WHERE IS THE CMMDR?

Maybe probably nowhere. A bleak flickering stain on a late night rerun of some ancient episodic, a dim memory in the minds of some confused geeks who like lost ghosts wander the halls of certain isolated convention centers where once the Cmmdr, a third tier guest at a distant sci-fi event sputtered generic one liners hoping to please, a polite little chub-a-bub who never headlined, where is the Cmmdr? Skinning a cat in Winnipeg? De-boning a feral beast in Regina? Boiling down a kitten for that last little penny? He’s not on stage, he’s not on the screen. For in yoking his identity to the world of Thespis and having thus become untethered, the small strange stooge is as a mist floating, falling, fading from the firmament, leaving in his woeful wake nary a footnote.