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    The New Yorker | Michael Chabon | 11/11/19 | 21 min
    6 reads6 comments
    10
    The New Yorker
    6 reads
    10
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    • sjwoo
      Scribe
      7 months ago

      As someone who has seen every mentioned episode probably a dozen times, this was especially meaningful.

      • bill
        Top reader of all timeScoutScribe
        7 months ago

        This comment made my morning. Cheers, friend!

    • Jim7 months ago

      No comment..... too raw.
      OK, one comment,
      BEST AOTD to date! D.

    • bill
      Top reader of all timeScoutScribe
      7 months ago

      Holy shit. Non-fiction by Michael Chabon. Prepare for deep thoughts about you and your dad. And Star Trek, though no prior knowledge required. Perfect 10. Def AOTD, maybe GOAT. Pure poetry, at times, like this:

      fear and prejudice were no match for curiosity and an open mind, that where there was consciousness there could be communication, and that even a rock, if sentient, had the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

      • jeff
        Top reader this weekReading streakScribe
        7 months ago

        This was excellent. Also the first I've heard of Star Trek: Picard. I'm kind of horrified that they're bringing back the original TNG crew after all these years but I also can't imagine Patrick Stewart being anything other than amazing.

    • Pegeen
      Scribe
      7 months ago

      Tears stream as I sip my coffee - this is brilliant. I was 10 when the first episode of Star Trek aired on our black and white TV. It captured my imagination and heart with something I didn’t quite understand at the time - escapism. My father hated the show, my devotion to it, something so stupid and trite, in his opinion. At the time, my father was police captain of the detective bureau in the capitol city of New Jersey. He was a super hero, a crime solver, a protector of my universe - yet, like Spock, so unavailable. Most fathers were. In this article, the weaving of episodes of Star Trek and the interplay with the author and his father was magical, a thread that I could feel so deeply because it was my story too. I also sat with my father as he lay dying at home. He, too, was shrunken, withered - an oxygen tank, regiment of prescriptions, prosthesis, commode - all just humiliating reminders of our human fragility. I loved my father and I know he loved me - we were just from different planets.