J.J. Abrams, you sneaky son-of-a-bitch. I went and saw your first Star Trek and thoroughly enjoyed it, but at that point it was still just a stand-alone film. Ah, but you knew better, didn’t you. You were fully aware that you had planted the seed for me to go into the second one with my guard down, like I did this past weekend. I was just expecting another fun movie. I didn’t even realize it while it was happening, or even right after. It wasn’t until the next day that I found myself daydreaming about the intricacies of Starfleet that I realized you may have Trojan-horsed me into being an actual Star Trek fan.

Really, it’s alarming it didn’t happen sooner, being friends with Floyd. He’s been trying to get me into this stuff for years: TNG, DS9, the acronyms go on. I never seemed to have the drive to watch them, though. As with many things, in order to really get into it, sometimes I guess you just have to find it on your own. Along came Abrams, preaching the good word of new Trek, getting me in at the ground floor, making me feel like I was finding it shiny and new. I think he also happened to catch me at a good time. For someone who has had his occupation for the last two years be science, it was extremely gratifying to see scientists and engineers bad-ass-ified (shut up, it’s an industry term) in the course of their journeys in space. I have just enough of the taste in my mouth now that, like a rottweiler, I’m having a hard time unlocking my jaw. I may even start watching one of the series.

I mean, if it’s not totally lame or whatever.

It has been said that good artists copy, and great artists steal. Actually, I said that. The caveat of that saying that is missing is that the greats steal with a certain subtlety, a wink and a nod without blatantly transplanting something you’ve already heard. In a culture where we have so much derivative media, we are not doing as well on this front. Remember that horrid Robin Hood film with Russel Crowe? That was originally intended to be a film from the perspective of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Doesn’t that just utterly consume you with curiosity? That’s a set-up I want to root around in and find all the nooks and crannies. But ultimately they couldn’t write it. I reckon that’s because that idea would require acute nuance and interweaving with the minutiae of something we know intimately, and that is really damn hard.

It is easy to see, then, why there is an allure to just take wholesale and hope that the other guy hasn’t read/watched/heard the same stuff. In D&D that allure is monolithic. A friend of ours, who shall remain nameless, has been known to be particularly guilty. Let’s just say that when I started reading Cormac McCarthy, the manifold depth of his betrayal became starkly apparent. In the end, that’s the trade-off: nicking a cool little detail is easy to pass, but when you take big ideas, and the jig is up, you’ve just torpedoed multiple experiences for the other person. Now, not only have they been deceived, but they’ve simultaneously been given spoilers for a whole other work.

By the way though, statute of limitations on the spoiler that Three Men and a Baby features three men and also a baby is…well, it’s past its prime.

Our good buddy tied the knot this past weekend. Floyd and I trekked out to take part, he as the best man, I as the officiant. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t some powerful goings-on. I have a very strong belief in meaningful ritual. I believe that we are capable of making, not just signifying, change with our practices. That feeling was augmented, of course, since we were both personally invested. I hate to out our boy Floyd, but it was a tight race between him and the bride for most tears shed over the course of the day. I can’t blame him. The now-husband-and-wife were so unflinchingly genuine, so effulgent in their love for each other. It was hard to contain one’s joy.

The wedding further marked the first among our tight-knit friend group to hit this life landmark. Where the map of our lives once only said “Here There Be Future” has now been demarcated in front of us in vivid detail. Of course it’s not bad, but there’s an aspect to it that smacks of the too-real-too-quickly kind of feeling. To paraphrase the best man, we’re opening a lot of doors at this point in our young lives, but two close friend just opened a big one. It’s hard not to feel the ripples from that.

And it was really hard to give the Aston Martin back.

Floyd and I have not always been such fast friends. There was a time where we had the communications skills of a pair of seventeen-year-olds. That may have been because it was high school, and we were seventeen-year-olds, but the fact stands. We let a lot of stuff percolate beneath the surface back then, and there was a span of time where we were on not-at-all good terms because of it. We hardly spoke.

It’s very strange to think of that now. Despite it frequently being text messages about anomalous products of his GI, I hear from Floyd basically every day. Our past experience, in time, annealed our friendship, but it wasn’t until we had a phone call where we went back and forth with “Nah man, I was the asshole” for about twenty minutes that it really set. Not talking was the big problem. I don’t know if it makes me naive, but people are probably tired of my advice consisting of “honesty is the best policy” when they come to me with interpersonal conflicts. The way I see it, the thoughts of others are inscrutable without language to give them a shape others can recognize. You need to hear what that person’s path was before you can know if they took the same route you did, or whether they even ended up in the same place. That’s how you start solving problems.

I mean, I’m not gonna change my shaving proclivities, but I appreciate the input.

I have a secret fear that this will be me in my old age. I keep telling myself that being a part of this “digital generation” I’m somehow immune to that march of time. I’m going to keep up with it somehow. I’ll be able to talk tech with the grandkids. The nagging fear tells me otherwise. It whispers, “how the hell do you work this thing?”

To his credit, my father has really been on the ball for technology all his life. He works with computers, and being something of a technophile he brings a lot of it home with him. I may be dating myself, but in my youth we had AOL in our house before most kids in the neighborhood. We played many a sweet DOS game growing up. Perhaps in part as a father-son bonding thing, I took a from of custody over the metallic boxes that periodically occupied our home. I became the go-to instruction manual reader. This ritual served a dual purpose of giving me a “job” as a kid, and giving me a taste for knowledge of objects. We are a generation of fiddlers, of tweakers, of pick-it-up-and-press-things-until-we-make-it-workers. More than that, even, I grew to enjoy the planned out knowledge that the manual gave me, as if by speaking the true name of the ghost in the shell I had mastery over its faculties.

I try to keep abreast of current tech, even though I currently lack the funds to possess most of it. I hope, if nothing else, that when I lose my intuit generational tech-sense, my ability to read up will let me obsolesce with a grace that our machines rarely do. I have to believe that it’s possible to not lose touch with our tools, the construction of which sets us apart from the beasts.

I have to believe he was joking about WinAmp.

I’ve never been one to go the dungeon crawl route when it comes to D&D. Seems too linear, most times. There’s a subtle artform to it, though, and perhaps that’s why I opt out. One has to straddle the fine line between what is fun to decode and what is obnoxious. The better half and I were playing that old game where one of you picks a notable person and the other one has to figure out who you’re thinking of, with yes-or-no questions. While there were some that took a lot of asking, but were engaging throughout (Captain Ahab, if you’re wondering), we found that when you’re completely out of your experiential range, and have no idea who the other person is talking about, it’s not fun anymore.

The same goes for the stakes. Operation would become significantly less popular if you made some souped up version connected to a car battery (though personally I find that one frustrating in it’s original incarnation). That doesn’t mean risk and consequence have no place in our fun. My favorite aspects of the second title in the Mass Effect series were those that showed you the results of your prior actions. They weren’t always good results, but our chimp brains get something out of cause and effect. Just look at a two-year-old. Or more experientially, I was playing The Walking Dead this evening, and confessing to my significant other that it was, eloquently put, “so scary.” “Then why do you play it?” she asked. Honestly, I think a part of it is just wanting to see what kind of a difference my decisions make.

Added bonus: no weaponized storage sheds, as of yet.

I am glad that movie theaters still exist. I feel as though, especially with reference to our more technological entertainments, we as a culture have headed towards solipsism. Instead of playing board games, we play the video game of the board game. And instead of playing it in the same room, we play it with friends, or even strangers, over the internet. I can’t tell you how hard it is to find good local multiplayer video gaming these days.

But that is another story.

There’s a special value to seeing something with a mess of other people. The essence of why that is is perhaps most easily distilled in comedies: there’s a profoundly different energy between chuckling at a movie on your couch at home and being in a room full of laughing people. I think it unifies us. Communal emotional response is a powerful thing. It’s the same kind of shared enthusiasm that makes going to a concert more vibrant than throwing in the CD in your car.

Let me clarify, however, that I am NOT endorsing talking during movies. I’ll laugh at the jokes and, admittedly, make loud “OOH!” noises when Iron Man hits Rhodie with that barbell. To borrow our president’s affectation, however: Make no mistake. If you are talking during a movie, I will turn around and tell you to be quiet.

If it’s a Star Trek film, Floyd will get up and fight you.

If it’s original trilogy Star Wars, he and I will tag team.

I’ve mentioned before that my (dubious) physical aptitude didn’t really…blossom, so to speak, until I was a bit older. I do really enjoy going to the gym or going for a run, these days. It centers me. It helps a lot with my various anxieties. Lately, however, it has been in unfortunate competition with my academic schedule. I don’t know if it’s this way in all programs of this ilk, but in my current course of study a biology test on Thursday torpedoes the week pretty hard. Some would say “eviscerates.” I would. I’ve just said it.

I’m very quick to quip with “there are no diets, only lifestyles” when I hear of someone espousing a new trendy diet, where one eats only pickles every other meal, after they’ve been juiced with a dash of horseradish and gunpowder. I think fitness is the same way, though. Unless it becomes part of the routine, it falls by the wayside. Let’s be honest: there is always an excuse not to work out. School. Work. Being in the middle of…not working out. A particularly inviting plate of nachos that needs tender affection/consumption. The list goes on. The only thing that keeps me on the stick is the neurotic survival-fixated part of my troglodyte brain. Who knows, maybe when the load lightens up over the summer I can let that feral fitness guru flourish.

My first real jock itch. Those are the moments, people.

Am I the only one who sometimes runs through potential arguments? This is not coming up with the zinger I should have had. I anticipate. The probability that I’ve played out an argument for it in my head, however, tends to be inversely proportional to the likelihood of that very argument occurring. I find I think a lot about things that will, in all likelihood, never happen.

That’s the kind of thing that occupies us: the “what if.” It’s half of our entertainment industry. If you have ever seen or read anything that is not non-fiction (even some things “based on a true story”) you have participated in this. Fantasy and sci-fi just go a little further, but it’s all the same can of inquisitive worms. I’d also argue that it’s a driving impetus for our culture’s recent fixation with zombies. Any given person doesn’t genuinely want a bunch of dead people to start walking around consuming their friends and loved ones, but they will pay money to see that situation played out on screen. I think it’s mostly because it intrigues us to ask of ourselves, “what if that did happen? What if it was me? Would I be able to handle this? Would I do it the same way?”

The pinnacle of this self-imposition, and a recent preoccupation of mine, is The Walking Dead video game. I’ve been squeezing it into the precious few moments I have for leisure time, but given the subject matter some would see that as an inconsistency. Why would you place yourself in an apocalyptic scenario in your moments of relaxation? Why did I pay TellTale Games money so they could make me decide how to distribute four shares of food among ten hungry people? Maybe it’s a set of problems so far removed from ours, and so harrowing, that it lets us put ours in perspective. Some people aren’t into it (my girlfriend in particular is perplexed by why I would subject myself to the events of the game). Even I have discussed with Floyd about how, while it’s happening, you can’t really say you enjoy what they’re putting you through. But I’m grateful for the questions they’ve put before me.

They’ve also answered the question “What if Bjorn starting having a ton of zombie apocalypse dreams?”

I’m slowly piecing together tidbits of medical knowledge from volunteering, coursework, and that sort of thing. The fact of the matter, however, is  that my knowledge is paltry. It makes for great jokes about recommending things as a future future doctor, but my diagnoses probably should not be taken seriously at this point. What’s weird is, if all goes well, some day they will be. I’ll be telling people things that they will take into account regarding their health. Some of it might even be helpful.

There’s an additional weirdness imparted to casual diagnoses for friends. Are there rules about that? Like, doctor rules? Does the Hippocratic oath have parameters about telling Bob whether he has a cold or a sinus infection? Obviously with the way medicine works these days I could only do so much for some things. It’s not like I’ll be sending blood work to the lab from my living room if Floyd says he has a sore throat. I suppose that, like all professions, I may not even want to partake in my chosen trade after hours if I start doing it day-in day-out. Does an interior designer want to tell you how to remodel your kitchen off the clock? Do line cooks want to fire up the grill at home? I’m not sure they would.

But it’s safe to say that no one wants to come home to the roommate and his symbiote.