A Critical Review of Star Trek: Enterprise

While I tend to fill this blogamabob with random tales from my past - in preparation for my eventual memoir - something has bothered me lately.

In the insufferable, and sometimes hallucinatory, interviews I conducted while filming The Captains, Scott Dracula (a ridiculous stage name, and I've heard some doozies) stated that he wasn't sure why Enterprise didn't quite pass the mustard.

I decided to review the series myself. I felt I owed it to my fans, and to curious Quantum Leap nerds trying to decide if there is anything else worth devoting their time to.

The Vulcan
I consider myself a sommelier of women. And while this one appeared to have all the right parts in the right places, I just couldn't get behind her. She seemed to be in an epic battle with her teeth, her lips, and her tits, and in the process could barely perform.

The Oriental girl was okay. I'd hit it.

The Engineer
This guy had the right attitude. Knock some heads together, get your rocks off, and hunt down some goddamned steak and potatoes. I liked him. However, I wasn't wild about the way he talked to the Captain. But he can be forgiven, as I explain below.

The Captain
Now, generally, I like Scott. Nice guy. A little too nice. Unfortunately, inappropriate for a Captain.

When he got mad, I didn't give a shit.

When he got sentimental, I wanted to slap him.

That's not the way to motivate a crew. You have to grab them by the collar of their stupid red uniform, slam them up against a bulkhead, and remind them this isn't Pussy Academy, or their mother's walk-in closet. When you're deep in the shit, there's no time to argue.

The one exception? There is always time for a long, moral diatribe, aching with gravitas. And it must involve the shaking of fists, graceful leaping, and finger-jabbing. This, I have learned, stirs the loins of the crew like nothing else.

That Goddamned Theme Song
Historically, Star Trek themes have been an orchestral orgy of samba and martial music, evoking a strong desire to seek mystery, explore the unknown, or, failing that, grind one's privates against the nearest piece of furniture. Don't mess with success, people.

I'm not sure what prompted these boneheads to craft this excruciating ballad, but I'm positive there is a set of headphones in Hell playing it right now. I can only liken it to Bruce Springsteen asking a nurse out to dinner while a rectal polyp is being removed. Or possibly Rod Stewart swallowing Linda Rondstadt whole and choking on her hoop earrings.

The song is cloying, overly sentimental, and reeks of stale beer and ammonia. I actually had the entire series edited without the opening sequence or credits, so I could watch them without my bowels letting an Olympic luge team slip out. While I can afford to shit myself every episode, it annoys the staff.

Summary

Live long, and don't suck.
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Fable Schmable

I'm reminded of a fable.

A scorpion was trying to get across a river, and asked a nearby frog for a ride.

The frog said, "What kind of asshole do you take me for?"

The scorpion said, "A generous one."

Moved by this compliment, the frog allowed the scorpion to climb on his back and paddled out into the water.

The scorpion stings him.

As they sink, the frog asks Why?

"Because you're an asshole," said the scorpion.

Not a true story.

Now go to fucking sleep, kid.
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Courtesy Flush

William Campbell and I played poker with Sinatra once, during the original series.

The setting was Vegas, of course. Sin City. Primary vector of American herpes.

Will was nervous, as he knew Frank was humping his wife. Didn't want to start a fight.

I was hopped up on goofballs and wearing women's panties under my slacks, so I didn't care. It had been a good night so far.

It was the three of us and a couple of Frank's goons, who just sat mutely, betting occasionally, and farting like Holsteins.

Frank was laughing a lot - a little too much. Every once in a while, he'd smell his fingers like they were fresh cigars.

I noticed Will was starting to lose it - sweating, and stammering out his calls.

Time to move. I flipped the table over and chips and drinks flew in the air. The goons fell back, making monkey noises as they tumbled.

I took the three queens from my full house and slashed at Frank's throat until he stopped moving.

Will was holding the seat of his pants like a two-year-old, worried he was going to get in trouble. Frank's bodyguards just cried for a little while, poured shots, and left.

The Sinatra that grew old had been grown in a vat in a secret base in New Mexico.

You didn't hear that from me.

I'm a fixer.
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What The Falk

Just heard Pete Falk shuffled off this mortal coil. Great guy. Did a "Columbo" with him back in '76.

We were both single at the time, and decided to hit the discos. Most days, he was a mellow cat.

But, that night, he turned into a rampaging Hebrew King Kong. Grabbing skirts and buying rounds for the tables around us, his face contorted in a lopsided mask of ecstasy, like a starving carny on pay day.

After twirling and knocking over a nearby table, and apologizing for the mess, an actual gorilla appeared in a Hawaiian shirt and asked us to leave.

The pepper grinder I threw was pretty big. One of those brass suckers the size of a car jack. Didn't know what hit him.

While I propped the bouncer up in a chair, Pete grabbed the girl he had been dancing with, held his finger to her head, and screamed, "NOBODY MOVE!"

She cackled wildly, and he kept getting fringe from her dress caught in his mouth when he shouted.

The music was so loud, no one could hear a thing. I got up on our table and did an interpretive dance about the plight of the American Indian, while Pete threatened random people with his finger.

The girl he was clutching just kept laughing. She was probably on the same black beauties I'd dropped into his Jack and Coke earlier.

Don't remember much after that. Woke up, face down, on a fire escape a few blocks away, and the sun was coming up. Mouth tasted like an alligator's ass.

Pete was below me, asleep on the hood of a taxi cab, his arms splayed out like he was waiting for the Rapture. The engine was still running, all the doors were open, and there was no driver.

Can't think of any moral to this story. Oh, yeah.

Don't leave pepper grinders out when the kitchen's closed.

And disco sucks.
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St. John Thomas

Heather Locklear and I were in St. Thomas once, back in 1983 or thereabouts. We were between seasons of Hooker, and wanted to blow off some steam.

After visiting Blackbeard's castle one afternoon, I was hungry and decided it was time for my fix.

There was a tiny shack near our hotel that served the best damned spicy chicken roti I'd ever had in my life.

It was like cutting God open and chewing on his liver, and I had eaten at Edward's shack almost every day.

So we ordered two, and Heather slowly ground her ass against me while we watched him do his voodoo.

I refuse to wear linen pants to this day. It's silk for real men.

Edward offered us our plates, and when I reached in my tent pole knocked over a tub of knives, many of them plunging into Edward's legs.

He jumped back screaming, and splashed headfirst into the deep fryer.

Edward survived, but was disfigured, and his hands were unusable. He closed his shack.

I cried for a while - deep, shuddering sobs - knowing I could never come back to St. Thomas. Or perhaps it was the scotch bonnet peppers. I can't remember.

Anyhoo, chicken roti would never taste the same to me if it hadn't been blessed with Edward's grubby fingers.

I'm a teacher.
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OUDRNK12

Back in 1990 or so, I attended one of the launch parties at Cabo Wabo.

Sammy Hangar invited me personally.

As I sidled up to the bar, I noticed a beautiful, crazy woman sitting at a stool, quietly singing to herself. A blonde shock of hair spilled over her, like a young Phyllis Diller.

I was smitten. Women that sing to themselves like that are either drunk or a little psychotic - either way, I knew she'd be great in the sack.

I sat down next to her, and as the bartender asked me what my poison was, I scanned the liquor behind him. So many kinds of tequila - but I knew I had to impress her.

I asked him to get a pint glass and fill it with ice. He did. I asked him to put a lime in it. He did.

Then I asked him to dump the bar mat into it. He didn't miss a beat, curled up the mat, and a sluice of mystery drippings filled the glass.

I thanked him, dropped a Grant on the wet counter, and picked up my drink. I toasted the bartender, who had decided to watch.

Then I turned to the lady and said, "I call this drink 'Sex on a Bar'. Maybe I can order you one later." She giggled.

We toasted to our health, and I pounded it.

I'm a strong, proud man, but I don't think I'll order that drink again. It was like Carmen Miranda's urine mopped up from a Chinese restaurant floor.

I normally have an inordinate amount of self-control, but my gag reflex kicked in halfway through and I began vomiting uncontrollably.

She tried to jump out of the way, but slipped and fell beneath me as I retched.

A waterfall of soggy tortilla chips and personal mistakes rained down upon her.

The bartender just laughed and laughed.

That woman was David Lee Ross.
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The Straight Poop

Let me explain to you fresh turds how Life works.

I am a man of experience. You can trust in what I say.

From the moment you were born, your senses were assaulted, like the world was a gay discotheque in Barcelona, and you were huffing glue.

What kind of lifeform wouldn't go mad in those first few minutes, let alone that first year?

Powerless, clumsy, confused, and driven by primal urges, you groped at fuzzy things and screamed when it became too much to bear.

As you grew older, you were able to pick things up and examine them. Claim them as yours. Rub them on your skin or mash them into the carpet. This was a brief period of joy.

Then you could speak your thoughts and others could understand, and they approved or disapproved.

You had ideas of your own, and when you opened your mouth, it created unwanted conflict.

Others talked back to you, telling you they already knew how the world worked.

Such insolence was insufferable.

But then your genitalia came alive like a hungry, unabsorbed twin, screaming for attention.

This was the moment you understood everything.

That Life was mysterious, marvelous, and dangerous.

Like a drunken rollercoaster ride through a volcano.

You were no longer confused, and your vision became sharp.

This was your awakening.

You became a predator.

...

So, anyhoo, I'll summarize.

Money, guns, pussy, and rock and roll.

Keep looking up to the stars.

I'm a registered fakir.
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Turkey Jerky

Dyan Cannon sat next to me at a Lakers game a couple of years ago.

We exchanged awkward pleasantries, and pretty much ignored each other for the first half.

Then she ordered a dog with the works.

I had money on the game, and was trying to focus on the ten mongrel men in front of me holding my Lake Powell cottage in their giant hands.

But every time she took a bite of that hot dog, her waddle jiggled a bit, and mustard and relish was running down her neck.

I tried not to stare, and instead pretended I was looking around for a vendor. Wasabi peas, maybe, or some edamame.

But it was really an excuse to watch condiments flow down that gorgeous turkey flap.

When she finished, I was sweating and shaking - I grabbed her by the shoulders and began sucking and chewing at her neck like it was corn-on-the-cob at a state fair.

She passed out briefly. I wiped some Purel above her lip like a mustache.

When she came to, we both had a good laugh.

I think I got about $450 from her purse.
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Dumbo Gumbo

Dom DeLuise and I had a brief scuffle in New Orleans once, back in the early '80s.

I was out on the patio at Broussard's, sharing a table with a prostitute - whom I did not know.

The fat fool trundled in with his entourage, bantering with various tables, and stealing food.

He floated closer to us and caught sight of me.

He began waving his arms, screeching something about how the food here must be "truly out of this world" and giggling.

Then he reached for our bread basket.

I am not a fan of giant, loud, sweaty men with grabby hands.

He screamed like a woman, trying to pull my salad fork from his arm, and the hooker pulled a knife from her hair.

I kicked him in the belly to get him off balance, and she straddled him on the ground, holding the blade to his fat throat.

Turned out he owed her money. But "her" dress was riding up and I could see a bundle down there.

I don't need to tell you, friend - after the cops left, the rest of the night was full of cocaine and disco dancing.

Great city. Tough women.
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Como Se Siente?

Brigitte Bardot and I once spent a coke-fueled month in Mazatlan back in '76.

Some asshole was opening a bunch of timeshares there and he needed celebrities to glad-hand potential investors.

You know. Show up at parties, sing some songs.

It took four days for things to get rowdy.

I'm still not sure how we got up there, but I have a brief memory of Brigitte on all fours on the roof of a house.

We were just grinding and watching the waves roll in - and then nothing.

They found me naked, somewhere along the beach, with the head of an ice sculpture swan broken off in my ass.

A federale was standing over me, yelling "COMO SE SIENTE?" over and over and over. Then he tried some German, I believe.

I spent two days in a hammock, drinking Abuelita, reading cheap novels, and waiting for that fucking swan to melt out.

And that's how Norman Mailer and I became pen pals.

The End.
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