One Trekkie who grew up to become a systems engineer is hoping to bring the Starship Enterprise into the 21st century.Through a website launched this week, a shadowy figure going by the name BTEDan has proposed a 20 year outline to build a full-sized, ion-powered version of the famed fictional ship complete with 1G of gravity on board.

The Christian Science Monitor reports that this “Gen1” Enterprise could get to Mars in 90 days, to the Moon in three, and “could hop from planet to planet dropping off robotic probes of all sorts en masse – rovers, special-built planes, and satellites.”

The site — buildtheenterprise.org — showcases conceptual designs, ship specs including a gravity wheel to retain the classic shape while making the craft functional,  and almost every other detail imaginable, the newspaper says, down to the rather important problem of how to fund such a project in an era where government officials are taking a “been there, done that” approach to funding NASA and space travel.

Though in a quick perusal this fangirl was surprised to find that the creators did not have a thorough editor. What I lack in engineering know-how I make up for in basic fan knowledge. “Live long and proper.” BTE Dan writes on the FAQ page. Come now, Dan. You can hatch an entire $1 trillion plan to build Scotty’s beloved ship, but you bungle Spock’s signature phrase?

The shallow corridors of Arlington Station provide a walkway for bustling businessmen, a means of transport for blundering tourists and the perfect acoustics for a classical guitarist who finds peace in his daily grind of playing to the passersby.

Playing with upturned lips, David Gonzales, knowingly picks at his guitar but without the pride of a man who has played for as long as he has. Rather, he shyly gazes upon the crowd with a humble smile, and you’d swear you’d known him for years. His thick fingers play soft chords and gentle rhythms that would soothe the most hurried of subway travelers. He first picked up the guitar at age 8. The music comes easily now.

A 3-foot blonde strolls by, dancing in her yellow raincoat. She can’t be more than four years old, but she is one of the few who takes notice of Gonzales. At that moment, he glances up and plays just for her, and they share a smile.

There is a stigma surrounding him simply because he plays music in the streets. “People can say what they say,” he offers. And while his guitar case stays empty for large parts of the day, a casual smile remains on his face. Gonzales plays because he wants to, not because he has to.

“It’s not about the money,” Gonzales says. “My God, you have no idea how much money I could make doing this is Europe, in Asia.”

Dressed in a pink and white striped polo with light-colored khakis, Gonzales has the appearance of a casual businessman. He owns 22 pairs of tennis shoes. “I am dressed like rich, and I play in the streets,” he says in his still thick Argentine accent, though he has survived in the US for more than eight years. “This is who I am. This is my life,” he says, without apology. “The key is, you must do something to survive.”

Gonzales grew up very poor on the streets of South America. In appearance, he is unlike most Argentinians, with dark skin and eyes the color of molasses. Because of this, Gonzales says he experienced discrimination very early, even by his own stepfather, who never offered him money or life lessons. So he grew up poor and without role models.

“I was born very, very poor. We were sleeping in a king bed, four people, maybe five. So I know how much value you can learn from life,” he says.

But that is all he talks of his past. Instead, he focuses on the future and on his place in society.

“Everything I want I can make true in my life,” says Gonzales. “It’s confidence. If you have truth, confidence and determination … everything is possible. I can decide and design the life I want and have it.”

And he has. Gonzales worked as a photographer for an international magazine for three years, he worked for Delta airlines, he learned to scuba dive off the coasts of Brazil, he played professional rugby in France, he’s worked as a personal trainer and he owned a landscaping company. “I like the difficult things,” he says. “Every part of history to my life is big.”

One of his bigger moments came, Gonzales says, when he began getting acclaim for his photography and seeing the seedier side of journalism. He once was asked to take a picture of a prominent South American lawyer caught in an affair. So on a Brazilian beach, he found them, and he photographed him holding hands with his mistress. The controversy surrounding the picture is what drove Gonzales out of the field. “I am a journalist. We are the worst people in the world,” he says. “Where’s the love man?”

Each job tells another story. And he is not finished yet. “There are many things I long to do,” he says.

When’s he not playing music, Gonzales still plays rugby for the Boston Irish Wolfhounds and has since 2003. He loves the game. “It’s a gentleman’s sport,” he says proudly.

One of his teammates, Mike Kerry, spoke of Gonzales in an excited Irish brogue. “He’s a good guy,” he said. “Workways, he seems to have always jumped around to different things. But he seems to have found his niche … seems to be happier playin’ the music.”

“I am happy,” Gonzales says. “It’s not only the music, it’s the way I am.”

“I like the guitar,” he says. And pauses to grin. “I like food.” And though he makes a living strumming the guitar, he plays for the love of it and for the people who listen. “It’s not about the money,” he says again. “It’s an exchange of peace.”

“Everybody is afraid,” he says, of the economy, of Iran, of the swine flu. Gonzales plays for them.

There is a man who passes him by often, a Boston judge, who once remarked to him, “your music gives me a lot of peace,” Gonzales said.

Gonzales, who believes in karma, says “peace and love” are the only things he carries, and distributes alongside the music.

“I have many good things to give. I don’t want one person to say I didn’t learn one good thing. Wherever I’m going, I’m bringing peace.”

It is up to him, where that may be. Perhaps a professional rugby coach, perhaps back to Delta. But one thing is for sure, Gonzales is not scared of anything,

“Each time you pull me down, I go up,” he grins broadly. “And when I die, I wanna be like this.”

“I’m a big fan of blush. This right here is my secret,” the young man says, pulling out a small, circular tin from a cosmetics tray. “A little bit of this, just dab it on, it really adds a lot,” he says, running a large powder brush across the top of his hand.

In a tidy pinstriped suit, bright-blue shirt and golden geometric tie, this 24-year-old with long hair and light chin fuzz could be a grandson of the older woman resting inside the casket. But Tyler Pray is actually a young funeral director, the one who arranged this small service on behalf of an estranged sister who wanted to bury her broken relationship as soon as possible.

With the collar popped on his black trench coat, Tyler grasps a silver bar affixed along the side of a gray container. His father and grandfather help march it out a back door, balancing the weight within.

The three generations of Pray men stand in as pallbearers and family for the petite woman who spent her last few years in a wheelchair. Under soft, pink lighting, she appears asleep in such an unnatural position — hands crossed in front and glasses shielding her closed eyes. An assistant cranks the casket closed and the woman’s body slowly tilts back into place, her stiff, clasped hands freeze in the air as if reaching for one last handshake. The men lift her closed casket into a black hearse. Only 10 people show for the funeral. Two attend the burial.

Still, Tyler makes sure she looks great. He sets her hair in neat curls, dresses her in a stylish leopard-print blouse and brings her pale skin back to its natural glow. It’s a chance to do something for her that she can no longer do for herself.

“It doesn’t do anything to my skin, really, but something that’s really pale, like, look at our hands. They’re red. They’re fleshy. It just makes it look like there’s blood flowing through there again. Not that they’re alive, but just a more natural appearance.”

He flips the blush case over. “Oh god. This is so cheesy,” he says. “This is called Sparkling Wine.”

Reputation is important, not only in the bereavement business, but in this small community. The Pray family handles roughly 150 deaths each year in Charlotte, a town of 8,300 near Michigan’s capital of Lansing. Blunders in this small place don’t go unnoticed.

“I don’t want to put too much red on somebody … if they didn’t wear red lipstick,” Tyler says. “Same as with a man. I want to put color on his lips but look at my lips. They’re a pretty red. And I’m a guy not wearing any makeup.

“When I first introduce people to their person in the casket, a lot of times I’ll kind of read and listen to them, ask them if everything’s OK. And people say, “God she looks terrible. There’s too much red on her.’”

Families suffer the most intense episodes when they enter the home and see their deceased for the first time, he says. They hug and cry uncontrollably; some collapse. But that’s how they deal. And sometimes, the Prays are all that families have. Tyler is most proud when someone says their dead relative — not breathing, laughing, smiling like they once did — looks good.

“People who don’t get a chance to have this final moment always seem to be disconnected with what’s really happening,” he says. “Like it’s not true. Like they’re going to come home tomorrow. But they’re not.”

Tyler walks all of 60 feet to work through a back alley from an old, gray colonial, one of three houses the family owns. It’s a prime location for a job with no set schedule. And he’s made it a hub for his creativity. He stands at the kitchen table flipping through some poetry publications that arrived in the mail today. In another room, a guitar stands upright on display and an old typewriter rests on his desk, both ways for Tyler to turn out inspiration. He’s particular about his feng shui, too, demonstrating how the mounted flat panel TV looks cleaner when the DVD rack isn’t directly underneath. He says the spacious apartment is a peaceful getaway from the extreme hours next door.