An Inglorious Walkabout
Before I was married and became a father, there was a time in my life, other than at work, that I was very often mostly alone. Obviously, we all endure some era of extended solitude in our flash of existence on this plane, but for me, and most likely very few others, while often alone for the largest balance of any given day, I was never, according to Hoyle, lonely. That is to say, I managed to thrive in seclusion.
Stowed away in the confines of my own noggin is often the place of that Baby Bear shot of clarity where I don’t have to keep my head on a swivel answering the attentions of others or heeding the dreadful call of grown-up responsibilities every few seconds. Why people like myself eventually marry and have children speaks to some unspoken primal necessity to shore ourselves with other humans in order to carry on this meager existence. Those who do not thrive in that inevitable singular epoch of life, consequently often remain to long for community. In spite of however solitude affects us, at some point our nature as humans is to gather.
I’m not oblivious to the irony of rediscovering the life-giving isolation served up amongst one of the largest crowds of people available in a five hour radius from my home. The perennial pop culture juggernaut consuming mid-market cities at the rate of entire weekends every couple of months across the country known as Galaxy Con descended upon Columbus, Ohio in early December this year. And with thousands of people from literally all walks of life in attendance, it’s mirthfully where I reawakened the personal quickening of seclusion and experienced one of the most authentic celebrity interactions I could have ever asked for.
Grow Stronger Through the Sharing
The word is “introvert.” That threadbare term has wormed its way into the zeitgeist as the description for a subculture of people who find themselves in the roles of the anti-social to the downright misanthropic. Introvert-chic, if you will. The commonplace use of the descriptor virtually dishonors those who identify most accurately with it. The word itself seems to have fallen victim to the very thing it most certainly is not — the unstoppable force of the extrovert.
The plight of the introvert is rarely, if at all, to avoid interaction, but rather to engage in measured, deliberate social transactions. To the true introvert, every word has meaning — a quality that is sometimes to their own detriment as analytical proclivities take over and compound the perception of things said into worst case scenarios. In a world seemingly ran by extroverts at the top of their game, the trickle-down effect defaults many of us to the minority with a deficit in the currency of meaningful conversation.
What does any of this have to do with going to a pop culture convention by myself?
Comic and entertainment conventions are built upon the promise of meaningful interaction. Not only are they a place where thousands of like-minded people can let go of any amount of money for just about any genre related doo-dad from the last 50 years, but they extend an opportunity to meet and talk with the stars of a variety of media, many of whom we’ve enjoyed the talents of for several hours a week from the comfort of our own homes. It’s a chance to reconcile the one-sided friendships we’ve forged with these folks throughout the course of our lives, providing us with a scant few minutes of their attention from behind at a tiny table, often at the end of a very long line.
A patient soul with a little bit of money can experience a genuine flesh and blood exchange with their on-screen heroes and walk away with a piece of them in the shape of an autograph or photo while personally sharing the impact these otherwise regular people have had on their lives. So often many in attendance have heart-wrenching stories of how this or that particular character impacted them to life-saving effect. Others will share how a star’s TV show shaped a lasting friendship with a fellow viewer or reforged the bonds of an estranged parent.
The convention experience is conceivably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for authentic exchange with the favorite parts of escaping from our busy, stressful, everyday lives. And for introverts keen to engage in deliberate social transactions, the celebrity aspect of the convention experience can be one of genuinely satisfying encounters, or a confounding crisis of enthusiasm.
To Boldly Go
Since almost before I can remember, I’ve been a card-carrying Star Trek fan. My earliest memories of the franchise are of watching Star Trek: The Next Generation at 9pm on channel 44 WEVV out of Evansville, Indiana. With a 13 inch TV perched on a MDF microwave stand repurposed for buttressing bedside-level entertainment, I would nod off every weeknight to the final moments of the adventures of Captain Jean-Luc Picard and the dynamic crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Their missions, often ones of broader, moral implications in the spirit of bettering society throughout the cosmos, were of less interest to my eight-year-old preoccupations than the show’s elaborate starships and sterile, high-tech settings and clever devices.
As years passed, my interest in Star Trek flourished into obsession as I pretended microwaves to be food replicators, remote controls were appropriated into handheld phaser weapons, and my parents’ Dodge Voyager minivan was an efficient shuttlecraft for scary landing party missions where my younger sister was often sacrificed to the Borg or Romulans or the ice cold vacuum of space.
Star Trek expanded my curiosity into model building — a pasttime I would share with my dad who I fondly remember cursing together a fiber-optically lit version of the Galaxy-class Enterprise-D. My most prized possession was a dog-eared copy of the Star Trek Encyclopedia that I would even occasionally take to school and pore over signage, symbols, starship classes, and uniforms.
Growing up in rural Kentucky with no cable TV placed the Original Star Trek series in short supply. The only opportunity to join the exploits of Captain Kirk and company was by way of over-priced VHS cassettes showcasing only two episodes per tape. Those purchases were few and far between, but I had some of the best episodes of the series — “Balance of Terror,” “The Corbomite Maneuver,” “Where No Man Has Gone Before,” and “City on the Edge of Forever” — memorized by heart.
Before the days when the internet could materialize whatever hearts’ desire right at at our doorsteps, we had to do things like drive an hour to the nearest mall to find treasures as exotic as commercial-free Star Trek on tape. My body would have vibrated into a billion particles if you’d have told 12-year-old me that one day I’d be able to access every single episode of Star Trek right from my TV at any time of the day.
While the quality of Star Trek has waned in the franchise’s resurgence over the past several years — save for Terry Matalas’ third season of Star Trek: Picard — my enthusiasm for the shows I grew up with has not. My love for Star Trek endures in spite of however the powers that be proceed to retool the franchise. I routinely revisit those shows that so impacted my childhood, often finding new details and ever-prescient context with each viewing.
These days I have a standing appointment for listening to the Inglorious Treksperts podcast — a show devoted to adroitly discussing the finer points of Star Trek’s glut of series and movies. Hosted by writer, producer, and showrunner Mark A. Altman, feature film designer and artist Daren Dochterman, and screenwriter Ashley Miller, the Inglorious Trekpserts breathe fresh life into this 60 year franchise on a weekly basis with candid interviews, effervescent discourse, and Trek-adjacent topics that augment the many beloved aspects of Trekdom. The irreplaceable chemistry and dynamic charisma these three hosts share in the spirit of common interests is what separates Inglorious Treksperts from the surfeit of other Star Trek podcasts. Their banter and enthusiasm is not unlike so many groups of friends who gather in the name of their own variety of fandom, and along with their often refreshingly subversive insights into a franchise that’s had just about everything said that can be said about it, this trio imparts an infectious fervor that makes equals of their audience.
The news that Galaxy Con was on its way to Columbus, Ohio — just a few hours up the road from my home in Evansville, Indiana — with not only several Starfleet officers in tow, but also the Inglorious Treksperts, it became clear to me that I had to make the trek, as it were, to reconcile these many one-sided friendships.
The Wrath of Con
These days you can throw a rock and hit a town that hosts a pop culture convention. The shows with the most influential guests are reserved for bigger cities, drawing in people from hundreds of miles away. The atmosphere at a really good convention is electric, vibrating with the energy of things happening at all hours of the day. Candy-colored banners and matching signage sprinkle the landscape transforming lifeless convention centers into rousing venues that transport guests from the humdrum world beyond. The convention realm is designed to be turnkey and immersive, offering more than any single attendee requires, keeping them inside four walls of fete with no need to depart for any provision.
Whether it be toys, guests, costumes, wrestling events, or titillating late night cabaret, anyone can point their body in any direction, walk straight ahead and become agog with spectacle. Multiple celebrity panels in multiple rooms at every hour on the hour, long lines for autograph signings, and screen-accurate cosplay will easily afflict any conventioneer with heart-racing option paralysis. And with a variety of V.I.P. events and add-ons available for securing up-close and personal encounters with high profile guests, guests who scrape up a few extra bucks can get the absolute most of their convention experience. In these terms, Galaxy Con is the best pop culture event offered to cities across all of fly-over country.
I’ve been sporadically going to conventions of varying intensity for almost the past 20 years. I’ve had some of the best con experiences anyone of middle-class stature could hope for. One of the most memorable occasions was in 2007 at Wizard World Chicago when a surprise panel featuring the cast of Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight fielded questions in an exclusive Q&A event while also releasing the first footage of the film into the world revealing the long-awaited glimpse of Heath Ledger’s iconic portrayal of the Joker.
In 2009, I experienced a rather confounding confab the time I met Edward James Olmos fresh off the completion of Ron Moore’s reimagining of Battlestar Galactica. My exchange with Mr. Olmos became humorously disenchanting when after two attempts to get him to expound upon the thematic full-circle of his roles between Blade Runner’s Gaff and Galactica’s Commander Adama, he provided the exact same befuddling response in almost a scripted fashion. He would only point to a photo of Commander Adama and say, “You see him?” then point to a photo of Gaff and add, “He’s his great-great-great-great grandfather.” Spoiler alert. He even went on to rattle off the same dialogue in a Q&A panel before hundreds of fans.
One of my very favorite convention encounters was discovering Canadian actor Michael Hogan in the Hyatt Regency hotel bar at the same Chicago convention of my oddly fated exchange with Mr. Olmos. Michael Hogan portrayed Colonel Tigh on Moore’s Battlestar Galactica. Tigh was a disgruntled and troubled individual that lead a heartbreaking arc and who always appealed to me as one of the best characters on the show.
I sat next to Mr. Hogan at the bar and asked if I could buy him a beer. He obliged my generosity and we simply chatted. I shared with him my then burgeoning experience in community theatre which he commended and expressed his own love for the time he’d spent in Canadian theatre. I asked him about portraying Colonel Tigh and how he prepared for that role, and he shared with me the chilling revelation that “there wasn’t a day that went by that he (Colonel Tigh) didn’t want to put a bullet in his head.”
Wandering the floor of the Greater Columbus Convention Center was nothing if not overwhelming. Having not attended a convention the size of Galaxy Con in several years, I’d underestimated what to expect. Rows upon rows upon rows of dealers filled one half of the city-block sized exhibit hall. Hundreds of comic shops and artists from miles around crammed as many wares as could fit inside their twelve-square foot booths. Stacked almost on top of each other, what one dealer might not have in stock, the one next door very likely had in abundance. It seemed as if all the money in the world would not be enough to buy everything in the room.
Toys from throughout the decades were readily available. Long sought after comic trades for “better-than-Amazon” prices deigned to join my growing library. Everything from custom lightsabers, to hand-crafted soap, to Buddha statues with heads in the shape of The Terminator’s T-800 killer robot could be purchased in spades at prices set to get the most from anyone having a once-in-a-long-time experience. The option of having any and everything available that appealed to my interests was paralyzing to the point of not spending a dime.
As if I had some psychic connection to each item, I could foresee the life span of every knick-knack as it could have existed in my collection. Purchase, cram in bag, bring home, put on shelf, never touch until purging it to make room for the next wave of stuff. At 42 years old with a middle-class income, and an internet marketplace where almost everything is almost always available, buying things at cons is hardly the sacred act it used to be. A little self-aware foresight and ever-ready accessibility has made the business of collecting a bit of an endemic condition.
As dealers hawked a multitude of goods, celebrities from all media filled the other half of the Greater Columbus Convention Center’s city-block sized exhibit hall. Conventioneers snapped selfies with Mike Tyson as others waited to see Giancarlo Esposito just yards away. Sergeant Slaughter signed G.I. Joes across the aisle from Commander Data while, if you listened hard enough you could hear the voice of Optimus Prime deliver the Green Lantern oath. Conventions may be designed to bar you from the world outside with their ample amenities and confectionary signage, but some aspects inherently cleave the gaping crevasse between there and reality.
The celebrity autograph and selfie is a love / hate condition for me personally. Though I do enjoy walking away with a piece of Hollywood ephemera in the form of my favorite stars’ signatures, to pay the prices demanded for these rare moments has become a point of contention. I was prepared to shell out to get my home video copies of Star Trek: Picard and Re-Animator signed by the con’s respective celebrity guests, but as I witnessed the brief exchanges available at the end of long lines, I found myself simply eager for a more genuine interaction. And at $50 (or more) per signature, and another $50 (or more) for a selfie, a little self-serving capitalism seemed to suck the authenticity out of any potential moment to be had.
“I really loved you in…”
“Why, thank you!”
“How did you prepare for…”
“It was a challenging role.”
“Can I get your autograph?”
Then the unspoken contract of “That’ll be $50” echoes in the back of your mind as the real purpose of an otherwise ever so pleasant exchange reveals its green-eyed self. I can’t slight anyone for maximizing the opportunity to make an extra buck, but the moment a delightful interaction becomes a business transaction, the pleasantries of the occasion are suddenly devalued to some degree.
Sadly, most of the stuff I’ve accrued from wandering convention floors over the years has come and gone. I can’t even recall many of the things purchased amongst those dealer aisles of toy racks and comic long boxes. The selfies I’ve snapped are virtually lost in the unsearchable back pages of my phone’s ever-expanding camera roll now mostly populated with images of screenshots and my kid. But what stays with me, and what defines any one convention for me personally is the act of attending and the stories from them that remain. Whether it be a celebrity encounter, a great meal, the friends who joined me, or in the case of Galaxy Con Columbus, the singular adventure of personal revival and inglorious exchange, the convention experience is what endures.
The Human Adventure
Screenwriter Ashley Miller feverishly regaled us with the first story he sold as a writer. He spoke fervently with his hands as he recalled the craziest portions of an adventure involving monster trucks, yakuza bosses, devil worshipping biker gangs, and Mars. Mark Altman and Daren Dochterman sat almost half-listening as if they’d heard it more than a few times before, or as though it was another one of Ashley’s crazy stories he was all too happy to share.
It was a cold, cloudy Sunday afternoon in December on High Street in Columbus, Ohio, and I was at lunch with the Inglorious Treksperts at the Bareburger Kitchen and Bar. The invitation to lunch was extended to any fan who dropped by their table, but as fate would have it, I was the sole RSVP.
Our gang of four were the only patrons in the entire restaurant giving Ashley free rein to be as vocal and as crude as his story needed him to be. Mark volleyed with the waitress about varieties of root beer available after learning Dr. Pepper was not an option. Daren seemed forced to complacently go with water upon discovering nary a drop of lemonade could be found in the entire restaurant. I followed suit with Mark and went for the root beer. Ashley continued with his wildly multi-faceted story that seemed like something right out of a Moebius comic or a Don Coscarelli flick, or some combination of both.
Before Ashley arrived off moderating a panel with comic artist Dan Jurgens — which I sort of wish I’d attended, but didn’t want to be late for the Treksperts lunch — Mark and Daren candidly spoke about how easy it was to eat like shit at these conventions and the inherently careful protocol that goes into their standing dinners with the cast of the many Star Trek series who join them on the convention circuit. Some fans of the podcast attempt to implicate themselves in these extremely exclusive dinner events, but obviously the most private discussions contained within are meant for only a select few people. It’s quite an envious level of access any fan of Star Trek would love to be a part of, but would require an immense amount of security clearance to get past the personal walls of what are otherwise people simply having dinner and speaking far more casually than the accessibility of a convention table permits. In short, it’s a matter of privacy which even Star Trek casts members most certainly have a right to.
Mark’s gregarious disposition along with Daren’s sparing wry wit counter Ashley’s unexpected live-wire demeanor, making this trio their own dynamic version of Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. Conversation was relaxed and casual and surprisingly incandescent. I was as comfortable with these three guys I barely knew as I was with my own close friends. The Treksperts in this personal setting were exactly as I imagined they would be, which is so rarely the sum of expectations.
Once lunch was underway, I asked Ashley about his experience and how he went from working at the Pentagon to becoming the writer of films like Thor and X-Men: First Class. Almost as if he’d been hankering for such a question, Ashley launched into a detailed, intense curriculum of how his story unfolded and the extensive work ethic required to make a dent in The Industry.
As I tried to quash my own personal thrill of being included in this exclusive lunch and intently soak up every word in order to apply to my own screenwriting journey, I could hear Mark and Daren discussing the details of their upcoming panel with Walter Koenig. Lunch with the Treksperts had become an unequivocal gathering of friends it seemed, reminding me of my own standing Saturday lunch with pals as our conversations often become annexed into more precise interests. Here I was, little Lucas Hardwick from Dawson Springs, Kentucky engaging in a one-on-one chat about screenwriting with one of the purveyors of arguably the biggest, most successful movie franchise in film history.
Lunch with the Treksperts was the perfect climax of the movie event that was my weekend at Galaxy Con Columbus. My rapport with the troika of Trek seemed to bloom into a mutually candid respect over the course of the weekend as they would often spot me milling about, calling me out, offering inclusive fist bumps, chatting about their panels, and inviting me to simply join them as they walked back to their rooms. What’s more is I’d arrived at this elite status of my own virtues it seemed. My rank as a fan seemed to grow into outright peer status with the Treksperts as I employed the most reliable trick in the book: act like you’ve been there before — meaning: be like Fonzie.
Parted From Me but Never Parted
Conventions are normally best enjoyed with a group of pals who are all more than happy to split the hotel and gas bills. And typically, in spite of all the money spent on exciting stuff we each take home and cram on our shelves to discuss and debrief each other on at a later date, the best part of these events is the road trip where lasting friendships forge even stronger bonds for simply having been trapped in a car for hours on end. Some of my best convention memories aren’t the Batman panels or the Battlestar Galactica encounters, but the slap-happy laughs my friends and I shared on the road.
For reasons beyond my control, circumstances leading up to Galaxy Con Columbus found me traveling solo, which seems remarkably odd and reclusive at the outset. But my own resilience to thrive in isolation applied to this otherwise inherently social event, made this journey particularly special in its own unique way.
Would I still have met the Treksperts and been invited to lunch and found myself on the receiving end of friendly fist bumps between panels had I been joined by friends? Probably. But would this event had the same personal, exhilarating impact of self-reflection afforded by the freedom of being untethered from the demands of good manners and consideration required by the joining of others? Likely not. Sounds kinda rude, doesn’t it? People often misunderstand the need for solitude, mistaking it for irritability and disrespect. But for those of us for whom the world can so often be just a little too much sometimes, salubrious solitude and authenticity is oddly a commodity found in the most unexpected places.
Though Ashley’s undivided “tough love” pep talk will hopefully have lasting impact on my own screenwriting ambitions, and my honorary inclusion amongst this crew was a rarefied event, my weekend at Galaxy Con Columbus will forever be defined by the couple of hours at the bar of Mikey’s All Nite Slice as The Traveling Wilburys sang, “It’s all right riding around in the breeze” on the 75 inch TV splayed across the bar’s damask wallpaper as I sat alone reflecting on the events of the day.
