his disclaimers, and before I can politely excuse myself, challenges me to
answer some very obscure Star Trek trivia questions. When I donât know the answer, this man,
who has loudly declared that heâs not a Trekkie, snorts. Snorts! And
tells me what the answer is.
But I take it like a man, because heâs bought his ticket, and I am here to entertain him.
I am not going to say, âDude. Welcome to freaksville, population: you!â or, âDude. Get a
life!â or just, âDude . . .â and walk away, as much as Iâd like to.
I stand there smiling, trying to stay upwind of him, until Dana, a helpful convention
staffer, catches my eye and rushes over to rescue me. She tells me that Iâm needed on stage in
15 minutes, and she needs to spirit me away from this adoring fan. I am more than happy to oblige and Mister âI am not a Trekkieâ gives me the
Vulcan âLive Long and Prosperâ salute as I walk away.
Of course, I return the salute, and say, âPeace, and long life!â
Dana says, âHow do you deal with stuff like that?â
I tell her the truth: âI donât know. I just do. I donât really have a choice. Some of
these guys are a little out there, but I care about them. We owe an extreme debt of gratitude
to these people.â
âReally?â she says.
âYeah. Without them, Gene would never have been able to sell the idea of Next Generation
to Paramount. Itâs important to remember that, and treat them well. I guess thatâs how I do
it: I remember.â
We arrive backstage.
âDo you need anything?â she asks.
âNo, Iâm good. I just need a few minutes to focus. Thanks.â
âHave fun,â she says, and leaves me alone to prepare.
I check my watch: 4:55 p.m. Iâm supposed to go on at 5 p.m. and talk for about 50 minutes.
I usually talk for 90 minutes, which gives me time to let the audience warm up to me, tell
some involved stories, take lots of questions, and make some jokes. With just 50 minutes, I
canât waste any time: I have to go out there and nail âem with a good joke right away, so the
audience is on my side.
Well, Iâve got three things working against me before I even walk into the room:
Iâm the last speaker of the day. The fans are tired and a little burned out.
Iâm following Michael Dorn and Marina Sirtis. They do conventions together all the
time, have a set routine that never fails, and the fans adore them.
I was Wesley Crusher.
Performing well at a convention is extremely important to me. I care about what the fans
think. I donât write them off or take them for granted. I know that theyâve spent a large
portion of their disposable income on this show, and I want to make sure they get their
moneyâs worth.
I remember how I felt when WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER dismissed me on the set of Star Trek V . That feeling of humiliation and disenchantment is easy for
me to recall, and I do everything I can to ensure that I donât inflict it on another
person.
When I am on stage, the only real difference between me and the people Iâm talking to is
that I got paid to wear the spacesuit. Iâm a huge science fiction geek. Iâve been attending
conventions since I was in the fifth grade, and I know what itâs like when a guest is only
there to take the fansâ money.
I pace backstage, checking my watch every 40 seconds. Michael and Marina are really
working this crowd, and the fans donât want to let them get offstage. At 5:15, they
finish.
My mouth and throat get dry. My hands sweat and tremble. Iâve got the Mind
Meld cast, my parents and my wife in the audience. The last thing I want is to
have a whole room of Trekkies hate me in front of them.
Michael and Marina come offstage, and smile at me. Marina gives me a warm hug, and kisses
my cheek.
âYou look great,