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June, 2000, LOS ANGELES - It was a proud moment for all of us at the Japanese American National Museumwhen we received word that we had been selected as a recipient of a $1.5 million challenge grant from the Ford Foundation. This was not only solid recognition from a distinguished philanthropic foundation for the achievements of a relatively young museum in telling the uniquely American story of the Japanese American experience. This was significant financial support for our still developing endowment. We were delighted.

As a challenge grant, however, we knew that we would have work to do. We had to match the gift two to one. Our challenge was to raise $3 million in three years. I had no idea, though, of a capricious and nerve-racking challenge that I would be facing as well.

As chairman of the national museum, I was to fly to New York, where the Ford Foundation was to present the gift at a dinner. I was to be a speaker on the program together with famed opera star, Beverly Sills, who also happens to be the chairman of Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. I had always admired Ms. Sills' artistry as well as her private commitment to the arts. To meet her and share the stage with her would be a wonderful personal occasion for me as well.

On the day of the dinner, I caught an early morning American Airlines flight at LAX that was to connect through Chicago. It would get me into Manhattan with time enough to check into the hotel, get dressed and be at the Ford Foundation Building in time for the dinner. The flight was uneventful -- which was good. I have had more than my share of "eventful" flights in my life. We landed at O'Hare Airport in Chicago on schedule, but, as I stepped out of the jetway, an airline representative was there to meet me. He apologetically told me that my connecting flight to New York had been cancelled due to a bad storm between Chicago and New York. But, he assured me, he had booked me on the next flight to New York only an hour later.

I realized that I would have to adjust to the changed circumstances. To make up for the lost time, I thought I had better be dressed for the dinner. So, I got to the Admiral's Club, unpacked as best I could within the confines of a cubicle and struggled out of my casual clothes and into my suit and tie. Dressed and ready for the dinner, I stepped out of the men's room.

As I walked by the flight schedule monitor screen, I gave a quick glance to check on my new connecting flight. CANCELLED, it read. My new connection, too, had been aborted. Trying to suppress my alarm, I got in line at the service desk together with a horde of panic-stricken passengers. The harried reservation clerks announced that the storm had forced the cancellation of all flights going east but that they were working on getting us back in the air as soon as possible. The sky in Chicago looked fine, but I wasn't so sure I wanted to get back up into that sky.

I took up residence in the Admiral's Club for the next six hours waiting anxiously for a break in the storm. Periodically, the airline reps announced that they would, at last, be able to book us on a flight. And just as quickly, they reversed themselves. When they finally told me that they could get me into New York by 2 p.m. the following day, I realized that I had failed this part of the challenge grant. It was pointless for me to go on. Our museum's executive director, Irene Hirano, had flown the day before and she could accept the gift from the Ford Foundation. I took the next flight going west through calm skies and returned home to Los Angeles.

That was two weeks ago. Last weekend, I flew again, this time to a Star Trek convention in Tampa, Florida, the annual Vulcon show organized by Joe Motes and Fernando Martinez. Thankfully, the flight was uneventful. This month, I have trips to San Francisco, then Tokyo, Japan, and Toronto, Canada. The challenges continue to be scheduled.

February, 2003, LOS ANGELES - I always watch the news as I go about my morning exercise routine. When I turned on my television on the first morning of February to begin my workout, I saw a graceful white line streaking across a pure blue sky on the screen. It looked beautiful. What chilled me was the grave tone in the announcer's voice and the words, "BREAKING NEWS" across the bottom of the screen. "The Space Shuttle Columbia is breaking up across the Texas sky. All seven astronauts are believed lost," came the horrifying announcement. I stood there, fixed on the screen. It was incredible - it was happening again, seventeen years after the Challenger disaster.

Fragments of information came tumbling in. There may have been trouble from the very beginning, we were told, with problems from the left tail wing. The shuttlecraft Columbia was very old, the oldest in the fleet - its maiden flight having been back in 1981. Photos of the astronauts on board the Columbia were flashed on the screen. It was gut wrenching to watch - two women, one born in India; five men, one African American, who, as a youth, had been inspired by Star Trek; six Americans and one Israeli national hero. My heart broke for these courageous men and women and their grief-stricken families. I saw these astronauts as the real-life ancestors of the fictional characters we portrayed on Star Trek. My co-stars and I were there for the rollout of the very first space shuttle - named Enterprise - back in September of 1976. I always felt that the space program was a part of my life. My spirit soared with the astronauts every time they blasted off into the sky. Now, I was watching seven of them plummeting down in a fiery streak.

This terrible tragedy may be the wake up call for a nation that had become too distracted and lost its sight on the great human challenge that lies out in space. That challenge is humankind's eternal quest for knowledge. Christopher Columbus sailed into the unknown, beyond the horizon of his era, to open up more than a new world, but old, congealed minds as well. Lewis and Clark ventured beyond the mountains that defined the barriers of their time to expand, not only a nation, but the boldness of its vision as well. President John Kennedy's stirring words to put a man on the moon before the end of the 60's galvanized, not only the spirit of America, but began breaking through the knowledge barriers of those days. The enlarged information bank produced, not only expanded knowledge of space, but greater understanding of this, our own planet. That knowledge, in turn, produced new discoveries that benefited humankind, created new industries, advanced health care processes and developed medicines that could not have been otherwise produced. Our destiny is in space exploration.

For much too long, the United States' commitment to space has been a neglected priority. NASA has been an under-funded orphan. Necessary equipment upgrades have not been made. New technologies have not been developed. Too tragically, we have had to use equipment past its prime.

The Columbia tragedy has become a powerful challenge to President George Bush's much-challenged set of priorities. Are tax cuts for millionaires more in our national interest than funding commitment to our space future? On the Columbia, experiments were being conducted that dealt with clean energy development, medical tissue cultures that could enhance the quality of human life, insect studies that would improve knowledge of our environment and a whole host of breakthrough studies. Will tax cuts for the rich get our slack economy moving better than an investment in space exploration? The knowledge gained from our space venture would develop new industries, new jobs and energize the global economy. Tax cuts would only deepen our Federal budget deficit and raise interest rates. Can tax cuts for millionaires improve our relations with our international allies? Our space program has been a pioneer in global teamwork with this planet's diverse people working together in concert - just like on Star Trek. Yet, what we hear from George Bush is a torrent of aggressive rhetoric of unilateral action unaccompanied by increased funding support for the space program. His primary commitment seems to be to millionaires.

The crash of the Space Shuttle Columbia was a shocking tragedy. The alarm has now been sounded. From the charred debris scattered over a hundred miles across Texas and Louisiana, the NASA program must rise again like a Phoenix. We owe this to the memory of those heroic science- adventurers of the Columbia. A re-energized NASA must be our tribute of gratitude to those astronauts who gave the last full measure of their devotion to our eternal quest for knowledge.

March, 2003, LOS ANGELES - Those who know me know that I am an inconvertible Anglophile - or more broadly, a Britanophile, which includes my affection for Scotland and Wales as well. I love things British. My car is British. My wardrobe, to a good extent, is British. I even love the food in London - I think British food has shaken its prevailing perception as indigestible and become quite wonderful. I try to get to Britain for holidays as often as I can. I love things British.

Only a month since I was last there on holiday, I was back in England again in February. This quick return was prompted by a most welcome invitation by convention organizer Anne Lindup to attend the Starfleet Ball in Bournemouth on the south coast of England. What a happy combination this was - a Star Trek convention in England! And what a symbolically appropriate place Bournemouth was, because it could be said that it was in this English seaside town, that our high tech world got its start. The very first wireless exchange took place from Bournemouth between the inventor, Guglielmo Marconi talking to physicist Lord Kelvin on the Isle of Wight in 1898. A bit more than a century later, Star Trek fans, armed with their 21st century wireless communication device -- the cell phone -- gathered in Bournemouth for a weekend of celebration, talks and fantasizing about the science wonders yet to come. The only damper to a super weekend was that I had caught an awful cold with a nagging cough that just wouldn't quit. I felt miserable.

It was my luck that Marina Sirtis was also a guest at the convention. She is an uncanny healer. She told me at the hotel of her secret curative - what she called "Dr. Footlights." "Get in front of the warm light of the footlights," she said, "and that miserable feeling will disappear. You'll be cured." She was so right. The minute I stepped before those bright lights to be embraced by the thunderous welcome of the fans, that wretched feeling miraculously faded. I was functional again. It was great to be with long-time fans that had now become friends. I enjoyed the talks and especially - the highlight of the convention - the Starfleet Ball itself. Everyone was dressed to celebrate. There were people clad as Starfleet officers, alien ambassadors, and other imaginative beings. The men in drag looked "divine" but rather conventionally 20th century. Only my rude coughing interrupted occasionally to remind me that I was sick. But the combination of the Starfleet Ball and "Dr. Footlights" made for a potent curative tonic.

After the convention, I went on into London for a week of theater. It was like reliving history to see the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company's production of Gilbert and Sullivan's "H.M.S. Pinafore" at the Savoy Theater. This theater and Gilbert and Sullivan are inextricably linked in theater history. Richard D'Oyly Carte, presenter of Gilbert and Sullivan's works, built the Savoy Theater in 1881 to present his productions of their operettas. I myself also have a personal history with "H.M.S. Pinafore." I had played the Captain of the Pinafore in college, a fact known by some. Thus, I was sternly cautioned to restrain myself from singing along with the performers. I did as ordered - but I manage to sing along mentally. It was a nostalgic evening of familiar tunes performed sparklingly - both on stage as well as in my mind.

It was a week of eclectic theater going that ranged from classic American comedy, "Arsenic and Old Lace," starring Michael Richards from the TV series, "Seinfeld," to an autobiographical musical by Boy George titled, "Taboo," to Shakespeare's "Tempest" with a towering performance by Derek Jacobi as Prospero. I even included an evening at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden with Verdi's "Falstaff." A very special evening was a hilarious American comedy, "Triple Espresso," produced by my friend Dennis Babcock. He had designated one night "George Takei Night at Triple Espresso" and all my friends were admitted at half price. It was wonderful to share an evening of theater together with long-time friends as well as new fans. Freda and Colin Boydell, dedicated editors of my fan club newsletter, who live down in Cornwall at the very southwestern tip of England, astounded me with their fantastic support. They took a bus all the way into London just to see the show with us and then went back right after a post theater drink in the theater bar with us to make that same long journey back to Cornwall through the night. They had made a similar trip all the way up to Edinburgh, Scotland, when I was performing there in a play titled "Undertow." They are wonderful, devoted friends and I very much appreciate their support.

The week was capped by the opportunity to attend the Olivier Awards Show at the Lyceum Theater. This is the award show named for the great actor Sir Laurence Olivier to recognize outstanding achievements in British theater. One of the many presenters was the royalty of theater herself, Dame Judi Dench. In her inimitable way, she was, at once, elegant and natural. After the show, we visited the nearby St. Paul's Church in Covent Garden, traditionally known as the "actors' church." That reputation was certainly proved true when we spotted Judi Dench come in alone and quietly slip into a pew. She prayed calmly and undisturbed. We left silently. It was a rare and touching moment.

As much as I am an Anglophile, I am an even prouder Californian and more specifically, an Angeleno. I am a native of Los Angeles and I love my hometown. I love its dynamism, its diversity, and our incomparable climate. My English cold quickly disappeared once I got home. The welcoming sunshine was glorious. But, therein lies our drawback as well. Los Angeles is built on land that is a semi-arid desert. The one essential that makes the existence of this great metropolis, the second city of America, possible is water brought in from afar. On the last weekend of the month, I went on a journey that gave me a deeper appreciation for what we take for granted - a glass of water.

A colleague on a board on which I sit, Phil Pace, is the chairman of the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California, which provides the water for our sun parched metropolitan area. Phil invited me, together with a busload of dignitaries, on a weekend tour of the Colorado River Aqueduct system, which supplies a large portion of the water for southern California. It was an awe-inspiring experience.

We traveled all day across the southern California desert to Lake Havasu straddling the California-Arizona border. Created by Parker Dam on the Colorado River, the lake was pristine and turquoise blue. The calm water lake had transformed the red, mud-roiled water of the Colorado River. Indeed, the name of the lake, Havasu, is the Navaho Indian word for "blue water." This vast body of water is one of three sources of life for southern Californians. That night, we stayed at the lodge in a small nearby camp for the maintenance workers.

The next morning, we were taken to a great concrete building by the dam that housed the pump station. We had explained to us that the water of the lake was pumped up by the sheer might of the centrifugal force created by the row of giant impellers before us. The water was pushed up the rugged mountainside through massive pipes to a high altitude reservoir at Copper Basin. We were then driven up a winding mountain road to that facility. The reservoir was a vast basin but the water level was at about half capacity. We were visiting the aqueduct system at an historic moment. A massive inspection and repair work on the aqueduct - something that had not been done in five decades - was taking place at a cost of $8.2 million. The aqueduct and the reservoir system had been shut down and drained. Yet, the people served by the system were oblivious of this program because a new reserve reservoir, Diamond Valley Lake, was being tapped to supplement the system. It was from this high mountain reservoir at Copper Basin that the water flowed down by gravity through the aqueduct system to make its two hundred and forty-two-mile journey across desert and through mountain tunnels to serve eighteen million people from Ventura to San Diego in southern California. Our bus followed the concrete aqueduct all day across the desert. A monumental engineering achievement along the water's trek is the thirteen-mile long tunnel blasted through the San Jacinto Mountain Range, the third tallest mountain in the state, to maintain the water's flow. Our bus skirted that daunting climb up the San Jacinto range. We arrived back in Los Angeles tired but profoundly appreciative of the colossal human effort and ingenuity that make possible the shower we all looked forward to as well as the drink of ice-cold water that we so took for granted. I am today, both a proud and deeply grateful Angeleno.