Kettle, Meet Pot. Pot, Meet Kettle.

I was just reading the comments from the Vega$ trip, and laughing along…I think I have some very cool readers, and I feel like there’s some supercool community happening here…I like that.
In there, I found this link to some pictures from the Vega$ show…so I followed it, in the hopes of snarfing some of them for my photo album. See, the light in the ballroom wasn’t exactly conducive to great pictures, and the one I have of me…well..it’s just…yeah.
So I went there, looked at the pictures, and read the comments.
And I am so fucking enraged, and indignant, and incredulous, that I posted a comment myself, but, even after walking Ferris (who is female, BTW), so I could calm down, I am still all hopped up, and I’m giving it it’s own entry, so everyone can see it.
I’m multi-faceted. You’ve seen my funny facet, you’ve seen my political facet. You’ve seen my romantic facet. Now, cast your gaze upon my indignant, outraged facet…if you dare!

In regards to the comments at TrekkBBS:
WTF is wrong with those people?! I mean, don’t they get it? People like those, who criticize Jennifer and Ethan, and call Garrett by his own name, and then by his character’s name, in the same sentence…(“Garret, what’s…blah blah…I mean, Harry can grow up…blah blah…”)
Dude, people, GET A FUCKING LIFE!!
It’s nimrods like you, who sit behind your computers munching fritos and wrestling with the great dilemma: “Watch Xena, tape Farscape? Watch Farscape, tape Xena?! What to do?! Help me, Q! Someone! Help me!” People like you who make us not want to go near a convention, EVER!! So fucking what if Ethan was wearing shorts. It was over 100 degrees in Vega$!! Would you rather he wear a fucking spacesuit?! Listen up, assmonkeys: It is people like you who give all star trek fans a bad name. It is because of people like you that normal people are afraid to admit that they like the show, and have to apologize for watching it.
Who the fuck are you to criticize us? Huh? Put the pizza down, and step away from the star trek monoply, folks.

*pant*
*pant*
*faint*

Return of SpongeBob Vega$pants

When we last left our hero, he had survived a horrible snubbing by toupeed Priceline.com pitchman and former stock-holding billionaire WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, only to be verbally attacked by a disgruntled Star Trek fan.
Let’s go to the tape…
THIS IS THE MOST FAN UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
And she storms away.
What the fuck?
Well, at least it can only get better, right?
Right, it can, and it does. Lots of people come by, people of varying ages, nationalities, sanity, and levels of costumery. I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign posters of the Teen Heart-throb that I’m told I once was. I sign posters that I’m not even on, in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that I’m not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: “That’s okay, you just can’t see me, because I’m on this planet here…” sign, sign. They laugh, and feel good, and I repeat the same ritual for the next 3 hours, for close to a thousand people. In all of this, there is really only one person who just freaks me out, and it only lasts for a few minutes, and I let security know, and we’re all okay again.
You know the cool thing? There are these fans who came over from Germany, and some of them are girls, and they are HOT. And they tell me, in broken English, how much they love me. Oh yeah, tell me some more baby. Tell daddy how you love him.
What?
I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.
Speaking of broken English, there are 20 Japanese kids, all together, who’ve come over from Tokyo for the show. And they are, each and every one of them, totally cool. They are so excited, and having such a great time. The girls ask me if I’d please sign their names on it, and I do, and they giggle, and bow, and blush, and thank me, over and over. For a second, I feel like a rockstar. Then I look up, and the face that’s looking back at me is this guy who’s like 40, and he’s wearing a spacesuit that’s a little too small, and he’s made up like one of those blue guys with antennae from the original Star Trek. Andorians, I think they’re called. And I am rocked back from my “Almost Famous” fantasy, back into “Galaxy Quest” (at least it’s not “Trekkies“, right?)
Oh, this was so damn cool. One of the Japanese kids was a boy, about my height, and he comes up to me and says that his friends tell him that he looks exactly like me. That they tell him that I am his twin.
Last time I checked, I wasn’t Japanese, but I’m not about to dump on this guy, so I look at him, and I say, “Dude. You are so right. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror!” He turns to his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share and excited murmur. I felt like I made the guy’s morning, which was cool. He asked me to sign his Wesley Crusher action figure, which I do, with the following inscription: “To Tamako,[I think that was his name] my long lost twin brother: Don’t Panic! -Wil Wheaton”
That was really cool.

Tangent: It’s wierd being a “celebrity”. People tend to give celebrities more attention than normal people. They seem to think that if you’re on TV, or play a sport, your opinion is somehow more valid than the guy sitting next to you…I’ve never subscribed to this ideal, because I’ve met tons of celebrities in my life, and most of them are really, really, REALLY, lame, and not very smart. Especially the athletes.
Well, one of the cool things about celebrity that I can touch people’s lives, in some ways. I mean, there are people who are so into TV or whatever, that just by meeting me, or one of the other Trek people, they get super excited. That’s why I think it’s so important that we’re not dicks to them. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re scary, and freaky and wierd, I’m gonna get rid of you as fast as I can. I don’t care how many tribbles you have…but sometimes, I get to meet someone, like the guy who said I was his twin, and just by being cool, I can make him really, really happy. I really like that.
I have always said that if I take 30 seconds to sign a picture or a napkin or something, and it makes someone really happy, I am the biggest asshole on earth, I mean, WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER big, if I don’t do it.
So let this tangent be a notice to all you future superstars out there: Whether you asked for it or not, once you’re a celebrity, you *are* a role model, because people pay attention to you. So don’t be a dick. And sign autographs with a smile, and make people feel good for coming up to you, because, believe it or not, they were scared to do it, and you’ve got a chance to leave them feeling good, or feeling like shit. Pop quiz, asshole:some nervous guy comes up to you, and asks you if you’ll sign his book. What do you do? What do you do?!
/tangent

So the signing goes on.
And on.
And on.
And It gets closer and closer to 1:30, when I am supposed to leave, so I can rehearse with my group for our show, but there are still something like 150 people who still haven’t gotten their autographs. And I know, that as you get towards the end of the line, your signature degrades. Your humor slows down. You feel tired and worn out, and you just don’t have what the fans deserve. I know it, and it sucks, and I work VERY hard to treat the last 150 the same as the first 150, but sometimes, you’re just not physically able.
So I made a choice: I decided to leave, and get those 150 people the next day. I was going to be there all weekend, and stuff, and I figured that if I signed those people’s stuff tomorrow, they would get a refreshed, funny, cool me, rather than the top of my head (which, I understand the gay community has wanted for years. Sorry guys.).
But there was a risk: I mean, most of these people want to hate me. Don’t forget that. They’ve spent the last 14 years building me up to be this awful thing, and they reallly need me to validate that for them, by being a dick, or vapid, or whatever. I was nervous that this leaving would give them exactly what they were looking for.
So I stood up, and made an announcement:
“Guys! I was told I’d be done by 1PM.”
The grumbling begins.
“It’s now 1:30, and I’m supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group right now.”
The grumbling gets louder, their sense of entitlement now roused.
“But I’ll be here all weekend, and I’ll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I don’t go now, the show will suck.”
And an amazing thing happens. They all let me go, with good humor. They weren’t sad at all. They were actually singing. They sang without posters! They sang without pictures! They sang without autographs, blasters and fixtures!
So I left, and got back to the hotel.
And because I was late, the group had gone and done other things, like gambling, without me.
So I took a nap. One of those naps that lasts only 30 minutes, but feels like a whole night’s sleep.
I woke up, ate, showered, changed, packed my bags with costumes and props, and headed back to the con for the show.
=NEXT=
THE TALK
THE SHOW
RANDOM TANGENTS!
CHILLS!
THRILLS!
And, of course, Andy Rooney.

King of the world

This is so cool.
I was very moved by the post from Salon that I, uh, borrowed.
So I emailed the author, and told him:

To: [email protected]
Subject: Flag
Mr. King,
Thank you for giving words to the feelings I have inside.
I was so moved by your writing, I copied it, and posted it at my own site.
Hope that’s okay. I included links to the original, and a mailto: link to you.
You’ve moved a lot of people. If you want to read their comments, they are here: http://www.wilwheaton.net/greymatter/archives/00000054/*.php#comments
Sincerely and admiringly,
Wil Wheaton
*
WIL WHEATON DOT NET
50,000 monkeys at 50,000
typewriters can’t be wrong.
http://www.wilwheaton.net
*

See, I would have just included the link to Salon, but I think that people are more likely to read something that’s right in front of them, rather than click a link, and I really wanted all of you to see this.
Here’s the cool thing: King wrote back:

To: Wil
Subject: Re: Flag
Wil,
Thanks. As you note on your site, our lawyers (actually, our person in
charge of rights and syndication — we can’t really afford lawyers these
days) frown on this sort of thing, but I found your Web site so charming
and fun that I won’t tell them if you won’t.
Cheers.
king

Isn’t that cool?!
So here’s the deal. Don’t tell anyone, okay?

Rally round the flag?

I read this at Salon tonight. Read it quick, before some lawyer comes here and makes me take it down.
Rally round the flag?
I love Old Glory. I just wonder if I can take it back from the creeps who’ve waved it all my life.
– – – – – – – – – – – –
By King Kaufman
Sept. 18, 2001 | I’m wrestling with the American flag.
It’s everywhere now: tiny ones riffling on car antennas, medium ones waving from porches, giant ones yawning from cranes. People are wearing them. Every Old Navy flag shirt ever bought has been pulled out of the drawer this week, and Stars and Stripes ‘do rags are all the rage.
There’s no flag flying on my porch. I don’t have a flag, and they’re hard to come by these days anyway — not that I’ve tried to get one. And if I had one, I can’t figure out if I’d fly it or not.
See, Old Glory and I, we go way back, and we’ve had our problems.
For most of my life, the American flag has been the cultural property of people I can’t stand: right-wingers, jingoists, know-nothing zealots. It’s something that hypocritical politicians wrap themselves in. It’s something that certain legislators would make it a crime to burn — a position that’s an assault on the very freedom that the flag represents. It’s something brandished at times like these by idiots who say things like, “Let’s go over there and burn those rag-heads!”
During the Gulf War, I hated the American flag. It was everywhere then, too, on porches and car antennas and over the left breast of every uniformed athlete, all in support of a war I and many others thought to be immoral.
But I also love the flag. Seeing it stirs something in me, even when I’m mad at it, or disagree with those who wave it. I am, after all, an American, and despite being opposed to every single military adventure this nation has undertaken in my lifetime, I’m a patriotic one at that.
For me, though, patriotism is more about the freedom to criticize the government than it is about waving a piece of red, white and blue laundry around and singing “God Bless America.” It’s about loving our shared national personality — aggressive, impulsive and open, unimpressed with such Old World nonsense as royalty. It’s about feeling at home in a country where the first question asked of new acquaintances is not “Where are you from?” but “What do you do?”; where a loutish baseball star can sit next to a president and say, “Hot as hell, ain’t it Prez?” and be loved all the more for it. It’s about loving this country’s crazy cultural stew — that “melting pot” that we give ourselves more credit for than we should, but that really does exist.
For me, statements like “America right or wrong” or “America: Love it or leave it,” a chestnut from my childhood, are the antithesis of what this country is all about. And those are the sentiments that the flag has come, over many years, to represent for me.
So you’ll be surprised to hear that I have an American flag shirt, and maybe surprised to hear that I sometimes wear it — without irony! — on occasions such as the Fourth of July. First of all, it’s a hell of a shirt since, after all, it’s a Grand Old Flag. But I also like what it says. It says I’m an American. Not for me the pretentious Europhile weenieness that sometimes plagues my fellow middle-class American white boys. I’m a proud son of the country that’s produced Bart Simpson and Ambrose Bierce, Robert Johnson and Abe Lincoln, Michael Jordan and Doc Holliday. Bruce Springsteen said something in his “Born in the U.S.A.” days that stayed with me: “That’s my flag too.” How did the Republicans and the gun nuts and the xenophobes co-opt it?
There are two kinds of patriots: The “God Bless America” kind and the “This Land Is Your Land” kind. I’m the latter.
On the surface, the songs sound similar: simple melodies with lyrics about America’s natural beauty, the mountains and deserts and “oceans white with foam” in one; the Redwood forests, Gulf Stream waters and “sparkling sands of her diamond deserts” in the other.
But that’s only because we don’t sing all the verses that Woody Guthrie wrote in his song, an answer to “God Bless America,” which he hated for its sentimentality and dumb, blind devotion. Here’s one of the verses school kids don’t sing: “As I was walking, I saw a sign there/And that sign said ‘No trespassing’/But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing/Now that side was made for you and me.” Another verse has “my people” at the relief office, “wondering if this land was made for you and me.”
That song’s political and social criticism, its questioning, are also part of what make this country great. These things, as much as our culture, our national personality, our country’s physical magnificence, are what the flag represents to me.
But when I see that flag flying from a neighbor’s porch, I think, “Oh boy, right-wing nut.” And I’m not hearing people singing “This Land Is Your Land” over the last week, though “God Bless America” is everywhere.
While I’m not quite a pacifist, I have a pretty simple, even simplistic view of war: You don’t fight unless you’ve been attacked. So now that this country has been attacked, I agree with the vast majority that some sort of military response is warranted. This is a new feeling for me, this feeling that we’re the good guys and we’re fighting the bad guys. It makes sense that I’d want to fly the good guys’ flag, but that flag comes wrapped around a lot of baggage.
There’s the bell. The wrestling match continues.
salon.com
– – – – – – – – – – – –
About the writer
King Kaufman is a senior writer for Salon.

Son of SpongeBob Vega$Pants

When we last left our heroes, they were in a hotel room, on little sleep, somewhere in Las Vega$…
“Mrphhzzzzgggggthphbbt,” was all I could muster.
There was silence on the phone.
“Wil?”
There’s this voice in our heads. That voice that tells you it’s not a good idea to kick that guy, or that you probably should think twice before you take all that shrimp from the Buffet…it’s the self-preservation voice…you know it. My self-preservation voice, and my stay-in-bed voice are currently having this conversation:
“Dude. Mumble again, and go back to sleep. It’ll be okay.”
“What?! You have a commitment to these people! Get up!”
“Gettin’ up is for pussies!”
“If you don’t get up, everyone will hate you.”
“They hate you already! Stay in bed! Hey! Youurreee wiiffeessss innnn bedddd….”
Somehow, I got up. I told them that I’d take a cab, so they didn’t have to worry about that, and I’d see them about 9:45.
Anne gets up, and orders some room service (Which is *always* over priced, so I’m not even going to complain about it) while I take a shower.
So:
Shower.
Coffee.
Eat.
Coffee.
Kiss.
Walk through casino.
Cab.
Convention.
I get to the hotel where they’re doing the show at about 9:55. I’m supposed to start at 10, so I can imagine that they’re freaking out a bit.
I’m right. I wander all over the hotel, giving all of the appropriate Vulcan and Klingon salutes, until I finally find someone from the con, who tells me where to go. Then she shows me where I’m supposed to be.
The autograph thing works like this: some people paid quite a bit of money to get these “golden ticket”-style things, where they’d get the best seats, access to all the extra shows, and they’d get an “in-person” autograph.

Tangent about autographs: I don’t get autographs. I don’t understand the appeal of having someone’s signature on a photo. It’s just not something I’m into. But here’s what I do get: having someone sign something for you means that you get that person’s attention for 30 seconds, and you can tell them how much you like them, or how much you didn’t like them, or whatever. The autograph is secondary. It’s that contact that’s important. At least that’s what I guess about these people, because they paid a lot of money to get their autographs “in-person”.
So the way this works is it’s like an assembly line kinda thing. You come into this long hallway, and there is Michael Dorn, sitting at a table. You give him your ticket and picture (or phaser, or whatever) and he signs it. You go to the next table, and there is Marina Sirits. Ticket. Autograph. Repeat.
Contrary to popular belief, sitting at a table, signing thousands of autographs is really hard. Because it’s not just scrawling my name. It’s stopping and listening to the always excited, sometimes shaking, sweating, scary dude wants to know exactly why I did X on episode Y, and would I please sign his picture in gold, because Marina signed it in silver, and now he wants the men in silver and the women in gold, oh, and I hated your character, and here are 25 reasons why, and I expect an answer for each one of them.
Now, personally, I think this approach, while the only one that really works, has the potential to really suck for the fans. Sure, if you’re in the first 100 or so we see, that’s fine. But towards the end, we start to get tired. Our arms and backs get sore. We begin to lose our voices, and we’re ready to go home. But I do my best. I stay focused, and I remind myself that these fans waited a LONG time, so they are the ones that I need to give the most attention to, when I am the most drained.
End tangent.

So I get to the hallway where we’re set up for autographs, and, as I am walking up the hallway, I see Dorn, Marina, Renee, Kate Mulgrew, and WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER. Shatner has always been a dick to me, but I want to say hi, so I approach them, and I say, “Hi! How you guys doin?”
Everyone returns my greeting, even Kate, who I don’t know, at all. Never even been introduced. Everyone, that is, except WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER! Old toupee-head won’t even look at me! I don’t know what this guy’s problem is, really. I think he’s very funny, I think he’s got a great sense of humor about himself, but he is always a dick to me. So all I can do is just smile, shrug it off, and get set up at my table. On my way there, I hear Kate say, “Could we get some coffee?” The person who is working for the con says, “Sure. There’s a coffe cart in the lobby.” WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER says, “Uh, no. What we need is not just coffee. We need a Starbuck’s run.” Cool, dude. Like this convention staffer isn’t over-worked enough. Good thing there’s a Starbuck’s every 100 feet.
Okay, so I’m at my table, and they send in the flood of fans. I’ve got my game-face on. My pen hand is strong, and I’m ready to be witty, charming, friendly, and make these guys feel like the autograph I’m currently signing is the only one I’ve signed all day.
Here comes the first fan. Okay, she’s not wearing a spacesuit…that’s a good sign. She has a witty Sci-Fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. She’s about 20 feet away, and I can’t smell her. A VERY good sign.
Here she comes.
“Hi! How you doing today?!” I say.
“AWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!”
“Uhh..I think…that…this convention…just started…and…uhh..I’m sure that if you talk to Dave Scott, everyt–”
“DAVE SCOTT IS AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE!”
“Uh…yeah…well, you see, the thing is, I’m sort of not really involved in the planning of this convention, you know? I’m just, like, a guest…maybe you could–”
“THIS IS THE MOST FAN UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
And she storms away.
What the fuck?
Well, at least it can only get better, right?
=Next=
MORE AUTOGRAPHS!
ZANY FANS!
THE REHEARSAL THAT WASN’T!
THE TALK!