Joco Cruise was Joco Cruise Crazy

Cruising is not a typically nerdy pursuit. We're white and pasty. We don't like giving up basic human needs like the internet and solitude. We don't play well with others, no, not even Bingo. And despite our love of pirates and ships (space mostly, but hey), we are prone to seasickness, sunburn, and a general malaise in the face of "fun."

So when I explained that I was going on a nerd cruise, the Jonathan Coulton, Jococrazy Cruise, a lot of people didn't understand the draw. Who'd want to hang out with a bunch of awkward outcasts for seven days? I mean, we've been to the Penny Arcade Expo, and seen and smelled (mostly the latter) the crowds drawn there. As it must be at any con, nerds at PAX run the gamut. There's the douchey frat guy who plays a couple video games and calls himself a geek because he can quote Big Bang Theory. There's the lump of human flesh with skin like mashed potatoes who emerges, blinking and hissing, into the sunlight just long enough to clutch some free t-shirts before retreating with a DS to the sumo chairs. There are the cos-players, inexplicably fit and be-girlfriended. But always there is the smell, caffeinated body odor, bad breath, excitement and despair. What unknown hell to immerse yourself in that for a full week?

I was taking a chance. The cruise was not cheap, nor particularly convenient. This would, I figured, weed out the casual fans and the too-odious to be employed. A decided lack of photographers and photobloggers would cut down on the people just there to be drooled over as Princess Leia. And ready access to showers would eliminate or greatly reduce the smell.

And this part of the cruise was exactly what I expected. My fellow nerd-travelers immediately revealed themselves to be a combination of all the most talented, intelligent, polite and genuinely friendly nerds you could hope to meet. I had no trouble striking up a conversation with the (I will admit) easily-identifiable fellow Joco enthusiasts. And the friendships we made in the first day or two lasted throughout the entire 7 days, and I hope will continue on for years to come.

And then there were the performers themselves. For my non-nerdy friends imagine a dozen of your favorite bands, comedians, actors and writers are not only gathering together but inviting you to come along. What's more, they mingle freely with the guests and are naturally friendly. They graciously accept your praise, and when you've exhausted your string of "I love you from -blank-" comments, they seem truly interested in finding out more about you.

I knew things were going to be great on this cruise before we even left port. We headed to the buffet for lunch on the ship and there was Wil Wheaton standing in line -- with the plebes. The man behind him, proudly enrobed in a w00tstock shirt, struck up a conversation. This seemed like a bold and potentially damning move, so I mentally measured him for a scarlet W in case this was the guy who offended Wil Wheaton into avoiding any fan interaction for the rest of the trip. I proceeded to my table to eat my lunch. After I finished eating, imagine my shock at seeing this same man alone at a table, in rapt conversation with Wil Wheaton, both clearly finished eating and simply enjoying each others' company. Yes, this was not going to be your average set of celebrities.

John Hodgman was particularly terrifying for me. Imagine earning the disdain of one of the sharpest, driest wits of our time for some thoughtless comment made in a moment of star-struck idiocy. So it was with real, unmitigated terror that I found myself face-to-face with not only John Hodgman, but also Peter Sagal-author, playwright and host of Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. I broke into the conversation to tell Hodgman how much I loved his This American Life piece on becoming a celebrity, haltingly told him it made me realize that I act like as much of a boob around "regular people" as I would any celebrity, and asked to shake his hand. He said I must be completely petrified talking to him, and I agreed. On the verge of fainting I backed away and said almost offhandedly to Peter Sagal, that I was so nervous my knees were knocking (they were). Then we must have had a 5-minute conversation about me, of all people. What a perfect one-two punch. John Hodgman to knock the air out of my lungs and Peter Sagal to provide a practiced ear for a probably nearly incoherent babbling fan. These two gentlemen are true class acts.

But the same could be said of anyone on the cruise. Different performers had their own comfort levels. Some exercised more reserve, which we all recognized as shyness rather than egotism. Some mingled mostly with each other but did so in public ways we all enjoyed. Probably the most surreal experience I had was standing a few feet away from John Hodgman playing scrabble with my new friend Famous Tracy while John Roderick of the Long Winters (who is amazing!!) and Kevin Murphy of Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Rifftrax jammed on a dueling ukuleles (joined occasionally by Paul of Paul and Storm). Does that not sound like something that could only exist in a mad lib?

(Incidentally, Kevin Murphy's wife, Jane, wins the best sport award for being amazingly friendly and truly lovely to everyone she came in contact with. I don't know who's luckier in that pairing.)

Particular praise must be given to Paul Sabourin from Paul and Storm, who can't have gotten a lick of rest on the cruise. He was constantly mingling, stopping for a few minutes any time he saw a nerd gathering. I honestly ran out of things to say to him, having exhausted my two topics of conversation (how great they did on their set, and how fetching his beard looked). There can't be a nicer person in show business. Seriously, there can't be, because anyone any kinder would have no time to produce music. Any nicer and Paul Sabourin would immediately take over as Santa Clause.

All the other performers were truly amazing. The ones I didn't know too well knocked my socks off: Roderick, who I am now going to call the Pixar of live music because of his ability make me cry in public, and Mike Phirman, whose razor-sharp wit makes Groucho Marx look like Homer Simpson. These men should both be much bigger stars.

And now I'm going home. My heart, head, and eyelids are heavy, but my heart is soaring. The creative, positive energy of the performers and fellow fans has renewed all of our zest for creativity. We're all going home to finish our novels, learn an instrument, avoid the easy but deadening ways through life. Turn off the TV. Uninstall StumbleUpon. Stop working late in the jobs you hate. Stop working those jobs at all, as soon as possible. In two years, in 10 years, lets make our own waves and then we will be the ones to sail!