Shatner Rules (10 page)

QUIZ

Which type of kidney stones did William Shatner suffer from?

A. Calcium oxalate stones

B. Calcium phosphate stones

C. Uric acid stones

D. Struvite stones

E. Cystine stones

F. All of the above

The answer is B, calcium phosphate stones. If anyone tries to sell you some authentic William Shatner struvite stones or genuine Shatner cystine rocks, they are ripping you off! And if you gleefully answered “all of the above,” you're some kind of sick sadist!

U
m, you know, that rule didn't come out quite right.

(It sounds like something my character, Adam Cramer, would have said in the 1962 Roger Corman ahead-of-its-time racial drama
The Intruder.
Haven't seen it? You should. It really holds up.)

Now where was I? Oh yes, I was offering up a non-racist rule.

That's a little better. Now, this story—like all great stories—starts with Marjoe Gortner.

Remember Marjoe Gortner? He first came to fame as a child evangelist and faith healer, and at four years old was touted as “the youngest ordained minister in history.” He was the subject of the 1972 Academy Award–winning documentary
Marjoe,
in which he revealed some of the more lucrative—and fraudulent—aspects of the tent revival business.

Marjoe parlayed this fame into an acting career, where he played a psychotic thug in the movie
Earthquake
, a psychotic thug in
When You Comin' Back, Red Ryder?
, and a psychotic thug in the acclaimed TV movie
The Marcus-Nelson Murders
, which also introduced the world to a detective named Kojak, played by Telly Savalas. Clearly, if you can convince people you speak to God, you can also convince them you are psychotic.

Marjoe and I starred together in a TV movie in the 1970s called
Pray for the Wildcats
, in which Andy Griffith played the psychotic thug. (There's a change of pace.) And we've remained friendly ever since. Marjoe is a unique guy and somewhat difficult to cast, so he has since retired from the movie bad guy game and now organizes great charity sporting events around the country and the world. And I was lucky enough to be invited to one in Jamaica a few years back.

My wife and I landed on the lush island paradise and checked into our suite. It was very nicely appointed, and on the bureau was a beautifully engraved invitation to a “White Party” the following evening. I must admit to being somewhat flummoxed by the invitation, and saddened to see the last vestiges of colonialism still hanging on. The missus then attempted to assuage my fears by telling me it was a party in which all the attendees were to
wear
white. My fears were only assuaged somewhat.

Sorry, but I don't wear all-white ensembles, and certainly don't travel around with them.

Why? Well, I've been away from my hometown of Montreal for many years, but a bit of my hometown of Montreal goes with me wherever I go. It's freezing there. The only people who wear all white in that city are the asylum orderlies whose job it is to collect people in Montreal who wear all white. You do not walk around in the City of Saints dressed for the tropics.

FUN FACTNER:
Montreal is sometimes called the City of Saints, in case you were wondering where I got that.

I shrugged it off. I had some white socks. That ought to count for something. Who was going to be so uptight as to deny me admittance to a party because of a lack of foresight when packing my suitcase?

The wife would.

Mrs. Shatner had an all-white ensemble and was determined that the two of us were going to attend this lovely beach party together, no matter what. And apparently, my white birthday suit would not be appropriate. It was not
that
kind of beach.

I then dragged said lily-white self into the soak tub to contemplate this sartorial conundrum. I guess I could
buy
a white suit or something, just to attend a party for a few hours, and then maybe I could return it? Hopefully with a minimum of curry goat or jerk chicken stains? That seemed like an awful bother, I thought to myself, as I gently batted around the rubber duck. (I do pack the
important
things.)

Then I looked around the bathroom and saw the answer to my problem . . . hanging on the back of the door.

My wife made sure she walked several paces ahead of me as we made our way to the all-white beach party later that night. I sauntered behind her, resplendent in my white socks, white tennis shoes, and . . . white terrycloth hotel bathrobe. And while I'm not a man who likes to share the color of his underwear, let's just say I was following the dress code to a T, or, more precisely, a BVD.

Of course, the whole event was a deliriously fun bacchanalia. Marjoe is a larger-than-life personality and a delightful host. Who would have thought that a guy who grew up handling snakes and speaking in tongues would throw such great parties? And the way some folk were drinking, they would probably need his old faith healing skills first thing in the morning.

My improvised ensemble was a big hit, and decidedly more in keeping with the whole vibe of Jamaica. (In fact, many asked me if I was stoned.) It was a wonderful night with wonderful people but then . . . something horrible caught my eye.

I saw someone across the sand. Another partygoer. Someone doing the one thing no Hollywood celebrity ever wants to see!

He was wearing my outfit.

My exact same outfit!

It was a red carpet emergency, or, in this case, a white sand debacle!

FUN FACTNER:
William Shatner always carries his T.J. Hooker nightstick with him on the red carpet. It's the only way to keep Joan Rivers in line.

Someone else had the audacity to show up in white tennis shoes, white socks, and a gigantic, fluffy hotel bathrobe. Stealing
my
look! I stomped over to see who else dared wave the terrycloth banner of good times.

It was Olympic gold medalist Scott Hamilton, of course.

I confronted him; we both started laughing, and hit it off immediately. Turns out the 1984 gold medal Olympian for figure skating didn't bring an all-white outfit to Jamaica. Why?

He's a figure skater.

It's cold on ice. It's cold in Montreal. People who spend that much time in the cold just don't
do
beach attire.

So I went to a party, risked the possibility of great ridicule, and by the end of it had made a great friend. So, wear a bathrobe to your next important event and tell them you are just following the lessons of William Shatner. (They might get peeved if your next important event is a funeral, though.)

O
kay, this rule has nothing to do with sex. If it did, why would I start off by writing . . .

 

DÜSSELDORF

ESSEN

FRANKFURT

NUREMBERG?

Yes, nothing says “sexy” like the names of German cities, and a few years back I was zipping by them while driving 135 mph on the Autobahn. (Keep in mind, I was wearing my seatbelt while driving at 135 mph, so in case I got into an accident, I would be trisected into three neat sections. That would make for easier cleanup; truly, the German way.)

Not only do I find Germany unsexy, but I also find it unsettling. Why?

Please don't take it personally, Germany, but the little Jewish kid inside of me from Montreal who grew up during World War II just doesn't like the sound of Düsseldorf, Essen, Frankfurt, and Nuremberg.

FUN FACTNER:
William Shatner was in the film
Judgment at Nuremberg
along with Spencer Tracy, Burt Lancaster, Richard Widmark, Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, and Montgomery Clift. The film won two Academy Awards.*

* ADDENDUM TO PREVIOUS FUN FACTNER: The above Fun Factner is the only “fun” fact ever associated with Nuremberg.

 

The trunk of my rental car was filled with everything I'd need to put myself at ease in Germany: several pairs of lederhosen and a return-trip ticket. I was really questioning my decision to visit, but I was in Germany because of that most important Shatner Rule: Say “ja!”

I had been asked to appear at an event for German television, along with that other famed German television icon: Charlton Heston. We were both receiving some kind of lifetime achievement award.

Charlton Heston was a fine actor and a movie icon, but I didn't know the man and was really looking forward to meeting him. I am drawn to controversial figures, and in recent years Heston had grown more and more political and—to some people—a little polarizing. The man had played Moses, but he was currently a God to gun owners across America.

FUN FACTNER:
Both Charlton Heston and William Shatner served as Bacchus King at Mardi Gras. Only one of them had the courage to go pantsless.

This was around the time Charlton Heston was standing before NRA gatherings, raising a musket in his hand, and bellowing,
“From my cold dead hands!”
Since he was joining me for this event in Germany, I could only assume he softened that stance when passing through airport security.

Before our awards show, I was to meet Heston in person, as we were both going to be guests of honor at a dinner for the event advertisers at a German restaurant. Although if we were really guests of honor, they would have taken us somewhere besides a German restaurant.

One German horror
not
chronicled by the History Channel is the food. To be fair, around this time, I had become a bit of a food snob, having just come off hosting
Iron Chef USA
. We had shot two specials, featuring myself and celebrity judges Steve Schirripa, Brande Roderick, and comedy writer and
Hollywood Squares
fixture Bruce Vilanch.

And by the way—if you're going to have Bruce Vilanch on a cooking show, expect one or more hairs in your food.

It was similar to the popular Japanese program, except now
I
was the chairman, swaggering around Kitchen Stadium in what can best be described as an “Edwardian spacesuit,” lording over such contests as “Dungeness Crab Challenge!” In fact, my experience on
Iron Chef USA
brought across my palate a dessert concoction that celebrity chef Kerry Simon called Crab Gelato. It was an ice cream that was the true essence of crab!

Was it the essence of
good?

Well, I was relieved not to see it on our menu that evening at the German restaurant. And Simon was in tears when the judges on
Iron Chef USA
spat it into their napkins.

FUN FACTNER:
After doing
Iron Chef USA,
William Shatner cooked Kentucky burgoo on a television show called
Cooking's a Drag
, featuring a sassy transvestite chef named Betty Dee Lishous. Mr. Shatner no longer does cooking programs.

As soon as Elizabeth and I arrived at the restaurant, I was introduced to Mr. Heston, and he was . . . a little chilly. Somewhat aloof. Occasionally, those of us who have plied our trade in television get a bit of the cold shoulder from the actors who have spent most of their careers on the big(ger) screen. Although I'm not sure if he was being distant or just being . . . Charlton Heston: square-jawed, iconic, ready to remove damned dirty ape hands from his person at a moment's notice.

Which brings me to my rule: When I'm not being Shatner, I turn it off.

Depending on the location, when you meet me, you probably won't meet Shatner. I will probably be in Bill mode. Bill's a very nice guy. He likes horses, and his kids and grandkids. Bill adores his wife. Bill turns the lights off at night and makes sure the bills get paid, and he memorizes his lines during his spare time so he doesn't get fired from his current job. That's who Bill is. (He tries not to speak of himself in the third person, but sometimes it just slips through.)

The real William Shatner is a fairly decaffeinated version of the one you see on TV. I can't keep that energy, that intensity, up all the time. I am not even allowed to drink caffeine. Elizabeth's efforts to keep caffeinated beverages out of my hands are sometimes tantamount to spousal abuse.

William Shatner—as you have hopefully learned by now—is a bit of a character. But I'm not the William Shatner character. I'm not the hyper, arrogant, bombastic fellow people are laughing along with. (You're laughing
with
him, not
at him
, right?) When we meet, I will not lace my fingers together and club you like Kirk, I will not ride on the hood of your car like Hooker, and I will not try and sell you the best deal possible on airfares and hotels like The Negotiator.*

*Unless, of course, you like saving money! Do I have some deals for you!

Besides, it's hard for me to be Shatneresque because . . . well, how do I put this in a “Shatneresque” way?

I . . .

Don't . . .

Watch . . .

Myself.

Yep. When Shatner comes on the TV, Bill changes the channel. I have spent a huge part of my life in the public eye. Everybody's public eyes but my own.

I have never felt comfortable watching myself. I didn't do it early in my career, and I don't do it now. I don't like watching my work, or the work of that old devil, Time. On the occasions when I have directed myself in something, when my face appears in the dailies, I actually raise a hand to block out my face. I also can usually find some fault with my performances. My toughest critic is me, but fortunately he doesn't watch me and attack me in the press.

Upon meeting Heston, I realized he was one of those guys who didn't have an Off switch. And I, and my dinner companions, became acutely aware of this after our main course.

We were all full of sauerbraten, knockwurst, pretzels of the hardest variety, and Gaisburger Marsch. (No idea. I wished it tasted as good as crab gelato.) We had met all the advertising folk; I tried to be my best charming Bill, hobnobbing with the German TV execs, and now all there was to do was eat dessert.

Heston pushed his chair back and stood, cleared his mighty throat, and declared, “I suppose you would all like to hear me recite some passages from the Bible.”

Before any of us could get out a “
nein
,” Heston leapt into a performance of the Bible
.
He was “Bible acting.”

I know “Bible acting.” I did quite a bit of it when I was a young actor. There was a weekly TV show called
Lamp unto My Feet
. I acted on the Sunday morning religious anthology
Insight.
I was in several episodes of a program called
The Psalms
in 1962, which was shot by a young cameraman by the name of George Lucas. (This was before we both discovered the joys of galaxies far, far away.)

“Bible acting” involves speaking in very soft, rounded, accent-free tones. It is quiet, hushed. Words are spoken with great reverence. You must act in a way that suggests you are deathly afraid of waking up the nearby Baby Jesus. And this is what Heston was doing.

For about thirty minutes.

“Begat this, begat that, begat whatshisname.”

There I was, a Jew in Germany, stuffed with brats, getting the full God treatment from Moses. Heston went Old Testament, he went New Testament, no one went to the bathroom. We just sat there, frozen, unsure of what to do or say. How do you stand up and say, “Hey, Charlton Heston, let's cut to Revelations so we can all get our strudel”?

You can't, of course. He's Charlton Heston, and he's being Charlton Heston.

What's the lesson? You have to be able to
turn it off
. For your sake, and for the sake of your dinner companions.

The event was great, and both Heston and I wowed the German TV audience. At least I think they were wowed, although when I ordered them all to march into Poland they seemed a little dumbfounded. (I guess charisma only gets you so far in Germany these days.)

When I got home, there was a bill waiting for me from my German hotel. I had spilled a glass of red wine on my room's white carpet, and the hotel was attempting to charge me $40,000! I told them I was Bill, and that they should send the damage fees to William Shatner.

I hear he can negotiate his way out of anything.