by Wil Wheaton
While I waited for the call to come, I spoke with Dave Scott, who owns a company called Slanted Fedora Entertainment. Dave had been doing lots of conventions, and had a good reputation among the fans, and more important, among my Star Trek actor friends.[14] I told Dave that I hadn’t done a convention in a long time and I was wondering if he would be interested in having me do one of his shows. He seemed interested and said he’d get back to me.
Again, months passed. I did a few shitty, embarrassing, forgettable “pay the bills” movies and I began to wonder if maybe it was time to get into some other line of work.
Something that involved exotic language like “Soup du jour.”
Before I could begin learning the art of up-selling wine, however, Dave called and invited me to a convention in Waterbury, Connecticut, in March of 2001. In addition to me, Brent Spiner, Gates McFadden and Denise Crosby would be attending. I was ecstatic. We agreed on a speaker’s fee and I went to the show.
As an example of how long I’d been removed from Trek, I offer the following scene from March of 2001:
At the airport, I see Brent and Gates, standing in the departure terminal, waiting to board our plane.
My heart leaps and I walk toward them, beaming, with open arms.
They both look up at me, like I am Hannibal Lecter and begin to retreat.
They don’t recognize me, at all, until I tell them who I am.
Yeah, I’d been out of the game for a while.
We did the convention and it was really great. I had a wonderful time, and I thought that everyone there enjoyed my talk. I didn’t realize just how much they enjoyed it until I read a glowing review on Usenet.
A few months after I got home, the call from Creation came. I was invited, not as a speaker but as an autograph-signer, to the upcoming Grand Slam convention in Pasadena, California.
Not as a speaker, like the rest of the cast, but as an autograph-signer, like that guy who played Transporter Chief #7 in Episode 34.
This was a serious blow to my ego, especially after the success of the Slanted Fedora show, but I had swallowed my pride before, doing what I had to do in order to support my family.
Each time I’d done it, it had paid off in ways I didn’t expect: when I went to ComicCon in 1999, I met Ben, who introduced me to Loren, without whom there would be no WWdN.
I’d also gone to the Hollywood Collector’s Show, which is often referred to as “The Hollywood Has-Beens Show,” where I realized that, no matter what anyone said, I really wasn’t a has-been. I was just a guy who was really struggling, having had too much success too young.
Hey, at least I wasn’t one of the Coreys, right? Yeah, that’s what I’d try to tell myself.
However, at each of these events, as frustrated as I was, as much as it wounded my pride and bruised my ego, I knew that it was a much better alternative to, “Would you like to me to check your oil, sir?” I knew that I was very lucky, and I was grateful, if ashamed, for the opportunity to support my family.
So I accepted the offer to be a signer, rather than a speaker. I didn’t get a speaking fee. I got what I could by charging a fee to sign pictures, posters, trading cards; sadly, no boobies.
Although, at one point during the day, a very pretty girl came over to me and I am not afraid to tell you, she was seriously putting the vibe onto your Uncle Willie. I mean, she was vibing me hard.
Check it out:
She walks up to me, hips swinging, lips pouting, eyes leering and says, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” I tell her, expecting a replay of the Hooters incident. I look her right in the eye and after a dramatic, lusty pause, tell her, “I have a wife!”
BOOYAHBABY! OH YEAH! I await her chastened response.
“Oh,” she says, coyly, putting a finger in the corner of her mouth and drawing her tongue seductively across the tip. “That’s too bad.”
And she walks away, hips swinging.
Swinging, man. The room falls silent as she walks out. A guy in a Red Dwarf T-shirt drops a box of unopened Magic cards.
I pick my jaw up off the floor.
Shortly after this convention, I was looking for posts about the con on Usenet and I saw that some dude had taken a picture of this girl, who was like a piece of steak in a piranha tank around all of us geeks.
The message said something like, “Look at this hot girl who was at the Star Trek convention!”
There was a reply, which said something like, “Look! Here’s another picture of her!” It was that same girl, all alright, but she sure wasn’t wearing the same Charlie’s Angels T-shirt that she was wearing at the con . . . matter of fact, she wasn’t wearing anything at all.
That’s right, the full-on porn model totally hit on me, right there in front of everyone. Not that I would have hit it, being married and all that, but it sure did make my inner geek happy.
That convention ended up being really great. I was able to promote my ACME show and climb a little bit further out of debt. I did end up giving about a 20-minute talk in a very small room, which was intended to hold about 100 people, but was packed to standing with about 150 or so. The talk went fabulously well and Adam Malin sought me out himself to tell me that he was sorry for not putting me up on stage in The Big Room. He said that he didn’t know how much the fans liked me, or how good I was on stage. He promised to have me speak at the Grand Slam Show in 2002.
At that show, I saw Dave Scott and he invited me to the Vegas convention that is chronicled in Dancing Barefoot, in the chapter “The Saga of SpongeBob Vegas Pants.”
I was back in the game, baby and I was loving it. Cons were fun again. I’d been on the other side of the table, standing shoulder to shoulder with the fans, for a few years. I’d grown up. I’d spent time on stage in sketch comedy shows and improv shows. I understood what audiences wanted and I was learning how to connect with the Trekkies, how to identify with them. I felt like I was able to make up, in some small way, for the years I’d spent being an ass and I really liked it.
Then came 9/11. Then my great aunt died. Then the economy fell apart.
I had to cancel some cons, because of work and family commitments and cons had to be canceled because there simply weren’t enough people willing to buy tickets.
The promised invite to Grand Slam 2002 never materialized, but I did attend again as an autograph-signer, this time without any damage to the ego. I saw it as an opportunity to promote WWdN and get closer to that magic Zero on the Home Equity Balance Sheet. I did speak in that same little theater, this time to about 14 people, because I was programmed opposite Ricardo Montalban, who was occupying The Big Stage.
The only cons I was able to attend were the Galaxy Ball and the CruiseTrek trip to Alaska.
I was also invited to attend the Creation Celebration of 15 Years of Next Generation and a Slanted Fedora convention in Las Vegas in early September.
My sketch comedy show was such a hit in Vegas, Creation asked me if I would bring my sketch comedy group to perform at the 15th Anniversary show.
I told them I’d love to, and they asked me about fees. I did some math in my head, figured out what it would cost for my group, reduced my personal speaking fee (bad economy, people losing jobs and 401(k)’s and all that) and gave them a figure. They said it sounded good and they’d be in touch.
They called back in early August, with a very different number. A low number. An insultingly low number.
I asked why the number was so low. I put my fees into perspective, alongside the fees commanded by some of the other Trek actors.
The terse answer came very quickly: “Well, we just don’t think of you as a very big part of the Trek family.”
Ouch.
They had a point, I guess. TNG ran for seven seasons. I did four as a regular, and a couple of episodes in the fifth year. I also guest-starred in the seventh season. There have been four TNG movies and I was almost in one of them.
Yeah, I guess I wasn’t as big a part of the Tre
k family, from their point of view.
But I was an original cast member on TNG. This was a “Celebration of 15 years of TNG" convention. They’d just made several million dollars at a show in Las Vegas. Surely they could come up a bit, negotiate a little.
Not a chance. Take it or leave it, Wheaton.
I considered their offer and did some math. I thought about what it would cost for my comedy group. There are 11 of us and putting together a show is expensive. The people in my group are all professional writers and actors, and I have to pay them for their time. We have to pay for rehearsal space, costumes, and programs. I did the math and when it was all done, if I paid my comedy group what they deserve, I would earn a few hundred dollars. I was unwilling to make them work for less than they deserve. I told this to Creation.
They’d just made several million dollars at a show in Las Vegas. Surely they could negotiate a little.
I offered to do the show for the fee they were offering, but I wouldn’t be able to provide the comedy group. In place of the comedy group, I’d bring some selections from my website—The Trade, The Wesley Dialogues, Spare Us The Cutter—and I’d read them on stage. It would fill the hour and it would give something really cool and unique to the fans. I read some things on CruiseTrek, and they loved it.
No dice, Wheaton. The offer is for your group. Not for you alone. Take it or leave it. You’re not part of the family.
This put me in a very tough position. I wanted to be part of this show. I wanted to see the cast again. The fans, I thought, would really enjoy seeing me. The fans, I told them, have been reading my website in huge numbers. The fans, I told them, and I have really made a connection in the last year. I think it’s going to suck if I’m not there. The fans are going to think it sucks if I’m not there. They’d just made several million dollars at a show in Las Vegas. Surely they could reconsider.
We’ve made our position clear, Wheaton. You’re wasting our time. Take it or leave it.
Well, I had to leave it. I think that there is a certain value attached to having me at a convention, especially one that purports to celebrate 15 years of The Next Generation and while I was willing to adjust that value greatly, they’d just made several million dollars at a show in Las Vegas and I wasn’t about to undervalue myself.
It sucks, I think, that I won’t be there.
It sucks for me and I think it sucks for the fans.
Sure, there are fans that will be as angry at me as I am at baseball players right now and I can’t fault them for that.
But I hope that there are fans who understand why I had to make the decision I made. They’d just made several million dollars at a show in Las Vegas. I tried to negotiate with them, but they had decided that I wasn’t a member of the Trek family and it is their business. I respect that, though I may disagree with it.
When I hung up the phone with them, I felt awful.
I walked Ferris, which I often do when I’m upset, or stuck, or need to gain some perspective on things.
During that walk, I realized that in the long run this will be a good thing.
Yesterday, I wrote about the scary nature of facing the world outside of what I guess we’ll call “your safety bubble.”
Star Trek has always been my safety bubble and getting cut from this convention, along with getting cut from the movie, has pretty much burst that bubble.
As that bubble collapses and pools around me, I step out of its false sense of security.
I take another step into a brave new world, conquering myself until I see another hurdle approaching.
Though I tried to take a philosophical view of things, I was crushed, if you’ll pardon the pun. I was more upset about being told that I “wasn’t part of the family” than I was about being cut from Nemesis. Didn’t Creation know that the Prodigal Son had returned? The feeling I’d endured so many times as an actor—the rejection and futility of even trying—slammed itself into my soul. Unlike a film role, this had nothing to do with my performance, or the way I looked, or nepotism. This was personal. It was directed squarely at me, and the pain of the rejection knocked me right off my feet.
My post was linked and reprinted on several Star Trek fan sites, newsgroups, and mailing lists. The comments and e-mails came, and they were furious! Most of them directed their ire at Creation, but some of them saw through my attempts at keeping my chin up and called me on it. I was hurt. I didn’t want to step out of that safety bubble. I didn’t want to enter a Brave New World. I wanted to walk back into the old safe world and view it with fresh eyes, without taking a single moment for granted, just like when I worked on Nemesis. I wanted to stand up there, and say “Thank you, Star Trek, for everything you’ve done for me. I’m glad we’re cool again.” Star Trek was a huge part of my life, and I’d wasted 10 years hating it. Now that I was finally able to appreciate it and had a chance to enjoy myself at a convention, it had been ripped away from me.
I never thought that it would be given back.
31 AUGUST 2002
Schism
“Individually we can get angry. Together we can and will, make a difference.”
I wrote those words recently, hoping to rally and inspire people to action.
I was talking about the rapid erosion of our free speech and parody rights on the Internet, but that phrase applies to any movement, really.
One voice is easily ignored or silenced, but when other people add their voices to yours, you become a chorus not easily ignored.
It turns out that a lot of people got angry that I wouldn’t be attending the 15th anniversary of TNG celebration next month. It turns out that those voices joined together in e-mails, phone calls, Internet postings, and faxes. It turns out that those voices became a chorus not easily ignored.
Thursday afternoon, I had a message on my machine from Adam Malin, president of Creation. He told me that he’d been “flooded” with e-mails, phone calls and faxes. He said he’d read the Internet postings, and he wanted to talk with me. He told me that he felt terrible, sick and was very upset that I felt the way that I did. He was apologetic and hoped I’d call him back so we could speak directly and, if nothing else, clear the air.
When I set the phone down in its cradle, I was surprised to feel my hands shaking.
I was, quite honestly, stunned. Shocked. A phone call from a lawyer I would have expected. An angry phone call, maybe, given the rage people were expressing on message boards at my own site and elsewhere. But a personal, cordial, apologetic call? I just didn’t think it would happen.
I didn’t have a chance to call him back until yesterday.
So lunch comes and I phoned him.
I apologized for not calling him back right away. Before I can say anything, he apologizes again for not talking to me directly and letting his underlings deal with me instead.
He tells me that he has never thought of me as “not part of the family.”
I tell him that I have been given the impression from everyone at Creation, even the people with whom I am friends, that there are “levels,” and it (rightly) goes: Captains, Data, everyone else . . . then there was me.
I tell him that I’ve felt marginalized and treated like my contributions to Trek weren’t important to him, Creation, the fans, or Paramount.
He apologizes again, tells me again that he doesn’t feel that way. Tells me that he wanted to make it right. He wants to have me at that convention.
I am stricken by how genuine he seems. I am beginning to feel bad for not going over the heads of his employees and speaking directly to him, myself.
I also notice something that is a new feeling to me, as far as Star Trek goes: I’m being treated like an adult. Treated with respect, spoken to forthrightly and candidly.
This may seem like an overstatement of the glaringly obvious, but even though I am 30 years old, I still feel like I’m “the kid” where Trek is concerned. Not feeling that way is something new to me and I’m not sure how to deal with it.
&n
bsp; Adam tells me that he has heard great things about my sketch group. He’s heard that they are fabulous and the fans really love the show we do. He tells me that he wants to hire them for the show, wants me to speak at the show and he really wants to make it work out.
I tell him that there isn’t time to get the group together now and produce a quality show. He is really upset about that. He asks me if I’d be willing to get my group together for Grand Slam 2003.
I notice that we’re having a cordial, comfortable conversation. It’s like we’ve both been stung. Me by the posture taken during the previous negotiation and him by the vitriolic rebuke from the fans. He seems to genuinely feel bad that my feelings were so hurt and I get the palpable impression that he wants to make things right.
He asks me again if I’d be willing to do the show for a very reasonable fee, just a little bit below what I was asking for before negotiations broke down last month.
I am immediately torn.
I think about this thing that someone said in the comments yesterday: “If you turn your back on Trek one more time, I’m buying you a revolving door.”
I think hard about that. It burns inside me.
I don’t know what to do.
On the one hand, I want Trek behind me.
On the other hand, it will never be behind me no matter what, because, let’s face it: Trek was and is HUGE. Bigger than me. Bigger than I will ever be in my (stalled and slowing) acting career.
After I’d gotten the first phone call from Adam, I talked it over with fellow EarnestBorg9[15] member Travis who is a very good friend of mine. Knows me very, very well.
Told him I’m having mixed feelings about it. I can think of reasons to do the show and reasons to not do the show.
He asked me why I didn’t want to do it.
I gave him some reasons, pro and con.
He asked me if I was happy writing.
I told him I was.
He asked me if I liked being on stage.
