January, 2003, LOS ANGELES - A festive bow was tied on the final month of last year with my annual winter trip to London. This time, however, it was tied with a shiny double bow because the trip also included a Christmas party with Star Trek friends in Mannheim, Germany. It was a month filled with delights - a perfect December.
London is like opening an enticing Christmas present before Christmas. Goodies abound - great museums, fun restaurants, and, of course, the theater. At the British National Portrait Gallery there was a special exhibit of American portraits on loan from the U.S. National Gallery. "Madame De Pompadour, Images of a Mistress" was next door at the National Gallery. Somerset House, the magnificent palace on the river Thames, which became the former Royal Navy Office, and then partly the offices of the tax collector, Inland Revenue, has also become a handsome museum. The art collection of Britain's first Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole, was the special exhibit there.
The courtyard of Somerset House had been magically transformed into a festive ice skating rink spinning with happy skaters.
The great treat of London, for me, is its rich theater offerings. Classic revivals or exciting originals, London's West End in winter is a bejeweled theatrical Christmas tree. The new hit play of the season was David Hare's "The Breath of Life," starring two brilliant Dames - stalwart Judi Dench and the fabulous Maggie Smith. They play women who had both been in love with and been abandoned by the same man. Dame Maggie had the more interesting role and she inhabited her part completely. An uproariously funny new comedy titled, "The Lying Kind" by Anthony Neilson opens on a frosty Christmas Eve. Two English policemen have the unpleasant task of informing an elderly couple that their daughter had been killed in a horrible auto accident
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And from there, if you can believe it, the comedy begins! It was hilarious - an amazing comic achievement. Classic revivals are always interestingly done in London and often rise to perfection. There was Noel Coward's drama "The Vortex," Oliver Goldsmith's restoration comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer," and, the best production I saw on this trip, George Bernard Shaw's "Mrs. Warren's Profession" starring Brenda Blethyn in a towering performance as Mrs. Warren and a luminous Rebecca Hall as her daughter. This is the kind of theater that makes a trip to London more than worth the jet lag and airport trauma.
The grand treat of this trip though was an undreamed of experience - dinner with the Dickens' Pickwick Club at the historic George and Vulture. The Chairman of the Club is none other than Cedric Charles Dickens the genial 85-year-old great grandson of the great Charles Dickens himself. He was the spitting image of Mr. Pickwick. Indeed, a goodly number of the members seemed to take on a similarly cherubic Pickwickian look. The George and Vulture, founded in 1600, where Charles Dickens used to dine regularly, was festooned with holiday decorations, the air was effervescent with good cheers and the table laden with savory Silverside of roast beef, winter vegetables followed by treacle tart and Stilton cheese - a proper Dickensian feast.
There were a series of Pickwickian toasts. My host, theater producer, Dennis Babcock, rose to introduce me. As I got up to acknowledge the applause, I sensed a slight breach of the Dickensian atmosphere as a few welcoming hands were raised in Vulcan salute made famous by Mr. Spock of Star Trek. There were Trekkers even amongst the Pickwickians! All these gentlemen however, exuded their love of Dickens from every pore of their bodies. I opened mine wide and happily absorbed in every wonderful moment. It was an indescribable experience. As a matter of fact, more than a few of the members asked me at the end of the dinner, "Isn't this an absolutely indescribable evening?" I agreed. This is only my feeble attempt at describing the indescribable.
I owe this treat beyond description to Dennis Babcock, an American member of the Pickwick Club. He was in town to prepare for the London opening of his comedy with music, "Triple Espresso" in January at the Arts Theater in the West End. I saw the production last summer in Minneapolis and enjoyed it thoroughly. I told him that I was planning to be back in London in February after the Starfleet Ball in Bournemouth, England, and would love to see his fun revue again. Quick-thinking producer that he is, Dennis immediately suggested that he make the night I see the play "George Takei Night at Triple Espresso." What a great idea, I agreed. Can we give my friends who come that night a break on the ticket price? He offered half off. It sounded like a good deal. We settled on the evening of February 13, 2003, for the George Takei night. So, if any of you should be in London on that Thursday night, I hope to see you there at the Arts Theater right off busy Shaftsbury Avenue. Just tell the box office people that you are a friend of George Takei to get the half-price tickets.
Then, I was off to Mannheim, Germany, for the Star Trek Christmas Party with other friends of George Takei. This event, organized by Sylvia Strybuc and Roger Hofstetter, was a charity benefit for Children with AIDS. It was a joyful gathering of friends and fans from Germany and Switzerland with actors who were the German voices of the many generations of Star Trek characters.
I was able to recognize almost immediately the actors that were the German vocal counterparts of Jean-Luc Picard and Katherine Janeway. Both were at once the very personifications of command authority combined with the warmth of genuinely gracious people. Of course, Father Christmas, or as we say in the U.S., Santa Claus, visited the party with presents for all. I even got to sit on his lap and serenade him with "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." It was all cheerful good fun. And it raised needed funds for a vital charity. The Christmas Party was a great way to celebrate together and, at the same time, support a humanitarian cause in the true spirit of Star Trek and Christmas. After the celebration, Sylvia and Karl Heinz took us to a Christmastime tradition all over Germany - the Christmas market in the center of the city around Mannheim's historic Water Tower. The Christmas market is a festively decorated village of temporary huts selling food, drinks, and colorful folk crafts of the holiday season. With frosty breath puffing, I bargained for tree ornaments, gift decorations and other holiday crafts. Christmastime in Mannheim 2002 will forever remain a bright, sparkling memory. Thank you Sylvia, Roger, and all the friends of George Takei there.
Back in Los Angeles, Sachie Kubo of Osaka, Japan, flew in for her winter vacation on Christmas day. Having crossed the international dateline, her Christmas was extended even longer than the normal 24-hour day. I invited her to join us for our family Christmas dinner but - poor thing - she was too jet-lagged to enjoy the festivities. She dozed fitfully throughout the dinner. Jet travel does extract an exhaustingly soporific price. Still, as sleepy as she may have been, she contributed an international feel to our Christmas of 2002. We live in a wonderful world where we do truly inhabit a global "infinite diversity in infinite combinations."
February, 2003, LOS ANGELES - I always watch the news as I go about my morning exercise routine. When I turned on my television on the first morning of February to begin my workout, I saw a graceful white line streaking across a pure blue sky on the screen. It looked beautiful. What chilled me was the grave tone in the announcer's voice and the words, "BREAKING NEWS" across the bottom of the screen. "The Space Shuttle Columbia is breaking up across the Texas sky. All seven astronauts are believed lost," came the horrifying announcement. I stood there, fixed on the screen. It was incredible - it was happening again, seventeen years after the Challenger disaster.
Fragments of information came tumbling in. There may have been trouble from the very beginning, we were told, with problems from the left tail wing. The shuttlecraft Columbia was very old, the oldest in the fleet - its maiden flight having been back in 1981. Photos of the astronauts on board the Columbia were flashed on the screen. It was gut wrenching to watch - two women, one born in India; five men, one African American, who, as a youth, had been inspired by Star Trek; six Americans and one Israeli national hero. My heart broke for these courageous men and women and their grief-stricken families. I saw these astronauts as the real-life ancestors of the fictional characters we portrayed on Star Trek. My co-stars and I were there for the rollout of the very first space shuttle - named Enterprise - back in September of 1976. I always felt that the space program was a part of my life. My spirit soared with the astronauts every time they blasted off into the sky. Now, I was watching seven of them plummeting down in a fiery streak.
This terrible tragedy may be the wake up call for a nation that had become too distracted and lost its sight on the great human challenge that lies out in space. That challenge is humankind's eternal quest for knowledge. Christopher Columbus sailed into the unknown, beyond the horizon of his era, to open up more than a new world, but old, congealed minds as well. Lewis and Clark ventured beyond the mountains that defined the barriers of their time to expand, not only a nation, but the boldness of its vision as well. President John Kennedy's stirring words to put a man on the moon before the end of the 60's galvanized, not only the spirit of America, but began breaking through the knowledge barriers of those days. The enlarged information bank produced, not only expanded knowledge of space, but greater understanding of this, our own planet. That knowledge, in turn, produced new discoveries that benefited humankind, created new industries, advanced health care processes and developed medicines that could not have been otherwise produced. Our destiny is in space exploration.
For much too long, the United States' commitment to space has been a neglected priority. NASA has been an under-funded orphan. Necessary equipment upgrades have not been made. New technologies have not been developed. Too tragically, we have had to use equipment past its prime.
The Columbia tragedy has become a powerful challenge to President George Bush's much-challenged set of priorities. Are tax cuts for millionaires more in our national interest than funding commitment to our space future? On the Columbia, experiments were being conducted that dealt with clean energy development, medical tissue cultures that could enhance the quality of human life, insect studies that would improve knowledge of our environment and a whole host of breakthrough studies. Will tax cuts for the rich get our slack economy moving better than an investment in space exploration? The knowledge gained from our space venture would develop new industries, new jobs and energize the global economy. Tax cuts would only deepen our Federal budget deficit and raise interest rates. Can tax cuts for millionaires improve our relations with our international allies? Our space program has been a pioneer in global teamwork with this planet's diverse people working together in concert - just like on Star Trek. Yet, what we hear from George Bush is a torrent of aggressive rhetoric of unilateral action unaccompanied by increased funding support for the space program. His primary commitment seems to be to millionaires.
The crash of the Space Shuttle Columbia was a shocking tragedy. The alarm has now been sounded. From the charred debris scattered over a hundred miles across Texas and Louisiana, the NASA program must rise again like a Phoenix. We owe this to the memory of those heroic science- adventurers of the Columbia. A re-energized NASA must be our tribute of gratitude to those astronauts who gave the last full measure of their devotion to our eternal quest for knowledge.
David M. Brown, Rick D. Husband, Laurel Clark,Kalpana Chawla, Michael P. Anderson, William C. McCool, Ilan RamonMarch, 2003, LOS ANGELES - Those who know me know that I am an inconvertible Anglophile - or more broadly, a Britanophile, which includes my affection for Scotland and Wales as well. I love things British. My car is British. My wardrobe, to a good extent, is British. I even love the food in London - I think British food has shaken its prevailing perception as indigestible and become quite wonderful. I try to get to Britain for holidays as often as I can. I love things British.
Only a month since I was last there on holiday, I was back in England again in February. This quick return was prompted by a most welcome invitation by convention organizer Anne Lindup to attend the Starfleet Ball in Bournemouth on the south coast of England. What a happy combination this was - a Star Trek convention in England! And what a symbolically appropriate place Bournemouth was, because it could be said that it was in this English seaside town, that our high tech world got its start. The very first wireless exchange took place from Bournemouth between the inventor, Guglielmo Marconi talking to physicist Lord Kelvin on the Isle of Wight in 1898. A bit more than a century later, Star Trek fans, armed with their 21st century wireless communication device -- the cell phone -- gathered in Bournemouth for a weekend of celebration, talks and fantasizing about the science wonders yet to come. The only damper to a super weekend was that I had caught an awful cold with a nagging cough that just wouldn't quit. I felt miserable.
It was my luck that Marina Sirtis was also a guest at the convention. She is an uncanny healer. She told me at the hotel of her secret curative - what she called "Dr. Footlights." "Get in front of the warm light of the footlights," she said, "and that miserable feeling will disappear. You'll be cured." She was so right. The minute I stepped before those bright lights to be embraced by the thunderous welcome of the fans, that wretched feeling miraculously faded. I was functional again. It was great to be with long-time fans that had now become friends. I enjoyed the talks and especially - the highlight of the convention - the Starfleet Ball itself. Everyone was dressed to celebrate. There were people clad as Starfleet officers, alien ambassadors, and other imaginative beings. The men in drag looked "divine" but rather conventionally 20th century. Only my rude coughing interrupted occasionally to remind me that I was sick. But the combination of the Starfleet Ball and "Dr. Footlights" made for a potent curative tonic.
After the convention, I went on into London for a week of theater. It was like reliving history to see the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company's production of Gilbert and Sullivan's "H.M.S. Pinafore" at the Savoy Theater. This theater and Gilbert and Sullivan are inextricably linked in theater history. Richard D'Oyly Carte, presenter of Gilbert and Sullivan's works, built the Savoy Theater in 1881 to present his productions of their operettas. I myself also have a personal history with "H.M.S. Pinafore." I had played the Captain of the Pinafore in college, a fact known by some. Thus, I was sternly cautioned to restrain myself from singing along with the performers. I did as ordered - but I manage to sing along mentally. It was a nostalgic evening of familiar tunes performed sparklingly - both on stage as well as in my mind.
It was a week of eclectic theater going that ranged from classic American comedy, "Arsenic and Old Lace," starring Michael Richards from the TV series, "Seinfeld," to an autobiographical musical by Boy George titled, "Taboo," to Shakespeare's "Tempest" with a towering performance by Derek Jacobi as Prospero. I even included an evening at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden with Verdi's "Falstaff." A very special evening was a hilarious American comedy, "Triple Espresso," produced by my friend Dennis Babcock. He had designated one night "George Takei Night at Triple Espresso" and all my friends were admitted at half price. It was wonderful to share an evening of theater together with long-time friends as well as new fans. Freda and Colin Boydell, dedicated editors of my fan club newsletter, who live down in Cornwall at the very southwestern tip of England, astounded me with their fantastic support. They took a bus all the way into London just to see the show with us and then went back right after a post theater drink in the theater bar with us to make that same long journey back to Cornwall through the night. They had made a similar trip all the way up to Edinburgh, Scotland, when I was performing there in a play titled "Undertow." They are wonderful, devoted friends and I very much appreciate their support.
The week was capped by the opportunity to attend the Olivier Awards Show at the Lyceum Theater. This is the award show named for the great actor Sir Laurence Olivier to recognize outstanding achievements in British theater. One of the many presenters was the royalty of theater herself, Dame Judi Dench. In her inimitable way, she was, at once, elegant and natural. After the show, we visited the nearby St. Paul's Church in Covent Garden, traditionally known as the "actors' church." That reputation was certainly proved true when we spotted Judi Dench come in alone and quietly slip into a pew. She prayed calmly and undisturbed. We left silently. It was a rare and touching moment.
As much as I am an Anglophile, I am an even prouder Californian and more specifically, an Angeleno. I am a native of Los Angeles and I love my hometown. I love its dynamism, its diversity, and our incomparable climate. My English cold quickly disappeared once I got home. The welcoming sunshine was glorious. But, therein lies our drawback as well. Los Angeles is built on land that is a semi-arid desert. The one essential that makes the existence of this great metropolis, the second city of America, possible is water brought in from afar. On the last weekend of the month, I went on a journey that gave me a deeper appreciation for what we take for granted - a glass of water.
A colleague on a board on which I sit, Phil Pace, is the chairman of the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California, which provides the water for our sun parched metropolitan area. Phil invited me, together with a busload of dignitaries, on a weekend tour of the Colorado River Aqueduct system, which supplies a large portion of the water for southern California. It was an awe-inspiring experience.
We traveled all day across the southern California desert to Lake Havasu straddling the California-Arizona border. Created by Parker Dam on the Colorado River, the lake was pristine and turquoise blue. The calm water lake had transformed the red, mud-roiled water of the Colorado River. Indeed, the name of the lake, Havasu, is the Navaho Indian word for "blue water." This vast body of water is one of three sources of life for southern Californians. That night, we stayed at the lodge in a small nearby camp for the maintenance workers.
The next morning, we were taken to a great concrete building by the dam that housed the pump station. We had explained to us that the water of the lake was pumped up by the sheer might of the centrifugal force created by the row of giant impellers before us. The water was pushed up the rugged mountainside through massive pipes to a high altitude reservoir at Copper Basin. We were then driven up a winding mountain road to that facility. The reservoir was a vast basin but the water level was at about half capacity. We were visiting the aqueduct system at an historic moment. A massive inspection and repair work on the aqueduct - something that had not been done in five decades - was taking place at a cost of $8.2 million. The aqueduct and the reservoir system had been shut down and drained. Yet, the people served by the system were oblivious of this program because a new reserve reservoir, Diamond Valley Lake, was being tapped to supplement the system. It was from this high mountain reservoir at Copper Basin that the water flowed down by gravity through the aqueduct system to make its two hundred and forty-two-mile journey across desert and through mountain tunnels to serve eighteen million people from Ventura to San Diego in southern California. Our bus followed the concrete aqueduct all day across the desert. A monumental engineering achievement along the water's trek is the thirteen-mile long tunnel blasted through the San Jacinto Mountain Range, the third tallest mountain in the state, to maintain the water's flow. Our bus skirted that daunting climb up the San Jacinto range. We arrived back in Los Angeles tired but profoundly appreciative of the colossal human effort and ingenuity that make possible the shower we all looked forward to as well as the drink of ice-cold water that we so took for granted. I am today, both a proud and deeply grateful Angeleno.