The New Yorker reviews my "Star Trek" Fan Novel

In 2002, I finished my epic fanfiction novel set within the "Star Trek" universe: A Soldier's Last Battle. I had been working on the novel for years, adding to its voluminous nerdosity little by little. In July of 2002, though, I moved away from my home in Iowa with my final destination as Chicago, Illinois. Along the way, I visited a friend in Texas (that's on the way to Chicago from Iowa, right?) and stayed with her for a couple weeks. I had two missions during this mini-vacation. One: drink a lot. Two: finish my novel. And by the time the two weeks were over, I owned a very tired liver and a very finished novel. Those two weeks were the greatest two weeks of my life. I had no job. I had no responsibility. I woke up every day around 9 or 10, wrote for a few hours, ate lunch, wrote for a few hours more, then showered, got dressed, and when my friend got home, we went out drinking and carousing around the Dallas/Arlington area. It was like I was a professional writer. In that two weeks, I wrote one hundred fifteen pages, finishing my novel out at three hundred seven pages of "Star Trek" goodness.

As time went by, I was impressed by the overwhelming roar of people not caring about my fan fiction novel. And who can blame them? Most of the world didn't even know it existed. So I devised a brilliant plan for getting everyone to read it. Fortunately before I implemented my plan, I realized that poisoning the water supply could be construed as a criminal act, so instead I decided to bribe the New Yorker into reviewing my glorious tome. I figured it made sense - my novel was certainly better than Star Trek Generations. So a-bribing I must go. That was eight years ago. I have been sending in successively larger amounts of bribe money, but I kept getting rejected. Until today. In my mail today, I received a letter from the editor saying they had accepted my "submission" (which I assume is snooty east-coast code for "bribe") and that a full review would be appearing in their online magazine (which I assume is snooty east-coast douche code for "website"). Attached was a link for me to preview the review. I was advised to refrain from sharing any part of the review with anyone prior to online publication, so I copied the entire thing and here it is in its entirety.

(Oh, and by the way, if you want to get a book reviewed, apparently the magic number is $17.50.)

A Soldier's Rejoinder: A Star Trek Fan Seeks Universal Truth

by Eric Sedrickson, staff writer

Upon first review, Daryl A. Moon's 2002 unpublished novel A Soldier's Last Battle: A Novel Set Within the Star Trek Universe seems nothing more than the frantic spasms of a fanboy's typewriter set upon the world like so many Egyptian plagues. Having just recently (yet again) read Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, which is this humble writer's favorite foray into mankind's darkest rabbit holes, I was in no mood to suffer fools lightly. I thumbed through the work disdainfully, impressed with the narrow margins and use of white space on the page, undoubtedly in an effort to crank the page total to just over 300. By page 20, I was secretly hurling mental javelins of fury towards my boss, who cursed me with this mindless schlock. I was remembering that as he handed it to me and I saw the title, I asked him why the hell he wanted anyone to read it, let alone write a review of it. I was pretty sure I heard him mumble something about "forgot money for lunch," but I couldn't be sure. I was just about to abandon the project and face the wrath of my overseer when a curious line of prose caught my eye. "The red alert siren wailed menacingly, and the bridge of the U.S.S. Verona lay bathed in harsh red light that made Captain Kim think of a light panel dipped in blood." As my mind played with the words like a tongue exploring the peaks and valleys of a newly chipped tooth, I saw a wider view of what had been written. Verona, of course, seemed to make reference to "Romeo and Juliet," and the scene Mr. Moon was laying out featured the long-past death of the protagonist's wife, revealed in a dream flashback. Then I realized what my mind's tongue was probing for:

"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week,
Or if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies."

My God, is it possible this sophomoric "Star Trek" novel was a thinly disguised homage to the Bard himself? Or was it an unintentional stroke of genius by a failed English major unconsciously recalling a bit of actual literature from a now-dead past? There was only one way to find out: read deeper.

I don't have the space in this column to explain the plethora of gemstones I would soon discover, but they fell into my outstretched hands as if tender snowflakes on the first day of winter. I ran towards them, hands and tongue outstretched, pleased with my effort and with the results. The Harkozen fleet, a sort of bugaboo plaguing our intrepid protagonist (Captain Harry Kim, a future version of a character from one of the shows) is clearly meant to represent the "terrorist threat" facing the United States in the early part of last decade. In fact the "Harkozen Invasion" is the precipitating event in an all-out war consuming the Federation. Clearly, this all-out war (war on terror? one is tempted to ask) was a bit of precognition on Mr. Moon's part (remember, the novel was completed in mid-2002), forseeing our never-ending struggle in Afghanistan and Iraq against an "inferior" foe. At one point it is even revealed that the Federation President who "carried on the struggle against the Romulan menace" was named Steven Jones. Clearly Mr. Moon was, possibly with too heavy a hand, pointing out that an Americanized warrior mentality is to blame. (The alternative is that Mr. Moon is a terrible science fiction writer and chose a horrible name for an alien, but at this point I've seen the brilliance, so there is no reason to suspect any malfeasance on the author's part). Even Captain Kim's "sidekick," his first officer Commander Krollek, couldn't have been painted in any broader ironic strokes. His calm intelligence and clearly Native American manor leave this reptile-like "shaman" a clear indictment of shallow tale-craft. If only Mr. Moon could get John Grisham and James Patterson in a room together and teach them. Though that would probably fail because they wouldn't understand Mr. Moon's character was constructed to reflect their type of incompetent writing. They would probably just find the character a "really cool devise."

It goes without saying that the "good guys" win in the end, but are they really the good guys? Doesn't the ending just leave the military industrial complex that is the Federation's Starfleet at the helm of human destiny? Of course, in the hands of Mr. Moon, we are shown the folly of our naive hope for mankind, as the final paragraphs so potently mirror the opening page of the novel, leaving us to realize that nothing we do truly matters and that the crushing weight of destiny eventually squeezes us all. And when it does, the only sound will be a slow applause from this writer, celebrating the best abstract realization of slow-churning doom I've read in years. I see big things for Mr. Moon's future.

My First, My Last, My Everything

I told my self that I shouldn't post twice in one day. Otherwise people (both of my readers) might ignore the earlier post. But this is so perfect. If anyone out there (either of you) want to know who I am, you have two options: spend years studying my comedy, my journals, and my threatening letters to Gilbert Gottfried; or you can watch this. This explains everything I am, will be, or dream to be.

I Hate Flying (A work of mostly fiction)

I Hate Flying

I hate flying.

I mean really, really hate flying. Getting on the plane? Hate it. Taxiing down the runway? Hate it. Accelerating down the runway for takeoff? Hate it. Takeoff? Good God. The whole experience is terrible.

Throughout the entire flight, I fully expect the plane to crash. I’m not exaggerating. That shudder you feel when the plane hits a crosswind? That’s the plane about to crash. That groan when the landing gear is retracting? The plane about to crash. Turbulence? That’s the plane about to burst into flames, turn over twice, and then crash.

Because I’m morbid (or just an idiot), I’ve done some research. Not that “flying is the safest mode of travel” crap people throw at me. It may be true, but that’s just statistics. I’m talking about research of actual plane crashes. They’re horrible. Just horrible. Remember that South Korean airliner that was shot down by the Soviets in the 80’s? It took that plane twelve minutes to hit the water. Twelve minutes, knowing how totally screwed you are! Or how about that plane that crashed out of New York in December of ‘01. The tail came off. And all along I thought that piece wasn’t, you know, detachable.

The point is, flying is stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. Man can swim, so I get boats. Man can run, so trains and cars make sense. Do you know what we can’t do? Fly. So if something goes wrong on the plane, there’s a whole lot of nothing you can do about it.

And the bitch of it? I have to fly for work. I fly all the time. Why would I take this job then, you might ask? Well, I wasn’t always like this.

It was back in 2000 when I got to be like this. I was on a flight from Phoenix to St. Louis. Easy trip, one I’ve done many times. The plane hit some turbulence, which was usually no big deal, but that night was different. I knew the plane was going to crash. I just knew it, deep down inside. It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. As the plane bounced and danced through the night sky, I knew that any second our tin can with wings was going to lose power, explode, rip in half, something. You know how in books a character knows he or she is going to die and gets all peaceful about it. Not me. It was like I’d been dipped in a bucket of terror, and I wanted out. I wanted to jump out of the plane and escape. I’ve never been so scared.

The plane landed fine (obviously, since I’m writing this). But since that day, I can’t fly without waves of absolute horror rippling through me. I should just quit my job and get one that lets me stay on the ground, but I’m in my fifties. And if you could see the size of the alimony check I have to write every month... basically I’m saying I can’t afford the pay cut I would have to take if I switched jobs. If they would legalize gay marriage so my ex-wife could remarry, maybe I could afford it, but I’m not holding my breath. And yes, I’m saying that when I die, it will be my ex-wife’s fault. Just in case she asks.

So here I am, about to board another plane. I hate this. Have I mentioned that? I wish I could stop being such a baby, but I can’t. Every time I walk down the jetway I want to fall to the ground in the fetal position and cry. Literally cry. I can barely hold it in sometimes. You should see how much antacid I go through a day, bottling all that in.

I’ve never liked how your footsteps echo as you walk down the jetway. It has a dull morbidity to it. The last steps of the condemned man as he walks up the hastily-constructed wooden steps of the gallows. Ahead of me, I can see into the plane. A stewardess is smiling at me with that professional smile that says she hates me back. I know I’m late, but I was busy throwing up and trying not to cry in the bathroom. I could never tell her that, of course. Maybe I should have just thrown up on her? Bet she’d lose the smile then.

I step into the plane, right foot first (I always do that. Sometimes I think I should switch to left-foot first, and that would cure me. Or it might make the plane crash, so I stick with the right). Nodding to the stewardess with my own polite smile, I take a left into the cockpit.

I never should have become a pilot.

Diplomatic Immunity in Discoland

It was a cold night in Chicago. I walked with confidence (the only way I know how to walk, other than the crab walk - I can do that, but no one is confident enough to pull that off smoothly or confidently). The air was crisp and tense with the electric pulse of anticipation. A thin smile briefly crossed my face but was quickly replaced with a confident smirk.

As I stalked the night in my 5-inch platform heels, I took note of my surroundings from behind my gold Elvis-inspired sun glasses. Women darted to-and-fro, followed by willing men. Between them all darted a current of sexual tension that could only mean one thing - Halloween night on the north side.

Halloween is the greatest holiday ever invented, when candy abounds and women feel the need to channel their inner stripper. If I were to believe in God, Halloween would be the evidence I would cite as my reason.

Thus far, it had been a fruitful night. Despite being with my girlfriend (now wife), I had surreptitiously examined the bodies of dozens of women (and that's why I wear my sunglasses at night). Our group of wanderers were making our way to our final destination of the night - a wonderful blue-collar bar known as the Cork (back before the Cork got it's yuppie makeover). With a good amount of amber perfection coursing through our veins, we stalked in a not-necessarily-direct amble. And that's the moment it hit me. A sense of danger, foreboding, and horror so palpable, I thought I'd suddenly jumped into a Stephen King story. I stopped walking, my eyes nearly bursting out of my head.

"What is it?" I heard coming from my girlfriend's general direction.

"I'll catch up with you guys!" I screamed, turning down Wolcott towards my apartment.

"What's wrong?" a confused voice called from behind.

"I'll catch up. Just go!" I bellowed, now running. Would I make it? Was I too late? Curse my amazing fashion sense and delightful whimsey - why did I wear these shoes? My heart threatened to beat out of my chest as I careened down the darkened street. All around me, curtained, lightless windows stared at my passage. My very own Greek chorus, their voices silenced by the thickening doom.

My legs, clad in their awesome white pants, pumped unceasingly. So close. I could see the building getting closer and closer. I reached into my pocket and fumbled with my keys. As I yanked them from their resting place, I almost lost my grip on them. I nearly choked out a cry into the night. If I dropped the keys, I knew I wouldn't have time to avert disaster. At the last second, I caught onto them and continued my run.

As I reached the building, I took the front stairs two at a time. I crashed into the outer door, and it flew open as though sensing that this was not a time to bring up any of its protestations at my sloppy building management skills. I slid my key into the security door, wrenching it open as the tumblers twisted. Now I had only my apartment door to navigate, and I could prevent all the unholy pain that threatened the peaceful holiday night.

The apartment door opened and the world went into slow motion. I charged towards my destination, perspiration dotting my brow. I bit my lower lip, trying to stave off fate. There! The bathroom! My salvation at hand. I felt a new wave of abdominal cramping hit me.

Whoops. Dang. I was so close.

Dispatch From an Alternate World

As I'm sure many of you know, in a very nearby alternate universe, Sonic Hair Gel was the biggest band to come out of the late nineties/early 2000's. Their rise, their fall, and their eventual rebirth from the ashes of obscurity made them the shining phoenix of the music world. In the early part of this millennium, I set out to chronicle their story. It was an arduous journey involving many thousands of hours. Whether it was my natural cosmic empathy, my attenuation to the gateways of the multiverse, or my use of horse tranquilizers, it seemed that I was drawn to Sonic Hair Gel and their story. Of course, as any true fan of Sonic Hair Gel knows, that universe's Daryl Moon is their keyboardist (whose sexuality is constantly being brought into question, so obviously there are some major differences between our worlds), so that probably has something to do with my natural abilities.

In June of 2001, I completed The Ultimate Sonic Hair Gel Compendium: The Guide for Any True Fan. As many of you undoubtedly remember, I won the Pulitzer Prize for my effort. (You can watch my acceptance speech here.) As part of the Compendium, I wrote a chronology which gave small details of the lives of the band members for the coming years. Since my psychic abilities only range so far, I could only write up through January of 2008. Everything after that was left a mystery to the millions who read the Compendium and loved the band they would never know. Despite many pleas from fans and multi-million dollar offers from my publisher, I have refrained from publishing anything further about Sonic Hair Gel. I realized that our world needs to find its own heroes. Worshipping those in a parallel universe is counter-productive. Their problems are not our problems; their triumphs are not our triumphs. And as such, their multi-Grammy winning bands cannot be our bands. So I let Sonic Hair Gel fade into the ether.

Today, however, I received some startling news. News that shattered me and made me wish my psychic powers hadn't been permanently destroyed by my February 2002 NyQuil binge. I found out today that Sonic Hair Gel lost one of its members.

Bass player Nick was always a troubled soul. His many bouts with substance abuse and addiction, combined with his many torrid love affairs, made him fodder for both the tabloids and comedians. Meeting the love of his life in May of 2004 proved to be a calming force for him; he ceased his drug use immediately upon meeting her. Their messy divorce in March of 2008, though, sent Nick screaming down the rabbit hole. Ironically, his second solo album, I'm With the Bass Player, was released on the day his divorce was made official. (As you know, his first solo album, Stealing Third Bass, released in 2001 during Sonic Hair Gel's short-lived breakup, was a major flop.) I'm With the Bass Player, featuring Nick and a variety of celebrity musicians, was a monstrous success. The album would spend months atop the charts, and it seemed you couldn't go anywhere without hearing one of Nick's songs playing. The timing of such a cash windfall was disastrous to Nick's health.

He spiralled into a world of heroine, Southern Comfort, and women. The last couple of years of Nick's life saw him unravel the tapestry he'd built for so long. His family and friends (and especially his bandmates) tried to reach out to him. They eventually even tried getting him to enter a celebrity rehabilitation facility via a reality television show. Despite Daryl crying more than anyone in the show's history, Nick mumbled something about "thought this was the show with the briefcases full of money," and wandered away. His bandmates never saw him again.

A week and a half ago, Nick's pain ended. (Sorry - I haven't been checking up on that universe very much lately. It takes a lot of energy out of me, and I'm incredibly lazy.) Tears and sadness may rain down, but we have to remember his life, not the end. And it helps to know that he died as he lived - on a giant mound of cocaine and sandwiched between the Olsen twins.

At the funeral, Danny V (Sonic Hair Gel's backup "singer" and occasional tambourine player) sang/spoke the lyrics to Nick's favorite Sonic Hair Gel song - "My Women." In honor of our fallen brother, I will reprint the lyrics here:

My Women

Do you want to be one of my women?

Of course you do.

Do you want me to take you to Yemen?

Of course you do.

That's because I'm smooth like the opposite of sand paper.

And I can recite poetry like Puff the Dragon with his friend Jackie Draper.

My women all leave satisfied,

Your loneliness can be rectified.

So come to me, baby.

And be one of my women.