enterprise-D bridge at an LA TV museum – but somehow, it’s not as impressive as the Cheers bar.

34.  My first big job in TV is… working on a show about jazz. But that led directly to “LifeSpace”, a show about life in space. It would air on the Discovery Channel, in Canada and the US and another 20 countries. So not only was I working in TV – a dream that came directly from reading that “Making of Star Trek” book – but I was working on a show about space travel and exploration, which I had been reading about all my life, also due to Star Trek. And our first show idea:  looking at the company launching human remains into space, including those of Star Trek’s creator, Gene Roddenberry. Circles within circles within circles.

35.  The day Majel Barrett Roddenberry called me. We were setting up an interview with her in L.A., for our Discovery Channel show, and she had to rearrange the details as she had to pick up her son at the airport. I worked with her to find a new time for the interview, all the while thinking, “I’m talking to the voice of the Enterprise computer! This is Nurse Christine Freakin’ Chapel, this is Lwaxana Troi!” No, I did not freak out…. but neither did I rush the phone call, either. (And she was lovely to our crew.)

36.  As a producer and director for the show, I did a segment on a university research project working on a prototype holodeck, and other Trek-inspired segmenets. I ended up directing a shoot in Las Vegas, for the opening of a space museum. I booked us into “Star Trek: The Experience”, which was a live show where you’re beamed up to the Enterprise and go on a simulator ride. That was… unique. I ended up interviewing a Ferengi and a Klingon, drunk. But that’s another story.  

37.  Watching John Glenn ride into space on the Space Shuttle Discovery. I was one of about 2,500 media people with accreditation for the launch of STS-95. While that’s not strictly a Star Trek memory, it was the first time I watched a machine carry 7 humans out into space. If this is what the future is about, then sign me up.

38.  Watching Galaxy Quest (1999). It’s the first (and only) time my friends head to the theatre without a firm idea of what movie to watch. I nudge towards Galaxy Quest; some of my friends are hesitant, as it’s a Tim Allen movie. But I persist, we watch it, and love it. A great comedy, a decent sci-fi adventure, and a loving homage to Star Trek. It somehow introduced its own mythology, then pilloried it (“By Grabthar’s Hammer!”), then  rebuilt it, all within 102 minutes of run time. Rarely have I laughed out loud so much at a film.

39.  The Star Trek shows in the 80’s and 90’s had an ‘open script submission’ process – you didn’t need an agent to submit a script, as long as you followed certain guidelines. Despite a few false starts, I never submitted anything to TNG or Deep Space Nine. Not wanting to let the opportunity go to waste, I did write a script for “Star Trek: Voyager”, and sent it in. By this time, I had been writing scripts for Discovery Channel, and other things, but this was still a stretch for me. It was a great exercise to go through the process. While it was rejected, it was nice to get the official “no thanks” letter from Paramount. I think it was a decent story, but it got bogged down in the last act; I did note, however, that some of the characters I brought back, and some of the lines I used, were “echoed” in episodes later that season. I’m not saying they stole my stuff, I’m just saying that I think I was on the same track they were.

40.  The Star Trek heyday of 1999. Deep Space Nine is at its finest, Voyager is on, and while Star Trek: Insurrection wasn’t great, it’s obvious that there’ll be another big-screen adventure with Picard’s crew. I continue to tape the episodes on VHS, and, with my new roommate, we watch the show on Saturday mornings over breakfast, as reliably as I once watched TOS on Sundays on CBC. Semi-binge watching is great – 2 or 3 episodes at a time gives a better sense of appreciation for the storytelling. We work our way through DS9, Voyager, and later, Enterprise.

41.  My Bachelor Party. The gang shows up at my house on Friday afternoon, and toss me a uniform tunic. I’m to wear it all weekend long (yes, out to bars and everywhere else). We end up in a comedy club, where obviously I’m the center of attention. “Your financee must have told them to put that on you,” one comedian says, “’cause even if it’s a bachelor party, there’s no way you’re getting laid in a Star Trek uniform.”

42.  Going to watch the new Star Trek movie in 2009.  It’s been 7 years since the last ST movie, no TV shows for 4 years, and now hotshot director JJ Abrams is taking a crack at it. For the first time in 43 years, we’ll have new actors playing Kirk and Spock. It’s like seeing your first girlfriend with a new guy – a rush of emotions, not all positive. I think, this’ll be it – say goodbye to the franchise that’s been part of my life for so long. I’m optimistic yet resigned as the lights dim. The movie starts, with what feels like 5 minutes of studio logos, and the first sound we here is the classic bridge sonar ping. It’s familiar, inviting, and puts me instantly at ease. It’s like coming home and smelling your favourite pie. The movie does the impossible, by respecting the old but ushering in the new. I'm smiling through the whole experience.  

43.  Star Trek was never afraid to tackle big questions. Life and death questions. When facing a death in my own family, this comforted me. And even now, six years later, I think of Kirk describing Spock’s death “as an open wound”, and I understand him. And it’s still open enough that I’ll leave that one as it is.

44.  It’s amazing who turns out to be Star Trek fans. I’ve had the opportunity to make jokes about Trek with more than one Canadian and US astronaut.

45.  Winter 2011. It’s announced that the Genie Awards – given to Canadian films, so like the Oscars without the glamour or the gift bags – will be held in my city, and William Shatner will host. I instantly decide to crash the party. I devise elaborate plans to get a media pass, but at the last minute, I call the Academy to see if I’m eligible for membership. Thanks to my documentary work, I qualify. I bring my wife for an evening of hobnobbing with the stars, and try desperately not to stare open mouthed at the Shat in the room. And thanks to my wife, I end up in a wonderful 10 minute conversation with Bruce Greenwood, who played Captain Pike in two of the new Star Trek movies (he’s a charming, generous guy).

46.  I buy a new Star Trek book, and it’s not even for me. “The Star Trek Book of Opposites” replaces the Sesame Street version of the same thing. Here it’s “near / far”, “happy / angry”, with pictures from the Original Series. My kids love it. They learn “old / young” at same time as learning the difference between Balok and a Mugato.

47.  47. Watching the shows, and knowing of the preponderance of mentions of “47”, I delightfully point out every 47 reference that comes up, both in on-screen Trek but also ‘in real life’. My roommate asks me to stop – guess how many times?

48.  Saturday, 23 November, 2013. Doctor Who airs an episode, world-wide, simultaneously, to mark its 50th anniversary. It is a tour-de-force, amazing hour that honours its past and sets up future stories. I ask myself – will Trek be able to do something comparable for its 50th?  I’ll give points to “Star Trek: Beyond” writers to trying.

49.  “Star Trek: The Starfleet Academy Experience” will premiere in my home town. And William Shatner will be at the opening night gala. I debate if I want to attend; what seals the deal is hearing talk about Shatner, “the 85-year old actor”. I realize he won’t be around for another 50 years. I go, he’s charming, drinks are fantastic, John de Lancie is huge and funny. René Auberjonois I speak with for a few minutes, not about his role as Odo, but his other shows, Boston Legal and Benson. A great night, and I’m sure my picture with Shatner will hang in my room in the old age home.

 50.  It’s 50 years to the day that a TV show airs for the first time. Millions watch a fairly forgettable episode, only it’s not forgotten. Far from it. “It’s just a TV show!” someone will someday yell, and he’ll be so very, very wrong. 

Back to Life

OUR PHONE hasn't worked for several days. Actually, it's been months since it started carrying more static than voices, but then it dropped out completely on Thursday night. And worse of all: No Internet. I suppose having the water cut off would have been worse, but it's a close call. 

The phone line to the house was replaced yesterday. So we're back on-line, and once again getting phone calls where the phone rings properly. For two months, we had the ultimate in call screening: if the houseline gave its abbreviate ring, we didn't rush to the phone, since we knew the line would conk out in a second. And if the person didn't call us back on my cell phone... well, obviously we didn't want to talk with them in the first place, did we? 

Surprisingly, not being able to post on this website hurt more than I anticipated. I have videos to post, things to write, errors to fix, templates to improve.... not having internet really puts a damper on your online life, y'know? Even though this site has been up for less than a week, posting here seems so familiar, so much of my everyday routine, that being denied that process for a few days was painful. 

Just bought an iPhone app today called "Streaks".  It's supposed to work on the same "Don't Break the Chain" method that Seinfeld famously used. Essentially, it helps build momentum in whatever pursuits you're striving for: anyone can slack off for a night, or two, or three, but when you have an unbroken chain of successes behind you, you're motivated to continue your streak. 

Seinfeld used a large wall calendar to mark off the days that he wrote new material. Now he'd probably use an app on his Apple Watch. Speaking of which, I'd love to hear what new materials he'd come up with about an Apple Watch. That would be something to mark on your calendar.