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WIL WHEATON dot NET
WIL WHEATON dot NET

50,000 Monkeys at 50,000 Typewriters Can't Be Wrong

Tribute to The Great Bird

Posted on 18 July, 2002 By Wil

Last summer, at the Creation Grand Slam convention in Pasadena, there was a tribute to Gene Roddenberry. I was asked to speak at the tribute, and I eagerly agreed. However, the tribute was going to conflict with a show that I was in at the ACME, so I couldn’t be at the tribute.
By the way, can I please say “tribute” again?
Tribute. Tribute. Tribute.
Well, I was very torn. I really wanted to be there to honor him, but I couldn’t back out of the sketch show at the last minute. So, I asked my friend Richard, who was putting together the event (notice I didn’t say “Tribute?”) if I could write something down, and have it read on my behalf. He agreed, and I was able to be in two places at once. Sort of.
Earlier today, Anne and I were cleaning and organizing stuff in our house, and I found what I’d written, dropped behind a dresser, on a folded up sheet of yellow legal paper.
I’d like to share it with you all today.


“Gene Roddenberry’s office door was always open to me, regardless of who was already there.
He always made me feel important, like he was proud of the work I was doing, and that he was glad to have me as part of his great creation.
When we were shooting TNG, I had no idea that he had named Wesley after himself. I’m glad, because at the time, the sense of responsibility would have paralyzed me.
However, knowing that now, the sense of honor and pride is overwhelming, and hope that, somewhere, Gene is still proud of all of us.
Gene was an anachronism in Hollywood. He was a warm, caring, profoundly creative man who never compromised his vision.
I am proud to be part of his legacy, and it is an honor to remember him tonight.”

Epitaph

Posted on 16 July, 2002 By Wil

Spudnuts is a familiar name to the regular WWDN reader.
He makes me, and everyone else, laugh and think, and laugh some more.
He also types in this form.
That.
Is.
Very.
Unique.
Well. I recently read something he wrote, and asked him if I could post it here, because I thought it was really cool.
Quoth Spudnuts:

I have this thing for cemeteries. Always have. I’m not morbid or goth or anything. They usually are just scenic, empty, and verdant.
But I always notice the generic script that accompanies even the most flamboyant tombstone. It makes no sense. Surely, there must have been some cut-ups, clowns, subversives, eccentrics, mavericks, firebrands, freakshows, or just someone who wants MORE on their grave than…
“Died in Troutdale.”
What is so fucking sacred about a tombstone that you can’t be shocked or amused when you happen upon the burial site of some HUMAN?
Jesus.
It’s like being interred at the Christian Science Reading Room, laundry mat, or DMV.
So…
INSTITUTIONAL and sterile.
Then…
Who knows?
Maybe only the boring ones actually get a gravestone. All the interesting ones had their ashes scattered from a hangglider over Euro Disney.
Two years ago, I wrote down about fifty variations I would like on my tombstone. Here are a couple of the better ones…
— Caucasian. Gamer. Hermaphrodite.
— He was better than you
— It’s fucking dark in here
— Buried with a big sack of emeralds. No, really.
— Secret agent
— He owned a television
— He was kind of funny in an annoying sort of way
— RIP BFD
— He went straight to Hell
— Feeds upon the blood of the Irving
— He is in space now
— Deposit urine here
— He neglected his colon
— Yet another dead guy
— He was full of shit

Bird

Posted on 15 July, 2002 By Wil

It’s nearly 10PM.
The kids are with their dad, leaving Anne and me in an empty, quiet house.
We sit at our dining room table, Ferris asleep at our feet, the 85 degree Southern California air stirred only by a single fan in our air-conditioner-less house.
We’re reading. She reads a magazine, I read a book, and Charlie Parker travels through time from 1950, transported by our radio, tirelessly bebopping at us.
These moments that we share, just the two of us are precious few, and I cherish them.
I close my book and tell her, “You are the other half of my heartbeat.”
They’re not my words. I’ve borrowed them from Dizzy Gillespie, who was speaking, ironically, of Bird…
…but truer words have never passed my lips.

Just the TIPS of the iceberg?

Posted on 15 July, 2002 By Wil

When I heard about the US Government’s TIPS program this morning, I nearly choked on my breakfast. I’ve been struggling with my outrage and astonishment at this program all day, trying to compose myself long enough to write about it, but my friend Tom Tomorrow has managed to put into words exactly what I am feeling, far more eloquently than I ever could, so I’ll freely steal it from him:

“Facism is a term thrown about too freely, and I don’t believe we’re at a point that its use is justified–but an oppressive and intrusive government, however you want to label it, does not ride into town wearing the uniforms and waving the flags of recognizable evil. It creeps in slowly, wrapped in the flag of your own country, and speaking the language of patriotism and duty, and at each step along the way, its actions seem plausible and defensible–until one morning you wake up and realize the gulf between the way things were and the way things are has grown so wide that there is no going back. Sinclair Lewis tried to point this out more than a half century ago, and given the current climate, It Can’t Happen Here is well worth re-reading (or reading for the first time, if you’ve never come across it before).”

Be careful what you wish for

Posted on 14 July, 2002 By Wil

You know that adage, “Be careful what you wish for?” I should have heeded it. For months I was complaining about how bored I was and how I had nothing to do…there are few things in the world that I hate more than being idle…and, while I wasn’t looking, I got busy.
Really, really busy.
I crammed months and months of work into about 8 or 9 weeks: Writing for Arena, two different sketch shows, preparing for the show we did on the cruise, trying to keep this website interesting and relevant…oh, and being a husband and step-father, too.
Actually, it was pretty cool, and I’m really grateful that I was so busy, but I’m glad it’s over.
I have never been so creatively exhausted in my life as I am right now.
And get this: to end it all, in the last 36 hours I’ve been in 4 different states, and seen two major oceans with my own eyes. (More about that later, when I actually have the time to tell a long and interesting story)
So this morning, as I sit here, drinking my coffee, listening to Exodus, getting ready to go to the beach with my wife and kids for the first time this summer, I take a deep breath, look at my dog, and enjoy this moment.
I don’t believe that we’re ever given more than we can really handle, even if we don’t think we can handle it.
Life is good.

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