Our flight home from Seattle was delayed because they couldn’t find the pilot. I guess this would freak out some people, but I thought it was pretty funny and ordered another beer.

Anne and I sat at a table with Felicia and Misha Collins, and shared stories from the convention while we waited to get on our planes. Misha, Anne and I were on a flight to Burbank, and Felicia was on a flight to LAX.

“You’re a dummy for flying into LAX,” I told her.

“It’s closer to my house!” Felicia replied.

“I don’t know why anyone would fly into LAX on purpose. It’s the worst airport in the world. It’s like people got together, put all the bad ideas for airport design onto a chalkboard, and used them to design it. I bet if you looked at it from the air, it spells out HA HA YOU STUPID SUCKERS COME HERE ON PURPOSE.”

“Why would I drive all the way from Burbank to my house when LAX is closer?”

“Because Burbank isn’t LAX.”

“Well, you’re delayed, so there.”

“I bet you we get home before you do, even though our flight is delayed.”

It’s not uncommon for us to talk to each other like we’re 8 years-old.

About twenty minutes later, Felicia told us all goodbye. A minute or so later, she texted me that she was on her plane and gloated a little bit about how comfortable it was.

This year’s Emerald City wasn’t as awesome as it’s been in years gone by. They were trying out some new things, I guess, and not all of them worked. The layout of the show was really strange, and it didn’t feel cohesive to me. Felicia and I were in a gaming area instead of the usual media guest area, which just didn’t work for us. It was very small, so it got ridiculously congested when people got into lines to meet us, and it was so far away from everything else, we sort of felt like we were at the kids’ table. The photo-ops were really tough for me this year. I’m adjusting my brain meds, and though I felt back to normal by the end of the day on Sunday, Friday and Saturday weren’t that great. I know it’s not a big deal to most people to put your arm around a person, but it really freaks me out (and knowing this makes me feel totally crazy, so if you’re thinking that you’re not alone) to have hundreds of people I don’t know grab me and hold on to me. I always ask the photo-op people to ask the attendees to respect my personal space, and for whatever reason this didn’t happen this year. Without meaning to be weird or uncool, people were super grabby and hands-y and I felt super anxious more than once.

That said, there were some truly wonderful and memorable moments. Here are a few pictures I took:

When Joel and I made the Lil’ Wils, we hoped that people would get excited and make things for him to wear and play with. I have some really great clown sweaters and a cape of dicks for him, but this is the first actual fez I’ve seen.

“You have to sign this,” a young woman said to me.

“I do?” I said.

“Yes. You said ‘when someone puts a picture of Nathan Fillion in front of you and asks you to sign it, you say yes!’”

She spoke the truth, so I signed it. It’s pretty great that he had already written that he loves me because I didn’t write that myself as far as you know.

Last year, she asked me to sign her arm so it could be made into a tattoo. I was kind of freaked out by the responsibility, but then I thought about it for a second, and realized I could maybe inspire her and anyone who reads her arm to be awesome.

I have met a few derby girls who have named themselves after me in some way. I love that.

This was my view of the 3000 seat main theatre during the Wil Wheaton vs. Paul and Storm show on Saturday morning. I was very concerned about the early morning show time. I didn’t think the audience would be ready for what we do while they were still waking up, and I have never been so happy to be so wrong. We filled it up (and added some SRO at the back) and the audience was on board from the beginning. We had so much fun, I went ahead and did a little bit of stand-up jokes that I think they liked. When we asked if the audience wanted to hear a 20 minute song about pirates or do a Q&A, the ARRRRRRRRRRR! of 3000 people was all the answer we needed. This show was one of the highlights of the convention for me.

How great is this cosplay?! Last year, she was a Gameboy, and this year she was Tetris. She sewed each Tetris square onto her dress by hand. I’m not sure you can see it, but she has them on her fingernails, as well.

This guy, Paul, couldn’t make it, so his friend asked me to hold his picture up for a photo-op. I asked her to hold it so I could pretend to put my arm around him. Then when she brought it to my table to be autographed, I filled in the rest of him. I am easily amused.

I mean, honestly. How great is this?

I have no idea how this happened. #Vandaleyes

I forget what this is called. Bead Art, maybe? A young woman built this from my avatar, using little plastic beads. The windows on that TARDIS glow in the dark.

I love this picture. Felicia photobombed my picture of the Tabletop Day sign while we were playing Zombie Dice at the Geek and Sundry table. You’re playing on Tabletop Day, right?

My space mom has pretty awesome business cards.

Cutest 11th Doctor EVER.

Hipster Slenderman. I KNOW RIGHT.

Some other great things happened during the con, but they’re going to get their own posts because I have to get to my real work now.

I fell asleep in my seat before the plane took off. I woke up somewhere over Northern California and reached over to hold my wife’s hand.

“I just love you the most,” I said.

“I love you too.”

“Did you have fun this weekend?” I asked her.

“I did,” she said. “It was great to see friends. And your show was great.”

“Thanks, dude,” I said. I leaned back in my chair and dozed for most of the remaining flight. When we landed, I turned my phone on and got a text from Felicia:

DAMMIT! We landed early so we've been sitting on the tarmac for fifteen minutes!

I laughed out loud and sent back:

We're at our gate. I'll be home before you get your bags.

She sent:

I hate you and your stupid airport.

I replied:

Boy, it sure is peaceful and quiet at the Burbank Airport tonight.

She said:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk yyyooooouuuuuuu

A few minutes later, I sent her this picture:

Then:

Walking to my car!

She sent:

Ugh. At baggage claim.

A little while later, the best text I’ve ever sent:

MY HOUSE I AM IN YOU.

The reply was so very very sweet:

In car but not halfway home. You win ... THIS TIME.

I took a victory lap, and my dogs joined me.

I got into Austin just after 11 last night, exhausted and still feeling pretty lousy from the cold I got in Seattle last week.

I made my way to baggage claim and looked for whoever was meeting me from the convention, but didn’t see anyone. There were about half a dozen drivers, but none of them held signs with my name on them. I figured the person meeting me was parking a car or something, and went to the baggage carousel to get my suitcase and box of pictures and books.

While I waited, a couple of different people asked me if I was that guy from The Big Bang Theory. Though I was so tired I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I summoned some extra energy and answered their questions, posed for a couple of pictures, and was grateful that I get to do a job that I not only love, but that people enjoy.

Bags came down the ramp, and while I looked for mine, I also looked around for whoever was supposed to be meeting me. I found the contact number of the guy who was supposed to meet me, and left him a voicemail. “Maybe he’s parking a car or something,” I hoped. Then, “I hope nothing happened to this guy on his way to the airport.”

When I got my suitcase and my box of stuff, I waited for about ten minutes. Still, nothing. So I walked around the whole area, still looking, getting more and more cranky (being exhausted and on the tail end of a really nasty cold will do that to you) until I decided to walk outside, get in a taxi (it was now almost midnight) and just get to the hotel so I could go to sleep.

A little after midnight, I got into my room and got ready for bed. I called Anne to tell her I was safely here, put out my clothes for today, took a shower, and went to sleep.

I had one of those nights where I have incredibly clear dreams that I can’t explain in a way that would make any sense at all to someone who wasn’t in them. The dreams felt upsetting, though. I woke up a few times feeling like I hadn’t slept at all, because in my dreams I was running or struggling to stay on this ramp thing that was sort of like a bobsled and also something from Tron (I told you it wouldn’t make sense).

When my alarm went off, I got up, made some coffee — excuse me, “coffee” — and ordered my breakfast. I derped around on Reddit while I waited for breakfast to arrive, and sipped my “coffee”.

The phone rang, and I thought it was room service delivering breakfast, stymied by the DO NOT DISTURB sign I hung on the door when I went to sleep ten hours earlier. It was someone from the convention, confirming that I was here, and asking when I wanted to meet up to go to the show this afternoon.

I told her that I was here, what time I thought we should meet, and then, “I also have to tell you that there was nobody to meet me at the airport last night, and it made me kind of cranky.”

She told me that a car service was supposed to pick me up, but someone from that car service called her this morning and said — and you’re going to want to sit down for this — that the driver saw me, but that I “ran away from him to get into a taxi.”

I know, right? Now, I can just laugh about it, because it’s so absurd, but about an hour ago, I was furious to hear that.

Look, I’ve raised two kids, and I haven’t heard such a lame bullshit excuse for someone fucking up since they were in middle school. So based on that line, I have to assume this is what happened in the driver’s head:

1. Where is the person I’m supposed to pick up?
2. Oh, there he is! He’s been sitting there with his bags for close to 20 minutes. I’d better not bother him.
3. Hey, he’s calling someone. Yeah, definitely don’t talk to him. That would be rude.
4. Huh. Well, that’s weird. He’s walking around looking for someone. I wonder who? I’ll just wait for him to come over and find me.
5. Maybe I should hold up a thing with his name on it.
6. Nah, that’s silly. He’ll just know that I’m the only driver here with no sign and figure it out!
7. Is … is he going outside? I guess I should do my job now and tell him I’m here to pick him up.
8. Oh, maybe not. He’s slowly walking with sixty pounds of suitcase and box — uh, I mean, running! Yeah! Running! Away from me for some reason and toward the taxi line. I guess he doesn’t need a ride, after all.
9. I am awesome at my job! I can’t wait to tell everyone about this!

Like I said, I can only laugh about it now, but last night? Ohhhhh was I mad. And when I heard the lamest excuse since “my teacher doesn’t want me to use a black pen and that’s all I have so I can’t do my homework tonight I guess I’ll just play video games instead”, I got even more mad. I mean, at least have the decency and respect to own up to making a mistake, instead of inventing a stupid excuse that insults not only my intelligence, but also offends the entire concept of excuse making.

So I told the person on the phone that this story was bullshit. She agreed with me that it seemed awfully strange, and then we both just sort of sat there in silence for a moment. It was like we both needed to process that, yes, an adult person actually said that and expected other adult persons to believe it.

I’m still a little annoyed when I think about it, to be honest, but that’s mostly because I still don’t feel completely well and my already low tolerance for bullshit is taking a -5 penalty. Ultimately, though, it was a minor inconvenience (that wouldn’t even have been a big deal if I wasn’t so tired and not feeling 100% healthy) that ended up giving me a moderately amusing story, so … I turned those lemurs into lemurade.

Mmmm…. lemurade.

I’m on vacation in Hawaii (ON VACATION FROM WHAT WIL WHEATON HA HA I KNOW) with Anne.

We’ve had an absolutely amazing trip, relaxing and reading and swimming and having beers and mostly just enjoying that, after a year spent mostly apart due to my work, we finally get ten days together.

Well, today, a shitbag decided to intrude on our private vacation. He set himself up on the beach where we’re staying, pulled out a telephoto lens, and decided to take pictures of us for hours this morning.

I saw this guy around 10 this morning, and I thought to myself, “No, that guy isn’t taking my picture; I’m just being paranoid. Nobody cares about me enough to camp out on a beach and take that kind of paparazzi picture.”

Around 3, Anne and I got up from the beach, and walked back to our condo to make lunch. I saw the same guy, in the same place, with the same camera. I sort of glared at him, and he said something to me that I couldn’t hear.

“What?” I said.

“I said, ‘thank you, Wil.’” He said.

“Dude, I’m on vacation, and taking pictures like that of me and my wife isn’t cool. Would you please delete them?” I said.

“Sorry, brah,” he said, “I gotta make a living.”

“Are you serious?” I said. “I’m just trying to be on vacation with my wife, man.”

“Sorry, brah,” he said.

I absorbed the reality of what this parasite had done, and I said, “Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit.”

“Hey, if you don’t like it, go home, brah,” he said.

I was enraged. I was shaking and sick to my stomach. I walked back to my condo, and ate a sandwich (delicious PB&J with Guava Jam!) while I processed the invasion of my privacy I’d just experienced.

I was furious that this piece of shit would spend hours sitting on a beach, taking I don’t even know how many pictures of us, and then have the audacity to tell me that I should just go home if I didn’t like it. Like I was in the wrong for expecting to enjoy some time on the beach without some fucking creep using a telephoto lens to take pictures of me.

While I ate my sandwich (SO GOOD OMG) and finished my Bikini Blonde Lager, I hatched a scheme: Anne and I would render this subhuman pile of shit’s photos worthless (more worthless than they already are, because who gives a fuck about me in a bathing suit) by taking pictures of ourselves and posting them on Twitter.

So that’s what we did. And now I’m posting them here.

Thanks for giving me an anxiety attack in the middle of my vacation, brah. Good luck selling your fucking pictures, you piece of shit. Maybe go find something worthwhile to do with your life, like use that camera to take pictures of the beauty in Maui, instead of playing at being a paparazzo and making someone feel really uncomfortable when they’re just trying to enjoy some quiet time with their wife.

And now: my flabby, nerdy, 40 year-old self… and my amazingly beautiful wife:

And me, in all of my flabby, 40 year-old nerd glory:

Die in a fire, paparazzo guy. Die in a fire, brah.