Still Just a Geek, page 2
Somebody—probably F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a quick Google would confirm that, but I’m typing this late at night, on a plane home, in a thunderstorm, having spent the day in Hollywood, pitching a movie to a terribly literal studio boss and the first actual Hollywood yes-man I’ve ever run into, so you’re on your own on this one—said there are no second acts in American lives. The joy of Just a Geek comes as we watch Wil begin by desperately trying to refute this, in transparent denial of the facts; but then, simply by writing and talking, he creates his own second act. And it’s not the one he was expecting, or the one he was looking for. Much more interestingly and satisfyingly, it’s the one he needed.
And the one we need too.
You’ll see.
Anyway, as we all discover, sooner or later, you’re never just a geek.
Neil Gaiman
Somewhere over America in a Thunderstorm
May 2004*
Note to
Reader
Not that it matters, but most of this is true.
—WILLIAM GOLDMAN, BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID*
Most of the material in this book was originally written for my weblog, (the cool kids call it a “blog”) an almost daily diary that I publish at my website, wilwheaton.net.*
As I went through my archives and pulled out entries to include here, I was strongly tempted to make massive changes to the material. I think I’m a much more competent writer now than I was when I started keeping the blog, and some of the earlier entries make me cringe.
However, I resisted. My evolution as a writer is a big part of this story, and cleaning up the older entries too much would rob you (and me) of some fun.*
I have made small changes: hyperlinks have been removed, and I’ve filled in some details that would not be obvious “offline,” but the fundamental meaning of each entry is unchanged.
It may help the reader to see the conventions I use in this book when I quote weblog entries:
* * *
The Date of the Weblog
THE TITLE OF THE ENTRY
The body of the weblog.
* * *
All of the entries are still online at wilwheaton.net, organized by date, if you’re the type of person who has to run a mental /usr/bin/diff on everything you see.* Just make sure you pipe the output into a text file. There’s a lot of information in there.* This book chronicles a long journey. It has its peaks and valleys, but I promise it has a happy ending.
I hope you enjoy the ride.
Namaste,
Wil Wheaton
Los Angeles, CA
April 14, 2004*
Author’s Note*
Dear Readers,
I tried to cover this in the introduction, but it’s so important to me, I’m going to say it all over again. I need to be completely serious here for a second: You are about to read the first thing I ever wrote in public. It’s not great. It’s deeply problematic. It’s gross. I deeply regret it. This section of Just a Geek reflects a Wil Wheaton who no longer exists. Except, of course, it completely does. This was who I was, so it is who I am. Parts of him still exist: I still think I’m funny and can craft a good joke, for example. The thing is, in twenty years, I’ve learned what actually makes a good joke. And some of the things I thought were jokes in these early posts simply aren’t good or funny. They’re mean-spirited.
They’re hateful.
I didn’t mean for them to be. At the time, I was too ignorant and too privileged to understand just how NOT OKAY these things are. But they are. They are awful.
So why leave them in?
As I say in my Introduction (you read my Introduction, right? I hope you did. This would be such a weird place for you to start, but you do you, baby), my editor and I decided that in order for the annotations to work, we couldn’t take anything out. “Warts and all,” we kept saying.
But what that meant was things I thought were smart, clever jokes in 2004 are neither of those things. They are simply hateful. And not that they’re hateful now—they were always hateful. And here’s the thing: I never thought of myself as a hateful person. I have to own this awful part of me: when I was a teenager in the eighties and early nineties, I was massively homophobic. I am not excusing it or condoning it, but I grew up in a sheltered, cis-het, privileged white family. Homophobic slurs were common in our house. I said “that’s so gay,” meaning “that’s so stupid” or “that’s so dumb” so much, I had to actively work to stop saying it, once I came to understand how incredibly wrong that is. And it took years. And like most casual bigots, I never thought of myself as homophobic, transphobic, or a bigot. At least, not intentionally. But it was so ingrained in me, such a fundamental part of my identity, it informed how I expressed myself when I was starting out as a writer. None of what you’re about to read was meant to be hurtful to anyone, but that still doesn’t make it okay. I just hope it explains why it took me so long to learn and grow out of a place where “Wil’s trenchant observation” is less Oscar Wilde and more Shitty Internet Dude. The difference is a matter of shifts in society . . . and in me.
These shifts aren’t meant to be an excuse of any kind. I’m happy for the shifts, as it has brought (at least some of) the world to a more enlightened place. A place just a touch freer of bigotry and hatred, including within myself. When I originally spouted homophobia or misogyny or any other kind of intolerance, I truly believed it was never from a place of hatred. It’s just the worst thing, and I am so embarrassed to admit it, but I sincerely thought I was making jokes, or using something that was deliberately offensive in a way that made it . . . not offensive? Because it wasn’t serious. It was just . . . *gulp* edgy? I know it makes no sense. Like I said, I was too ignorant and privileged to realize what I was doing. But that’s how institutionalized bigotry works (or, rather, doesn’t, and why it’s important to confront it). My “jokes” came from a place of ignorance and acceptance of the status quo, and I’m ashamed.
Change doesn’t happen by sweeping things under the rug, though. It is incredibly important to me that nothing in my story is swept under the rug. I hope I show this in talking about my parents, and in talking about my mental health, and in talking about being an artist. I hope I do so in confronting my interaction with a young woman who was simply doing her job, with a line about the men’s room that has no place in a world where trans men and -women are being segregated and harmed by bathroom laws, and all the—what seemed to me at the time—little “throwaway” comments that actively hurt people then and now.
What I truly hope this shows, then, isn’t that I’m suddenly seen as “woke.” For one thing, I’m not. I fuck up. All. The. Time. I’m still learning and growing.
Rather, my goal is to explain, even just a little bit, who I was twenty years ago. And that while this will always be part of my legacy, it is not my whole story.
I’m thinking there’s a lot more story to tell, and in that, the person you remember as Wil Wheaton will not be perfect, but he will be perfectly human. I started that journey with my blog by really getting ahold of how I interacted with myself and, in doing so, how I interact with others.
With that said, I’m deeply sorry for the pain I’ve caused, and the pain reading these passages might cause any of you now. I’m sorry if I disappointed you. I’m sorry if I hurt you, or someone you love. At the core of my being, I want to tell stories. I want to capture your imagination and entertain. I failed once at this, as you’ll read (or won’t—I get it if you want to skip this first section, which I’m now realizing has more in common with the problematic first season of Next Generation than I ever thought). I promise to do everything in my power to not fail you again. Not just in these pages, but in my life, public and private.
More, I promise to do everything in my power to confront these bigotries and biases and stereotypes. You’re all beautiful, wonderful people. You are perfect, exactly the way you are. We all are, and the last thing I’d ever want to do is harm you in any way.
But I know I did, and I am so sorry.
Sincerely,
Wil Wheaton
Los Angeles, CA
June 7, 2021
Introduction
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—THE PIXIES*
THIS MONKEY’S GONE TO HEAVEN*
In July 2003, I was invited to Portland, Oregon, by my friend and fellow O’Reilly author, Randal Schwartz, to attend the release party for his newest book, Learning Perl Objects, References & Modules.* While I was there, I also attended the O’Reilly Open Source Convention and did a signing of my own, at Powell’s Technical Books in downtown Portland.
That’s right. The artist formerly known as Wesley Crusher had written a book and published it himself. The book is called Dancing Barefoot, and it’s five short-but-true essays about my life as a husband, stepfather, and former Star Trek actor.
I was about six steps through the door at Powell’s when the store manager, Amber, approached me.
“We have completely sold out of your book!” She looked concerned.
I took a moment to digest this exceedingly good news. I’d just walked into my very first in-store book signing. I didn’t know what would happen . . . but a sellout never entered my mind.
“That’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, as I took my iBook bag off my shoulder.
PASADENA, THIRTY HOURS EARLIER
I’m packing my bags for the trip to OSCON. My dog, Ferris, lays on the bed, looking at me with her “I see the suitcase, so I know you’re going to be gone” look.
I fold some pants and a few shirts. My wife, Anne, walks into our room. “Are you taking any extra books?” she asks.
“No, I don’t think so. Powell’s already ordered a ton of them. I think I’ll be okay.” I put my folded shirts into my bag.
“You should really take some extras, Wil,” she says.
Ferris sighs and rolls onto her side. The tip of her tail wags against my cat, Sketch.
“I really don’t think there are going to be that many people there. I don’t want to schlep a bunch of books up there and back,” I tell her. “Besides, my bag is full.” She looks into my suitcase. Sketch meows at Ferris and jumps off the bed. “You’re taking two pair of shoes for a thirty-six-hour trip?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Why?”
I resist the urge to shout, “I learned it from you, okay?! I learned it by watching you!!” Instead, I say, “Dress shoes for my reading, and Converse for the rest of the time.”*
“If you take your dress shoes out, you can lose your dress pants, too. Just take your jeans and wear your Converse. You can put books in the extra space.”
“But I think I should look nice for—”
“You’re going to a computer convention, dork. You’d be better off wearing your Trogdor shirt.”*
I’ve already packed it, but I don’t tell her. Ferris exhales loudly and stretches out on her back. Our other dog, Riley, walks into our room and sits at Anne’s feet. She looks up, expectantly.*
Anne pets her and says to me, “You’re going to regret it if you get there and you don’t have books for everyone. You’ll feel bad, and you’ll lose sales. Just take a few.”
I’ve learned something in the seven and a half years I’ve known and loved her: she’s always right about this stuff.
“Okay,” I say. Riley thinks I’m talking to her and jumps on the bed. Ferris flips over and snarls at her.
I end up packing an additional forty-seven books.
BACK TO POWELL’S
I put my bag on the counter. “It’s a good thing I listened to my wife!” Amber was visibly relieved when I began pulling small stacks of books out of it.
“This is the biggest crowd we have ever had at this store,” she said. “For anything.”
“Really?!”* I said.
“Yes! And we’ve never sold out of a book before. Usually, we’ll sell about ten or so.”
“Oh my god. This is so cool!” I said.
“I’ll take all the books you have in there, and we may even have to issue rain checks.”
Rain checks?! Holy crap! This is so cool!
I gave them to her, and she began putting stickers on them. There were two other authors there, too, so I snuck away to a back room to prepare while they talked about their books.
Even though I’ve read these stories countless times, and even though I lived them all, I still feel a need to familiarize myself with them before I perform them. Even though my book was doing unbelievably well in terms of sales and audience response, I was nervous each time I took it before a crowd.
On this particular night, I had some giddy excitement to go along with the nerves. I felt good. I was marking a significant waypoint on my journey from actor to author. I was taking my work to an audience that was NOT at a Star Trek convention. There were lots of non-Trekkies in this crowd. This was a big test for me.*
The other authors talked for about thirty minutes, and then it was my turn.
I read two pieces from Dancing Barefoot: “Inferno,” and a selection from “The Saga of SpongeBob Vegas Pants.” When I was finished reading, I looked up to thank the crowd for coming and saw that it had grown substantially since I began. I was elated.
All these people came and shared in this experience with me for almost an hour! I earned their time and attention. I earned it with my writing! I passed the test! I passed the test!
I sat down at a little table they’d set up for me, which had a laminated “Meet Wil Wheaton, Author of Dancing Barefoot” sign on it. The crowd transformed itself from a mass to a line (like Optimus Prime,* but without the cool sound effects*), and I began to sign books.
I signed for people from just about every demographic you can imagine. Many of them had their own copies of my book, which they’d bought online or earlier in the day from Powell’s. They complimented me on my website, on my performance, even on my cool shirt.
I signed a girl’s celebrity bible, right there next to Dr. Demento, and I met the project lead for Quanta Plus, a web development application that I love and use regularly. Eric S. Raymond, author of The Cathedral and the Bazaar (O’Reilly) and major force in the open source movement, also came and listened to me read. He even sat right in the front, and had several kind words for me when I was done. It was awesome.*
When I was down to my last three books, a guy walked over to me, and extended his hand.
“Hi, Wil,” he said, “I’m Tim O’Reilly.”
HOLY MO—WIL! IT’S TIM O’REILLY! HE CAME OUT TO SEE YOU!*
Before I could scream out, “I KNOW! I KNOW! I KNOW! GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY!” my brain said, “Stay cool, Wil. Don’t geek out.”
I heeded my brain’s advice and was grateful for all those times I didn’t stab it with a key.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” I said. I was very proud of myself . . . and kept my geeking out to a minimum. “Your books have made my life much easier and much more interesting.”
Check me out. I totally behaved myself.
“Nicely done,” said my brain. “Have some serotonin.”
Oh . . . that feels good.
He said something about how he’d heard good things about my book and thanked me for coming to OSCON.
He thanked me for coming!
“Would you like a copy of my book?” I asked him. “I have an extra one that you can have if you want it.”
“Sure,” he said, “but I’d rather buy it.”*
So that’s what he did. Tim O’Reilly bought my little book, and shortly after that, I sold my final copy.
That’s right. I sold out all my books, including the additional books I brought with me.
It’s a good thing I listened to my wife, eh?
I packed up my bag and said goodbye to Randal. He pointed at the little laminated “Meet Wil Wheaton, Author of Dancing Barefoot” sign.
“You should take that, Wil. It’s from your first signing. You’re going to want that someday,” he said.
I picked it up off the table, and when I held it in my hands, I knew that he was right. I didn’t ever want to forget this very significant moment in my life. Signing my first book, in a bookstore, and selling it out . . . it’s better than the first time I got to sit at the helm of the Enterprise . . .
. . . because it was real.*
Act I
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—THE WHO, “BEHIND BLUE EYES”*
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—PINK FLOYD, “IN THE FLESH?”*
1
Where’s My Burrito?
On a hot June afternoon in 2000, I joined my best friend Darin for lunch at one of our teenage haunts, Old Town Pasadena. An afternoon in Old Town is a trip to a time when we were free of responsibility, and the world was filled with possibility and opportunity.
The changes in Old Town reflect the changes within ourselves. Thanks to the efforts of the Pasadena preservationists, the historical building facades haven’t changed, but they are the only thing that remain the same. The empty doorway where a punk rocker once sneered at passing businessmen is now a Pottery Barn, occupied by a San Marino yuppie who screams into her cell phone. The eclectic record store where we’d buy imported Smiths singles is now a Sam Goody,* its windows plastered with posters announcing the latest release from Justin Timberlake.* Tourists stand uncomfortably at crosswalks, trying to ignore the homeless who have come to enjoy the trickle-down economics of a prospering shopping thoroughfare.
