Worf actually has been seen on-screen commanding the Enterprise.
In the closing moments of the Season Four episode “Data’s Day,” Data arrives on the Enterprise bridge to assume command of the graveyard shift and relieves Worf, who is in command of the Enterprise and seated in the captain’s chair.
Meanwhile, the sequel to Abrams Trek has been pushed back (surprise) 11 months:
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/45436393/ns/today-entertainment/
It was summer, I think, when I met you. James had introduced me to your brother and we were standing by your front steps when I noticed these two little boys fighting down the street. The one little boy with the cornrows beat down the other kid then pulled his pants down and left him crying in the street. I looked over at your brother and said, “That your little brother?” He kind of shook his head in exasperation, “No, that’s my little sister.” You were ten years old.
I remember you. Sarcastic. Acerbic. Funny. Mean as a snake. All of those things. Living down the street from my grandmother. Running wild with the other neighborhood kids. For reasons I’ll never understand, you adopted me, the way people take in strays. You fed me laughter and sunlight. You were my friend. You were my family. Batman and Robin, and, more often than not, you were Batman. Between the two of us, you were the brains of that operation. Full of questions. Bursting with answers. And I was a goner. I loved you.
As with my actual life, Concrete Jungle is full of evil people who do wonderfully noble things and good people who benignly incorporate some level of hypocrisy and corruption. With people who love without sacrifice. It is ruthlessly, giddily cynical with a dash of hope tossed in, hope being the most invented part of the piece. It’s got crime and sex and politics and ancient mysticism and modern religion, with heaping doses of black humor and wrenching terror. And, threaded through the complex layers, it’s got what I know to be true. Just a little piece of it. Maybe that’s enough.
As great an admirer I am of Jackson’s amazing talent, I have absolutely no doubt, none whatsoever, that Jackson has been sexually molesting if not sexually assaulting minor boys for decades. This Penn State graduate assistant allegedly happened upon a six-foot-two, 200-pound, fifty-something year-old silver-haired man, naked in a shower with a naked 10-year old boy–by account of the indictment–pressed up against the shower tiles while the man sodomized him. The picture that graphic language creates is horrifying. Yet, I am persuaded this is precisely what Michael Jackson has been doing most of his privileged adult life. Many of Jackson’s victims were delivered, eagerly, into his hands by parents who either knew or suspected what Jackson’s actual motives were, but who were either starstruck or were positioning themselves to make money off of him. This is evil. Don’t parse it, don’t excuse it. It’s evil. Why was America so horrified by Sandusky while Jackson remains, in even my memory, a kind of tragically beloved figure?
At most every point of Cain’s quixotic candidacy he has left clues, dropped breadcrumbs, indicating, clearly, that his is a political send-up, a satirical candidacy. From quoting Pokémon (not making this up) to modeling his “999” tax plan on the tax pan from the video game Simm City, to his embrace, last week, of the rather infamous Koch Brothers, to even the alleged scandal over sexual harassment, breaking into song when asked about it–if you step away and put all of these pieces together, it becomes amazingly clear: Cain is having fun at our–and America’s–expense. He is selling books and raising his speaking fees through the roof. He may actually be doing a lot more. The one thing he is not doing, however, is running for president.