I Am Sci-Fi

by

Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 25

(First Appeared: June/July 2001; First Light E-zine, Issue 104)

(NOTE: So concludes the DeFlip Side Volume 1 archives. Henceforth, all posts will be labeled Volume 2 to signify DeFlip Side's transition from print to radio. This column was especially hard to post, dealing as it does with our failed attempt at In Vitro Fertilization--my disclosure of which spoils the optimistic ending, I guess. My wife did eventually have the hysterectomy and we'll never have biological children. And though keeping my dad's advice in mind helps, I still can't help but get choked up when I think about the five who may have been. So this is dedicated to the memory of my peeps. How I wish I could have known you.)    

There are four words guaranteed to stop the heart of every male alive. If you hear them while still in high school they may well kill you. Even if you think you're prepared for them, they'll still sear you like that nuclear flash in those old 1950s Cold War "Duck and Cover" public service announcements.

You come to, dazed, making a futile effort to blink away an afterimage branded to the insides of your eyelids: the realization that life will never be the same again. Only a woman can say these four words, and all men live with an innate apprehension of the day they will be uttered.

No, the words aren't "Time to go shopping!" They're even more chilling than "Buy me some tampons?" and fraught with more danger than "Do I look fat?" When strung together, these four words have all others beat: "I missed my period."

I'll give the guys out there a minute to crest the collective wave of sweat and nausea that is now sweeping over them. I shudder to think of the impact the words must have on the woman who is saying them. In fact, there's only one thing more ominous than the effect these words can have on your life, male or female: the realization that you may never hear them. Unfortunately, that's how things seemed to be shaping up for my wife Laura and me.

Lord knows we've never been in a rush to have kids. Together for ten years, married for seven, we're just having a ball in a life that seems filled with good friends, good coffee, restaurants, bookstores, antique shops, and ever-broadening possibilities, answerable only to each other. The choice to forego children thus far has caused some people to brand us as selfish, which has always been inexplicable to me. I've always figured it would be more selfish to bring kids into the world just for the sake of having them. And it's not like we never intended to have any; they were the specter of some nebulous point in the future when we both felt "ready."

For me, that was age 35. For some odd reason, 35 has always been a focal point in all my grand schemes. When I turned 25, I vowed to be rich by 35. I've foreseen having two residences (an apartment in Manhattan and a nice house somewhere) and a full-time fiction-writing career by then. No matter that I'm 31, still renting and have a puny (albeit glacially-growing) bank account. I've always had an odd assurance that I'll have the world by the balls in 2005. Kids, naturally, fell into the pattern.

But no. For some reason, life has chosen to slap me upside the head. And I can't even claim that I didn't see it coming. Since I've know her, my wife has had a condition that I now must share with you, much to her eternal mortification, I'm sure. It is a disease known as endometriosis, which causes abnormal tissue growth on the ovaries and the walls of the uterus. In Laura's case, it's been accompanied by a healthy dose of ovarian cysts. She's had four surgeries to clear the tissue away, but it always comes back, seemingly with a vengeance.

After the most recent surgery last July, the news was not good. One tube was completely blocked, and its ovary shot. The other ovary had to be reconstructed, again. The doctor gave her a choice: have kids or have a hysterectomy. After about a nanosecond of discussion we chose kids. We were told that we had a window of about six months. In other words, if Laura wasn't expecting by Christmas, we should start to worry. So we got busy, so to speak...

Come Christmas morning, Santa left me an awesome telescope and Laura got a nice necklace. But there was no baby in sight. Still, we kept trying and waited, maybe in ignorance, more likely in denial. All the while, Laura's cycle was becoming more erratic and frequent. Eventually, it seemed to me like she was constantly bleeding. When she finally made the dreaded trip to the doctor, our worst fears were realized. The endometriosis was back, along with a bumper crop of new cysts. The doctor sent Laura to see a fertility specialist the same afternoon.

I was at work when she called me with the news. I rushed to Long Island IVF in time to hear the diagnosis: despite the tissue growth, we were still candidates for In Vitro Fertilization. Things began to happen with startling swiftness. Within the week, we had a meeting with a nurse and were given a crash course in alternative reproduction technology.

Stripped to its basics, the procedure has five steps, followed on a strict timetable: 1) Suppress the woman's natural cycle; 2) Hyperstimulate the ovaries to produce as many eggs as possible; 3) Harvest the eggs; 4) Combine the eggs with the husband's sperm; 5) Implant the resulting embryos (if there are any) into the womb and hope for the best.

Sounds simple enough right? Wrong. You wouldn't believe how complicated it is to conceive a baby if you can't do so by natural means. Everything is accomplished with a battery of drugs so complex that I still don't really know what all of them were supposed to do. And I have the benefit of a few months of reflection to temper my perspective.

When you first begin, the means seem entirely contradictory to the desired end. After yet another surgery to tame the endometrial tissue, the first thing Laura had to do was go on the pill. Sex without a condom was forbidden. Within a couple of days, a box arrived from the pharmacy with the aforementioned drugs -- about ten different varieties -- and bags filled with different gauges of needles. Most of the drugs would have to be administered by injections given by yours truly.

Laura is a nurse, so the needles themselves didn't bother her. The fact that I'd be the one sticking her did. The prospect was no less daunting to me. The orientation session designed to teach me how to give the injections only made me more nervous. The needles didn't seem real until I was forced to handle them. I spent weeks with two practice needles, administering subcutaneous and intramuscular injections to one of those Iso-Flex balls that people use for stress relief and hand therapy.

(Mmmmmmm..... Foreplay)

After giving Laura her first actual injection, though, my trepidation disappeared. I guess not killing her with a stray air bubble had a calming effect on me. After a day or so I was administering injections like it was old hat, and had become, in Laura's nursing parlance, "a good stick."

In fact, my needle apprehension turned out to be the hardest part of the entire experience for me. As with so many other things in life, men get off surprisingly easy in the whole In Vetro Fertilization process. As bruises began to spread across Laura's stomach, and she became increasingly bloated and moody with all the drugs coursing through her system, I found more and more reasons to thank God I was born with a penis. In all, I only had to take four pills of some antibiotic. The only real pain I suffered was the embarrassment of the specimen cup.

In one of our initial doctor visits, I was forking over some money for my insurance co-pay. Along with my change the receptionist handed my a little cup with a white cap, sealed in plastic.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.

"We need a semen sample for analysis."

According to Laura, I turned scarlet and said, in a small, strangled voice, "Right now?"

As it turned out they needed it for the visit we had scheduled the following week. The sample, they said, could not be more than an hour old. Since I would be leaving straight from work and heading to the doctor's office on the day of the visit, there would be no way for me to produce a sample beforehand, short of performing a live sex act in my cubicle for the amusement of my coworkers. I explained as much, but they insisted I take the cup home anyway.

As I drove home, I became increasingly baffled as to why they forced me bring the cup with me. What, was I supposed to get to know it? Maybe take it to dinner? I decided to name it Shirley.

(My girl Shirley) 

Shirley just kind of hung around the house for a week, reminding me not only that I had an appointment to go jerk off, but that I would be doing so in a place where everyone knew I was jerking off, and were eagerly waiting to whisk away the end results.

But still, I arrived at the appointed hour, Shirley in hand, ready to swallow my dignity and crank one out for the team. From everything I'd ever seen on St. Elsewhere, I expected to be secreted to a room comfortably appointed with a couch, television and a few potted palms, and be given access to a wide assortment of porn to assist me in fulfilling my needs.

Instead, they led me to a largish sized bathroom furnished with an old waiting room chair. As I locked the door behind me, I realized the conspicuous absence of all the accoutrements I had heretofore imagined. I eventually found some issues of Playboy in a magazine rack by the door, hiding out behind some copies of Family Circle and Ladies Home Journal. Despite this blow to my expectations, I managed to persevere and get the job done.

As it turns out, my guys are "fair to good" swimmers and would easily manage their end of the work.

So that was that. Laura's eggs were hyperstimulating, I was saving up another fleet of X- and Y-chromosomes, and life was winding inevitably toward the big day. It was during this time that Laura asked me a question that somehow brought this whole surreal experience into focus. "When you were a kid, did you ever think you'd be having a test tube baby?"

Until that point, I hadn't really thought about what we were doing at all. It had simply been a case of "now or never" followed by a regimen so complicated that it defied thought. It certainly had never occurred to me to label it as "having a test tube baby" even though that's what we were doing. I was in grade school when I had first heard the term, and in my young mind it immediately conjured up images of a sterile lab somewhere with tiny fetuses gestating in rack after rack of test tubes until they were ready to go home. And I guess that's the image I've had ever since, never having the need to update it. In my head, it was the stuff of science fiction, as remote and fantastic as a trip to the moon, as futuristic as George Jetson's flying car.

(Alas, the In Vitro experience shattered my misinformed

and hyperliteral illusions!)

Oddly enough, when Laura put it into these terms, the whole experience suddenly became real. Then it occurred to me: I am Sci-Fi. This phrase, a promotional tag line for the SciFi Channel (which I apparently watch entirely too much of) popped into my head and took on new pertinence. And not only am I Sci-Fi, but my children will be as well. It may sound corny, but as a lifelong science fiction devotee I find it wonderfully fitting and comforting to think in these terms. It's inspirational.

Shortly after my revelation, I had a strange dream in which Laura had given birth. We were the proud parents of five (!) kids. I was carrying them wrapped in one enormous blanket because they were lined up in a row from biggest to smallest and stuck together like those marshmallow Peeps that you get at Easter. I was just unwrapping them and preparing to separate them when I woke up, unable to stop smiling. Since then I have referred to my possible future children as the peeps, and now so does everyone else. I envision a day when I can embarrass them in front of all their friends with this story.

Harvest day came quickly. Before I knew it, we were in the hospital, Laura preparing for egg retrieval, me steeling myself to give another deposit. They wheeled her away and made me return to the waiting room. After an eternity, the doctor came out and informed me that he had been able to retrieve ten eggs. I was ecstatic, but felt increasing panic. I had yet to make my contribution.

When the nurse finally called my name, she laughed and said, "Sorry about the wait. We sure are busy around here today!" This right before she led me to the masturbation chamber. Thanks to her little snippet of information, I got extremely weirded out by the thought of all the guys who had probably been in there before me. At least the room was much better appointed than the doctor's office had been. I was confronted by a staggering array of porn, including videos and a magazine rack that covered the entire wall. This was more like it! Upon completion, I had but to push a button to have someone collect my sample, like some sort of perverted reverse room service.

The next day we were informed that out of the ten eggs, they had been able to get five embryos (just as many peeps as I dreamed of!). We had decided long beforehand to implant three and freeze the rest. Since I plan to cryopreserve my head after I die, I figured that my unborn progeny could join me upon my revival in the far future.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. On the day of our embryo transfer, the doctor told us that of the five, only three had survived. That meant all three were going in and no second chances unless we began the whole process over from scratch. But by all accounts, the transfer was a success -- though the embryos will likely grow neck in neck with the cysts that are even now developing in Laura's uterus. Looks like we did this just in time.

The end result? Drum roll please... We don't know. As of the deadline of this column, our pregnancy tests are still a week away. And even if they come back positive, we won't know for a while how many kids to expect. I'm just praying for a positive result. I've even begun hoping that all three peeps take. Laura has confessed the same hope.

Don't ask how we plan to manage our instant family. As I said at the outset, it's a heart-stopping proposition, even after all the extraordinary effort we've expended to make it viable. All I can do is heed a bit of advice that my pop gave me years ago that has never failed to put things in perspective:

"Life doesn't have to get along with you; you have to get along with life."

I guess I'm just now learning that that applies to the good stuff just as much as it does to the bad.

-30-

DeFlip Side Top Five

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 24

(First Appeared: May, 2001; First Light E-zine, Issue 103)

(The First Light E-zine had only two months to go, so for my second-to-last column I decided to reflect on my time writing DeFlip Side and assess my body of work thus far. The most expedient (translation: easiest/laziest) way to do so was to create a list, hence this top five. Something in the universe must have scoffed, however, at this particular foray into self-congratulatory horseshit, because I can't find the column anywhere. It's not exactly the lost works of Pythagoras, but an archive should be nothing if not complete, so I'm putting this placeholder in the rundown in the event that it ever turns up. I can tell you this: my top pick then was "In Defense of Dead White Males." And upon reviewing and reposting all of my columns here, that hasn't changed.)

Column will be posted if I can ever find it…

I Pissed Off Captain Galaxy

(and other tales from I-CON XX)

by

Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side Vol. 1, No. 23

First Appeared: April, 2001; First Light E-zine, Issue 102

(NOTE: So odd that I’m posting this column on the heels of Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s death, as it chronicles the one and only time I ever got to hear him speak live. It was a disappointment, mainly due to the way that the I-CON organizers mishandled the event. What a wasted opportunity. Yet I’m still going to I-CON, year after year, despite the fact that it remains a hit-or-miss experience. I really go just to ogle first edition books in the dealers’ room. Unfortunately, they have not brought back Inside the SF Actors Studio--another opportunity missed!)

Richard Herd is a very serious man.

Who’s Richard Herd? He’s a character actor. You’d know him if you saw him. He’s made dozens of guest shots in lots of SF shows. He even starred as the lead alien in the mini-series V, and the thankfully short-lived series it spawned.

I, of course, know him best from his work on Quantum Leap. He appeared in two of my favorite episodes: "Future Boy" and "Mirror Image." You know all about Mirror Image from last month, but in the Future Boy ep, he played a character named Captain Galaxy.

(The many faces of Richard Herd. Don’t let that sweet smile fool you...)

Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the latest I-CON and saw him at a table in the corner of the dealer’s room. I had no idea he was going to be there. What a kick! Grinning like an idiot, I shook his hand. "Hey! Captain Galaxy!"

He returned the enthusiasm. "None other! Would you like an autograph?"

"Sure!"

He chose two glossy prints from the stacks of photos spread out before him. "Would you like one of just me, or one with me and Scott?" He meant Scott Bakula.

I looked at both. "With Scott, I guess..."

"All right!"

He just looked at me.

I looked back.

He kept looking.

It was getting weird.

Finally I noticed that he was lightly drumming his fingers on the table. I looked there instead. Beneath them was a little blue sign that said "All Autographs $20." My eyes almost fell out of my head. Twenty bucks?!?

I looked back up at him. He must have seen it in my eyes, but he proceeded with the grace of an old pro, all smiles and enthusiasm. "So, who should I make this out to?"

I took a step back. "Gee, Captain Galaxy," I said. For some reason I began scratching the back of my head, maybe to make it look like I was thinking. I probably just looked like a dope. "I don’t know," I continued. "Truth is, I know about three people who would just love one of those." It was the truth, sort of. I do know three people who would like an autographed picture of Captain Galaxy. But what I was really thinking was Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m gonna spend twenty bucks on your autograph? I don’t think so!

"Well then," he said, taking two more pictures off the stack, "maybe we can work out a deal."

"Ummmmm.... Uhhhhhhh...." I continued to back away. "I’m gonna have to get back to you, Captain Galaxy."

The smile disappeared from his face and he threw the pictures down on the table. "Fine!" No more warmth. No more enthusiasm. Just deadly seriousness. I practically ran away.

And so began my weekend of Science Ficton, Fantasy and fandom at the 20th annual I-CON convention on the campus of the State University of New York at Stony Brook.

My run-in with Captain Galaxy was prophetic in a way, because my experiences at this year’s outing seemed to revolve around folks with strong--even legendary--personalities.

Inside the SF Actors Studio

One highlight of was a panel called "Inside the SF Actors Studio." It featured Brad Dourif, Marjorie Monahan, Lisa Howard, Adrienne Wilkinson, Richard Herd and Erin Grey. Out of the six, I only knew the last two from any specific shows. It was mainly a row of faces, only a couple vaguely familiar. But it didn’t matter. It was entertaining as hell.

I attribute that to the moderator, Dr. Howard Margolin, a good friend of mine who for years has produced and hosted a radio show broadcast from the Stony Brook campus called "Destinies: The Voice of Science Fiction." Howard picked the exact right questions to ask, and turned a potential train wreck of b-list celebrity ego into an insightful, far-reaching and entertaining discussion of the realities of being a working actor.

Herd’s overriding seriousness came to the fore again. If he wasn’t going on about the horrible disfiguring dangers of the makeup used in many genre shows, he was screaming about how young actors today don’t care about the craft but are all out for a big payday. I tell you, the man needs to take a pill. But his rants were more than offset by humorous moments, such as when Erin Gray informed everyone in the audience (including her son) that fucking is her favorite thing to do.

It was diverse and lively. All con organizers out there should try and do something similar with their media guests. It’s a great way to showcase them and allow fans to get to know them beyond the pat presentations they have prepared for their solo appearances.

A One-Sided Chat with Sir Arthur

Without a doubt, the most legendary personality to grace this year’s I-CON was Sir Arthur C. Clarke. And the telephone discussion with this legendary author and scientist was, without a doubt, the biggest disappointment of the entire weekend.

(R.I.P., Sir Arthur)

I, along with hundreds of others, packed into a massive lecture hall to hear the man speak from his home in Sri Lanka. There was supposed to be a panel of folks, mainly from among the con’s author guests, to host the discussion with Clarke. But when they finally let us in ten minutes late, there was no dais set up, no panel in sight. There were just three guys standing on a stage around a single microphone, like an acappella group. I still have no idea who they were, though two of them were very old.

After a few minutes of back and forth, Sir Arthur’s voice came through loud and clear over the speakers. Unfortunately, the voices of the guys asking him the questions did not. From what I can gather, Sir Arthur and the two fogies on stage were old friends, because the first ten minutes of the call was taken up by "How’s so and so? Oh. You don’t say? And the wife? Yes.... Well let me tell you...." and so on.

When they finally got around to starting the "discussion" it became doubly frustrating. Without amplification, I could barely hear what questions were being asked. If the guy next to me decided to breathe heavy or shift in his seat, forget about it.

Either way, the questions couldn’t have been that good, because I can’t really remember anything Clarke said. There was a bit about biotechnology, something about ping pong, and a word about how he just celebrated his kid brother’s 80th birthday the week before. There were no revelations or insights; just an old man who sounded like he was getting tired quickly.

I think the moderators heard this as well, because they wrapped up the call after forty minutes. It was supposed to go on for two hours.

The entire presentation--so unorganized and so technically inept--was the perfect snapshot of the incompetence that plagues the I-CON convention on the whole. The Stony Brook campus is a serious shithole. There’s squalor no matter where you look--stained brick, cracked pavement, crumbling concrete. Inside, every building is about 40 degrees too hot and none of the technical stuff ever works right, if it works at all. Compound that with pathetic signage (we’re talking chicken-scratch scrawled in magic marker on oaktag, crossed out, written over, crossed out again), poor organization, panel topics that never seem to change, and the seeming indifference to all of these things by organizers, and it’s a wonder the con remains as big as it is.

Think about it. If you can’t get it right for Arthur C. Clarke--we’re talking Arthur C. fucking Clarke!!!!!!!!!!--then when in the fuck are you going to get it right? Jesus!

Hey, Virginia!

Breathe.... Breathe.... Calming down now.... Okay. Sunday morning was a treat thanks to Virginia Hey, who plays Xan on Farscape, the best genre show currently on the air. I barley recognized her, considering that she wasn’t blue and had a full head of long blonde hair.

(Virginia, sans Xan)

Her tales from the set were hilarious, and the sincerity of her appreciation for the fans was evident.

The Ellison Experience

I’d seen him before on TV and he left me flat. I even called him an asshole in my I-CON review last year. So when the chance presented itself, I decided to finally see what all the fuss was about. I saw Harlan Ellison live.

I went to a reading on Sunday afternoon, and he spoke for almost two and half hours before ever getting around to the story he’d brought with him. They were among the most entertaining hours of my life.

(Harlan Ellison: The jerk you hate to love)

Ellison’s reputation is justly deserved. He’s cantankerous, rude, loud and insulting. And I stand by my assessment of asshole. But even with all that said, he’s not really a bad guy. He’s funny as hell, honest to a fault and just doesn’t give a shit about protecting anyone’s feelings. Once experienced live, it’s easy to see why he’s a legend. Now maybe I’ll check out one of his books...

Da Roo-stah!

In the "last-but-certainly-not-least" category, I present to you my last legendary encounter at this year’s I-CON--none other than Randy Dannenfelser, also known as Roo to the readers of First Light. Okay, I don’t know if anyone would really consider Roo a legend, but he’s earned a reputation among those of us who know him. I was thrilled to be able to finally meet him and his lovely wife Barb face to face.

Randy is the reason my I-CON review this year is limited mainly to the "big" guests/events the con had to offer. I ditched most of the panel discussions I’d planned to attend on Saturday because I was having a much better time walking around the campus and talking to him. To top it off, he and Barb bought my wife and me dinner--a nice dinner. Which means I own them now. The bastards... I’ll catch up with them at the Millennium Phil-Con in September.

-30-

Through the Looking Glass

by

Christopher DeFilippis

(Pt. 2)

ACT THREE--"Who knows what Don Quixote can accomplish?"..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Upon learning that Tonchi and Pete are trapped, the miners want to descend the shaft immediately to get them out. The mine superintendent, Collins, prevents them from doing so, worried about the mine catching fire, saying they’re likely dead already.

Stawpah takes the lead here, authoritatively insisting that the brothers are still alive. When Collins spots Sam’s unfamiliar face, Stawpah steps in and says he’s the State Safety Inspector. It’s vital to note here that Stawpah is driving the action forward, not Sam.

When Sam asks Stawpah why he named him as safety inspector, Stawpah replies, "I need to find way to get them out this time." NOTE: Stawpah said THIS TIME, as if he’s tried unsuccessfully to get them out before. Most people I’ve spoken with gloss over this exchange, taking it to mean that Stawpah has been in similar situations in his mining past. But I think he means it very much in a literal sense, as if he’s tried and failed to rescue Tonchi and Pete from this EXACT SAME situation many times before.

He goes on to describe what Tonchi and Pete are experiencing underground--the darkness, the rising water, the fear. When Sam asks how he knows all this, Stawpah replies, "I been there, too many time before." Even Sam misses the import of this statement, taking Stawpah to mean that he’s experienced similar disasters in the past. Again, I maintain that Stawpah means he’s repeatedly been in this exact situation.

Back at the bar, Al opens up a bit, realizing that Sam is starting to see the bigger picture, and tells him that he’s not there to save Tonchi and Pete, not directly. Sam asks "How about indirectly?" Al’s reply: "Who knows what Don Quixote can accomplish?"

At this point Sam begins to intimate that the bartender may be God. Al denies it with a laugh.

Stawpah, who has been listening to the conversation, tells Sam that if he wants to help Tonchi and Pete, he should continue playing the safety inspector. And thanks to that act, Sam fools Collins into letting the men down the shaft to mount the rescue effort.

While waiting to learn of Tonchi and Pete’s fate, Sam has yet another conversation with Al the bartender, this one focusing on Al Calavicci and the deep relationship he and Sam have formed.

We learn of Sam’s regret in not being able to reunite Al and Beth during a previous leap (MIA). Thinking back on it, Sam realizes that the failure was largely due to that fact that he always "plays by the rules." Accompanying this statement we see something in Sam that we don’t often: regret.

This is a significant revelation for Sam’s character, because he always strives to do the correct thing, and mostly succeeds. But does correct necessarily mean right? It’s a question he’s been confronted with at various times throughout his years of Leaping, but never in such black and white terms, and never with so much time to mull over an answer. Who, indeed, knows what Don Quixote can accomplish, if he would just think outside of the "rules" for once?

As he’s pondering this question jubilant miners burst into the bar, ushering Tonchi and Pete with them. Ziggy congratulates Sam on his ploy as mine inspector, to which Sam replies that it wasn’t his idea, but Stawpah’s.

He looks at the gnarled miner in time to see the man raise his Pepsi in salute, give a smile that transforms his face to pure joy, and Leap, leaving no one in his place.

ACT FOUR--"Sometimes, ’That’s the way it is’ is the best possible explanation."

Sam (along with the viewer) is left with his jaw hanging open. His confusion is compounded by the fact that no one else seems to remember the old miner. Then it dawns on him: "Stawpah was a Leaper!"

The alternate Gooshie reappears as this point to say that he knew a Stawpah (apparently the same one) who was killed in a mine explosion twenty years earlier.

Sam’s narration mirrors his confusion (and ours), "My Leap had taken a quantum twist. I no longer knew what was real and what was imagined. And, if imagined, whose mind was imagining it... mine or someone else’s?"

Here’s where the script puts forth ideas I’m still trying to figure out:

Sam

Dead men save miners’ lives and vanish in an aura of blue light?

Al

Books are full of stories about the dead saving the living.

Sam

So Stawpah was here?

Al

I remember him.

Sam

Why don’t they?

Al

That’s the way it is.

Sam

One moment he’s one of them and the next, they have no

memory and all you can say is ’That’s the way it is?’

Al

Sometimes, ’That’s the way it is’ is the best possible explanation.

Sam

Not for me.

Al

I’m not sure you’re ready for more.

Sam

Try me.

The old Gooshie sidles up besides him and sips at a shot. Sam looks at his reflection in the mirror and it is a completely different man, younger, with no beard.

Al

Can you accept what you see as reality?

Sam

Which reality do I accept?
(points to mirror)

That one?

(points besides him)

Or that one?

Al

Haven’t you accepted both, looking into all those mirrors?

As I said, I’m still trying to figure out the implications of this scene. From what I can gather, Stawpah was indeed dead, and so, most likely, is Gooshie. I don’t take it to mean Sam is dead, however.

From the outset of the series, the premise has been that something reached in and took control of the project, since termed God, Fate, Time or Whatever. Given this fantastic supposition, is it any more fantastic to take the logic one step further and suppose that when he breached the barriers of time, Sam became an instrument of GFTW who, up until that point, had been using only "the dead" to do the work? I don’t really know if that holds water, but it’s the best I’ve been able to come up with based on the dialog between the characters.

Before the viewer can digest this bizarre turn of events, however, we receive the ultimate doozie: that Sam has been Leaping himself, and that technically he could go home any time he wants to, as long as he can accept that he controls his own destiny. Of course, Sam balks at that notion. But Al persists, saying Sam will do this (Leap through time) only as long as he really wants to.

Again, the implications are huge here. This would mean that despite Sam’s longing for home that we’ve been privy to over the last five seasons, there is some secret part of him--one that not even he knows about--that wants to Leap on and on. So perhaps GFTW has been shepherding Sam up until now, sending him where he was needed so long as that desire to keep Leaping remained (whether Sam knew about it or not). Of course this is pure speculation on my part, but it seems to best fit the facts we’ve been presented with.

Seeming to be sinking under the weight of these revelations, Sam is finally permitted a familiar life preserver on which to cling. Al (the Observer) finally establishes a neural lock. The relief and joy that floods Sam’s face upon seeing him shows just how fortuitous the timing is. The friends rush outside.

Al is proceeding under the assumption that this is like a normal Leap, but before he can say much, Sam bursts forth with the news that he thinks the bartender is GFTW, or something they’ve never even thought of. Further conversation reveals that Stawpah was Al’s uncle, adding further fuel to this confusing fire.

Despite my high regard for this episode, I wish there was a more meaningful interchange for this, the last conversation we see between Al and Sam. Sam is mainly rambling in shock and Al is mainly confused by the weird things Sam is saying. It’s totally realistic and keeping within character, given the circumstances under which they’re finally able to meet. But it provided a poor send off to the relationship that was the show’s mainstay for five seasons. It wasn’t fair to us, nor was it fair to Sam or Al. But that’s the way it is.

In fact, you could see Bellisario setting the stage for Al’s actions for a season six that never came to be. His last words to Sam are: "I want you to take it easy until I can figure this out with Ziggy. I’m going to get you out of this Sam. No matter what it takes. I’m going to get you out of it." We know through five years of experience that Al will keep his word or die trying. But for now, he’s out of the equation.

As the Observer disappears behind the Imaging Chamber door, Al the bartender comes out into the night and sits with Sam. Now that he sees Sam beginning to understand the truth of his situation and accepting its implications, he’s more open than ever:

Al

If the priesthood had been your chosen profession,

even though the Church might send you from parish to parish,

don’t you have to accept responsibility for the life you lead?

Sam

Even priests can quit.

Al

That’s true. They can also take sabbaticals, especially

before embarking on a difficult new assignment.

Sam

Are you telling me the Leaps are going to get tougher?

Al

Where would you like to go Sam?

Sam

Home. I’d like to go home, but I can’t. I have a wrong

to put right for Al first. You knew that, didn’t you?

Al

(throwing an arm around Sam)

God bless, Sam.

Sam leaps.

There you have it; total acceptance by Sam of his situation. His choices are laid out before him: You can go home, or you can continue to do more good, working solo in tougher and tougher Leaps, without guidance from Al or Ziggy, most likely breaking the "rules" that have guided you up until now. You may never fully understand how things work (as you did with Project Quantum Leap) and people won’t remember you after you’re gone (like Stawpah)--but that’s the way it is. Sam’s choice is the crux of the entire Leap.

I want to say now that I don’t think Al the bartender is supposed to be God. I tend to think Sam was right when he said it was something they hadn’t even thought of. And "Al’s Place" is obviously some sort of testing ground for Leapers (living or dead) who must pass a test before they’re allowed to go to the next level. Presumably, Stawpah had repeatedly failed that test until Sam came along. That’s why he was the one driving the actions that led to the rescue of Tonchi and Pete. And Gooshie (and GFTW knows who else in the bar) is currently undergoing his own trial.

Instead of Leaping home right away, Sam (being Sam) chooses to help his best friend. Al the bartender even seems a bit surprised by this; surprised and proud, as if Sam didn’t disappoint his expectations, even though he’d earned the right to do so.

When the blue light fades, Sam finds himself standing in Beth’s living room as she’s dancing to "..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Georgia." Sam informs her that Al’s alive, and coming home.

Zoom in on the picture of young Al, which Leaps, leaving a black screen. In one version of the ending, the photo becomes an older shot of Al, surrounded by Beth and four girls. But in the aired version, a set of captions serves to inform us that Beth never remarried, she and Al have four daughters, and they are celebrating their 39th wedding anniversary in June.

Then up pop the six little words that have made this episode the object of passionate and everlasting hatred for Quantum Leap fans the world over:

To me, those words symbolize the best and happiest ending possible for Sam. Everybody seems to think that by helping Al, Sam sacrificed his chances for going home, or that something or someone (an evil bartender?) has forced him to keep Leaping forever.

Obviously Sam never returned home because he chose not to. It was stated time and time again in the episode that Sam is the ultimate master of his own destiny. That being the case, he can Leap home any time he wishes. Instead, he keeps on Leaping because he wants to continue to do good, to help people and put right what once went wrong. Given the man we have grown to know over five years of Leaps, the decision is in perfect keeping with his character. It’s what Sam would do, no matter what the fans may want. And Don Bellisario was right to allow the character to stay true to himself, despite the negative reaction he knew it would bring.

And for those of you out there who are still wearing your sack-cloth and ashes, wailing and gnashing at Sam’s lamentable fate, think of the alternative: a schmaltz-fest in which Sam returns home, an over-the-top happy ending that would have worn thin after about three viewings.

What we have now is so much better. Even after all these years, fans are still passionately discussing and debating this episode. And since Sam isn’t home, that leaves the door open to further QL stories, where we might see if Al can be as good as his word. It still baffles me that there hasn’t been a post-Mirror Image Quantum Leap television movie, especially since Don Bellisario, Dean Stockwell and Scott Backula have ALL said that they’d be interested in doing it. Given the increased original production slate over at the SciFi Channel (which is the only media outlet still airing QL reruns), I’m surprised there’s nothing in the works. Perhaps when JAG gets canceled, we’ll hear some good news.

Despite how you may feel about it, Mirror Image represents nothing less than an evolution of the Quantum Leap universe, and took the series’ premise great strides forward even as it was coming to a close. Yet it remains largely underappreciated and misunderstood by fans who feel somehow cheated that their hero never returned home.

To this I say, Quantum Leap was never what anyone expected from the outset, so why should the ending be any different? Get over yourselves and try watching again with an open mind. Put yourself in Sam’s shoes and start thinking like the character, instead of a bunch of whiny fanboys (or girls, as the case may be). You might just find yourself pleasantly surprised.&l

Through the Looking Glass

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 22

(First Appeared: March, 2001; First Light E-zine, Issue 101)

This piece is apparently too long for one post, so I’ve broken it up into two parts.

(NOTE: Dr. Samuel Beckett never returned home. Get over it already. So I say to my fellow Quantum Leap fans in this, my magnum opus deconstruction of the Quantum Leap series finale "Mirror Image." Serious television criticism or fannish overindulgence? You decide. I will say this: I still occasionally get positive comments from Leap fans who have managed to find this online, especially since it was reposted on the Quantum Leap fan site Al’s Place last year. I once even led a panel at a QL convention to discuss the ideas I put forth, so it must resonate on some level. And another thanks to Al’s Place webmaster Brian Greene for providing all the .jpgs I swiped to illustrate this column.)

Visit Al’s Place!

Ever since beginning DeFlip Side, I’ve intended to do a column on the Quantum Leap episode "Mirror Image." But I’ve held off for two reasons: first, it would be very specialized, and therefore appeal only to readers who also happen to be serious QL fans, a limitation I didn’t want to impose on myself or my audience; second, it would necessarily have to be very long and detailed, as there is very little extraneous material in the episode that doesn’t bear directly on the plot and ideas that Don Bellisario carefully constructed.

But here we are, with only four columns left to go. So I’ve decided to say screw the general reader. I’ve been wanting to get these thoughts down for a long time and if you’re not sufficiently versed in the QL universe to appreciate them, then that’s your too bad. Go see what Roo has to rant about this month, or the exact things E has to say, and leave me alone.

If however, you love Quantum Leap, and are still scratching your head over just what the hell happened in the series finale, I think I have it figured out for the most part. And I harbor none of the hatred the majority of Quantum Leap fans have for the episode. In fact, I think it was one of the most wonderful endings to a series I’ve ever seen, and an especially fitting and touching close for my favorite show of all time.

As I feared, this column is long--in fact, the longest one I’ve ever done. And it’s excessively detailed. But the devil is in the details, as they say, and never more so than in this episode. I found the most expedient approach to deconstructing it would be an act by act summary/analysis. I hope you stick with it until the end; it might just change your perspective...

TEASER--The Ultimate "Oh, boy!"

The episode starts out innocently enough, though from that alone we should realize this is no ordinary Leap. Instead of some ludicrous or embarrassingly compromising situation, Sam finds himself in the doorway of an ordinary looking bar. After minimal conversation with the bartender, Sam looks into the mirror to see none other than his own reflection. Oh, boy!

ACT ONE--"Time is funny here..."

Reacting to Sam’s shock, the bartender asks Sam how long it’s been since he took a good look at himself. Sam’s journey of self-discovery is already beginning. When he replies that it’s been a while, the bartender tells him "Let too much time go by and you’ll loose touch with reality." The statement is cryptic, and loaded with implications of what’s to come, but innocent enough for Sam to let slip without notice.

Sam steers the conversation, trying to figure out the date--reverting back to the behavior that has become second nature upon Leaping in. The bartender remains closemouthed. Here Bellisario is setting up behavior that will become one of Sam’s primary stumbling blocks as the episode progresses.

Sam turns to the newspaper and finally sees the date: August 8, 1953. "That’s the day I was born," he muses. Looking up at the clock he says, "I was born at twelve-thirty in Indiana--Forty-three minutes from now." To which the bartender replies, "No seventeen minutes ago. Time’s a little funny here." To say the least. Of course this is followed with a seemingly rational explanation about the town not going on Daylight Savings Time, but Sam is shown that he can’t rely on what seems perfectly obvious. It’s the second concrete clue that he’s been removed from reality as he’s come to know it. His reply: "Then I was born about the same time I walked through that door..." From an outsider’s perspective, I’d say he was born the EXACT time he walked through the door; a symbolic rebirth, if you will. Conquering death (i.e.--rebirth) is a common archetype in both the Hero and Shaman myth cycles--either of which the character of Sam Beckett can easily fit into. It also symbolizes that all bets are off; we’re dealing with a new level of Quantum Leaping, evident by the fact that Sam is himself.

Enter "Gooshie." The name is familiar to Sam, yet the bearded old man doesn’t fit his preconceived notions of who Gooshie should be--except for the bad breath. I always saw this as God, Fate, Time or Whatever (GFTW) as having some fun with Sam, or perhaps trying to jog his memory of a man he may or may not be swiss-cheeseing about.

Either way, upon learning his name, Sam shoots out the door after the little man and sees the first of the dopplegangers he’s to encounter throughout the Leap. Two boys are working on their bikes outside the bar. Sam’s gaze lingers on them, but he can’t place them. Viewers can recognize them as Sam’s "sons" when he leaped into bigamist Martin Ellroy in "A Tale of Two Sweeties."

Turning to go back into the bar, he sees its name, written in huge letters on the front window: "Al’s Place." Walking into the bar, he begins to put things together. He starts pumping "Al" for information, confronting him with the identical names, and familiar faces of the boys. But unlike the Observer, this Al gives up nothing, forcing Sam to try and figure it out for himself.

In walks Stawpah, the first character with no apparent relationship to Sam. But that doesn’t stop him from weighing Sam with his suspicious gaze and pronouncing judgment: "You no miner!" Sam confirms that he isn’t, and Stawpah proceeds to tell his life story. At this point it sounds like the ramblings of an old man, though Stawpah only claims to be forty--younger than Sam! Only later will his back story become relevant.

("You no miner!")

Stawpah is interrupted by Sam’s next reality-shattering experience, in the form of Tonchi walking through the door. Only Sam knows the man as Frank LaMatta. Of all the people whose lives he’s Leapt into, Sam is likely to have whole memories of Frank and Jimmy LaMatta, since he Leaped into Jimmy twice. Jimmy was also a favorite of Al’s, so it’s a good choice for GFTW to make.

Overcome with joy, Sam rushes over and hugs him like he would a brother, and calls him Frank. To which Tonchi responds like any of us would if a stranger tried to hug us, pushing Sam away and asking him who the hell he is. Sam says "Jimm..." before remembering himself and going silent. Stawpah is all over this, recalling Sam’s true name.

Now both men eye him with suspicion. Sam responds by giving his true name, but persists in asking about Tonchi’s brother. He does indeed have a brother with Down Syndrome, but his name is Pete, not Jimmy. Leaving for the mine, Tonchi tells Al to put his drink on his tab. Ever suspicious, Stawpah again speaks up, saying Sam may be with the state’s liquor control board, insistently demanding to see Sam’s ID.

As Sam pulls out his wallet, he receives more concrete proof that he’d stepped out of time: Velcro. If his wallet wasn’t enough, his holographic mug shot stares up at him from his futuristic New Mexico Driver’s License  (expiring in 1999).

Sam quickly puts it away, saying that he doesn’t need to show them any ID. Stawpah almost incites Tonchi to take it by force, but Al intervenes. Tonchi leaves, and Sam is left to marvel at the driver’s license as we finally get a look at what’s going on at Stallion’s Gate, NM, in 2000.

Al and Gooshie (the ones Sam is looking for) finally make their first appearance, and both are as baffled as Sam is, and can only come to one conclusion: he’s leaped into himself. And that being the case, there’s no way for them to find him...

As confusing as it is upon first viewing the episode, Act One lays down some ground rules and sets the stage for the drama that will unfold. We see Sam thrown into an environment that is deceptively simple, but where every memory or instinct leads him astray. It’s as if GFTW is telling him to forget what he knows, forget his preconceived notions of how things should work. It’s time to learn a new set of rules...

ACT TWO--"You’re not where you come from."

At the outset of this act, Sam echoes this burgeoning realization, as he says he’s surrounded by faces both strange and familiar. As if to taunt him, the TV in the corner is airing "Captain Z-RO!" a show about a research scientist who travels in Time and Space.

But he has little time to dwell upon the irony, since he’s introduced to yet another familiar-yet-unfamiliar face. Moe Stein, a.k.a. Captain Galaxy, whom Sam knew in his Leap into Future Boy, plops down next to him. Only Moe, who introduced the idea of the String Theory to a young Sam Beckett, is called Ziggy in this strange place. Not only that, he’s completely illiterate.

It’s yet another reversal of everything Sam has come to accept as established truth. Instead of a brilliant parallel-hybrid computer that can grasp the intricacies of time and space, we have a Ziggy who can’t utter a single sentence without mispronouncing a word. There is an initial shock, after which Sam dwells in serious thought.

We encounter our first shift on POV here, and it’s significant that it’s Stawpah’s. He speculates with Al that Sam is not who he pretends to be. When Al asks who he is, Stawpah says that when he figures it out, then he’ll know why Sam is there. It’s the first inkling we get that Stawpah is seeing some larger picture that has yet to reveal itself, our first clue as to why the man is so relentlessly inquisitive about Sam’s identity and purpose. Most telling is this exchange with Al:

Al

Maybe he’s here for the same reason you are... to get a beer.

Stawpah

I no drink beer Al. You know that.

Al

I forgot.

Stawpah

You no forget nothing, Al. I wonder what

happen around here if you did?

Al

Things might go a little ka-ka.

Not only does this exchange begin revealing the true nature of "Al’s Place", but it also jogs Sam’s memory of his first leap when the Observer give his explanation of why Sam found himself inhabiting the body of Tom Stratton years in the past ("You’re part of a time-travel experiment that went a little... ka-ka.").

Thought turns to action, and Sam pounces on Al for more info, saying he knows an Al who says ka-ka, and it’s not a common expression where he comes from. Al remains obstinate as ever, curtly reminding Sam that "you’re not where you come from." Not giving up, Sam asks the familiar question "Why am I here, Al?"

In response, the bartender produces a punchboard loaded with chances to win fifty bucks.... and the answer to Sam’s question. Sam eagerly punches a roll of paper out of one of the slots and unfolds it to reveal two cherries and a lemon. He again asks, "Why am I here Al?" Upon learning that Sam has not hit the jackpot, the bartender shakes his head and replies, "I guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself Sam."

It’s another lesson preparing Sam for what’s to come, meant to wean him off his customary reliance on the ready answers Al and Ziggy usually provide. It’s as if the bartender is saying that maybe, one time in a million, someone will tell you exactly what you need to do in life, or in any given situation, but you’ll mostly have to stumble along and figure things out for yourself.

A sudden series of sharp blasts from the mine whistle sends everyone running out the door. Sam follows, with Ziggy explaining that it means there’s trouble in the mine. Upon arriving, they learn that Tonchi and Pete (ie, Frank and Jimmy) have been trapped in a mine cave-in.

Throughout this act, Sam is striving to move from reaction to action as the rules of this strange, new reality settle on him bit by bit. But he remains largely and uncharacteristically at the mercy of those around him. This theme persists into....

For acts three, four and the conclusion, check out Pt.2! 

Best (and Worst) Reads of 2000

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 21

(First Appeared: February, 2001; First Light E-zine, Issue 100)

(The sheer volume of books on this list makes me so happy that I've since streamlined the "Best Reads" segment for the radio. Too many good books! I should have such problems every year. Upon reviewing the choices after all this time, I find the depths of my literary ignorance startling. To think I waited until age 29 to read genre books as basic as The Time Machine and The Once and Future King. It was also a banner year for non-fiction, an area that's usually a crapshoot with me. And with such a fat list you'd think there'd be at least one "What was I thinking?" title in the bunch. Nope. I still recommend reading (or not reading, as the case may be) all of these titles. As for my parting words about how much I'll miss doing my annual book segment, they proved unfounded thanks to the intervention of Howard Margolin and a little radio program he calls Destinies: The Voice of Science Fiction, where "Best Reads" celebrated its 10^th Anniversary in January, 2008. Listen here. So if you don't like my picks, blame Howard! )

Bibliophiles rejoice! February's here, and it's time to talk bnooks, books, books. Welcome to my third annual Best and Worst Reads column.

2000 was an odd year for me bookwise, and it's reflected in this year's choices. As I was compiling the list, it struck me that there were so many good, solid books I'd read, especially in the Science Fiction and Fantasy genres, that it was difficult to single out just one. In years past, the books practically picked themselves. 1984, Trainspotting, The Stars My Destination, The Silmarillion -- when you're dealing with titles like that, you have little choice in the matter.

But this year didn't hold as many obvious winners. So rather than judging them by the sheer magnitude of their brilliance, the books that made the cut this time around were the ones with which I felt the most personal connection. It sounds like a silly criterion. After all, isn't that personal resonance what makes a book good for anyone? But I have tried to strike a balance in my recommendations.

All my usual categories are here, and some are heavy with three-way ties. Consider yourself forewarned.

Best Media Tie-In

Q-Squared by Peter David

Okay, I'm cheating on this one. I actually read this book on my honeymoon seven years ago. But I couldn't bear to leave a category blank this year (as I did with so many on the 1999 list). I only read two tie-in novels in 2000 and both were turkeys.

This title, on the other hand, is a thoroughly enjoyable romp that features one of the best villains (?) Star Trek: The Next Generation ever produced. If you love Q, you'll love this book. It's got comedy, action and a story that spans across multiple incarnations of the NextGen universe. Check it out.

Best Science Fiction Novel (TIE)

a) Otherland Volume III: Mountain of Black Glass by Tad Williams

When making these lists, I'm always hesitant to recommend series' titles, especially if the book is a middle volume. But this is one of those titles I described above as having really touched me personally, and that's what nudged it into my personal number one.

Set in the not too distant future, the Otherland series is about a band of travelers trapped in a vast virtual reality computer network created by a mysterious synod called the Grail Brotherhood. As is typical with Williams' books, there are several main characters driving the long and complex plot to an as-yet unforeseen conclusion. There's so much going on that it's impossible to give a meaningful summary in this space.

If you're a fan of Williams' Fantasy series Memory, Sorrow and Thorn, you'll like Otherland. The characters and the VR worlds they inhabit are well-drawn, compelling and utterly absorbing. By the end of volume three, you'll care more for these folks than you realize. To start the adventure, check out Otherland Volume I: City of Golden Shadow.

b) The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guin

George Orr has a wonderful and terrible gift: whatever he dreams becomes reality. Frightened of his power, Orr goes to a dream therapist to learn how to repress his dreams. But upon learning of George's ability, the doctor has different plans.

Of course, that's the simpleton's version of the story. Lathe is another book that's difficult to summarize in any way that can really do it justice. True to form, Le Guin uses her unique voice to wrestle with heady social and human issues.

c) The Time Machine by H.G. Wells

We all know what a sucker I am for time travel. For the five of you who may be unfamiliar with the story, it's about a man in the late 19th Century who builds a time machine and travels to a far future inhabited by two divergent strains of humanity: the Eloi and the Morlocks. As far as social commentary goes, I thought Wells' Eloi and Morlocks were rather clumsy symbols of haves vs. have-nots.

Where the author really shines in this book is in his deft description of the fourth dimension (i.e. time). Wells takes a complex concept and crystallizes it in a way that I've never seen done so well.

Best Fantasy Novel (TIE)

a) Legends 3, edited by Robert Silverberg

This was one of three mass-market paperbacks derived from the hardcover anthology, which features all-new stories by various Fantasy authors set in their best-known Fantasy realms. I was particularly drawn to this volume because it housed all my favorites: Robert Jordan (Wheel of Time), Ursula K. Le Guin (Earthsea), Tad Williams (Memory, Sorrow and Thorn), and Terry Pratchett (Discworld). The other volumes have stories from Stephen King, Robert Silverberg, Orson Scott Card, Raymond E. Feist, Terry Goodkind, George R.R. Martin, and Anne McCaffrey. If you're a fan of any of these writers, Legends is like a personal invitation to visit old friends and hear something new about them. If only Tolkien were still alive!

b) The Charwoman's Shadow by Lord Dunsany

Taken from the blurb on the back of the book: "An old woman who spends her days scrubbing the floors might be an unlikely damsel in distress... [but this] is a beautiful tale of a sorcerer's apprentice (Ramon Alonzo) who discovers his master's nefarious usage of stolen shadows, and vows to save the charwoman from her slavery." Of course, Ramon Alonzo's quest is not so cut and dry in its execution, and he soon finds his own shadow in danger.

The symbolism of the shadow in this story reminded me a lot of A Wizard of Earthsea (Le Guin), my all time favorite Fantasy book. At heart this, too, is a coming-of-age story. But the antiquity of Dunsany's writing style lends a lyrical, almost fairytale-like quality to the text that makes it a joy to read.

You're probably scratching your head and wondering who Lord Dunsany is. He might be all but forgotten these days, but he was doing the Fantasy thing all the way back in 1926. And thanks to Del Rey's Impact imprint, you can now get quality trade paperbacks of a few of his works.

c) The Once and Future King by T.H. White

I'm recommending this retelling of the King Arthur legend with a caveat. Frankly, I could have done without the bulk of Arthur's childhood as laid out in the first half of the book. It was boring. But if you stick with it, the rewards are great.

The third section of the book is entitled "The Ill-Made Knight" and tells the story of Sir Lancelot, his deep relationship with King Arthur, and his love affair with Queen Guenever. It's a story that everyone is at least a little familiar with. But White does such a masterful job of portraying Lancelot as a heroic, yet tragically human figure that the character jumps to life and steals/redeems the entire book. The emotional interplay between the characters is complex and realistic. It's quite simply some of the best writing I've ever read. And for me to say that about what is basically a romance story, you know it has to be exceptional. I don't go in for that mushy jazz.

Best Novel, General Fiction

Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories and Other Disasters by Jean Shepherd

Humor and nostalgia sparkle throughout this collection of yarns drawn from Shepherd's 1930s childhood in Hohman, Indiana. Shepherd is a master with whose work you may already be familiar and not even know it.

If you're a fan of the MGM Christmas classic "A Christmas Story" (You'll shoot your eye out, Ralphie!) then you have Shepherd to thank. The movie was drawn from stories in this and another Shepherd book, In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash. The gang is all here -- The Old Man, whiny kid brother Randy, bully Scut Farkus and his toady Grover Dill, Kissel, Flick, Schwartz, the legendary Bumpus hounds, and Ralphie himself -- in one great story after another.

(Oh my God! I shot my eye out!)

Best Non-Fiction

The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester

You'd never imagine that the story behind the OED could be so interesting, but the title says it all. When Professor James Murray began compiling words for the dictionary, he received more than 10,000 entries from one Dr. W.C. Minor. But when Murray went to visit the man he  had grown to respect so much through their correspondence, he found himself at the doorstep of an asylum for the criminally insane.

Winchester deftly weaves the stories of the studious Murray and the schizophrenic Minor into an engaging, highly readable nugget of history. The book was doubly engaging for the writer in me, but you don't have to be a fan of words to enjoy this fascinating story.

Best History

Undaunted Courage: Merriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West by Stephen E. Ambrose

This account of the Lewis and Clark Expedition actually made me wish I was back in Missouri. While in college, I'd seen some highway signs commemorating the Lewis and Clark trail, and even visited the Lewis and Clark museum housed under the St. Louis Arch. But at the time I was so busy hating the fact that I was stuck in Missouri that I completely failed to appreciate it. I wish I knew then what I know now.

Ambrose relates the history of the expedition from Lewis' point of view, in a book that could equally be considered a Lewis biography. But the westward journey of the Corps of Discovery takes center stage. Perhaps most impressive is Ambrose's ability to convey the sheer magnitude of the undertaking and what an incredible feat Lewis and Clark pulled off by getting to the Pacific and back unscathed under the ever-present threats of the elements and hostile Native Americans. It will give you a solid understanding of the social and political climate of the time, and impart some of the passion and pride both men must have felt in making their accomplishment.

Best Biography

Galileo's Daughter by Dava Sobel

Despite what the title says, this book is about the exceptional life and accomplishments of Galileo Galilei. Oh, his daughter is in it, but only in an anecdotal, peripheral way. I suspect that the publisher wanted to make the subject matter more palatable to the PC/Oprahfied morons who maintain that dead white guys have nothing left to teach us, and therefore punched up the daughter aspect. Of course, that's pure speculation.

Regardless, Sobel delivers an excellent and enjoyable telling of the life of the man whose breakthroughs in astronomy and physics changed the world, and made him a target of the Catholic Church. As with her previous book Longitude (my choice for Best History in 1998), Sobel proves herself a master at making pivotal moments in history accessible, engaging and relevant to our lives today.

Biggest Disappointment

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Different terms have attached themselves to this book: "masterpiece," "bible of the Beat Generation," "essential," "defiant" etc. So when I picked it up, I think I was justified in expecting some seminal work of American Literature that would change my life.

What I got instead were a couple of drunken, loser, bums mooching their way across America in a quest to avoid work and destroy other people's property, and then justifying it by couching it in a romantic/rebellious light. I just don't buy it. Then again, I'm more a realist than a romantic, so the problem might be with me. But I honestly don't see how anyone with even the most rudimentary notions of common courtesy and self-responsibility can relate to this book. Okay. Sermon over.

Worst Read of the Year

Quantum Leap: Mirror's Edge by Carol Davis

Here I go, biting the hand that once fed me. I'm flinching at the possible professional ramifications of my decision to be honest, but I think my professional contribution has earned me the right to hang myself if I want.

This book was a dismal close to the Quantum Leap novel series. The characterization was terrible. Sam and Al seemed to hate each other, and Sam acted like a self-absorbed jerk throughout. There was no discernible reason for Sam's Leap to drive the plot (or lack thereof) forward. And the conclusion was such a confusing succession of Leaps that even after rereading it numerous times, I still have no friggin' clue what was supposed to have happened. I do not boggle alone. Every fan I've spoken to feels the same way. In light of all I owe to the novel program, I feel absolutely compelled to say that it deserved a more worthy swansong.

So conclude my literary picks for 2000, for better or worse. If forced to choose a single title to recommend above all others, it would have to be (drumroll please....) Ambrose's Undaunted Courage. I reel at the fact that a work of non-fiction has risen so high in my estimation, considering how much non-fiction books usually bore me. But I told you from the get-go that it had been an odd literary year for me. This is just the cherry on the cake.< P>

I'm also reeling a bit at the realization that this is First Light's last-ever February issue, and that I will no longer get to bash you over the head with my literary recommendations. Of all the columns I write, this is the only one that I'm consciously building toward all year long. I'm gonna miss it.

As always, if you read any books based on my recommendation, let me know what you thought. And if you have any picks of your own, I'm all ears.

Read on!

Best Reads Redux -- Best of the Best

1998: Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

1999: The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester

2000: Undaunted Courage by Stephen E. Ambrose

-30-

I'm Telling You For The Last Time

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 20

(First Appeared: November, 2000; First Light E-zine, Issue 97)

(The title to this column refers to my seemingly endless rants about the then-woeful state of SF television, though in my defense said rants did arise from a much meatier question: "2001: A Space Odyssey—Love it or Hate it?" Though this column is more than seven years old, I still get asked that question fairly regularly, most recently from my friend Eric in December of 2007. So I guess the issue still has some relevance, even if much of the rest of the column doesn't, television-wise. I still adhere to the "elitist" ideals I set down here, but I did lie in one respect: this is by no means the final time I talk about genre television in DeFlip Side. And a note to Roo: If you're still out there buddy, and you happen to see this, give me a holler. It's been too long.)

My worst fear has been realized. I am a Sci-Fi elitist.

Regular readers of my column know I've spent a lot of time railing about those who try to put labels on Sci-Fi, or who try to define the genre to suit their own narrow ideas of what it should or shouldn't be. Elitism is anathema in my book. So how did I become that which I hate most?

The whole thing started a few weeks ago when Randy Dannenfelser--more commonly known as Roo in these here parts, author of monthly Rants--e-mailed me with a simple question: "2001: A Space Odyssey--One of Science Fiction Cinema's greatest achievements or the most boring SF movie ever made?"

I wrote back without hesitation. Greatness, of course. My reasons are many, but chief among them is that the movie makes no apologies. It's long. It's slow moving. It demands a great attention span. It doesn't pander to the mass market, or try to make the subject matter more appealing through the cunning use of needless explosions.

Instead, it highlighted the things about space that would really be scariest to anyone actually traversing vacuum: coldness, utter silence, and the frailty of human life within it. You always hear the cliché about old sailors respecting the sea; this was the first movie I ever saw that gave space due respect.

And what of the Monolith, you ask? What about all that jazz at the end, with the swirling Technicolor and the little baby space fetus?

Simple, silly. Remember where the movie started, back in the Stone Age? If you watch, you'll note that it was the Monolith that gave the caveman the idea to smash stuff. In essence, it showed man how to manipulate his environment and conquer Earth. So when Dave Bowman enters the Monolith a man and emerges as Starbaby on the other side, he is reborn. Once again the Monolith has ushered man onto the next evolutionary step, this time to conquer space. That's how I interpreted it anyway. Not so hard.

("My god… it's full of stars.")

But low and behold, Roo shoots back that he hates the movie and proceeds to call me "one of those Sci-Fi elitists."

At first, I vehemently denied the charge. Hey, I'm no better at discerning greatness than the next guy. I just know what I like. I rank Red Dwarf and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy right up there with 2001. They're all great in my opinion.

But I've been thinking on it since, and I don't know who I was trying to convince more: him or me. I've come to realize that I am an elitist, if by elitist you mean someone who demands a scrupulous attention to detail and internal continuity in whatever universe I'm currently visiting. Originality helps as well. By that definition, the absurdity of Deep Thought and Slartibartfast can easily co-exist with HAL 9000 and Kubrick's avant-garde vision. I'll gladly suspend disbelief on any level so long as you don't insult my intelligence with inconsistencies.

I don't know why most viewers are willing to cut movies and television shows such slack in this area. If you're reading a book and the author doesn't build a credible universe, or changes the rules of said universe willy-nilly just because it's convenient for advancing the plot, you would rightly feel cheated and say that the book sucks. But when the same thing happens in a movie, most people just shrug their shoulders and say it's only a movie.

As for television...

I'm so sick of writing about TV. In fact, I've written about it so often that my fingers are cramping of their own accord, desperately trying to stop me before I do it again. But I'm afraid I must. There's just such a wealth of crap out there that I'm positively compelled to pan it. Don't worry. Considering that First Light is almost at the end of its run, it will likely be the last time.

I can't say I was jazzed about any of the shows that premiered this season. Of them all, the two I wanted to check out most were Freaky Links and Gene Roddenberry's Starship Andromeda.

The advance press for Freaky Links intrigued me because it seemed like it would be a departure from the same old television fare. But trouble struck early. A few weeks before the premiere, the creators pulled out of the project. Not a good sign. To paraphrase one of those who abandoned ship: "They ask for something cutting edge and original, and when we deliver it they water it down and make it exactly like everything else on the air." Sure enough, the premier episode seemed like The X-Files meets Friday the 13th--The Series. I was entirely underwhelmed. Judging from the ratings, I'm not alone. FOX has already decided to pull the show.

Herc as Kirk didn't do much better. I liked the look of Andromeda initially; it seemed like an evolution of the production design of the original Star Trek. But the costumes and sets can only go so far. The aliens looked like something out of a bad B-movie, modeled (so far as I was able to tell) on bats, opossums and monkeys. Why do producers think it necessary for every alien race they create to have a corollary to a species found on Earth? And why do they presume that Terrans in the far future will make off-handed references to things found in 20th Century society? At one point, the generic maverick-engineer character mentioned riding on a Harley-Davidson! Not for nothing, but people living even a hundred years from now, much less the far future this show is set in, will find Harley-Davidsons as relevant to their lives as we do Stanley Steamers and airships. It's just not plausible.

(Less than stellar: Kevin Sorbo as Captain Dylan Hunt in Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda.)

As for Andromeda's storyline, it seemed like a rehashing of a lot of standard SF fodder. And the little of it I've watched since has featured chillingly bad dialog. Aside from that, its biggest problem is that nothing about it particularly stands out. However, I think that may have more to do with me than the show. I've about reached my threshold of watching folks sit on the bridge of a starship doing battle with alien nogoodnicks. Save it for the Trek movies, where it's usually done well.

There are other shows to choose from, of course. Dark Angel is getting good ratings. Hmmm... Hot chick in skimpy clothes cavorting around a cyberpunk future. Can't imagine why that one is doing well. As for me, I'll skip James Cameron, thank you very much. He's one of the worst perpetrators of continuity fraud in Science Fiction. Just watch T2 closely and you'll see what I mean.

 ("I'll be back… even though the events of the sequel completely negate the timeline that gave rise to my existence in the first place. Just watch Robert Patrick shape-shift and try not to think too much.")

Cameron also started the trend of stupid shoot-em-up action movies masquerading as Sci-Fi. There I go, being elitist again. But answer me this. If you dressed Aaaaaanold or Van Damme in period clothes and dropped them into the countryside of Victorian England, where they proceeded to run around smashing skulls and blowing things up, would you consider it a Merchant Ivory flick? Of course not. So why then do we call it Science Fiction if they do the same thing wearing a space suit on Mars, or traveling through time? It doesn't make sense.

People have settled, I think, because they've come to realize that the 2001s and DS9s are few and far between. But I refuse to lower my standards just for the sake of having something to watch. I might just as well start listening to Top 40 radio, or reading John Grisham books. Fat chance. I'll never let anyone, television programmers or otherwise, force me into the rankings of lowest common denominator. Faced with such a choice of labels, I'll take elitist every time.

*          *            *

A word on MTV's FEAR, which I praised so lavishly in my last column: I'm withdrawing my endorsement of the show. The second episode sucked. Once again, those MTV programming geniuses completely ruined the show, cutting it down to one hour (far too fast a pace to create the type of mood necessary for a good scare) and replaced the horror of being alone in a terrible dark place with the hokum of performing séances and doing other dumb crap. Don't waste your time. And if you already have on the basis of my recommendation, I heartily apologize.

-30-

Exercises in Fear

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 19

(First Appeared: October, 2000; First Light E-zine, Issue 96)

(NOTE: I remember my dad's reaction upon reading this column. He had just read my "Dead White Males" piece and seemed impressed by it. When I ran this one by him, he kind of cocked his head and said that it didn't seem as if I'd put as much work into it. He was absolutely right, of course. I felt guilty for this last minute effort at the time. But as I reread it all these years later, I find myself laughing out loud at the ridiculous dream sequence. I still rarely remember my dreams and they are never this detailed, so I'm tickled to have such a complete record of such a rare personal event. As for my review of MTV's FEAR, all of my worst fears about the way the show might start sucking came true in short order. I have to stop using words like "brilliant" so cavalierly—although FEAR was a groundbreaking concept, and ushered in a genre of reality TV that lives on in shows like Ghost Hunters. So that's something, I guess... This also marks a turning in DeFlip Side history, as I had begun talking to Howard Margolin about making DeFlip Side a monthly radio feature on Destinies: The Voice of Science Fiction. )

So get this.

I'm having this dream the other night in which I'm sitting in a restaurant. I don't know what restaurant it is. I don't even have that dream-sense of knowing where you are. (It looks a lot like what I've always imagined Tavern on the Green in Central Park to look like: wainscoting, green floral print velvet wallpaper, those billowy scarves hanging down from the center of the ceiling and radiating out toward walls that are bordered in ivy and little white lights… Hey, I've never been to Tavern on the Green, and I have a feeling that if it did look like that, interior decorators would kill themselves upon entering. But that's neither here nor there. I was in a restaurant.)

(Okay, so maybe my dream restaurant wasn't exactly "Tavern on the Green" but you gotta admit that the place is kind of a gaudy nightmare.)

Anyway, I'm dining alone. I don't know where my wife is. My dream-self did have a wife, but she was nowhere in sight. I'm eating something that looks a lot like roast Long Island Duck with gravy and garlic mashed potatoes centered in a nest of zucchini, carrots and yellow squash (even in my dreams I have great taste in food). The artistic culinary presentation cues me in to the fact that this is an expensive place. I look around and the restaurant is filled with well-dressed diners.

One little girl in particular catches my eye. She's clad in a pink dress with ribbons on the shoulders, and is wearing a straw hat with a pink ribbon band. She looks like she just got finished with the Easter pageant, white gloves and all, and is sitting with her mom and dad, talking a mile a minute.

She's so animated that I get up and cross over to her table, eager to know what she's so excited about. When I reach the table, I just plop myself down, giving her parents a nod. They nod back, all smiles, as if it's a perfectly normal occurrence for thirty-year-old men who are dining alone to horn in on their mealtimes and give their daughter rapt attention.

I turn to the little girl. Brown curls fall to her shoulders, and two baby-blues sit atop her freckled nose. She's adorable, and can't be more than four or five. I ask her what the excitement is all about and she eagerly tells me that she lost a tooth and is hoping the tooth fairy comes to visit her. She punctuates her point with an ear-splitting grin and probes at the stub of a new tooth with her tongue.

Well, we keep talking. And though I have no recollection now of what we were saying, my dream-self was very impressed by her articulate manner. Impressed, I asked her how someone her age could be so glib and intelligent.

"Because," she says, smiling and fixing me with her big blue eyes, "I AM THE ANTICHRIST." Her expression doesn't change, but her voice is now deep and her eyes begin to glow crimson.

Startled, I get up and back away. A little boy, maybe three- or four-years-old with flaxen hair and chubby cheeks stands beside her. His eyes also begin to glow red as he says in the same satanic voice: "I AM THE ANTICHRIST, TOO."

On the verge of panic, I look around and all the kids in the place are staring up at me with glowing red eyes and matter-of-fact expressions. Then I realize that all of them are the Antichrist and this is how Satan plans to usher in Armageddon, using the children as his tools.

This epiphany sets my mind racing with the problem of how I'm going to stop this. As if I could...

It's at this point that I wake up. I'm more intrigued than creeped out, since I never remember my dreams, much less in such startling detail. At most I get a vague hint of images and never anything like the narrative continuity that this dream had. Is there some special reason for this clarity, this sharp memory? Is someone trying to tell me something?

Then it hits me. The date is Friday the 13th! It's the world-ending year 2000! There's active fighting in the Middle East! And, sitting like a bleached, bloated cherry-corpse on my cake of disaster is tonight's full moon! It all fits! Coincidence? I THINK NOT!

So that's my weird-but-true story for this Halloween issue of First Light. I usually try and write about my latest real-life ghostly encounters for the October column, but seeing as I used all my new ones up in months past (see March & August 2000 columns), this dream sequence will have to do. Still, the timing was a bit odd.

Of course, I sit and write this on the most beautiful Saturday the 14th you've ever seen. It's about 80 degrees out, the sun is shining and I just got through washing my car and mowing the lawn. If these are heralds of the end of days, keep 'em coming. If not for the pumpkins I picked last week, I'd never believe it's October. Still, it's that time of year when we want to be frightened. And if it's fear you're looking for, have I got the thing for you. You need look no further than MTV.

No, it's not the new N'Sync video. I speak of MTV's new show, FEAR. I've held off on commenting on the new television season since I don't like to judge new shows on the basis of a single episode (no matter how much this year's crop deserves to be panned thus far). But in this case I'll make an exception. FEAR is sheer brilliance. The show has taken "reality" programming to a new level, combining the best elements from Survivor and The Blair Witch Project to create some of the most effective and entertaining television ever.

Here's the premise: Gather a bunch of twenty-somethings together and bring them to some reputedly haunted place to complete a series of challenges, working only in the wee small hours of the night, over the course of a few days. Those who can complete the tasks and stay until the end will walk away with a handful of cash.

Simple, right? Even sounds a bit hokey. But the way the show is produced puts the viewer right into the contestants' shoes. Each player is outfitted with a personal steady-cam that stays trained on their face the entire time. This creates the unique visual effect of having the player stay seemingly still while the background hops about around them. That alone lends the viewer a feeling of being there with them.

The haunted locations are also eerie as hell. The first episode takes place in an abandoned prison. The group gathers in a "safe house" (in this case, the prison chapel) and draws lots to see who will complete the first set of challenges. A computer in the safe house details the history of the places they need to visit and tells them what they have to do.

In the prison episode, players were told to go to locations like the hole, death row, the electrocution chamber, and other areas of the prison reputed for murders and torture. Interspersed with the descriptions of these areas are testimonials from prisoners, COs and professional psychics, telling what types of violence were common to the area, who was killed where, and what type of psychic energy resides in the place. Once these psychological time bombs are planted, the challenges begin.

The challenges are simple. Go to those places alone and stay there in the dark for fifteen minutes. Again, sounds hokey. But this is where the fun begins. You get to watch as these kids confront these places and become truly terrified. I was scared myself just watching. The fear sucks you in. Of course, players have the option to back out of a challenge. But that means they have to pack up and leave in the morning, sans cash. A few of them did, and I can't say I blame them.

As the game progresses, remaining players have to actively hunt for ghosts and complete increasingly creepy challenges. It's a real blast.

Of course my biggest fear is that MTV will ruin FEAR, as it routinely does to all of its shows with any spark of hope, by over-hyping it or over-playing it. Thankfully, it's been the opposite so far. I've only seen the show air twice, and both times late at night. Maybe if it doesn't become a phenomenon it will keep its edge.

The next episode is set in an abandoned hospital and looks to be just as good, if not better, than the debut. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Of course, this is our last specifically spooktacular issue. But rest assured that I'll faithfully report any new brushes with the other side as they occur. And you may even have a chance to keep on hearing about them, even after First Light has ceased publication.

Hmmmmm... Another omen of things to come? Is there life for "DeFlip Side" beyond First Light? Stay tuned...

;-)

Editrix's Epiphany: So that's what that show was! Was channel surfing, came to his guy with a camera on his head. Friends were telling him he had to go into the Hole. I watched for a bit, and yessss, was spooked! I liked the clip I saw. Thanks for clearing up the mystery, Chris!

In Defense of Dead White Males

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side, Vol. 1, No. 18

(First Appeared: September, 2000; First Light E-zine, Issue 95)

(NOTE: This is, hands down, the most well received and highly commented on DeFlip Side I ever wrote back in the First Light days, and all those huzzahs came from guys. My bile was up when I wrote it, and my rant apparently tapped into the collective male unconscious. Not surprising, since it's so easy to hate Oprah and the politically correct establishment she represents, both of which are stronger than ever. The one thing that surprised me was that most people said they felt the end was tacked on so I could shoehorn some non-genre observations into a SciFi/Fantasy-themed zine. Nothing could be further from the truth. It was the ending I had in mind all along. If there's one genre that's all about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, it's SF&F.)

Has the publishing industry become so devoid of balls--both figurative and literal--that the only way a book can be considered for publication is if it's a potential candidate for the Oprah book club? From all the evidence I see around me, the answer is a resounding "YES!"

I recently read an interview with Stephen Ambrose in the September 2000 edition of BookPage. In the course of the interview, he discussed his runaway bestseller Undaunted Courage, which chronicled the Lewis and Clark expedition. It was a great book, and one I highly recommend. But the sad fact is that had Ambrose not had such a long career as an author, the manuscript would likely have been dismissed out of hand. Why? As he said in the interview:

"I wrote books that got very nice reviews, but it used to be I'd be lucky if they sold 20,000 copies... And then Undaunted Courage is the one that just burst. At first, my editor... didn't want me to do the book. She said, 'Nobody wants to read about dead white males.' I said, 'I do...'"

(The Best Book You Almost Never Had the Chance To Read)

When I read that I had to put the article down and walk off my anger. At first I thought I was angry at the editor's gall. Who the hell is she to say what we do and do not want to read? And what kind of stupid criteria is that? If the book contained the same information but was about dead black males, would that make it worthy of publication? How about dead white women? But it dawned on me that this attitude was bigger than one editor, bigger than one book. It's indicative of a trend that's been sweeping the publishing industry.

They have found a new god, and it is called Dysfunction.

I get The New York Times every Sunday and always make a bee-line for the Book Review. I don't know why. Week after week, page after page, book after book, be they fiction, nonfiction, memoir, what have you, it's like a never-ending parade of misery, child abuse, incest, depression, repression, rape, insecurity and whining. I don't mean to single out the ladies here, but it seems that unless a book has something to do with fucked up women leading fucked up lives these days, no publisher wants anything at all to do with it.

The reason I specifically bash Oprah is because she exploits the trend to no end. Between her banal show, her vainglorious magazine and her book club, she has half the country believing that they are victims in dire need of therapy, justice, closure and daily affirmation. It's an exercise in bleakness and self-pity that's clogging the arteries--and bookshelves--of America with bullshit.

Anyone who frequents bookstores has seen racks, tables, sometimes entire sections, that prominently and proudly feature that insidious "O" that symbolizes Oprah's book club. And its malignancy has spread to the publishing houses. Who can blame publishers? They're in business to make money, and if Oprah features a book on her show, it's an instant bestseller. So they publish more of the same types of books. And Oprah recommends them and they sell a gazillion copies. And so the publishers put out yet more of the same and pretty soon that one voice gets so loud that it drowns out every other.

(The Mark of the Beast)

Now, you might say that this trend is only fair turn-about. And you'd have a point. After all, 'history' as we've been taught it, has been largely shaped and shaded by the perceptions, concerns and prejudices of white males. There are undoubtedly countless important stories, important lives, important points of view that have been lost forever because they didn't make a blip on the radar of the white male mainstream.

But to rectify the situation by making a blanket judgment that anything a dead white male might have to teach us is worthless not only flies in the face of common sense, but borders on dangerous. It's no different than endorsing a revisionist view of the Holocaust. In order to know where we're going as a society, as a people, it's vitally important to know where we've been, whites and all.

I have to give Ambrose credit for sticking to his guns and writing about what he thought was important. To quote him further from the same interview (this one is a tad lengthy, but stick with it; he puts it far more eloquently than I'm able):

"I want young people in America, now and in the future, to understand that freedom doesn't come free, that the blessings they've got by being Americans were paid for. And I want them to know who paid and how and what they did. For a quick example: I want them to know more about Thomas Jefferson than [his relationship with] Sally Hemmings. I want them to know that Thomas Jefferson wrote the Virginia Statute of Religious Liberty, and I want everyone else -- be they Muslim, Buddhist, Rainbow People, Protestant, Catholic, or whatever -- to know that their right to believe what they want to believe and worship as they choose to worship comes from Thomas Jefferson."

I'm with you, Stephen! What I want to know is when the importance of any of this came into question. What happened to all those truths we held as self-evident? We've become so collectively obsessed with over-analyzing our motivations and second-guessing our every move through a lens of political correctness and liberal guilt that no one has the courage to take a stand any longer. And it's that deficit that has led to the crisis of empowerment that fuels the Oprah-centric-let's-have-a-pity-party-and-lick-each-other's-wounds-and-all-try-to-feel-better-about-ourselves-through-collective-misery mindset we've devolved into.

Real empowerment comes from taking a stand and sticking to your principles, come what may. It comes from taking what you have and turning it to your advantage.

I say we need to remember those dead white males now more than ever, because above all they represent the idealism and determination that forge great achievements. Without those elements, you'll never find what you're looking for in life. Gender and ethnicity are inconsequential to that simple truth. It's one of the few things that's bigger than Oprah.

That's why I get so angry when entire groups are singled out as either more important or less important, based on the fickle whims of political correctness. Good and bad can be found in all quarters. We should focus on the good, no matter its source.

By this point you're probably asking what in the hell any of this has to do with Science Fiction or Fantasy. It's simple. At heart I think the reason many of us embrace these genres is because they, too, are built on idealism and determination.

When the hero takes up the quest in a Fantasy novel, does he or she complain? Do they stop to question why they're doing it? No. He does it because he must. She does it because no one else can. Above all, they do it because they believe in something bigger than themselves. Sure, we enjoy these stories for their sword play and sorcery, their fantastic creatures and escapist settings. But I think they touch us so deeply because they are terrific metaphors for life. They tackle complex, seemingly insurmountable problems with simple solutions: courage, faith, perseverance.

Of course, none of those things make for very good daytime television. You get much better ratings when you have pregnant teens throwing chairs at their parents, or self-proclaimed experts droning on and on about how society is to blame for all of your woes.

But if that's the "reality" they're proffering, I think I'll stick with the fantasy.

-30-

Don't Read This If You Don't Care About First Light Coming to an End or Good SF Television or Anything Like That

by Christopher DeFilippis

DeFlip Side Vol. 1, No. 17

(First Appeared: August 2000; First Light E-zine, Issue 94)

(NOTE: I should have shortened the title of this column simply to, "Don't Read This." Here's a dirty little secret: Whenever I write something about what's on TV, it's because I could think of absolutely nothing else to write about. These kinds of pieces date hard, and amount to little more than filler. And this one is no exception. Why would anyone care what was on the Sci-Fi Channel in the summer of 2000? No wonder the First Light editor decided to end the zine. So I post it under duress, only in the interests of keeping these archives complete. In an interesting side note, I still have no clue as to why I keep doing "DeFlip Side." Everything I say here about the writing process still holds true. And finally, the Quantum Leap episode of Sciograpy I mention at the end of this piece actually featured a cover shot of my novel Foreknowledge. Download the .zip file and look for it at about the 2:40 mark. Don't blink or you'll miss it. Go me!)  

So, I only have eleven more cracks to try and get this thing right, eh? Or so that's what Editrix E has told me, and the rest of the FL staffers. As of the June/July 2001 edition, First Light will be closing up shop and taking "DeFlip Side" along with it--unless, of course, there has been a multinational conglomerate eyeballing this column and waiting for me to become a free agent so they can make my writing the centerpiece of a million dollar web startup. Hey, if it could happen to the guy who launched www.doodie.com why not me?

But barring the intervention of such deep pockets and questionable judgment, I only have two-hands'-and-a-toe's-worth of months to pummel you with my unsolicited opinions, banal observations and clumsy attempts at humor.

E told me that the theme of this issue would be "Changes"--I guess to mirror those occurring at First Light. In light of that, my intent for this month was to take stock of why I began writing this column in the first place, and then see if I accomplished everything I originally set out to do.

And then I thought of all the readers out there gleefully taking their own lives long before they reached the final paragraph. I mean, how goddamned boring would that be? What the hell do you care WHY I sit here plunk out this copy month after month? Bottom line, you enjoy it or you don't. If you do, I am humbled. If you don't, get bent. Relief is a mere mouse-click away.

To be honest, I never had an agenda other than to keep writing and occasionally sound off about things that really piss me off. And since I'm not a hostile person at heart, that means I usually sit down and riff about whatever's on my mind at that given moment. Some months the copy flows. Others I sit here for six hours laboriously choking out the first two paragraphs. And no matter the changes occurring at this 'zine, that will never be any different.

So I guess what I'm saying is that you won't be seeing many changes around here. The copy could be as droll as the Gore/Liberman ticket or as scintillating as my desktop wallpaper of Jennifer Aniston in sheer gauze reclining under a waterfall (THANK YOU VANITY FAIR!!!). Stay tuned.

(The best memory about this entire miserable column!)

And speaking of staying tuned (does anyone else smell a segue?) I want to tell you all about what I've been doing on my summer vacation. You see, Sci Fi TV is back and you can catch it all on, well, Sci-Fi TV.

Yes, I speak of none other than "The Summer of Sci-Fi" on the Sci-Fi Channel. In the space of a couple of years, the Sci-Fi Channel has gone from a re-run laden cable backwater to the smartest, slickest, boldest channel on the tube. I've haven't seen such innovative--or shameless--self-promotion since the early days of MTV. And on the whole, it's warranted. My television producer hat is continuously doffed to the creative team that labors to maintain such an aggressive channel identity.

The re-runs, of course, still make up the bulk of programming. They're the mainstay of all cable outlets after all. But Sci-Fi is always coming up with ways to package them that lends continuous appeal.

Let's use the Trek example. When Sci-Fi execs swiped exclusive rights to air the original Star Trek series, they went all out. Instead of the syndi-cut versions that I grew up with, they presented remastered, uncut versions, most of which hadn't seen air since the original run.

But what to do with all that lost commercial revenue? Simple: expand the eps to an hour and a half, fill the remaining time with introductions and commentaries from the series regulars (Shatner and Nimoy each did special wrap-arounds for all 72 episodes) and bolster it with "behind the scenes" bumps where the supporting cast and guest actors relay stories about the production particulars for any given episode. All in all, it was a terrific way to make something old new again.

This summer, they're doing something equally fresh with their re-runs. They've scrapped a set on-air schedule for "Sci-Fi World." Each day from 10 am to 4 pm is devoted to a mini-marathon of a single show. So say, like me, you're plunking along, researching an editorial, and the television in your cubicle (have I mentioned before how great it is to work for a cable a company?) is spitting out the same old mindnumbing stream of CNN. What do you do?

That's right. You flip over to the Sci-Fi Channel and low and behold, there are six continuous hours of Wonder Woman in progress. You're not a hard-core fan, but what a rack! Go Wonder Woman!

(The second best memory about this entire miserable column!)

Now isn't that better than another story about the Republican National Convention? And if you get really lucky, it could be Quantum Leap, or Time Tunnel, or another true favorite. In fact, the only SF shows that seem to be missing from their roster are Buck Rogers and The Greatest American Hero. If you like it, you'll eventually catch it.

But I can hear you now. "What if," you wail despairingly, "I don't have access to my own personal television all day?!? What am I to do?" Fret not. That's where the original programming comes in.

As in all other areas, Sci-Fi makes a lot of ballsy choices in filling its original production slate. In my opinion, they pay off. Three shows in particular are worth a look: The Invisible Man, Farscape (which I mentioned in my last column) and Crossing Over with John Edward.

(Cavalcade of Cancellation: Memories of Sci-Fi Prime circa Y2K.

I can't believe I ever fell for John Edward's cold-reading bullshit.)

Like the channel it airs on, The Invisible Man takes an old idea and makes it new again. What stands out most is the writing. Sharp, funny and quick, I've never seen another first-season SF show find its legs so fast and run so far in such a short period of time. The characters are quirky, well-defined and will seem like old friends after a single episode. I don't know of any other show besides Quantum Leap where I've been able to say that.

Farscape I told you about. To recap quickly, think of it as an adult space opera. It's not afraid to be crude when it needs to, will actually openly refer to sexuality and features likable, compelling characters. Red Dwarf meets Star Wars. It's a real breath of fresh air. The only thing I can't stand about it is its reliance on Henson creatures for many of its aliens. I never found the Henson look particularly suited to adult fair. But, seeing that it's primarily backed by Henson Productions, I don't think things will change anytime soon. I'll manage to live with it.... some how.

The last show deserving special mention is Crossing Over with John Edward. Edward is a medium who can relay messages from the other side. And that's what the show is all about; he scans his studio audience, picks up a vibe from some of them, and proceeds to deliver messages from the dead. He's so accurate it's spooky. If you watch once, your doubts will disappear.

I was watching it one night and jokingly wondered if any of my dead relatives were with me at that moment. No sooner did I complete the thought than did a plate fall off a shelf on the other side of the room and crash to the floor. After swallowing my heart, I went to investigate. The plate had been in a holder and placed behind a matching cup at the top of a shelf we have hanging in our dining room. I got the stepladder and investigated. Thanks to the dust, I could make a clear reconstruction.

There were three trails that corresponded to the three points where the plate holder rested on the wood, leading off the right edge of the shelf. At first I thought it might be a vibration or something from the air conditioner, but nothing else had budged--not the cup that went with the plate that had fallen, nor the eight other pieces in the set. It was as if someone had carefully pushed the plate and holder off the edge. Weird. So, to whomever it was, hello and thanks for almost giving me a heart attack. You'll get yours when I shuffle off this mortal coil and cross over.

To get more information on scheduling and other programming, log onto the Sci-Fi Channel website. Like the entity that sired it, it's one of the best websites I've been on. And there's a lot more there than shows; news, book reviews, interviews, chat billboards, columns, web originals and much, much more for the SF/Fantasy fan. It's a great resource.

And don't forget to catch this month's Sciography, which features a profile of Quantum Leap. Need I say "Oh Boy!"?

To what do we owe this spate of good programming? Changes. Changes in the television industry, changes in the way cable outlets view their role as original content providers, changes in the expectations of the viewing public, changes in the economy that are greasing all of these creative wheels.

Change is essential to growth, and First Light is no exception. Let's embrace those changes and make our last 11 months our best.

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