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remind myself that the last fans through the line
     have paid as much as the first fans, and they’ve also waited much longer, so they are the ones
     that I need to give the most attention to when I am the most drained. I know that as I get
     toward the end of the line, my humor slows down, and my voice fades. I know that I’ve let down
     my fair share of people over the years, but I always do my best.

    I see the first fan walking down the hallway, trading tickets and getting signatures from
     actors. I watch her as she goes table to table. She’s not wearing a spacesuit . . . that’s a
     good sign. She has a witty sci-fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. About 20 feet away, I still
     can’t smell her. A VERY good sign.
    She arrives at my table, and I cheerfully say, “Hi! How are you doing today?!”
    â€œAWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS
     VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!”
    Oh boy. This is not the way I’d hoped to start out.
    I try to soothe her. “Uhh . . . I think . . . that . . . this convention . . . just
     started . . . and . . . uhh . . . I’m sure that if you talk to Dave Scott, everyt–”
    â€œDAVE SCOTT IS AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE!”
    â€œUh . . . yeah . . . well, you see, the thing is, I’m sort of not exactly involved in the
     planning of this convention, you know? I’m just, like, a guest . . . maybe you could try
     talk–”
    â€œTHIS IS THE MOST FAN-UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
    And she storms away, without an autograph, without another word.
    I look at Marina, who’s one table down from me. Angry Fan has stormed past her, too.
     Marina shrugs, and I make the international sign for “crazy person” by twirling my finger near
     my temple.
    I hear a man clear his throat, and I look up to see a smiling middle-aged face. He has a
     dark beard, and is dressed as Commander Riker.
    He gives his autograph ticket to the staffer sitting next to me, and asks me to sign his
     model of the Enterprise D . He thanks me, and moves along.
    And so it is in the world of Star Trek conventions. One person will scream at me, and the
     next will want to give me a hug. A person will walk up dressed in an elaborate Borg costume,
     and the next person will be dressed in a T-shirt and Dickies, quietly laughing at “all the
     weirdos.”
    For the next three hours, I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign
     posters of the teen heartthrob that I’m told I once was. I sign posters that I’m not even on,
     in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that I’m
     not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: “That’s okay, you just can’t see me,
     because I’m on this planet here . . .” They laugh and feel good and so do I.
    A group of very attractive German girls comes over next, and two of them tell me, in
     broken English, how much they love me.
    I think, Oh yeah, tell me some more, baby. Tell daddy how you love him. Ich bin
     ein sexmachiner!
    What?
    I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.
    There are also 20 Japanese kids who’ve all come over together from Tokyo. They are all
     smiles and laughter, excited, and having a great time. The girls ask me to write their names
     on their picture when I sign it, they giggle and bow and blush and thank me, over and over.
     For a second, I feel like a rock star.
    One of the Japanese kids is a boy, about my height.
    When he presents his Wesley Crusher action figure for my signature, he tells me, “My
     friend all say I am you twin!”
    He smiles proudly. “We look just the same!”
    Last time I checked, I wasn’t Japanese, but I’m not about to tell him that. I look at him
     for a moment and reply, “Dude. You are so right. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror!”
    He turns to