"Mixed Messages" left by The Late Arlene Martel

"T'pring" might seem like an odd ringtone to most, but to "Star Trek" fans, this was the beautiful "Bride of Spock" in a classic episode. The role was played by Arlene Martel, who had a cult following for this. She'd autograph T'pring memorabilia at many a "signing convention" in Hollywood and Las Vegas. As she sat at her table, autographing photos, fans would see she had stills from her appearances on other iconic 60's shows: "The Monkees" "Hogan's Heroes" "Wild Wild West" and "Outer Limits" among them. "Twilight Zone" fans came by to get her autograph, revelling in her iconic five words as a morgue nurse: "Room for one more, honey."

Sadly, Arlene died of a heart attack on August 12th. Until a few months ago, she'd been a Facebook regular, posting photos of herself, and offering a variety of links to health websites that involved recipes for organic foods and holistic treatments for illness. A cancer survivor for many years, she was very interested in any new vitamins or health regimens, and ways to improve both the mind and body.

Her book...self-published by one of the many "print on demand" vanity outfits now flourishing, is not about health. Despite the tag of written "with" someone else, it's not an autobiography. Just what is it? It's a peculiarly self-indulgent reprint of e-mails between the 74 year-old actress and a fan-admirer some 25 years younger (who worries his erectile dysfunction might hurt the potential of a meeting following their mutual admiration correspondence).

Yes, there could've been voyeuristic potential in a "fan gets to bed his dream idol" book, but not when there's no erotic writing and very little wit. Sadly, this 182 pager (with liberal spaces between e-mails to pad it to any kind of book length) is often boring and even embarrassing. Much of the e-mails concern mutual health concerns. Entire pages are loaded with technical details on medications: "...an Italian study done at a reputable Milan tertiary hospital showed that melatonin supplementation enhanced the effect of Arimeidex considerately...if this 9 mg dose is well tolerated, we can titrate up the 20 mg." Any typos in there...well, who at Author House would've been awake to proofread them?

The fan-man doesn't ask Arlene for details about her film and TV roles, so aside from one page where he mentions re-watching "Star Trek" and she comments on her hair and make-up, there's nothing for Trekkers or anyone wondering "what was it like to work with Bob Crane?" The e-mails reflect health-obsessed and self-involved people: "As far as your headaches go, a colonic could make a huge difference..." "...I hate much too much food. Thought about you several ties during the Thanksgiving Day."

Each e-mail is padded on the page with the time and date and who is sending and receiving. Eventually, these begin with ever more nauseating terms of endearment. "Hi Sweetheart" turns into "Hi Kalecake..." and "Hi Honey Bear" and "Hello Sweet Potato."

Arlene and Jeff's very slow ripening from mere e-mail pals to potential lovers, is sometimes ripe with cringeworthy cliches. Arlene: "I'm more of a Dapple Grey Mare who prefers being courted by a sensitive powerful Stallion." There aren't many of these Shades of Groan gaffes...not enough for "so bad it's good" page-turning. After 76 pages, the reader is alerted: "First Face to Face Encounter. To Whom it May Concern...use your imagination." In other words, you, dear reader, mare or stallion, do NOT get any real bedside reading.

At best, Martel declares, "Life is bubbling with rainbows in each bubble and just when one bursts out of its own excitement another bubble is born...so there's no depletion...only abundance. New title for our book? "Jeffrey and the Juicy Old Crone."

More often, the e-mails are duller than ones you send to your granny: "Sweetheart Happy Valentine's Day. So glad that you're in my life. Sending my love to you today (and always) Jeff." An entire page is devoted to a Rabindranath Tagore poem Jeff decided to send to Arlene. As one might scroll through e-mails to delete them, one ends up quickly scanning pages for something actually worth reading. Toward book's end, these two aren't even writing very often to each other. Arlene: "Jeff, I haven't heard from you since June 8th. I'm concerned...you might recall our conversation about your visiting for a few days...to complete the book with me..."

The book ends with no assurance that Jeff and Arlene will keep e-mailing, much less having conjugal visits. When she died, there was no posting from Jeff on Facebook, nor had their been any mention of him (as opposed to her daughters and her pet dog). She never hawked her book on Facebook, either.

Way back on page 35, this guy burbled about how beautiful she looked as T'pring, and creepily added that after watching the re-run, "I wondered what you ate for lunch...I wondered if you were in love at that point in time. If so...whether you were well-loved. I wondered if you had kissed someone that day....I wondered. And I inhaled you. And for the briefest moment...I was inside you...please excuse those figurative references...They were not to infer anything sexual." To this typical Californian pseudo-poetic overly extroverted nut, Marlene replied: "I'm not to infer anything sexual? Boy, talk about sending mixed messages."

Here and there, fans of Martel, or perhaps friends and relatives, get some glimmers of the woman's personality, and she might "live again" in the passages where she obsesses on various drugs and treatments which seem to have been a big part of her daily routine. Once in a great while there's a brief mention of her parents, her granddaughter, or growing up in the Bronx, but these are few. Perhaps she was saving all that for the autobiography that probably will never be published, and might only exist in a few manuscript pages. Considering the high list price of print-on-demand books, it's hard to recommend this to any but the most devoted Martel fans, since 80% of it is as boring as everyone else's e-mails. It's a high price to pay just to have more of a keepsake, my dear "Kalecake."