February, 2001, LOS ANGELES - I continue to be captivated by the popularity and the longevity of the Star Trek phenomenon. It remains a pervasive factor in my life, whether professionally, personally or in my public service activities. And this gift has serendipitously expanded my horizon and enriched my life.
A direct professional tie-in can be viewed on February 18th when an episode of "V.I.P." starring Pamela Anderson is aired on the Fox network. I play the voice of an omniscient super computer that was programmed by a brilliant techno-genius who is a fervent Captain Sulu fan. Hence, my casting as the voice of the computer.
The Star Trek conventions, of course, keep on trekking. My first convention of this year was in the charming city of Portland, Oregon. It was a lively gathering on a cold, damp weekend. Long-time fans mingled with a growing number of young, first-time conventioneers. And, as well, the con gave me the chance to indulge my preservationist interest and again explore the imaginatively restored turn-of-the-century historic district of Portland.
I did voice work last week on a feature film project, cryptically titled, "Noon Blue Apple." I play a mysterious voice that haunts the mind of the lead character. No direct Star Trek connection here other than the fact that the director knew of my work from the original series.
But Star Trek has also afforded me the opportunity to contribute more effectively in a myriad of other areas not related to my professional career. This month, I was honored to serve as the star of a fund-raising dinner to help build a planetarium on the campus of Long Beach City College. With this facility, young students will be able to expand their study of the heavens and let their imaginations soar to the stars. Clearly, without the Star Trek association, I would not have been able to support this important cause as effectively as I was able.
On another occasion this month, I addressed a group of young interns at the Japanese American National Museum on volunteerism. Here again, I was able to connect with them more successfully as Captain Sulu of Star Trek than as the Chairman of the Board of the Museum.
We have a mayoral election coming up this spring in the city of Los Angeles, my hometown. I am supporting the former Speaker of the California Assembly, Antonio Villaraigosa. I know that I was asked to speak at his press conference largely because of the draw of my Star Trek linkage. As well, when I spoke at the Japanese seniors' intermediate care facility, Keiro Services, Star Trek combined with my association with the Japanese American National Museum, were the factors that attracted the large audience of seniors. I chatted with one lady who was 104 years old. She was born in 1896 - having lived in three centuries! In so many unexpected ways, my association with Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry's visionary creation has opened doors that have expanded my life horizon.
But when any hint of self-importance might begin to creep into me and I start believing that my Star Trek association is free entrée to anything, a humbling reminder always seems to bring me back to reality.
This month, my niece, Akemi Takei, sportscaster for KING-TV in Seattle, got married to David Louchheim, a radio sportscaster, on a beautiful beach in Maui, Hawaii. It was a singularly romantic affair, the bride and groom barefoot, with waves crashing in on lava rock outcroppings behind them. The reception was held at a hilltop restaurant overlooking the Wailea Country Club and the turquoise blue Pacific beyond. As we sipped cocktails, nibbled hors d'oeuvres and waited for the sun to set, I slowly became aware of a generational divide. The parents of my niece and David's friends were thrilled to meet me. They were eager to have their pictures taken with me. They told me they were long-time Star Trek fans from back in their college days. The young people, however -- Akemi and David's friends -- were gracious and friendly but rather blasé. In fact, some weren't really that familiar with Star Trek. They, I realized, were the post-Star Trek generation. The passage of time brings with it the larger context of life.
I was forcefully reminded again of the larger context of life on a hike into the crater of the now-dormant volcano, Haleakala on Maui. The crater is vast. And it is heart-stoppingly beautiful. There is a narrow, lava gravel trail that leads down to the bottom. It was irresistible. I had to go down into it. As I tramped down the sere landscape, rich with the burnt colors of inert lava, I imagined what this scene must have been like millennia ago. It was, we were told by a ranger, an inferno of blasting, bubbling, molten red lava. For centuries it spewed up flaming magma from the belly of the earth forming the island of Maui. This place was a hellhole of exploding liquid fire. But now, it was dead calm. Only this scorched and arid crater of unearthly colors remains.As I huffed and puffed my way back up to the volcano's rim - 10,000-feet above sea level -- I thought of the ardent excitement of the middle-aged Star Trek fans of the evening before, and, in contrast, the nonchalant affability of their children. Intense fire and cool, youthful calm. There didn't seem to be that much difference between the human generations and geologic time.
June, 2003, LOS ANGELES - In celebrating the diversity of America, the United States government recognizes the heritage of each group of ethnic Americans virtually every month of the year. May has been designated Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, and, in observation of it, I was invited by the U.S. Department of Defense to tour seven military bases in Germany.
Asian Pacific American heritage is a topic that I have spoken on before but I sensed that the Star Trek magnet had something to do with the invitation as well. I accepted the invitation with relish.
Last month, the war in Iraq was an issue that had many in our nation -- and the world -- at odds with each other. But, whether hawk or dove or an owl somewhere in between, I think many of us felt a strong connection with the U.S. and British soldiers on the battlefield. They were our friends and neighbors out there in Iraq. Their courage and sacrifice, their professionalism and technological effectiveness, were amazing. I swelled with pride as I saw the brutal dictatorship of Saddam Hussein brought down by our combat forces.
As I watched the news on television, I saw something else. I saw an American military that I had not seen before. I saw both men and women of all races as soldiers, and, distressingly, as prisoners of war and as casualties. I saw a U.S. military that truly reflected the vast diversity of American society today. I wanted to visit the military communities in Germany to thank our soldiers for a job well done and their families for their sacrifices. I also wanted to applaud the U.S. Army for its progressive diversity program. This rare opportunity was something like a non-singing, non-dancing, all-talking Bob Hope tour of our military communities in Germany. In addition, as it turned out, the tour included convivial gatherings with groups of Star Trek friends as well.
It was a whirlwind tour. Two nights in Bamberg, a couple of nights in Ansbach, then on to Hohenfels, a night in Heidelberg, then two in Darmstadt, a weekend in Mannheim, then on to Wurzburg. It was constant packing and unpacking, meeting the brass and signing autographs for the soldiers, traveling from one base to another with my speech, "A Salute to Liberty" on Asian Pacific American heritage, at each base as the centerpiece. I collected plaques, beer steins, commemorative coins, and other gifts after each speech. The welcome was tremendous. The tour was exhilarating and enlightening. I saw and experienced so much. A tour of the Combat Maneuver Training Center at Hohenfels, with cutting edge technology combined with a Hollywood back-lot style recreation of a Slavic village complete with Slavic-speaking villagers more believable than any Hollywood extra, was most impressive. At Ansbach, I sat in an Apache helicopter wearing a high tech helmet equipped with night vision targeting lens. I visited storybook villages with cobble-stoned streets that were hundreds of years old. I toured regal palaces. The Residence, the palatial home of the Bishop prince of Wurzburg, was gloriously restored after the devastating bombing it suffered during World War II.
The formal garden at the palace of Swartzengen was almost as spectacular as the one at Versailles. In a magnificent sarcophagus on the altar of the Cathedral of Bamberg are the remains of the only Pope outside of the Vatican. In Bamberg, I discovered a great beer unique to that town called routbier that has a rich, dusky tang like smoke. It has to be tasted to be appreciated. The tour was memorable, made even more unforgettable by a vegetable called spargel -- a rare, seasonal white asparagus. I happened to be there at the height of spargel season. As an honored guest of constantly changing hosts, this prized delicacy was served to me at almost every dinner at each stop. As a good guest, I enjoyed the spargel until it almost grew out of my ears. The welcome was generous and warmly embracing. Glowing memories of my tour of Germany will be with me forever. My heartiest appreciations to all of the good people at each of the military communities I visited for their grand hospitality. And a special note of thanks to Sharon Yelder of the U.S. Department of Defense in Germany. She is the indefatigable problem-solver who initiated the idea of my visit and coordinated the entire trip with grace and skill.
Wherever I go, there are communities of Star Trek friends as well. I had visited Mannheim less than six months ago for a Star Trek convention but there we were together again - organized by dear Sylvia Strybuc.
This was another wonderful opportunity to enjoy a convivial Saturday evening with old friends and new fans. Roger Hofstetter and friends even drove in from Basel, Switzerland, to join us. It was wonderful.
At the end of my military tour, I gave myself a few days in Munich. Filip Krejcik, a friend who lives not far from Munich, picked me up for a visit to his village, Deggendorf. He had even arranged for a guide from the city tourist bureau. Deggendorf is a charming, formerly walled village with an historic Rathaus or city hall. We climbed the ancient stone steps of the Rathaus spire to its very top. We saw the quarters of the keeper of the spire who rang the old city bell. The view from his window was panoramic.
From the medieval spire of the Rathaus, we strolled through the village down to the primordial flow of the great river of Europe, the Danube. A lone sculler was practicing on the fast-flowing water. That evening, we had a specially prepared dinner at Filip's new restaurant called Vis a Vis. It was salmon served with that special recurring treat, spargel -- another unforgettable dining experience.
One day of my stay in Munich was spent at a somber historic landmark nearby - the concentration camp at Dachau. Today, it is a museum of the inconceivable horrors that went on there. At the entrance is a wrought iron gate with the words, "Arbeit macht frei" - work makes you free - shaped in iron into it. Two of the barracks that housed the prisoners have been rebuilt. The others are only indicated by the row after row of the concrete foundations that remain. The gas showers and the crematorium remain chillingly as they were right beside each other. The main administration building, which also housed the kitchen and washroom, is the principal exhibit area. It is hard to walk through the displays of such barbarous inhumanity. I learned that the concentration camp was built in 1933 as a prison initially for the political opponents of the Nazis.
Then the gypsies were rounded up, followed by the homosexuals, then the religious leaders. It was after "kristallnacht," - the night of the anti-Jewish rampage in November 1938 - that the Jews began to be brought to Dachau. It was a sobering reminder that injustice against any isolated minority, no matter how distant and unrelated, becomes a menace to me. In the climate of terrorist anxiety today, we must be mindful that the threat to the civil liberties of Arab Americans also becomes an assault on me. It is, as well, a threat to the fundamental ideals of America. As I viewed the exhibit at Dachau, I understood profoundly why we Americans celebrate Asian Pacific American heritage in the month of May and observe the heritage of other groups throughout the year. We are all connected. Out of the dark lessons of history, I hope we can forge a brighter tomorrow.
May, 2003, LOS ANGELES - April is supposed to bring with it the renewal of life and the warming breath of springtime. But, as I looked out the plane window descending on Toronto's international airport, I saw the landscape blanketed in white. It was a beautiful snowscape but it didn't look like spring. It was going to be cold in Toronto. On the plane, there were a few people wearing surgical masks. Friends back in Los Angeles had cautioned me about SARS, severe acute respiratory syndrome, which seemed to be occurring in unusual numbers in Toronto. Instead of the spring renewal of life, the air in this Canadian city was cold and chilled with the fear of death.
I was flying into Toronto to begin work on an exciting new television film about which I will write more extensively in August - a sly tease to build up interest in a show that will air in September.
I was flying into Toronto because I had work, and I was forging on despite friends' concerns because I felt that the media had over amplified the fear of this mysterious disease, SARS. One should, of course, exercise reasonable caution, but I think too many people have a tendency to be stampeded by media reports without placing them in context. Many more people die every year from influenza than they have from SARS. Toronto is one of the cleanest, most fastidiously sanitation conscious metropolitan areas in all of North America. And the city had acted quickly to contain the few people who were sick.
Certainly, I think it might be prudent to avoid travel to China, where the disease seems to be spreading in worrying numbers. But irrational fear can be just as damaging as an epidemic. Chinese restaurants all over North America have been empty desolation zones because of this irrational fear. Without fear, I had my first dinner in Toronto at a Chinese restaurant. I love Chinese food but, more than my fondness of Moo Goo Gai Pan, that night, I was making a statement. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself," said President Franklin Roosevelt. But, alas, my Chinese restaurant was skimpily patronized. The food was great and the service was fantastic. I dined in regal semi-solitude. The next morning, when I opened up the local paper, there was a photo of the Prime Minister of Canada, Jean Cretien, dining with gusto on delicious Chinese cuisine. It's ironic that in these hysterical times, delightful dining can also be a show of courage and political leadership.
I had another wonderful dining experience in this month of holy religious observances. Jewish friends invited me to their Seder dinner.
They hosted a gathering of their friends that embraced the religious, ethnic, cultural, and generational diversity of the Los Angeles community. Before dinner, Passover rites were observed and then each guest was asked to read selected excerpts from the writings, thoughts, and observations of someone from history. The shining words of Thomas Jefferson were read as well as those of an anonymous slave. The wise words of Kofi Anan were read as well as those of a victim of the Armenian holocaust. The ringing words of Robert Kennedy were read as well as those of a migrant farm worker. The words of Franklin Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066, which sent Japanese Americans into World War II American internment camps, were read as well as those of an Arab American civil liberties advocate. At this very special Seder dinner, the food for the spirit was as nourishing and savory as the delicious food for the body.
April is also the month of my birth, and it was wonderful to have so many friends, and fans remember my birthday on April 20. Through this column, may I give each and every one who sent me their birthday wishes, my heartiest thank you hug. You all make it a joy to continue collecting more of the many, many birthdays that I have already collected. You make it a true blessing to "live long and prosper."
April, 2003, LOS ANGELES -- As Halle Berry glided center stage, the tension in the Kodak Theater became electric. The Oscar for Best Actor of the year was now going to be announced. The air was tense with the buzz for Jack Nicholson or Daniel Day Lewis. Both actors had turned in wonderful performances. But I had voted for neither. I voted for the underdog -- Adrian Brody. His was an extraordinary achievement. It is, of course, impossible to measure an actor's performance quantitatively. The success of his work lies in the singular impact that his performance has on his audience. For me, Adrian Brody as Wladyslaw Szpilman in "The Pianist" was the most profoundly moving motion picture experience this year. It was a compellingly soul felt performance. Underdog or not, my vote was for Adrian Brody.
"And the Oscar goes to..." Halle Berry's struggle opening the envelope was torturous. "Adrian Brody!" As a body, the theater gasped, then, broke out in astounded applause. Brody himself seemed momentarily stunned. Then, with a nervous brush of his fingers through his unruly hair, he climbed on stage. Halle Berry waited smiling with his Oscar. In spontaneous exuberance, he embraced the beautiful Ms. Berry bowling her over and planted on her the most celebratory kiss in the history of Academy Award moments. The audience howled in appreciative joy. As he expressed his gratitude to the Academy for the recognition, he at the same time reminded us that his work on "The Pianist" kept him ever mindful of the dehumanization of war. Even in celebration, he rooted his art in the reality of life. The U.S. had invaded Iraq just three days before. Adrian Brody marked this year's Academy Awards, not only with his singular act of joy, but with a graceful, meaningful acceptance speech as well.
As I write this on my laptop in New York City, we are now into the third week of war. The U.S. just took control of Baghdad International Airport and coalition troops are now only miles from the city limits of the capital. The days of the brutal rule of Saddam Hussein now seem numbered. But our coalition's body count and the number of those wounded also continue to climb. Despite the much-vaunted technical precision of our bombing, the pain of civilian casualties continues to mount as well. They are what are called the collateral damages. "Body count," "collateral damage" - those sterile, dehumanized euphemisms of war. Soldier or civilian, each is a human life ended by warfare. This was what Adrian Brody was talking about.
Determined not to see death turned into euphemisms, three days ago, I went down to Ground Zero in downtown Manhattan. I had made my first pilgrimage to the site of the World Trade Center devastation on a cold January day fifteen months ago. I wanted to go once again to pay my respects. The people who died there will never become euphemisms. They are now a part of American history. They will be remembered with a memorial on the site that will be both warmly human and spiritually evocative. A striking plan by the brilliant architect Daniel Libeskind has been selected. The excavated site of the former towers will remain open with a contemplative green sunken garden in its place. The great slurry wall holding back the waters of the Hudson River will remain exposed. Soaring up beside the memorial garden will be a magnificent building towering a symbolic 1776 ft. high into the sky. That is taller than the former World Trade Center structures - the new height symbolic of the beginning of our nation's independence. It is a soaring statement of the triumph of freedom over terrorism. The peak of the building will taper into a spire merging with the heavens.
In that apex of the structure will be a lush, living garden in the sky. There is to be life, both on earth at the foot of the tower as well as at its very pinnacle.
When I first visited the scene of devastation on that January morning, snowflakes were falling. Those white flakes reminded me of the ashes that came down that awful morning of September 11. This time, my visit was in early April. But again, it was cold and gray and a light snow started to fall. Again, it was a chilly reminder of that terrible day. However, the site was now dramatically changed. The debris of the wreckage had been completely cleared away and there was preliminary construction beginning at the far bottom of the excavation. We were moving forward. After intensely spirited competition, an architectural plan had been selected for rebuilding on the site. We were working to build the future. There is a vision to replace the past with something better, something even more dimensioned.
New York celebrates the human spirit, and, for me, the theater does it best with joy, passion and insight. In so many different ways, the plays I have been taking in are just that - a celebration of the human spirit. The British comedy, "The Play What I Wrote," did it with laughter. The award winning British drama, "Vincent in Brixton," did it with love. The big Broadway hit musical, "Hairspray" rejoices with both love and laughter. "Last Sunday in June," an off-Broadway original celebrated the bonds of friendship and community
The Pulitzer Prize nominated new drama, "Take Me Out" celebrates the diversity of life with the metaphor of baseball. The quintessential celebration of the human spirit, however, is the great musical, "Man of La Mancha," now revived on Broadway starring the glorious voice of Brian Stokes Mitchell.
As I sat in the theater enthralled by its stirring anthem, "To Dream the Impossible Dream," I sensed the entire house connect as one and soar with the shining words of the song. How can anyone's spirit not soar to these ideals? How can anyone's soul not glory in its humanity?
To dream the impossible dream And the world will be better for this, |
