46&2

I’m working my ass off today for Arena…we’re working on a really cool special, and I’m under the gun to finish a script, so I don’t have time for a real entry…
But Loren sent me this article, in the SF Gate, and I wanted to share it.
The interesting thing about this story, and the proliferation of stories like it, and celebrity weblogs, is that most people aren’t able to see people like me, who are on their tvs, as real people, with real problems and real dreams.
People look for and expect to find a validation of their perception of the celebrity in question, and when they don’t find that, they either react with surprise and delight, or they find ways to force what they found to fit their perception.
If someone came here looking for a failed actor, they could find that. If someone came here looking for a very happy husband and father, they could find that too.
It depends on what they’re looking for, I think, and what they’re willing to see.

Europa

I’ve been asked my more than one person to respond to the Open Letter to America, which is currently burning up the internet so fast, you’d think it was written by rtm.
I am reminded of a time in my own life when I got a letter from someone I really cared about, telling me what I refused to tell myself: I was an asshole.
Set the wayback machine circa 1988 or 1989. I am on top of the world. I travel in limos and fly first class to events where hundreds and sometimes thousands of people scream for me. Everywhere I look, I see my face staring back at me from Teen Cheese and Non-Threatening Boys magazines. I am getting more fan mail than anyone else at Paramount.
I am also desperately unhappy.
===
In the summer of 1988 or 89, I had this huge crush on a girl from school. She was really beautiful, sexy, and fun to be with.
We dated a few times, hung out a lot, and I was really falling for her. Then one day she stopped returning my calls, and coming over.
I was crushed. I didn’t understand what had happened.
Then one morning I got a letter from her. In it, she told me, as delicately as possible, that she just couldn’t be around me any more. I was arrogant, rude, ungrateful for what I had, and I treated her like property. I was demanding, overbearing, unwilling to listen to or respect other people’s opinions. I was a dick, an ass, a jerk. She described to me a person I wouldn’t ever want to sit next to on a bench, much less be.
I was stunned. I took the letter to my best friend Darin, and showed it to him, looking for comfort. He’d help me feel better about this frigid bitch, I thought.
When he was done reading it, he asked me what I thought. I declared, with righteous indignation, that she “didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about”, and that she could “fuck off, because it was bullshit.”
Darin looked at me, and he said, gently, “Wil, you should read it again, because she’s right.”
I looked at him, he looked back at me. This was not the reaction I was expecting.
“What?” I asked, wondering if maybe I’d brought the wrong letter.
“[Her name] wrote you this letter because she cares about you, and she doesn’t like what you’ve become. Frankly, none of your friends do. So you can read it again, and take it to heart, or you can blow it off, and continue to alienate yourself from everyone who cares about you, including me.”
I really respected Darin. He was (is) the most tolerant, patient, loyal, honest person I knew (know). His words, added to those I held in my now-quaking hands were a Rosetta stone. Everything I didn’t like about myself but was unwilling to address was all on those 3 sheets of hand-written 8×10 spiral-bound notebook paper, translated by my best friend into language I could understand.
A door was opened in that moment, and I had a choice to make: walk through and face myself, or ignore it and walk past.
I walked through, and on that day I began the process of re-evaluating my life, my priorities, and most importantly my attitude. It was scary, it was uncertain, it was vital. It was a long process, taking nearly 6 years, but it started that day.
People ask me all the time why I haven’t ended up dead or drug-addicted, or in trouble in the law. The answer is still written on those sheets of paper, long-lost but not forgotten.
To this day I carry more than a little bit of guilt for the way I treated her. I’ve been able to apologize to everyone else who I’ve wronged in my life, but never to her. Maybe she’ll read this and hear me say “Thank you, and I’m sorry.”
So, back to the Open Letter. Do I agree with all of it? No. I think some of it is wildly off-base, and I think the message would be listened to by more people who need to hear it if it wasn’t so inflammatory.
On the other hand, I think that America has an opportunity to walk through an open door, and take a long hard look at ourselves. The simple fact is, America, most of the world really doesn’t like us. We’re arrogant, irresponsible, and unaccountable. We loudly an constantly remind the world that we are a Superpower…well, with great power comes great responsibility, right?
The great thing about America is that We The People have a voice, and the louder that voice, the more insistent that voice, the harder it is to silence.
Let’s raise our voice, and walk through this open door. It’s scary. It is uncertain, but it is vital that we do. It will be a long process, but we can do it.
I’ll take the first step, with this Thought for Today:

“If you succeed through violence at the expense of other’s rights and welfare, you have not solved the problem, but only created the seeds for another.”

Rhymes with News

Today, I present to you, the faceless internet monkey, a short collection of news items featuring me, or my friends.
Enjoy them in moderation. (+1, Interesting…I hope):

alt.usenet.made.me.laugh

Found on Usenet, authored by O.Deus:

A crowd has gathered outside a dumpster, current residence of the reel
of film featuring Wesley Crusher, at the news that Will Wheaton’s
apperance had been cut from Nemesis.
“First they let him go from the Next Generation and now they cut him
from Nemesis alltogether?” Wanda Killgorne 39, one of those holding a
silent vigil at the dumpster. “It makes no sense. The producers never
realized what they had with Wesley. The show went downhill the moment
he left and they’ve been too arrogant to do what it takes to save Star
Trek. Bring back Wesley as a Starship Captain with Godlike powers.
He’s the only one that can save Star Trek.”
At those words the crowd began chanting, “Bring Back Wesley. Bring
Back Wesley. Bring Back Wesley” but it was clear that their hearts
just weren’t in it.
“Some of us are here because we’re off our medication. Others are here
because Wesley Crusher gives us a reason to live.” William Johnson 56
said delivering an improptu speech from the vantage point of standing
on a stained milk crate. “Still Others because due to our homoerotic
crushes on Mr. Wheaton, orders of protection prevent us from going any
closer to him. Still we all united in our veneration of this lost
reel.”
Saying this Mr. Johnson reached into the dumpster and pulled out a
reel along with several roaches living in the reel.
“Behold the Reel of Wesley.” He shouted as the crowd fell to its knees
before the reel and then rose one by one to kiss the reel and return
back to the private and state facilities from which they had come as
the sun set over the tall buildings, indicating that curfew was almost
over.


This made me laugh out loud.
It sure was strange to see something on Usenet about me that didn’t involve Klingon gang rape.

Spare us the cutter

The call came while I was out, so I didn’t get the message until days later.
“Hi,” the young-sounding secretary said on my machine, “I have Rick Berman calling for Wil. Please return when you get the message.”
I knew.
I knew before she was even done with the message, but I tried to fool myself for a few minutes anyway.
I looked at the clock: 8 PM. They’d most likely be out, so I’d have to call tomorrow.
I told Anne that I had a message to call Rick’s office, and she knew right away also.
We’d thought about it for months, ever since I’d heard the rumors online. Of course, I tend to not put a whole lot of stock in what I read online…if I did I’d be overwhelmed with the sheer amount of hot teen bitches who want to get naked for me right now, and I’d be rolling in Nigerian money.
But it made sense, and I couldn’t fight what I knew in my heart to be true.
I returned the call late the next day from my car on my way home from work. I was driving along a narrow tree-lined street in Pasadena that I sometimes take when the traffic is heavy on the freeway.
Children played on bikes and jumped rope in the growing shadows of the July afternoon. The street was stained a beautiful orange by the setting sun.
“This is Wil Wheaton returning,” I told her.
She tells me to hold on, and then he’s on the phone.
“Hi kiddo. How are you?”
“I’m doing fine. You know I turn 30 on Monday?”
There is a pause.
“I can’t believe we’re all getting so old,” he says.
“I know. I emailed Tommy [his son] awhile ago, and he’s in college now. If that made me feel old, I can’t imagine what my turning 30 is doing to the rest of you guys.”
We chuckle. This is probably just small-talk, so it’s not as severe when he tells me, but it feels good regardless. Familiar, familial.
“Listen, Wil. I have bad news.”
Although I’ve suspected it for months, and I have really known it since I heard the message the night before, my stomach tightens, my arms grow cold.
“We’ve had to cut your scene from the movie.”
He pauses for breath, and that moment is frozen, while I assess my feelings.
I almost laugh out loud at what I discover: I feel puzzled.
I feel puzzled, because the emotions I expected: the sadness, the anger, the indignation…aren’t there.
I realize that he’s waiting for me.
“Why’d you have to cut it?”
This doesn’t make sense. I should be furious. I should be depressed. I shuould be hurt.
But I don’t feel badly, at all.
“Well, it doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he begins.
I laugh silently. It never does. When I don’t get a part, or a callback, or get cut from a movie, it never has anything to do with me. Like a sophmore romance. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve met Jimmy Kimmel’s cousin, and things just happened.”
There is an unexpected sincerity to what he tells me: the movie is long. The first cut was almost 3 hours. The scene didn’t contribute to the main story in any way, so it was the first one to go.
He tells me that they’ve cut 48 minutes from the movie.
I tell him that they’ve cut an entire episode out. We laugh.
There is another silence. He’s waiting for me to respond.
I drive past some kids playing in an inflatable pool in their front yard. On the other side of the street, neighbors talk across a chain link fence. An older man sits on his porch reading a paper.
“Well Rick,” I begin, “I completely understand. I’ve thought about this on and off for months, and I knew that if the movie was long, this scene, and maybe even this entire sequence, would have to go. It’s just not germaine to the spine of the story.”
He tells me that they had to consider cutting the entire beginning of the movie. He tells me that he has to call one of the other actors because they’ve suffered rather large cuts as well.
I stop at a 4-way stop sign and let a woman and her little daughter cross the street on their way into a park filled with families, playing baseball and soccer in the waning light.
I look them. The mother’s hand carefully holding her daughter’s.
I realize why I’m not upset, and I tell him.
“Well, Rick, it’s like this: I love Star Trek, and, ultimately, I want what’s best for Star Trek and the Trekkies. If the movie is too long, you’ve got to cut it, and this scene is the first place I’d start if I were you.
“The great thing is, I got to spend two wonderful days being on Star Trek again, working with the people I love, wearing the uniform that I missed, and I got to re-connect with you, the cast, and the fans. Nobody can take that away from me.”
“And, it really means a lot to me that you called me yourself. I can’t tell you how great that makes me feel,”
It’s true. He didn’t need to call me himself. Most producers wouldn’t.
“I’m so glad that you took the time to call me, and that I didn’t have to learn about this at the screening, or by reading it on the internet.”
He tells me again how sorry he is. He asks about my family, and if I’m working on anything. I tell him they’re great, that Ryan’s turning 13, and that I’ve been enjoying steady work as a writer since January.
We’re back to small talk again, bookending the news.
I ask him how the movie looks.
He tells me that they’re very happy with it. He thinks it’s going to be very successful.
I’m feel happy and proud.
I’ve heard stories from people that everyone had lots of trouble with the director. I ask him if that’s true.
He tells me that it was tough, because the director had his own vision. There were struggles, but ultimately they collaborated to make a great film.
I come to a stoplight, a bit out of place in this quiet residential neighborhood. A young married couple walks their golden retriever across the crosswalk.
We say our goodbyes, and he admonishes me to call him if I’m ever on the lot. He tells me that he’ll never forgive me if I don’t stop into his office when I’m there.
I tell him that will, and that I’ll see him at the screening.
He wishes me well, and we hang up the phone.
The light turns green and I sit there for a moment, reflecting on the conversation.
I think back to something I wrote in April while in a pit of despair: “I wonder if The Lesson is that, in order to succeed, I need to rely upon myself, trust myself, love myself, and not put my happiness and sadness into the hands of others.”
I meant everything that I said to him. It really doesn’t matter to me if I’m actually in the movie or not, and not in a bitter way at all.
I could focus on the disappointment, I suppose. I could feel sad.
Getting cut out of the movie certainly fits a pattern that’s emerged in the past two years or so.
But I choose not to. I choose instead to focus on the positives, the things I can control. I did have two wonderful days with people I love, and it was like I’d never left. I did get to reconnect with the fans and the franchise. Rick Berman, a person with whom I’ve not always had the best relationship, called me himself to tell me the news, and I felt like it weighed heavily on him to deliver it.
Nobody can take that away from me, and I’m not going to feel badly, at all.
Because I have a secret.
I have realized what’s important in my life since April, and they are at the end of my drive.
The dog-walking couple smile and wave to me.
The light changes.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, Wesley Crusher falls silent forever.