To Go Where No One is Listening, Press Four

This week, I saw the new Star Trek movie and I have to say, I loved it.

I always love the way sci-fi futures solve all the little problems that vex us today with nifty neat technology. There aren’t any computers in the world of Star Trek that have to be taken back to the Geek Squad because some virus came through on an email promising to cure acne, make me lose ten pounds a night until I’m fit, and depositing an ungodly amount of money in my long forgotten Irish bank account. None of the cars or machines in that sci-fi world ever needs an oil change, only major repairs because some Romulan shot at them with highly advanced weaponry. And yet with all the high tech beaming and phasers, they haven’t lost the human touch. The communication between ships is still handled by a person, as versus a phone tree.

This is probably because at some point, the future techies installed a phone tree, thinking to cut into the Federation overhead by reducing demand for translators/communication officers to act as receptionists on board. I can just see how this would have played out:

“Hello, you have reached the communications branch of the starship Enterprise, NCC-1701. Please listen carefully, as our options have changed. If you require a standard rescue from a planet, star base or other such stationary locale, press 1. If you have a diplomatic request and require additional expertise such as a science, engineer or medical officer, press 2. If you are hostile or feel your planet’s issue is critical and cannot wait for normal diplomatic channels, press zero."

How many times did a direct photon get shot at the bridge, vaporizing the skeleton crew of loyal red shirted ensigns aboard for offering those sorts of choices?

Then I imagine, the techies tried voice recognition software. Having never had much luck with voice activated commands at my bank’s phone auto teller, I can just see the Enterprise switch board overloading as it tried to decipher Klingon suggestions that the whole Federation deserves Hell for creating such an infernal contraption. This would be after the sixth attempt to say, “The Federation is nothing but a collective of data gathering flunkies with Technicolor uniforms.” And having the computer voice recognition software translate it as, “You said you would like an Orion slave girl, a romulan ozal twist and three tribbles for Christmas. Is that correct?”

I know because my bank uses a phone tree and I’ve discovered over time that if I speak with my voice half an octave lower, like I’m a man, the machine understands. The moment I switch to my actual range, the phone tree begins to get confused. I’ve also found that accents increase the likelihood of me getting through to the bank’s version of Lt. Uhura much faster, so I’ve adopted a lt. Chekov approach. “I vould like to make a transfer from my savings account. Four thousand dollars, vwease.”

The machine is convinced I’d like to order checks with Dalmatians on them.
So I try Montgomery Scott. “I be needin a transfer.”

And the infernal contraption declares “For security purposes, we cannot process your request.”
After twenty minutes of attempting to get a real person or a transfer of funds, I’m cursing at the darn thing. I’d pull a Captain Kirk mood here, but there’s no one to punch. I just get to suffer because of the overuse and under impressive performance of technology.

“Damn machines.” I muttered, and then I realized, I’m turning into Bones.

A Roman Scene We Might Consider

All consciences may not be formed the same, but Truth is inviolate.

Let us imagine.

It is the height of Roman power, when Ceasars are at their zenith, and thus all manner of "entertainment" is allowed at the Colosseum. Some citizens within the Empire, object to the feeding lions with renegade Christians as a form of entertainment, claiming to be "pro-life."

The centurions and aristocracy and government that are in power find these claims laughable, as these rebels bring it upon themselves by not being willing to be reasonable and see the nuances of the real world. If they would have open hearts and open minds and be willing to accept the equal nature of Zeus and Hera and the Ceasar himself to Christ, there would be no quarrel. If they would just give a bit of "respect" to those who disagree, they wouldn't find themselves in this situation.

Some of those arguably on the Christian side, have counseled that their fellow members ought to be more fair minded. They have said, "Debate about this issue is not about to close. Differing consciences on such a matter should be met with love no matter how vexing they may be." and that to argue by refusing to show deference or by shouting or getting upset, to "satisfy that furstration by shunning or denouncing your unseeing companion will accomplish little beyond expressing your exasperation."

Maybe, but when the lions are being sent routinely to rip apart the innocent, it might be time to satisfy some of that frustration.

Fighting without a Prayer Never Works

Whenever my kids can't find their (pick one), shoes, lunch box, money they swear they've held onto for sentimental reasons since their baptism, the ugly accusation gets flung.

Someone took it.

Now when something's missing, if I'm on my game, I mention asking Saint Anthony. The kids know this, they often wave me off about it too. But when I couldn't find my daughter's tap shoes last Saturday (and she always always misplaces them), I was irritated. I ranted as I searched for her shoes. We were doing so well on time before that snag too.

"Somebody took it." she explained.

I'm was ready with the comeback, "Who? We all live here. No one else fits your shoes. No one else needs your ballet slippers."

It went over her head but as I said, I was irritated.
"Did you check under the bed?"

Kids are scurrying, checking under beds because the worst of all possible alternatives has happened on a Saturday, Mom is mad.

"Did you check under the couch?"
Kids are again running about, pulling all matter of footwear and no small number of socks out from under the various couches in the home.

Mom is still ranting.
"I want all your shoes...all the time...in the closet...where they belong....every time...everyone of you! How hard is this? Why do we have to go through this?" I am hitting my mom stride.

Kids are still looking. I've spotted one of them praying, muttering purposely in my direction, and I see the words, "Saint Anthony." But I'm still mad as I'm going through the cubbies, searching for two black tap shoes and two ballet shoes and the time is indicating we have 20 minutes or we're late. "No praying, just looking." I snap.

Still looking. 15 minutes or we're late. Rant resumes as I catch a few kids abandoning the search for shoes.

"I want your shoes up here...in the shoe tree...up high..." and I point for effect.

And there they are.

In the closet.

In the shoe tree.

Up high.

"Okay." The kids are all there. They all see the shoes.
They've seen me rant in all my ugliness.

"Kids," as I'm realizing, Saint Anthony took the shoes so that Mom would find her daily dose of humility, "I'm sorry I got so messed up over slippers." There are hugs. The apology is accepted en masse.

And then, while the children slipped back to playing Wii and watching television, as I began to start to scurry a bit to get the girls to their dance class, I asked Saint Anthony, "Could you help me find a way to get them to class on time too?"

And we didn't hit a single red light en route, not one.