go! Iâm supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group in . . .â I check my
watch. â. . . 25 minutes!â
The grumbling gets louder. This jackass, in his satanic T-shirt, who is he to
decide when he can leave?! He IS going to HAY-ELL!
âBut Iâll be here all weekend and Iâll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I donât go now,
the show will suck.â
I brace myself, certain that this is going to become an angry mob of Comic Book
Guys.
But they are kind, and understanding. The fans nearest to me, a young family wearing
matching âDataâ T-shirts, smile. The mother says, âThatâs okay, Wil. Weâll get your autograph
tomorrow.â
âReally?â I ask, just to be sure.
âYeah, you go and prepare your show. Weâre really looking forward to seeing it.â
I canât believe that sheâs excited about my show. âYou know that itâs not for kids,
right?â
She nods. âYep! The kids will be staying with my parents. We live in Henderson.â
I look down the line, and see over 100 smiling, supportive faces. I hop off the table,
shake hands with her and her husband, and walk down the hallway, sharing high-fives and hellos
with every single person in line. I marvel at how supportive and friendly everyone is. Things
sure have changed in 14 years!
It takes forever to get a cab, and itâs almost 2 p.m. by the time I get back to the
hotel.
Because I am so late, there isnât time to rehearse anything. The rest of the group wants
to gamble, and I want to take a nap, so we agree to meet up at the convention just before Iâm
supposed to go on stage, around 4:30.
I ride the elevator up to our room, and take a 55 minute power-nap, the kind where you
wake up with crusty eyes and a puddle of drool on your pillow.
I feel rested, though, and Iâm beginning to get excited for my talk and show later that
night. I take a fast shower, pack my costumes and props, and head back to the
convention.
As I exit the taxi, I see this guy lurking near the hotel entrance who sets my
Trekkiesense tingling immediately. This guy is clearly âout there,â which isnât uncommon at a
Star Trek convention . . . itâs just that this guy is . . . well, for those of you who know
what this means, youâll get the image perfectly: He was a Gamer.
This guy corners me as Iâm on my way into the hotel and starts his conversation by saying,
âIâm not that big a Trekker, but . . .â
Hereâs the deal. âTrekkerâ is a term devised by ânormalâ fans who donât like being
associated with the âweirdâ fans, who they call âTrekkies.â So when a guy who looks like a
Gamer tells me that heâs a âTrekker,â it sends off a few warning flags. Methinks the Trekkie
doth protest too much, you see.
He must have sensed my unease, because he clarified his position.
âI mean, I really like the show, but Iâve never been to a convention. This is my first
convention, man.
âI own all the episodes on video and I can quote most of them, but Iâve never been to a
convention. Conventions are for weirdos!
âSure, I have lots of the technical manuals and Iâve read them all, and I wrote Mike
Okuda [ 2 ] about some inconsistencies between the movies and the series, but Iâve never been
to a convention before.â
âReally? This is your first convention?â I say, âare you having a nice time?â
âOh yeah! And I just want you to know that I always liked Next
Generation the best. I mean, I watched all the episodes of DS9 , but I only watched about half the episodes of âVâger âââ
Yes, he called Voyager âVâger,â in reference to Star Trek:
The Motion Picture . But heâs not a Trekkie. Because âTrekkies are weird.â
He finishes up