The Final Frontier

January 5, 2011
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When I was younger, my dad had a sudden urge to show me and my brother not one, but all of the Rocky movies in one day. Inspired by the Rocky music, my brother went on a soundtrack-music buying rampage, where he, to the demise of my peaceful mornings, re-discovered his love of Star Trek when he found that they had come out with a new Star Trek CD. Now that he has his own car, and drives me to school every morning, I am forced to suffer through the same Star Trek songs every day, as if in going to school we were going on a dramatic mission.

Once, when we were on vacation in San Diego, fate presented Ben (my brother) with a miracle, and me with a very unfortunate coincidence. Apparetly, Star Trek museums exist. There happened to be one, not far from our hotel. An entire museum dedicated to Star Trek. Not just one exhibit, but and Entire museum. Before I knew it, I was trapped in the midst of a stampede of phaser-blasting middle-aged men, all eagerly discussing episode something season whatever, and comparing their Star Trek memorabilia which they all diligently clean and dust, my brother included. As if that wasn't bad enough, there was a very pushy little man with a camera who was determined to make this embarrassing moment live on forever by getting a regrettable picture of me in the captains chair. On the table in our living room, there is now a picture of me in a beeping, flashing chair with the words "Star Trek" plastered over my head. It was not one of my prouder moments.

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