by Wil Wheaton
Bingo, baby! “They were real!” How can they not love that?!
Silence. I see a teenager in a “Sexy women of Star Trek” T-shirt roll his eyes, as four Klingons sigh heavily and walk out.
Oh shit. They are walking out. I’m dead.
I panic. “What’s wrong?” I ask Self Preservation.
“Hey, I told you to get off the stage. You’re on your own, jackass,” he says.
An experienced performer has a few jokes or stories that always get a good response. We call them “back pocket” material, and they are held in our minds for occasions like this. I decide to bring one of them out . . . but my mind draws a complete blank.
I have nothing, so I say, “Uh. Does anyone have any questions?”
I honestly expect someone to shout out, “How come you suck?” But nobody says anything.
I look at the crowd for a second, and I say with a smile, “Well then, I guess we’re done here! Thanks a lot for coming, and have a great rest of the weekend!” I start to walk off stage, with every intention of continuing down the hall and into the bar.
After a couple of steps, though, they all laugh. Hard.
What? That was funny? Well, I guess after the water crack, pretty much anything is funny. Okay, I’ll take what I can get at this point. I relax a bit and we get going. I begin to share my Star Trek memories, and the crowd gets involved.
A woman dressed as Doctor Crusher stands up and says, “Say hello to your mother!”
“Okay . . .” I say, and turn to my real mom, Debbie, who is sitting on the opposite side of the theater. “Hey mom! Thanks for coming! Do I still suck?”
The whole room turns to find her.
“No. You’re doing great, honey,” she says.
“Thanks, mom,” I say.
I call on a cute girl who wears a babydoll “Social Distortion” shirt.
“What was it like to kiss Ashley Judd?” she asks.
I smile broadly. “Come on up here, and I’ll show you!”
Huge laugh. She stands up!
“Oh! No! I’m just kidding!” I hold up my hand, and point into my palm, “my ifeway isay inay the eaterthay!”
I glance at my wife. She’s laughing and shaking her head, and she winks at me.
I feel good. They’re laughing with me and having a good time.
I call on an older man, who sits near the front, several bags of collectibles at his feet.
“Do you have a favorite episode of Voyager?” he asks.
“Well, The truth is, I’ve only watched Voyager a couple of times, and I really don’t like it.”
There is a little bit of a gasp. Did Wesley just say he doesn’t like Voyager?
I try to explain. “The episode was called “Scorpion,” and I watched it because my friend designed the monster that terrorized the crew for the entire episode.”
I hear angry sighs. People turn to talk to each other. Some of them leave.
What happened? All I said was that I don’t like Voyager! What’s the big deal? Lots of Trekkies don’t like Voyager. Maybe I should have called it “V’ger.”
A guy waves his hand rather urgently, fingers spread in the Vulcan “Live long and prosper” salute. I point to him.
“What was your favorite episode of Deep Space Nine?”
“Well, the truth is, DS9 and Voyager just never appealed to me. The stories didn’t interest me as much as the stories on Next Generation or Classic Trek,” I say.
Big mistake. This is not what the fans want to hear. They want to hear how I love and care about these shows as much as they do, because that’s exactly what they hear from the other actors. They get up on stage, and they give the fans exactly what they want.
Well, I don’t do that. I tell them what it’s truly like for me, warts and all. The truth is, sometimes being on Star Trek was the greatest thing in the world. Other times, it completely sucked. And, as blasphemous as this sounds, at the end of the day it was just a job.
But when all is said and done, I am still a fan at heart. I loved the original series. I am proud of the work I did on Next Generation. I cried when Spock died, and I saw Star Trek IV in theaters six times.
I failed to mention all that, however. Without that information, it can piss people off that I don’t have the same unconditional love for Star Trek that they do.
I look at my watch, and I have 10 minutes left to fill. I have nothing to lose, so I reach into my back pocket . . . and find it filled with material.
“I have the limited edition Star Trek Monopoly game.” I say.
“Of course, it’s a limited edition of 65 million. But it’s extremely valuable, because I got a number under 21 million.”
They laugh. It’s funny, because it’s true.
I go one better. “Plus, it’s got a certificate of authenticity signed by Captain Picard!
“Yes, that’s right, my Star Trek Monopoly game, which I’ve rendered worthless by opening, comes with a certificate of authenticity signed in ink by a fictional character.”
I see a guy in the front row say something to his buddy, and they both nod their heads and laugh.
“Cool thing about the game, though, is that there is a Wesley Crusher game piece in it, and the first time we sat down to play it as a family, Ryan grabbed Wesley and proclaimed, as only an 11-year-old can, ‘I’m Wil!! I’m Wil!! Nolan!! I’m all-time Wil!! I call it!!’”
I see some people smile. I start to pace the stage. I’m hitting my stride, and the stories flow out of me.
“One time, when we were renegotiating our contracts, we were all asking for raises.
“We all felt a salary increase was appropriate, because The Next Generation was a hit. It was making gobs of money for Paramount,” (I like that word—gobs) “and we felt that we should share in that bounty.
“Of course, Paramount felt otherwise, so a long and annoying negotiation process began.
“During that process, the producers’ first counter offer was that, in lieu of a raise, they would give my character a promotion, to lieutenant.”
I pause, and look around. I wrinkle my brow and gaze upward.
“What? Were they serious?”
A fan hollers, “Yeah! Lieutenant Crusher! Woo!”
I smile back at him.
“My agent asked me what I wanted to do. I told him to call them back and remind them that Star Trek is just a television show.”
Okay, that was risky to say. It’s pretty much the opposite of just a television show to these people, but I’ve gotten the audience back, and they giggle.
“I imagined this phone call to the bank,” I mime a phone, and hold it to my ear. “Hi . . . uh, I’m not going to be able to make my house payment this month, but don’t worry! I am a lieutenant now.” I pause, listening to the voice on the other end.
“Where? Oh, on the Starship Enterprise.”
I pause.
"Enterprise D, yeah, the new one. Feel free to drop by Ten Forward for lunch someday. We’ll put it on my officer’s tab!”
Laughter, and applause. My time is up, and Dave Scott stands at the foot of the stage, politely letting me know that it’s time for me to go.
The fans see this, and I pretend to not notice him.
“In 2001, startrek.com set up a poll to find out what fans thought the best Star Trek episode of all time was. The competition encompassed all the series. The nominated episode from Classic Trek was “City On The Edge Of Forever.” The entry for The Next Generation was “Best of Both Worlds, Part I.” DS9 offered “Trials and Tribble-ations,” and Voyager weighed in with “Scorpion II.”
As I name each show, various groups of people applaud and whistle, erasing any doubt as to what their favorite show is.
“Now, look. I know that Star Trek is just a TV show. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I just said that five minutes ago, but there was no way I was going to let my show lose. It just wasn’t going to happen. Especially not to Voyager—er, V’ger, I mean.”
I p
ause, and look out at the crowd.
“So I went into my office, sat at my computer for 72 straight hours, and voted for TNG over and over again.
“I didn’t eat, and I didn’t sleep. I just sat there, stinky in my own filth, clicking and hitting F5, a Howard Hughes for The Next Generation.
“Some time around the 71st hour, my wife realized that she hadn’t seen me in awhile and started knocking on the door to see what I was doing.
“‘Nothing! I’m, uh, working!’ I shouted through the door. Click, Click, Click . . .
“‘I don’t believe you! Tell me what you’ve been doing at the computer for so long!’
“I didn’t want her to know what I was doing—I mean, it was terribly embarrassing . . . I had been sitting there, in crusty pajamas, voting in the Star Trek poll for three days.”
Some people make gagging noises, some people “Eeww!” But it’s all in good fun. They are really along for the ride now. This is cool.
“She jiggled the handle, kicked at the bottom of the door, and it popped open!”
The audience gasps.
“I hurriedly shut down Mozilla and spun around in my chair.
“‘What have you been doing on this computer for three days, Wil?' she said.”
I look out across the audience, and pause dramatically. I lower my voice and confidentially say, “I was not about to admit the embarrassing truth, so I quickly said, ‘I’ve been downloading porn, honey! Gigabytes of porn!’”
I have to stop, because the ballroom rocks with laughter. It’s a genuine applause break!
“She was not amused. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said.
“I sighed, and told her that I’d been stuffing the ballot box in an online Star Trek poll.
“‘You are such a dork. I’d have been happier with the porn.’
“I brightened. ‘Really?'
“‘No,’ she said. She set a plate of cold food on the desk and walked out, muttering something about nerds.
“I stayed in that office for another 10 hours, just to be sure. When my eyes began to bleed, I finally walked away. It took several weeks of physical therapy before I could walk correctly again, but it was all worth it. “Best of Both Worlds, Part I" won by a landslide.”
I pause dramatically, and the theater is silent.
“And it had nothing to do with my stuffing the box. It’s because Next Generation FUCKING RULES!”
I throw my hand into the air, making the “devil horns” salute that adorns my satanic T-shirt, and the audience leaps to their feet, roaring with applause and laughter.
I can’t believe it. I got them back. I say thank you, give the microphone to Dave Scott, who is now sitting on the stage pointedly checking his watch, and exit, stage left.
IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME NOW.
Star Trek: The Experience is split up into three main areas: a restaurant that features Quark’s Bar, a replica of the DS9 Promenade that is filled with memorabilia and souvenirs, and the actual Star Trek “Experience” itself, which features an amazing trip right onto the bridge of the Enterprise D.
The whole thing is built beneath a huge model of the Enterprise D that hangs from the ceiling in midflight.
This is my first trip to Star Trek: The Experience, and I gasp involuntarily when I see my spaceship hanging there.
Staring at this giant model now, which must be 20 feet across the saucer section, I recall the first time I saw the Enterprise D in flight, when Paramount screened “Encounter At Farpoint” for us back in 1987. I sat in a darkened theater, and when Patrick Stewart intoned, “Space . . . the final frontier . . .” I got goosebumps. The seats began to rumble, and there was my spaceship, cruising by. She was beautiful. When she went to warp speed, my mouth hung open, and tears sprung into my eyes. I knew that I was part of something wonderful.
I point at it and say to Anne, “Hey! Look! I can see my house from here!” I giggle, and she has no idea what I’m talking about, which is one of the reasons I married her.
Anne and I are a little overwhelmed by how large and detailed everything is, but we don’t have any time to take it in, because as soon as we arrive, the fans begin to approach. They’re all very cool and friendly. Most of them have seen my sketch show and want to compliment me on it.
“It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen,” says one man.
“I haven’t laughed that hard at anything, ever, in my entire life. You guys rocked!” says another.
A woman recounts an entire sketch called “What Dreams May Come,” where I play a 12-year-old kid who is supposed to have his first wet dream. His “nice dream angel,” played by Travis (at 280 pounds, wrapped in a sheet, Travis got laughs just walking on stage) has a battle with his “naughty dream angel,” played by Maz, who wore leather pants and a vest. During the sketch, all I do is lay in bed and occasionally hump the mattress. The sketch always kills, and this show was no exception.
“I’ll never be able to see you as just Wesley Crusher again,” she says.
“That’s the idea, ma’am,” I say.
“Are you ever embarrassed to perform that sketch in front of your wife?” she asks.
“It’s nothing she doesn’t see at home several times a week,” I say. Anne punches my arm, and we all laugh.
Another man tells me that he had planned to see the other show that night, which was a performance of Love Letters that Rene Auberjonois did with Nana Visitor.
“I stayed in it for about 15 minutes, but I kept hearing laughter from your theater, so I left and bought a ticket to your show. I’m so glad that I did!” he tells me and claps me on the back.
Everyone wants to know when they can see the show again, and if they can buy audio or video versions.
“Sorry, but there aren’t any recordings of the show. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal,” I say.
“Why didn’t you tape it? It was great!” a woman asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, and that’s the truth. We just didn’t think to record it. I know that we all regret this fact. There will never be another Mind Meld performance like it.
I pose for pictures, visit with some friends who I only get to see at conventions, and decide to take Anne on the ride.
The line takes us down a long and winding path, flanked by props and costumes dating all the way back to the original series, in what they call “the museum of the future.” It’s the largest collection of Star Trek props in the world, and it’s a Trekkie’s wet dream. For me, it is the first stop on a trip through time. Behind thick panes of glass, I see tricorders and PADDS that I may have held one or more times during my years on the show. I see costumes that I remember being worn by guest stars or my fellow cast members. It’s a very surreal experience to see these relics of my youth on display in a museum.
We take our time, looking at all the props, reading all the plaques. Every item we see sparks a memory and Anne patiently listens to all of the stories that go along with them. Imagine sitting through your crazy Aunt Dorothy’s vacation slides. It’s like that.
We finally make our way to the end of a short line of people waiting to get into the ride. We are in a passageway, standing right next to a large display about the Klingon Empire. A visual record of Klingon history plays on a monitor, next to a display featuring weapons and costumes worn by Michael Dorn. I look at them, and I can hear Michael’s deep voice as he whines about how uncomfortable his makeup is. I smile to myself.
The Experience is closed to the public, so all the people in this line are hardcore Trekkies, most of them in costume. The people ahead of us are wearing Next Generation Starfleet uniforms. We exchange greetings, as a group of Trekkies dressed as Klingons arrive behind us.
My Trekkie sense begins to tingle again.
There is a certain psychology that inhabits the minds of people who dress up like Klingons . . . they tend to be very extroverted and a little obnoxious from time to time. These Klingons fit that description completely. Before long, they’ve
begun an argument with the people in front of us. Something about Klingon honor versus the Federation’s Prime Directive. The whole thing is amusing to me, but it’s beginning to scare my wife. I forget that she hasn’t been around this type of thing for years, like I have.
The argument escalates, and both groups try to get me on their side.
“Wil! You were in Starfleet!” the “Federation” fans say. “Surely you’re with us!”
The “Klingon” fans grunt and snarl at me in what I imagine is the Klingon tongue. One of them shows off a dangerous looking Klingon batleth.
Of course, I side with my now completely freaked-out wife: “I gotta go, you guys.”
Anne and I step out of line and head down to Quark’s for a drink. We end up talking with Garret Wang (an actor from Voyager) for a while. He’s a super nice guy, very funny and friendly. Even though we’ve never met before, we get along instantly. He asks me if I’ve ever been on the ride before and I tell him about the Klingons. He sympathizes and suggests that we ride it together. He’s been on it before, and he is certain I’m going to love it. We run into Stephen Furst (an actor from Babylon 5 who I worked with on St. Elsewhere before I started Star Trek), and he joins us.
We work our way back through the museum and make our way to the entrance.
The ride starts out like Star Tours. We’re all in a line, watching some monitors. An actor is describing to us how the safety belts work, or something, when all the lights go out. The monitors flicker, lights strobe, there are some special effects and a gust of air. When the lights come back up, we’re standing in the transporter room on the Enterprise.
I didn’t expect this. I am stunned and stare at my surroundings. It’s amazing.
The Transporter Chief says, “Welcome to the 24th century. You are aboard the Starship Enterprise.”
She could have said to me, “Welcome to 1987, Wil. You are on Stage 9.”
She touches her communicator and says, “I have them, Commander.”
Jonathan Frakes’s voice booms over the comm, “Good work, Lieutenant. Please take them to the bridge.”
We leave the transporter room and walk down a long corridor, which is identical to the ones I walked down every day. I realize as we walk that, in my mind, I’m filling in the rest of the sound stage. I’m surprised when we don’t end up in engineering at the end of the corridor. Instead, we are herded into a turbolift, where we enjoy some more special effects. The turbolift shakes and hums . . . it’s infinitely cooler than the real ones we would stand in for the show.
