Riley woke me up at 6 on Sunday morning. Then Ferris re-woke me up at 7:30. I finally gave in and got out of bed at 8. On a Sunday. So very, very wrong.

I moved in ultimate slow motion and didn’t get to the convention until just before noon. I set my stuff up on my little table, sat down, and thirty seconds later discovered that I really didn’t want to be there. It was cold, I was tired, the crowd was very, very small, and the people on stage were too interesting to miss.

So I packed up my stuff, trucked it back to my car, grabbed my camera and iRiver, and did something I haven’t done for years: I walked around the Grand Slam convention as a fan.

I listened to astronauts talk about doing for real what I used to do for fakes, which was nothing new for me (I’ve had the great fortune to meet and talk with several different astronauts over the years) but is also something I will never, ever, take for granted. These guys have been telling the same stories for nearly forty years, but whenever they talk about blasting off, or looking back at Earth from orbit, they could have just stepped out of the capsule after landing. Their enthusiasm for science and their ability to infect their audience with the same is something everyone should get a chance to experience at least once. I’m thrilled that Creation is bringing astronauts to their shows, and I hope they do more in the future.

After their talks, I wandered over to the dealer’s room, and took a few pictures. I’m happy to say that I only spent $15 before I left, on the coolest bit of geek ephemera I’ve seen in a long time (I purchased the d20 keychain) before heading back over to the main auditorium to listen to Ron Moore speak.

I knew Ron was coming to the show, because I’d read it in his blog late Saturday night, and I hoped that I’d get a chance to talk with him one-on-one, but I didn’t expect that I’d run right into him backstage before he went on.

He lit up when he saw me for the first time in over fifteen years, and my prepared speech about how I didn’t know if he remembered me flew out of my head. In one of those "hand on the car" moments, a series of images flashed through my mind in an instant, as I recalled some of the things he did for my character: Yesterday’s Enterprise, the first time I got to do something really different on the bridge; The First Duty, the first (and only) time we saw Wesley interact with his peers, act his age, and witness his angst-ridden humanity; and Journey’s End, the first (and only) time we saw Wesley as an adult, willing to take a principled stand against his father figure, Captain Picard. I felt a surge of emotion well up in my chest, and before I knew the words were coming out of my mouth, I said, "When we worked together on TNG, I was too young, and too immature to appreciate what you gave me as an actor, and what you did for my character. I know it’s fifteen years late, but I wanted to say thank you."

He smiled warmly. "Thank you," he said. "It really means a lot to me to hear that."

I wanted so badly to tell him how I’d do anything in the world to be on his show, but I couldn’t think of a way to say that without spoiling the moment, or coming off like a schmuck, so I just congratulated him on the success of the show, and asked him if he had as much creative control as he wanted.

"I do," he said. "I’m very lucky to work with great people, and the network is very supportive of what we want to do. Of course, we battle, but they are always good battles that make the show better."

He was called onto the stage before we could talk any longer, and as he stepped through the curtain to absolutely deafening applause, I felt happy. I’ve discovered that all I want to do as an artist (whether it’s acting, writing, or whatever) is make something that matters to people; and I know that to be true for all the artists I know, particularly the writers. Ron, like Joss Whedon, has done that, and I felt happy for him in that weird i-was-just-talking-to-you way when the crowd went nuts for him.

I recorded some of what he said on my iRiver; it’ll be on a future episode of RFB.

When Ron was done, I wandered around the con some more, talked to a lot of people, and managed to completely miss BIlly West’s talk, where I hear he announced that there will be new episodes of Futurama on FOX either later this year or early next year. I spoke with Billy after he was done, and he gave me enough industry-specific details to assure me that this is for real, so get ready for hawesomeness.

By this time, my lungs were gasping for air and —

Sorry. Nerdy MST3K reference that 5% of you will understand. I should also point out that nobody will be admitted during the exciting rock climbing portion of the film.

By this time, I was really hungry, so I grabbed Rod Roddenberry and his girlfriend Heidi, and we went across the street to the Yardhouse for pizza and beer and sashimi and beer and grilled chicken sandwiches and beer. When we were younger, Rod and I goofed off on the set whenever we got the chance, and as we’ve grown older, we’ve spent a lot of time sharing stories about his dad. Rod is an amazing person, and in ways that we both understand but can’t vocalize to anyone but each other, we’re like long-lost half-brothers. It’s always fantastic to spend time with him, and my only real regret for the whole weekend is that we didn’t have more time to catch up and goof off.

After we ate, it was nearly 5:30, and I had to pick the kids up at 6, so I made my way back through the convention hall to say some goodbyes. On my way in, someone said to me, "Frakes was talking smack about you onstage," and I instantly knew that Jonathan told the "you used to be cool" story. I laughed out loud and hoped wished there was some way I could stop time long enough to visit with him.

I found Jonathan backstage, and said, "I can tell, just by looking at you . . . "

"That you used to be cool," he said. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

"W," he said, "it is so great to see you."

"You too," I said.

"Are you on your way out, or are you hanging around?" He said.

"I have to go pick up the kids," I said.

"How are they?"

"They’re great. They’re teenagers now, you know."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Man, we are getting so old!" I noticed that the impish glint I loved when we worked together, and always look for when I see him, was still in his eye.

"Are you well?" He said.

"Mostly," I said. "You?"

"I am great, man."

We talked as long as we could, about kids, and houses, and Star Trek and work and wives and all the things that I never could have talked about when I was younger. I just adore Jonathan, and I was genuinely sad when I saw that I had to leave to get the kids.

"I gotta go, Jonny," I said, "and I hope that it won’t be a year again before I get to see you, but i’m pretty sure it will be."

"You look great, W," he said. Then he pointed at the huge screen that made up the back of the stage. "But not as good as Avery."

Avery Brooks did look great. He looked cooler than Shaft, and more stylish than anyone else in the convention hall.

"He’s really fucking up the cool curve for us, isn’t he?" I said.

"Ah, don’t worry, W," he said with a grin. "I can tell just by looking at you that you used to be cool."

"You too," I said.

Oh man, what a great day!

Firefly panel: HAWESOME.
G4 booth babes: HAWESOME
Talking with Brent: HAWESOME.
Reading and Q&A: HAWESOME.

I’m just too damn tired to get into the details now, but I have lots of great notes, and I recorded my entire talk for a future RFB.

I’m going to fall into bed, now.

Update: Actually, there is one thing really worth adding right now, while the memory of it is still more visceral than intellectual.

The last question I took during my Q&A (the first I’ve done in several years) was about Michael Piller. A woman asked me if I could comment on Michael, and what it was like to work with him. All my comments are recorded, but they can be distilled down to this: Michael was brilliant, and he made The Next Generation great. When I was done, and sadly after I’d switched off my recorded, Harry Kloor, a friend of mine who is an accomplished writer and producer, walked up to the stage, and he said, "I wrote for Michael. He was like a father to all of us."

I turned the microphone back on, and told the crowd, "There’s something I think you should hear, that’s important."

I gave the mic to Harry, and he said, "I just told Wil that Michael was like a father to all of his writers. He could be stern, he could be tough, he could be nurturing, and he could be supportive. And he made all of us want to be — no, he made us better writers."

I thought it was a wonderful tribute to Michael’s memory and his legacy: he didn’t just leave us with amazing television like Star Trek and The Dead Zone; Michael also helped a lot of writers discover and achieve their potential. He cast a stone into a pond, and the ripples (like Battlestar Galactica, for one) are just beginning to show.
 

"The mind spends most of the time lost in fantasies and illusions, reliving pleasant or unpleasant experiences and anticipating the future with eagerness or fear. While lost in such cravings or aversions, we are unaware of what is happening now, what we are doing now. Yet surely this moment, now, is the most important for us. We cannot live in the past; it is gone. Nor can we live in the future; it is forever beyond our grasp. We can live only in the present. If we are unaware of our present actions, we are condemned to repeating the mistakes of the past and can never succeed in attaining our dreams for the future. But if we can develop the ability to be aware of the present moment, we can use the past as a guide for ordering our actions in the future, so that we may attain our goal". –S.N. Goenka, The Art of Living

Thank you, Michael, for the above quote.

The convention was pretty fun today, even though it was freezing cold in the room where I was set up. It’s Friday, so the crowds were very light (probably 600 people total in the whole place today) which gave me time to visit with old friends, and spend lots of time with the few fans who stopped by my table to chat.

Two long-time WWdN readers stopped by, and shared some incredibly supportive and kind thoughts after reading my blog the last few days. That was really, really thoughtful and cool. Thank you.

I sold about 10% of the limited edition chapbooks — which, I must say, turned out to be really fantastic. I am so glad I had a printer do them for me, rather than trying to assemble them on my own.

The coolest thing happened: about half of the people who bought the chapbook returned within thirty minutes or so to tell me how much they liked it. One woman told me she loved it, and couldn’t wait to hear me perform material from it tomorrow. That made me feel really good, and validated the work I put into the stories, and putting the book together.

There was a camera crew there today, from a well-known late night talk show, and they wanted to talk to me and Chase Masterson. I told them no, because it was clear that they were only there to make Star Trek fans look like assholes, and I wasn’t going to be part of that. For fuck’s sake, you guys: these people are here because they love Star Trek, or Lost, or Firefly, or whatever. They’re thrilled to be around like-minded people where it’s totally cool to dress up and challenge each other to quote-offs. They’re not here so you can laugh at them, you jerks.

Because the crowds were so light, I got to wander the dealer’s room, and really take in all the cool stuff that I used to get so excited about back in the old days; things like FASA Star Trek RPG sourcebooks, classic Star Wars toys  . . .

[cheesy fade effect, and some appropriate music, please.]

At one point, I walked past a booth that had lots of classic Star Wars toys in it. I glanced in, and my eyes fell on an original Darth Vader’s TIE Fighter. I had that toy when I was a kid, and just looking at it was like those car commercials where the guy touches the car, and he gets this rapid-fire burst of images until he takes his hand off of it. I saw that toy, and was assaulted by this rapid-fire burst of images of riding in the car to KMart with my parents, hoping to buy a new Star Wars toy, playing with the toys on the gold shag carpeting in front of the brick fireplace in the house in Sunland, running around the back yard in the fading evening light in the dummer of 1980, me piloting the TIE fighter, chasing my brother who piloted a snow speeder. (We weren’t afraid to combine Star Wars and He*Man, so why not combine Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back?)

[cheesy fade effect, and some appropriate music, please.]

I know I only stood there and looked at it for a few seconds, but it felt like several minutes. I like it when things like that happen.

I also got lots of audio to use in a future podcast, and some of it is really cool. I’ll have a Grand Slam podcast next week, probably.

Tomorrow is going to be a great day. The crowds are expected to hit near 2000, and the several cast members from Firefly and Lost will be giving talks. I’m pretty sure I’ll leave my table during the Firefly talks, and I’m going to try to get Morena Baccarin to tell me that she loves me. Failing that, I’ll see if I can get Adam Baldwin to do the same.

And on that incredibly uncomfortable note, I’m going to open a Newcastle, and go watch some TV with my wife.

"We’ve all had our ups and downs

It’s been mostly down around here

Now this whole damn mess is becoming quite clear"
-Uncle Tupelo, Life Worth Living

Thank you for all your feedback on the podcast and the blog. Many more people responded than I expected, and virtually all of you wondered if I actually read what you wrote. I don’t have time to respond to each e-mail directly, which feels shitty and disrespectful to me (you took the time, so why can’t I?) but I think I can put here, for everyone, what I’d put into lots of different e-mails. I took it all to heart, and I am deeply grateful to everyone who saw my signal flare, and sent back one of their own.

So. Two things I suspected were confirmed. The first: I can’t please everyone, so I’m just going to please myself. That sounds dirty. Let me try a different way: For every person who said they didn’t like the "sacchrine stories about my family" someone said they loved the "heartwarming stories about family life." For every person who said "I wish you’d write more about politics" someone said, "I’m glad you don’t write about politics very much." Everyone liked the narrative-style poker stories, and nobody likes the dry, technical poker posts. I agree. That’s why I moved most of my poker content to CardSquad. I haven’t had many stories to tell, but when I have a story that’s more like Odessa than a dry retelling of the flop, turn and river, I’ll publish it again.

Lots of you came here for different reasons: Star Trek, movies, gaming, technology, politics, family stories. I noticed that most writers wanted to hear more of whatever brought them here in the first place and less of everything else. I’ve said before that attempting to please everybody results in pleasing nobody, so I’ll just have to write about all of those things when they strike me, and hopefully when I’m interested I’ll be interesting and worth both of our time.

Thing the second: the general theme, from people who I know in real life to people who have read me for years, to people who have just been reading for a few months: my blog, once interesting, has become average and lacks passion.

My blog, which is a reflection of my life, has become average because I’ve allowed it to happen. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but at least I’m aware of it, and I can begin the long and painful process of ripping myself out of my average rut, and moving to where I want to be.

I’ve been reading a lot of Seth Godin’s blog, and his book The Purple Cow. In Purple Cow, Seth says that the first few cows you see are really interesting, but they eventually blur together and you forget about them. Then you see a purple cow, and it’s extraordinary, and you take notice, and you can’t believe you were ever impressed by a regular old cow. He uses it as a metaphor for marketers, but it applies to anyone who produces some sort of media or entertainment; it certainly applies to me.

Years ago, my Purple Cow was obvious: I was one of the first well-known actors to openly write about the experience. And there was that whole Wesley Crusher thing. Nobody else was doing what I did, so it was extraordinary. Over the years, I’ve fallen onto the other side of the bell curve, and now I find myself squarely in "average" land.

What do I do to paint my cow again? I’m not sure. Obviously, getting work as an actor again would be nice, and fire up my passions; working on some real fiction would also do that.

The excerpt I published yesterday is part of a very short story (it’s only about 2000 words) but it’s a start. I’m doing some work on it (changing from first to third person, for one) and I’m looking forward to publishing it next week. Maybe that will kick off something new for me that makes it worth your while to drop by my blog.

In many ways, I feel like I’ve run really hard, and really fast, and ended up right back where I started.

I know I’m a good actor, and I know that I can connect with an audience and do extraordinary work. That’s not enough to close the gap between me sitting in an audition, and me getting hired. So I’m right back where I was five years ago.

Anne’s ex isn’t supporting his kids, putting the burden on me and Anne, and getting away with it. I’m right back where I was five years ago.

I’m struggling, creatively unfulfilled, filled with self-doubt and more than a little bit of self lothing. I’m right back where I was five years ago.

And you know what? I’m really sad that I’ve failed as an actor. I’m
really sad that, even though I tried so hard my whole life to develop
this skill, and even though I know I’m extremely good at it, I have
failed to have any lasting success with it. It’s not my fault, I don’t
think, — well, other than the reasons I detail in Just A Geek
(which makes a lovely gift) — that the entertainment industry lost
interest in me and what I bring to the party, but when I’m not acting in some capacity, I feel like a big part of my soul is dead. Writing helps, a little bit, but it’s like methadone to acting’s heroin. I’d love to find a play to do around town, or do another sketch comedy show, or do some improv, but the unavoidable, brutal truth is that I can’t afford to. I don’t have the time to devote to it, but I have to somehow find it, and walk a dangerous, delicate, precarious and fine line between providing for my family, spending time with (and enjoying) my family, and hitting the acting needle as frequently and as hard as I can without becoming a gutter burnout.

It’s tough to write anything from the inside of my heart lately, because I feel like I’m just a big stupid crybaby. In my brains, I know that things could be a lot, lot worse (I know that, really I do, and because I know that I’m reluctant to even publish any of these thoughts) but in my heart and soul, I feel defeated.

Just completely defeated. And I don’t have enough time. And. And. And.

I know that I have the tools and the power to turn this feeling of defeat into something better, and I know that I’m indulging a whole lot of self-pity . . . but at least I’ll admit it, and own that feeling.

This is part of the journey, I guess. Maybe being where I was five years ago isn’t so bad. Five years ago, I had a lot of really great stuff to write about, and a very Purple Cow to share.