There was a time in my life when I was too embarrassed to admit that I liked science fiction. I'm not sure of the exact dates of this era, but I'm pretty sure it was during the second half of Star Trek: Voyager and all of Star Trek: Enterprise. And the last two TNG movies, definitely, not that I was missing much.
At some point in college, I heard a friend of mine express her love for Star Trek: The Next Generation. I warily eyed the other friends in the room, wondering how this silly person hadn't gotten the memo that Star Trek was so desperately uncool. I worried that she would be kicked out of college and that I would never see her again. But then a magical thing happened. Another friend spoke up and said that she had a crush on Brent Spiner, and then another jumped in to start a conversation about Ender's Game.
It was magical.
Ever since then, I have embraced my love for science fiction, and have even endeavored to increase my knowledge of the genre. As part of this venture, I'm beginning to acknowledge an aspect of science fiction of which I will always be embarrassed.
The cover art.
I should be proud to get on the subway with my nose buried in something by Asimov, right? People should look at me and think "Wow, look at that intelligent girl on the N train reading one of Asimov's great novels. I am unworthy to stand in the light of her knowledge of The Three Laws of Robotics." But instead I'm pretty sure they're thinking "Wow, that girl on the N train is reading robot porn. And why is the robot wearing cargo pants? This is both disgusting and unclear."
Seriously, somebody should start a blog dedicated to ridiculous cover artwork. I would do it, but I already have big plans to turn this blog into a source of comprehensive reviews of the many tantalizing documentaries that I watch on Netflix Watch Instantly. I've been planning this for months now, but somehow getting a star rank on 150cc Mario Kart Wii has been more of a priority in the past six weeks. Sorry.
Oh, and for those of you keeping track, it turns out that last book I was reading actually was robot porn, and the robot was indeed wearing cargo pants. Both of these points were covered in later chapters.
I should be proud to get on the subway with my nose buried in something by Asimov, right? People should look at me and think "Wow, look at that intelligent girl on the N train reading one of Asimov's great novels. I am unworthy to stand in the light of her knowledge of The Three Laws of Robotics." But instead I'm pretty sure they're thinking "Wow, that girl on the N train is reading robot porn. And why is the robot wearing cargo pants? This is both disgusting and unclear."
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