As I sat down to put together this week's Geek in Review, I was faced with a choice: scream and rant and rave and foam at the mouth for two thousand words about how fucking evil and stupid the RIAA is for effectively destroying internet radio, damning many of their artists to obscurity and alienating their customers in the pathetic effort to return the music world to the 1970s, or share an entertaining convention memory about signing autographs at the 35th Anniversary convention in Las Vegas which I first wrote about in my book Dancing Barefoot.

I don't want to go to this well too often, but since everyone seemed to enjoy last week's montage of convention recollections, rather than angry up the blood this week I thought I'd tell you all a story . . .

I meet up with a convention staffer and we walk together, past several hundred fans, toward a long service hallway, where several tables have been set up. I've done this countless times before, but I politely listen to her, as she tells me how I will be spending the next few hours.

"The fans will come into this hallway in groups of 25, and stop at each table for an autograph. We've asked them to move quickly, because there are hundreds of people in this line. If you need water or pens or anything, there will be several volunteers to help you out." She points to my table, which is about fifty feet down the hallway, near a fire exit.

As I walk toward my table, I pass some of my longtime friends: Michael Dorn, Marina Sirtis, Armin Shimerman. We share handshakes and hugs. It's always great to see them, and I wish that I could see them more frequently, instead of once a year at cons. I also pass some people I know only through these events: Rene Auberjonois, and some cast members from DS9 and Voyager who I know by face, but not by name. In fact, every Star Trek series and movie is represented in this hallway, including WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, who is talking with Kate Mulgrew. I share smiles and waves -- and a polite nod with WFS -- as I pass. We're part of the same fraternity, and we all know what we're in for over the next several hours. This is an all-too brief calm before that storm descends, and everyone is making sure they enjoy it.

I get to the end of the hall, and sit at my table. I uncap my sharpie, and put on my game face. My pen hand is strong. I'm ready to be witty, charming and friendly. Although the actual number of autographs I've signed over the years is probably close to half a million, I am determined to make each fan I am about to see feel like the autograph I'm currently signing is the only one I've signed all day, maybe the only one I've signed in my whole life.

Over the years, I've learned something from being on both sides of this table: it's never about the signature. It's about that brief moment, that brief encounter with a Star Trek cast member, that is so important to the fans. That 30 seconds or so of hopefully undivided attention is what they're really paying for, and I always do my best to make sure they get their money's worth. Contrary to popular belief, sitting at a table signing hundreds of autographs for several hours without a break is hard. It's not just mindlessly scrawling my name; It's stopping and listening to the always excited, sometimes shaking, always sweating, sometimes scary dude who wants to know exactly why I did "X" on episode "Y" and would I please sign his picture in silver . . . because Marina signed it in gold and now I want the men in silver and the women in gold, and I hated your character and here are 25 reasons why and I expect an answer for each one of them and I'm not leaving until I'm satisfied.

This particular convention is epic, and has attracted one of the largest crowds I've seen since we sold out the Royal Albert Hall to the tune of over 5,000 Trekkies around 1997. I sure hope this doesn't turn into Altamont. Well, at least I'm close to the fire exit if it does.

The fans will come down what amounts to an assembly line, where they stop at a table, enjoy their 30 seconds of attention and trade a ticket for an autograph. They move to the next table, and repeat.

I personally think that this "assembly line" method, while the only one that really works -- especially for a huge crowd like this -- has the potential to totally suck for the fans: the first one hundred or so who come through the line will get to see a smiling, effusive, friendly actor, and will leave feeling happy and satisfied. Those unlucky ones who are at the end of the line risk seeing actors who are tired, with cramped hands and degraded signatures.

It is a challenge for me, but I never forget that not only have the last fans through the line have paid as much as the first fans, but they've also waited much longer, so they are the ones that I need to give the most attention to when I am the most drained. I know that as I get toward the end of the line, my humor slows down, and my voice fades. I'm sure I've let a lot of people down over the years, but I always do my best.

I think about all these things as I see the first fan walking down the hallway, trading tickets and getting signatures from actors. I watch her as she goes table to table. She's not wearing a spacesuit . . . that's a good sign. She has a witty sci-fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. About 20 feet away, I still can't smell her. A VERY good sign.

She arrives at my table, and I cheerfully say, "Hi! How are you doing today?!"

"AWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!"

Oh boy. This is not the way I'd hoped to start out.

Though the promoter, Dave Scott, will eventually take a lot of money from a lot of people and make a lot of enemies on his way to Fandom Infamy (I believe there is a pretty serious and extensive lawsuit pending against him in Kansas, and he polls about even with Dick Cheney among Trekkies,) as of this moment, I haven't had any problems with him. As far as I know, he's a decent guy, so I try to soothe her. "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 exactly involved in the planning of this convention, you know? I'm just, like, a guest . . . maybe you could try talking with som–"

"THIS IS THE MOST FAN-UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!"

And she storms away, without an autograph, without another word.

I look at Marina, who's one table down from me, on the other side of the fire exit. Angry Fan has stormed past her, too. Marina shrugs, and I make the international sign for "crazy person" by twirling my finger near my temple.

Mid-twirl, I hear a man clear his throat, and I look up to see a smiling middle-aged face. He has a dark beard, and is dressed as Commander Riker. He gives his autograph ticket to the volunteer sitting next to me, and asks me to sign his model of the Enterprise D. He thanks me, shakes my hand and moves along.

And so it is in the world of Star Trek conventions. One person will scream at me, and the next will want to give me a hug. A person will walk up dressed in an elaborate Borg costume, and the next person will be dressed in a T-shirt and Dickies, quietly laughing at "all the weirdos."

For the next three hours, I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign posters of the teen heartthrob that I'm told I once was. I sign cast 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'm currently signing. I always answer with the same joke: "That's okay, you just can't see me, because I'm on this planet here . . ." They laugh and feel good and so do I.

It's uneventful for awhile, until a group of very attractive German girls comes over next, and two of them tell me, in broken English, how much they love me. I think to myself, Oh yeah, tell me some more, baby. Tell daddy how you love him. Ich bin ein sexmachiner!

What?

Oh. That. Sorry. Moving along . . .

There are also two dozen Japanese twenty somethings who have all come over together from Tokyo. Every single one of them is excited, and clearly having a great time. I watch them come down the hallway, talking excitedly among themselves between explosions of laughter and peace-sign poses for pictures. The girls ask me to write their names on their picture when I sign it, and they giggle and bow and blush and thank me, over and over. They may not love me like the Germans do, but they are insanely hot in their schoolgirl outfits and Linn Minmay costumes. For a second, I feel like a rock star.

One of the Japanese group is a boy, about my height. When he presents his Wesley Crusher action figure for my signature, he tells me, "My friend all say I am you twin!"

They all nod in agreement and he smiles proudly. "We look just the same!"

Last time I checked, I wasn't Japanese, but I'm not about to tell him that. I look at him for a moment and reply, "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 an excited murmur, followed by the now-familiar explosion of laughter. I pick up my pen, and write: "To Hiroyuki, my long lost twin brother: Don't Panic! -Wil Wheaton."

He thanks me over and over. His smile is so huge, I fear that his face will turn inside out. As he walks away from my table, I feel happy – I've brought joy into this dude's life, just by signing my name and being friendly. It's one of the few perks (or responsibilities, if you will) that comes with celebrity that I truly enjoy.

A bit later, about 200 or so people into the line, I have one of those memorable "battlefield" experiences that we Star Trek actors share during at an airport bar in Chicago, on our way home after a convention in Cleveland.

I've just finished signing a poster for a 40-ish man who is wearing a spacesuit that is a little too tight across the waist. He's painted his face blue, and donned a white wig topped with antennae, like the Andorians from the original Star Trek. The next person in line is a woman in her 30s, dressed conservatively.

I say hello, and she smiles at me . . . until she sees my T-shirt, and becomes hysterical. She points at it and screeches at me, "You are going to hay-ell! You are going to hay-ell!"

"Why am I going to hell, ma'am?" I ask, trying to figure out if she is joking. I am wearing a black T-shirt with a cartoony picture of a hand throwing the goat. Beneath it, it says, "Keep Music Evil." I think it's very funny, and it's a nice counter-point to the squeaky-clean image of Wesley Crusher that is so indelibly burned into these people's minds.

"You're wearing that shirt! And that shirt promotes SATAN!"

Okay, she's definitely not joking.

"So . . . I'm going to hell . . . because I'm wearing a shirt? Is that right?" I ask her, patiently.

"Yes! You! Are! Going! To! HAY-ELL!"

"Well, as long as I'm not going where you are, ma'am."

And she leaves, but not without getting my signature, on her collectible plate, in gold ink, not silver, because John DeLancie signed his in silver, so now silver is the color reserved for "Q." Nobody else can sign in silver. Not even a captain. Well, maybe Captain Picard, but not Captain Janeway.

I am able to contain my giggles until she is out of ear-shot.

"Is it always like this?" the volunteer sitting at my table inquires.

"Oh no," I say. "Sometimes it gets weird."

We laugh, and the signing goes on.

And on.

And on.

Wil Wheaton is looking forward to seeing you all in HAY-ELL! Have a nice day.