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go! I’m supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group in . . .” I check my
     watch. “. . . 25 minutes!”
    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!
    â€œBut I’ll be here all weekend and I’ll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I don’t go now,
     the show will suck.”
    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 “Data” T-shirts, smile. The mother says, “That’s okay, Wil. We’ll get your autograph
     tomorrow.”
    â€œReally?” I ask, just to be sure.
    â€œYeah, you go and prepare your show. We’re really looking forward to seeing it.”
    I can’t believe that she’s excited about my show. “You know that it’s not for kids,
     right?”
    She nods. “Yep! The kids will be staying with my parents. We live in Henderson.”
    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 it’s almost 2 p.m. by the time I get back to the
     hotel.
    Because I am so late, there isn’t 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 I’m
     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 I’m 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 “out there,” which isn’t uncommon at a
     Star Trek convention . . . it’s just that this guy is . . . well, for those of you who know
     what this means, you’ll get the image perfectly: He was a Gamer.
    This guy corners me as I’m on my way into the hotel and starts his conversation by saying,
     “I’m not that big a Trekker, but . . .”
    Here’s the deal. “Trekker” is a term devised by “normal” fans who don’t like being
     associated with the “weird” fans, who they call “Trekkies.” So when a guy who looks like a
     Gamer tells me that he’s a “Trekker,” 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.
    â€œI mean, I really like the show, but I’ve never been to a convention. This is my first
     convention, man.
    â€œI own all the episodes on video and I can quote most of them, but I’ve never been to a
     convention. Conventions are for weirdos!
    â€œSure, I have lots of the technical manuals and I’ve read them all, and I wrote Mike
     Okuda [ 2 ] about some inconsistencies between the movies and the series, but I’ve never been
     to a convention before.”
    â€œReally? This is your first convention?” I say, “are you having a nice time?”
    â€œOh 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 ‘V’ger –’”
    Yes, he called Voyager “V’ger,” in reference to Star Trek:
     The Motion Picture . But he’s not a Trekkie. Because “Trekkies are weird.”
    He finishes up