Lindsay's log, Stardate 2004.001.

We have beamed down on the planet Birmingham in the galaxy of

Alabama. We had heard there would be some Klingons here, but

we were wrong.. It's just another convention of the Lamo

Federation. We have set our phazers on Duh!

Actually, I know that I am not a Starfleet commander. I don't

even have one of those cool flip phones. I am just a visitor,

an emissary, to this year's Star Trek Convention being held

at the Marriot Hotel in Birmingham, Alabama. It is light years

away from the Horsehead nebula, but so what. It's still

about the weirdest place in the universe.

I have just missed the State of the Fleet address after I finally

find my way to the ballroom at the end of the universe. I'm

just in time, though, for the promotion ceremony, perhaps the

most exciting and absurd event of the day. The room is decorated

with the flags of all nations of the earth. Seated at a cluster

of round tables are the many ambassadors awaiting their moment

of recognition. I stand unobtrusively at the back dressed in

my planets traditional garb, Polo shirt, khaki shorts, white

socks and tennis shoes. I stick out like a sore gleeb.

As for the congregation gathered; they are garbed in the uniforms

befitting their position. Ultra-nerd first class. Dweeb ambassador.

It is an awe inspiring sight. I stand there quietly whispering, "Oh

my God" at the solemn proceedings.

Dork after dork is called forward to accept their advancement

from Commander to Admiral, from Captain to Beamer-upper Guy,

from Remote Control Lieutenant to First Class Couch Potato. It

brings a tear to my eye which I save in a small vial marked Trek

convention 2004.

One thing that I notice more than the fashionable Next Generation

garb being paraded by me is the large number of emissaries from

the planet Blob in the Sweathog galaxy. They are slow moving

creatures devoid of dignity. I would say they are highly intelligent

beings except for the fact that they are perpetually stuck at

the age of 12. They make their way slowly, one by one, to the

podium to receive their award for having collected more otherworldly

junk than any other guest from the planet Lethargy.

For each award, the sea of tables clap wildly, whistling and

shouting their approval. Those who can, stand up bursting with

pride.

Here and there, among the sea of flesh, are a few ancient individuals

also dressed in the proper trick-or-treat attire. They must be

90 if they are a day. One old lady who looked to be about 8,000

years old, had hand knitted her stately uniform to resemble the

real thing. She must have been from the planet Creepy.

I suddenly realize the reason for all of this, why so many,

relatively speaking, are caught up in this saddest of cults.

It's easy.

There is never any need to leave your house, or your Lazy-Boy

for that matter, when the world, nay the whole wide weird galaxy

is right there at your fingertips. Push a button on the remote

and you are suddenly beamed to Babylon 5. Push another to travel

back in time to Rigel 12, or somewhere like that. Nourish yourself

on space fritters. Quench your thirst with googlejuice.

Thanks to the technology of TIVO and DVDs, the future is sure

to become increasingly sad. Each house will be it's own

world. We will continue to communicate through wires and satellites.

And when we encounter each other on the street or in the aisles

of our favorite stock-up stores, we will look in horror at the

reality of each other as we glide by in our invisible beams of

personal safety.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, the proceedings are over

and we are free to leave. I jettison out of there and make one

final stop to the duty free shop in a parallel ballroom. I'm

looking for a pair of Spock ears so I can fit in. There are none

to be found. I have to settle for handmade buttons with pseudo-aliens

on them and a few dead tribbles. Oh well, it's time to head