AM I THE last person to find out that Frank ...

last person to find out that Frank Gorshin is engaged to Haji? You'd think that the upcoming nuptials of the former Riddler and a veteran of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! would rate some kind of tabloid coverage. The happy couple seems to think that everybody's received their invitations, but that remains the biggest bombshell I uncover while working the weekend's big Chiller Convention.

Otherwise, the autograph tent is a typically fine merging of ace celebrities and formerly cool merchandise that can now be found in any shopping mall. I'm trying to get all my obligations out of the way early, which includes the usual ritual of checking out the Sheraton Meadowland's breakfast buffet. There's always something nicely surreal there, from a table full of gorgeous old Hammer Horror femmes to my own dining next to the crew of the majestic Seaview from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

Yeah, it's a little mess hall of the fanciful, and running as expected—except for that Gorshin/Haji bombshell, and a bizarre distraction while talking to BarBara Luna about her disappointingly chaste career. Her amazing filmography is condensed to a Star Trek episode for the Chiller crowd, but that's typical, even if her Outer Limits episode was a real classic. Things only get weirder when we're joined by Grace Lee Whitney, whom Trekkies no doubt remember as Yeoman Rand, the Star Trek blonde who was so sexy that she spent an entire season as a minor character who never got turned into a cube and crushed.

Luna introduces me and mentions the topic at hand, and Ms. Whitney is quick to volunteer her own special history of Sex and the Sci-Fi Gal. "Oh," she notes, "that's part of my past that I've put behind me. I'm a sex addict, you know."

There's a disconcerting thing to have come up in conversation. Whitney is very attractive for a woman in her 70s, but that only makes it harder to respond to this fun factoid. My first thought is that many Trekkies might have lost their virginity in a stellar fashion. My second thought is spoken aloud—that being, "How did an attractive actress in Hollywood during the 50s and 60s know that she was a sex addict?"

As it turns out—and as told in Whitney's fascinating autobiography The Longest Trek: My Tour of the Galaxy—she was fairly late in finding out herself. "I was trying to seduce my doctor," she explains. "He said, 'I'm afraid of you—you might have AIDS.' I said, 'What's that?' I didn't know that I was putting myself in danger! I'm sober now, but everyone I was in recovery with is dead. God allows some of us to survive to spread the word."

Which is nice, but my favorite part of that story is that the doctor's big qualm was that Whitney might have been carrying a space virus.

You'd think all this could only guarantee that the week would become less geeky—but then, who'd be expecting a series of benefit concerts actually promoted as a "Plea for Peace" rally? I mainly show up at the Bowery Ballroom simply to see what kind of political action group chooses a name that inherently concedes defeat. I'm also fond of Mike Park, the Plea for Peace organizer who writes great poppish and miserable punk tunes. Too bad that his politics disgrace his ancestors.

The songs are further improved with Park alone on acoustic guitar. His sole political tune, however, is no competition for Phil Ochs' understanding of the masculine American man. It's also disappointing to see that the extensive t-shirts and buttons concession is—as claimed by the Plea for Peace manifesto—genuinely nonpartisan.

I was hoping to plainly be on the side that didn't appease terrorists and dictators. It's kind of hard to argue with a bold sentiment such as "It's Never OK to Hit a Child"—that is, as long as we don't join anti-gun advocates as defining a "child" as a 20-year-old drug dealer. Don't tell me that "Hate Is Not a Family Value," though. It's an essential value when filthy pseudo-Palestinian animals are trying to kill your family. However, I can go along with a young anarchist's t-shirt proclaiming that "People Are Not Expendable—Government Is."

I've got less patience for the buttons reading "Blessed Are the Peace Makers." In the words of Archie Bunker, whoever said that didn't know nothing. Nobody's thought to print up buttons quoting the Punisher tagline of "If you want peace, prepare for war." Don't these people go to the movies? Or don't they go see movies that are popular in America? Sadly, our nation is simply a touring act that occasionally plays Manhattan—with a vengeance, in the case of the celebration at LQ for the 10th anniversary of Country Weekly magazine.

The publication might initially be dismissed as a cornpone InStyle, except it's the only magazine that seems interested in Carlene Carter's continuing legal problems. Also, they've got the decency to insist on referring to Elvis Costello as a "new wave rocker."

I'm proud to be part of the honorary flyover crowd gathered for pan-Asian appetizers and a very uncool evening of slick RCA country acts. Carolyn Dawn Johnson and Kellie Coffey are more folksy than country, but they're still a lot more tuneful than those dirty hippies trying to pass as Americana. Their dedication to classic country is also a lot more believable. Listening to, say, Steve Earle bemoan the loss of any American heritage is as believable as Ted Koppel pretending to mourn dead American troops.

Still, I'm not really prepared for just how alien the event is until Sean Hannity takes the stage. The WABC radio host is introducing the fine Sara Evans, but also ranks his own introduction as a popular conservative. He comes out to perfectly polite and respectable applause. That doesn't happen often in Hannity's home city. The guy's spent eight weeks on the New York Times best-seller list and can't even get booked on Today or Good Morning America.

It turns out that Evans has been a reliable presence at Hannity's benefit concerts for the U.S. military—but I'm not sure I'd want the gal next to me in a foxhole. Hannity easily wins over some sparse leftist infiltrators with a bipartisan complaint about how there's no country radio in Manhattan. Evans kills that momentum by taking the stage and declaring, "Sorry to my Democrat friends—it's not my fault." And right after Hannity has brought her on to Fox News the same day. At least Evans is also honest enough to note that she's "very white trash, very redneck." She probably thinks it's okay to hit a child, too.