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his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share an excited murmur.
     I pick up my pen, and write: “To Hiroyuki, my long lost twin brother: Don’t Panic! -Wil
     Wheaton.”
    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 – I’ve brought joy into this kid’s life,
     just by signing my name and being friendly. It’s 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 “battlefield”
     experiences; the kind that we Star Trek actors share during a layover in Chicago, after a
     convention in Cleveland.
    I’ve just finished signing a poster for a 40-ish man who is wearing a spacesuit that is a
     little to tight across the waist. He’s 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, “You are going to hay-ell! You are
     going to hay-ell!”
    â€œWhy am I going to hell, ma’am?” 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,
     “Keep Music Evil.” I think it’s very funny, and it’s a nice counter-point to the squeaky-clean
     image of Wesley Crusher that is so indelibly burned into these people’s minds.
    â€œYou’re wearing that shirt! And that shirt promotes SATAN!”
    Okay, she’s definitely not joking.
    â€œSo I’m going to hell because I’m wearing a shirt? Is that right?” I ask her,
     patiently.
    â€œYes! You! Are! Going! To! HAY-ELL!”
    â€œWell, as long as I’m not going where you are, ma’am.”
    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 “Q.” 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.
    â€œIs it always like this?” the staffer sitting at my table inquires.
    â€œNope. Sometimes it’s really weird.”
    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 don’t want to piss off the remaining fans by rushing them, but I also don’t 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 people’s 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. Wheaton’s got
     dibs.)
    But this choice is not without risk. I am afraid that most of these people want to hate
     me. It’s probably an irrational fear, but I’ve 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 . . . they’d 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:
    â€œGuys! I was told I’d be done by 1 p.m.”
    The grumbling begins.
    â€œI’ve got to