his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share an excited murmur.
I pick up my pen, and write: âTo Hiroyuki, my long lost twin brother: Donât Panic! -Wil
Wheaton.â
He thanks me over and over. His smile is so huge, I fear that his face will turn inside
out. As he walks away from my table, I feel happy â Iâve brought joy into this kidâs life,
just by signing my name and being friendly. Itâs one of the few perks (or responsibilities, if
you will) that comes with celebrity that I truly enjoy.
About 200 or so people into the day, I have one of those memorable âbattlefieldâ
experiences; the kind that we Star Trek actors share during a layover in Chicago, after a
convention in Cleveland.
Iâve just finished signing a poster for a 40-ish man who is wearing a spacesuit that is a
little to tight across the waist. Heâs painted his face blue, and donned a white wig topped
with antennae, like the Andorians from the original Star Trek. The next person in line is a
woman in her 30s, dressed conservatively.
I say hello, and she smiles at me . . . until she sees my T-shirt. Then she becomes
hysterical. She points at my shirt and screeches at me, âYou are going to hay-ell! You are
going to hay-ell!â
âWhy am I going to hell, maâam?â I ask, trying to figure out if she is joking. I am
wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of a hand making rock-and-roll devil horns that says,
âKeep Music Evil.â I think itâs very funny, and itâs a nice counter-point to the squeaky-clean
image of Wesley Crusher that is so indelibly burned into these peopleâs minds.
âYouâre wearing that shirt! And that shirt promotes SATAN!â
Okay, sheâs definitely not joking.
âSo Iâm going to hell because Iâm wearing a shirt? Is that right?â I ask her,
patiently.
âYes! You! Are! Going! To! HAY-ELL!â
âWell, as long as Iâm not going where you are, maâam.â
And she leaves, but not without getting my signature, on her collectible plate, in gold
ink, not silver, because John DeLancie signed his in silver, so now silver is the color
reserved for âQ.â Nobody else can sign in silver. Not even a captain. Well, maybe Captain
Picard, but not Captain Janeway.
I am able to contain my giggles until she is out of earshot.
âIs it always like this?â the staffer sitting at my table inquires.
âNope. Sometimes itâs really weird.â
We laugh, and the signing goes on.
And on.
And on.
The clock chimes 1p.m., and there are still about 150 people left in line. I begin to feel
a little nervous, because I need to meet my sketch group at 1:30 p.m. for a rehearsal. I feel
torn: I donât want to piss off the remaining fans by rushing them, but I also donât want my
show to suck. So I make a tough choice: I decide to leave, and get those 150 people the next
day. I am going to be there all weekend, and I figure that if I sign those peopleâs things the
next day, they will get a refreshed, funny, cool me, rather than the top of my head. (Which I
understand the gay community has wanted for years. Sorry guys. Mrs. Wheatonâs got
dibs.)
But this choice is not without risk. I am afraid that most of these people want to hate
me. Itâs probably an irrational fear, but Iâve spent the last 14 years dealing with people who
have built me up to be this awful pseudoperson. They would love for me to validate that for
them by being rude, or wearing a satanic T-shirt, or signing in gold when I was asked to sign
in silver . . . theyâd love it if I was WIL FUCKING WHEATON. I am nervous that leaving early
would give them exactly what they are looking for.
I stand up on my table, and make an announcement:
âGuys! I was told Iâd be done by 1 p.m.â
The grumbling begins.
âIâve got to