Coming from the comics background that I do, the first exposure I had to parallel earths was probably DC's Earth-1, Earth-2 and so on; different versions of the same planet that existed at "different vibrational frequencies" to each other, and had different versions of the same characters (On Earth-2, Superman is older - and has a different "S" on his chest! It blew my little childhood mind), but it wasn't until Star Trek's "Mirror, Mirror" episode that I completely fell in love with the concept of there being multiple versions of the same characters in worlds just slightly different from our own.

It's hard for me to explain just why the idea appeals to me so much (Or why I was so thrilled to discover that Schrödinger's cat was, in fact, not the invention of Peter Milligan). Maybe it's really is that I'm indecisive, and love the idea that any decision anyone makes can be made differently by the same person on another Earth somewhere, or perhaps it's just the basic thrill of seeing the road less traveled becoming a little less "less traveled". Nonetheless, it remains one of my favorite SF ideas, and an easy way to bypass my critical faculties (Clone Wars writers, take note). After all, who couldn't love a multiverse full of possibilities?

Perhaps my Valentine's Day tribute to the gray gorillas of Michael Crichton's world is in part due to the two-hour argument I had with editor Graeme about Congo's amazing ability to capture our minds and hearts when novelist Crichton passed away last year. Maybe I'm bitter that I couldn't convince him of its contributions to the film going public - or maybe he just doesn't understand our love. Either way, I still love this movie. You gave me so much, Congo: a terrible accented Herkermer Homolka, hand-talking Amy the gorilla, and sweet sweet eyeball extraction. I love you, Congo, and I'm not afraid to say it.

I've been called out more than a few times by commenters for dubbing movies "bad, but good," because I didn't want to be dubbed stupid or silly for loving said terrible flick. To those people I say, sorry, but there isn't anything secret about it. Perhaps I have not made myself clear. My love for bad movies knows no bounds. I adore Congo for the seriousness with which this ridiculous movie got made. I love that, at one point, filmmakers pitched a movie that contained giant diamond protecting gorillas, a laser gun with the ability to shoot down satellites, talking robot hands and then went out and convinced Laura Linney, Ernie Hudson, Tim Curry and Bruce Campbell that this was a good idea. That alone took some sand. I imagine Linney looking at Hudson and saying, "OK so is this the part where we set up the laser perimeter of automated guns to protect us from the super smart white gorillas?" without flinching and it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Congo is just one delightfully absurd thing heaped on top of the other sprinkled with dancing jungle people and delivered in all seriousness by talented actors. What's not to love about a so-obviously-fake talking gorilla with the voice of a two-year-old and not one character was really ever that fazed by it. If that was me, I'd be walking around screaming, "shit, there's a talking gorilla in our group." I love Congo because it unabashedly tackled the insane subject matter trying so hard to be realistic and, in return, delivered hilarious entertainment that is always rewarding no matter how many times you view it.

Congo is my b-movie watermark. They can't just be bad (ahem, Death Race) they have to truly excel in shittiness so far that you find yourself screaming, "STOP EATING MY SESAME CAKE," to your friends in near hysterics at the end of a long night. Sure the AVP buddy cop/alien movie was great, but was it Congo great? I mean, it's not like they had to escape aliens and a volcano at the same time? Can it live up to watching Tim Curry running around screaming "Ze Diamooonds!"

Congo is sugary mind candy that give you a little pick-me-up. Movies like this get me through sad times, happy times or even just late nights of insomnia. I always feel good after getting a glimpse of Dylan Walsh's hair. Movies like this are there for you, delivering layer upon layer of insanity and asking nothing else in return... Just that you turn on TBS or TNT and check in from time to time.

While there are many, many things I love about this genre, I have to give special attention to terrible movies today because I'd be lying if I didn't admit it's halfway through my weekend and already I've popped in Titan A.E. and Deep Impact. Don't worry, I've got a romantic night of candles, roses, chocolates and lasers all planned for a private screening of Congo because you deserve it baby. Thanks for always being there.

Though I was a fierce reader of scifi novels as a teenager, wolfing down John Varley, Ursula LeGuin, Robert Silverberg, Clifford D. Simak and many others, I gave it up when I went to college. I think I had some misguided idea that scifi was for kids, and as a grownup English Ph.D. student I should be devoting myself to Dylan Thomas and post-structuralist theory. I strayed from literature occasionally, reading some Octavia Butler and a Star Trek novel, telling myself I was doing it merely to understand pop culture. It's not that I loved it – I just studied the stuff.

I became a professor, but drifted away from academia to become an alternative journalist. As the editor of the book review section of the San Francisco Bay Guardian, hundreds of books crossed my desk, their gray covers stamped "advance copy" and "uncorrected proof." That was how I found Newton's Wake, which was prominently billed as a space opera.

It had been a long time since I'd read scifi in a way you might call serious, rather than studying it as some kind of social symptom. I picked up the book, read the first page, and was intrigued enough to keep it through two apartments and two jobs – and finally read it after I'd returned from a year-long fellowship at MIT where I'd immersed myself in science self-education.

I don't think it's an exaggeration to say MacLeod gave me pleasure in reading scifi again. Partly that's because his ideas were so meaty – debates over separatist nationalism were deeply embedded in a crazed adventure story about "rapture fuckers" with nano brains and combat archaeologists teleporting through a series of heists across the galaxy. I was in love. In short order, I read every single MacLeod book I could get my hands on, then replunged into scifi lit with what could only be described as a burning need.

I had missed it for so long! Now the shelves in my office bulge with science fiction novels. They're ongoing testimony to my love, reawakened by a novel about Scottish pirates on another planet.

Deep down, under all of the other stuff about fighting monsters and robots and half-monster half-robot threats, Doctor Who is basically a show about the most generous person in the universe.

As former screenwriter Terrence Dicks once wrote, the Doctor is never cowardly or cruel. He always rejects the easy solution to his problems, and finds ways to save a statistically significant proportion of the bystanders from whatever hideous fiends were melting people this month. But he's also generous with his massive time-ship, hidden inside a (formerly) commonplace item like the Phantom Tollbooth. He's always scooping up ordinary people and whisking them away on adventures. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize that the Doctor would come and take me away from all of my boring life shit, in his TARDIS. But now that I realize that he already has, a million times. Happy Valentine's Day, Doctor.

Doctor Who Valentines cards from Enjoying The Journey.