Just a Geek

by Wil Wheaton

  I told him that I did.

  He asked me why I could possibly not want to be on stage in front of people who want to like me and read my work to them. He reminded me of the sketch shows we’ve done together at conventions and how we have always felt great afterward.

  He asks me again why I can’t embrace Star Trek as something wonderful that I was part of and at the same time continue to move forward as an actor and writer.

  I couldn’t answer him.

  Pride? Fear?

  I don’t fucking know.

  The people on the Net have rallied around me about this. The fans have raged at Creation and Creation listened.

  But there’s that revolving door. I’m stuck in it, big time.

  I think of this e-mail I got where a guy said he felt like I was trying to convince myself that it is okay to be booted from Star Trek things. He’s right.

  I think of a comment where a guy criticizes me for being so angst-ridden about Star Trek, accuses me of being full of shit, and says he can see right through me.

  He has a point too. I meant what I said about being cut from the film. But having the safety bubble burst? Well, I’m still standing in its remains, hoping I can find a way to refill it, just in case. Setting Wesley free, embracing a sense of freedom? I meant that, as well.

  I feel like I have grown older and changed. But I feel unfulfilled, unsure and I know that the last few months of entries here have focused on that. Maybe I’m giving way too much weight to the comment of one random person who didn’t even have the courage to put an e-mail address with the anonymous comment. For all I know I could be biting on the biggest troll ever.

  But there is truth to what that anonymous poster said. I’m torn. I am caught in a revolving door and I don’t know what will happen and I am filled with angst and that feeling is burning inside of me, keeping me awake at night, distracting me every minute of every day. It’s burning in me so fiercely, so hot and insistent, that I have lost perspective. I can’t make objective decisions and weigh the pros and cons effectively.

  So I seek counsel from some very good friends of mine. Some people who I really trust and respect. I write to them what I’ve written above, with the following pros and cons:

  Pros:

  Fans will be ecstatic that Creation listened, that the fans fought for me and won.

  Fans will be happy to see me in person.

  I’ll earn money for my family and be able to perform what I love to do for an audience who FINALLY wants to like me.

  Cons:

  That revolving door feeling and the fear of a massive backlash from . . . well, I’m not sure who, but backlash nevertheless.

  It seems pretty slam-dunk, right? I should do the show and feel great about it. But it’s not that easy for me. I am extremely conflicted, until I get the following responses:

  This could not be easier, but that’s really because I’m not you.

  You think you’d be compromising or something if you went and changed your mind and went back to the show.

  I don’t. You’re going to enjoy it. People like you.

  You looked in the face of a thousand-million Internetters and said, “Hey, I’m a fucking human like you, I’ve been a dick, it’s not right, this is what I did and this is what I think now. Sorry; won’t happen again.”

  People like you, man. In fact, you’re probably not even capitalizing off of all the Internet Momentum? you’ve gained in the past year. Shit, Wil, people all over the place NOW LIKE YOU. Let’s face it, you’ve only gotten limited access to those auditions, but how many magazines, newspapers, tv shows, etc. have you been on because you’re a fucking computer geek-boy now? You want my point-blank, in-your-fucking-face opinion right now?

  Go there in a big fucking “in your face, but I’m still just lil ol’ Wil” way. Have the fucking time of your life—do it FOR YOU, not for the fans. These people want to see you—and even if they say something negative, just laugh it off like water on a duck and say, “Cool, but you know, you really don’t know me” and know that you’ve won in that statement alone.

  Another friend said:

  Whatever you decide, right now, it’s gotta be for you and not because X amount of people will judge you for doing it or not doing it.

  If you feel it’s right for you and will benefit your family and your writing and gain some recognition for you and you’ll get to see some old Trek buddies again and that’s what you want, then you gotta do that thing.

  But don’t do it if you now feel pressured by the fans to do it.

  And don’t NOT do it because you’re afraid of what the fans will think.

  Whatever you do, do it because you, you personally need to.

  Because I think there comes a point where you have to acknowledge that This Thing You Did Back When is a part of you that’s always going to be there. It’s like Sue Olson (the actress who played Cindy Brady) once said—you have to accept that people will always think of you as that character, because only then can you really move on.

  Once you accept that, the audience accepts you . . . and paradoxically, on your own terms.

  See, this whole Turn Your Back On Trekthing, if you let that get to you . . . how do I put this?

  If you don’t do it because you have to Turn Your Back On Trek, well, then you’re not really turning your back onTrek—you’re still letting the Trek thing dictate what you do.

  And, while we’re putting our cards on the table, here, I think that you shouldn’t look at not turning your back on Trek and finding your own voice as being mutually exclusive. As a former convention-goer, the Trek (or otherwise) speakers who I thought were the coolest were the ones who accepted that Trek was the reason they were there and why we were there, as opposed to the guys who seemed weirded out or perplexed that anyone gave a shit.

  Not that you’d be that way—I’m talking about an initial attitude going in, not the handling of the experience from that point on.

  As far as you feeling that you’re reneging on what you said in your post . . . and here’s some perspective:

  The situation is different now.

  It’s not that they called you, snubbed you and you’re going back anyway to eat shit for the peanuts.

  It’s that they contacted you, snubbed you initially, then realized they misjudged your appeal (and ability to bring in a LOT of new people) and finally were willing to meet you on terms you could accept.

  I mean, it’s great publicity for the website, and for you. You will have an ability to connect with the fans again—but this time it’ll be a little different, because you’re probably going to see more people you know you from the site—and Malin knows that.”

  Mixed in with all of this, I got an e-mail from a really nice woman who organized fans to share their outrage about this.

  PLEASE do go, otherwise IMO Creation will win, as they can say you turned THEM down after they met your (original) terms or something like that. Then promote the hell out of the convention on your website. Perhaps if Creation and the others see how powerful you and your website is, they just MIGHT sit up and take notice and I’m not just talking about conventions here, but perhaps it might help you in other ways (as yet unseen) as well.

  I’m calling for a campaign here to do right by you . . . ‘cause I think it stinks. NO one messes with the Wil Wheaton, or they’ll find that they have the “Posse” as you call us, to contend with and I suspect we are much MORE powerful together, than Creation realizes.

  I’m doing this for you, cause I think you are a neat guy . . . but also mostly because, remember, I’ve been a Trekkie longer than you’ve been around (before you were born) and this is now really got me STEAMED how on their High Horse that Creation has gotten of late.”

  So. I think long and hard about these things and still I feel heavily conflicted.

  I revisit those pros and cons and think to myself:

  I’d love to have a chance to read some of my stuff for an audience who would really “get”
it.

  I’d love to go in front of fans who, for the first time ever, want to like me.

  But that revolving door is spinning and I don’t know how I can face the people who said “Good for you! Leave Star Trek behind you forever!”

  Well, right now, the absolute truth is, as my friend said:

  “If you don’t do it because you have to Turn Your Back On Trek, well, then you’re not really turning your back on Trek—you’re still letting the Trek thing dictate what you do . . . you shouldn’t look at not turning your back on Trek and finding your own voice as being mutually exclusive.”

  Well, I’m going to wrestle with that last one for a while, I think and WWdN readers can expect more angst in the months to come. Sorry, it’s just part of the process. There are hundreds of great weblogs to read and lots of pretty trees to look at outside if you’d rather not read that stuff here.

  Anyway, this is way too long already, so I think it’s time to get back to the point:

  Adam and I talk.

  It is a good, long, honest, respectful talk.

  We clear the air.

  He tells me that his profit margin on the Vegas show was not several million dollars. He tells me that it was very, very slim, relative to his investment, which was nearly half a million dollars. I don’t know if this is true or not, but it’s not the most productive thing in the world to argue about it, so I don’t.

  He tells me that he didn’t want me at the Grand Slam on stage because he wanted to hold off until the 15th show. He thought it would be cooler if he waited to have me come on then.

  He tells me that he had no idea about my website or about how the fans felt about me now.

  He asks me if I’d reconsider.

  I reconsider. I replay all those e-mails in my head, I balance the pros and cons and I say to him,

  “Adam. I am really conflicted about this. I feel like each time I do a Star Trek event, it’s . . . well, it’s not necessarily a step backward, but it certainly isn’t a step forward, but I feel like I should listen to the voice of the fans. We should all listen to the voice of the fans, because that voice has been increasingly silenced over the last decade.

  “I love to perform and I would like to give something back to the fans. I would love to attend the event and be part of the celebration, but I’d also like to share some of my writing with the fans. Would you be able to put me in an evening spot, so I can read some things that I’ve written?”

  “Is it funny?” he asks me.

  “It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s bittersweet . . . it’s really a reflection of the person I am and people seem to respond to it.”

  “Can I book your comedy group for Grand Slam in 2003?”

  “Yes. I’d love to bring my guys out. We love to perform.”

  We talk about fees and agree on a very fair fee, which is right on par with the rest of the actors.

  I will do a question-and-answer session at the convention and I will bring selections of my writing and read them for the audience during an evening program.

  I ask him for one more thing. I tell him that I have more in common with the fans now than I do with the actors and I keep hearing how the fans are getting the in-person-autograph shaft these days.

  I want him to put my autograph table in an area where I can sit for a few hours, so all the fans can get their stuff signed, so I can talk with people who are so inclined.

  He tells me that he’d really like that. Many actors just won’t do that and he thinks it would be great.

  I feel very good about this conversation and I feel very excited to be part of this celebration.

  Resolution? It’s a long ways off. That’s why they call it “angst.”

  But there is something wonderful buried in all of this:

  I doubt I would have gotten this phone call if there hadn’t been such a loud and immediate response from the fans.

  You spoke up on my—you spoke up on our behalf and your voice was heard.

  Think about that for a moment.

  Your voice was heard. You made a difference. Creation is the 800-pound gorilla of conventions. They don’t have to listen to anyone.

  But they listened to you. They listened to us.

  That, my friends, is huge. Everyone who is reading this gets to own part of that.

  I strongly suggest that you take a moment and phone, write, fax, or e-mail Adam or Gary or whoever at Creation and thank them for hearing your voices.

  And if you come to the 15th show, please, please, please seek me out and introduce yourself. I’d like to know you.

  I went to the convention and it was wonderful. I spent three fun days, talking with Trekkies and WWdN fans alike. I met people who had never been to a Star Trek convention before and had specifically come out to meet me after reading my website.

  When I took the stage for my talk, I said, “I was almost not here today. Because of you, I am. Thank you.” There was thunderous applause. I have always had more in common with the fans than the franchise, and I felt like getting me on that stage was a victory for us all.

  I had long and joyous conversations with every cast member who was there. Backstage, Patrick Stewart embraced me, as he always does, and lamented that we don’t see each other very often. I told John Logan (the writer of Nemesis) that I was focusing on being a writer. He congratulated me and said, “Writing is a noble and respectable profession. It’s a very adult job. I’m proud of you!”

  Brent Spiner took me aside and told me how sorry he was that I’d been cut from the movie. He told me that he’d fought it as best as he could. I believed him. I told him what I wrote in my weblog, and he was surprised and happy that Rick called me himself. He told me how upset all the cast members were that I was cut, and he asked me if I’d be at the screening. I told him that I would.[16] He said, “You know, Wil, you should still be involved in all the press events.”

  He got this impish glint in his eye—the same glint that I lived for when I was sitting next to him on the bridge, even though I knew it was going to end up getting me in trouble when he made me crack up—and said, “I think you should sit there, answer as many questions as you can, even if you don’t know the answers. I’ll see you in Europe. It’ll be fun.”

  Before I could play the “yes, and...” improv game with him, he was whisked away to go on stage, but not before he said, “Hey, you’ve got my number, right?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Use it when you need it, man. It’s great to see you.”

  When Brent left I sat next to Gates McFadden, who played my mother on TNG. We laughed about how we were spending more time backstage at this convention than we spent on camera together in five years. She told me that I had become quite a handsome man.

  I was an adult, among peers. I would never be The Kid again.

  I had long talks with Gary Berman and Adam Malin, who own Creation. I learned about their history as sci-fi and horror fans. I got the distinct impression from Gary, who is often described (perhaps unfairly) as the “bad cop” of the two, that he was saddened by the impression across fandom that Creation Entertainment is only doing these shows to get rich. He pointed out several times, in many different ways, that he and Adam had been doing conventions since they were teenagers, and that they will always be fans in their hearts.

  They both made me feel welcome, and embraced me as part of the family. I thanked them for having me, and told them that it is because of guys like them, the convention promoters, that I can maintain a connection to some of the happiest days of my life. On the last day of the convention, Adam took the stage and asked the assembled fans to indicate, by their applause, who they thought was the highlight of the convention. When he said my name, they went nuts. They screamed, they whistled, they stood on their chairs and pounded their feet. I was stunned and humbled. When Adam asked me if I’d witnessed that, I told him I had, and that it surprised me. He smiled, and told me that it had surprised him, too.

  The convention was celeb
rating 15 years of Star Trek: The Next Generation, but what I was really celebrating was my return to the family—as an adult, no longer burdened by the stupid and arrogant things I’d done as a child.

  I read selections from Dancing Barefoot and this book to a very appreciative audience who gave me a standing ovation when I finished. When I got home, I wrote, “I am really excited, guys. For the first time in ages I look forward to each day and I feel like I’m finally doing something, which really makes me happy.”

  I finally was.

  * * *

  [13] That interview on Radio Five led to me covering California’s Recall Election in 2003. I’m still a BBC correspondent. Even though I only file reports once or twice a month, I’m intensely proud of my contributions to Auntie Beeb.

  [14] Since I originally blogged this, Slanted Fedora’s reputation has been tarnished by cancelled events, bounced checks, and poor fan relations. I’ve never had any problems with Dave or his company, but I’ve run into several fans who are pretty upset with him, and I know a few Star Trek actors who won’t work with him.

  [15] EarnestBorg9 is the name of our sci-fi improv and sketch comedy group. We were originally called “Mind Meld,” but we changed this after WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER and Leonard Nimoy released a DVD with the same name.

  [16] Sadly, I wasn’t invited to the cast and crew screening of the film. Though I was assured it was an oversight, I’m pretty sure it was yet another Code Red from The Powers That Be.

  EPILOGUE: Hooters 2: Electric Boogaloo

  A FEW WEEKS BEFORE THIS BOOK went to press, I met my best friend Darin for lunch in Old Town. He wanted to celebrate the impending arrival of his daughter, and I wanted to celebrate finishing this book and Dancing Barefoot’s success.

  We met at the usual place, ahead of the lunchtime rush, so we could sit wherever we liked. We stood in the doorway, and Steve Miller blared above our heads that not only was he a joker, but he was a smoker and a midnight toker. He’s a busy guy, that Steve Miller. We looked around, and chose the section with the hottest waitress in the joint.