Shatner Rules (13 page)

E
very celebrity bio needs a bombshell. Be it addiction, abuse, shocking sexual conquest. I promised the publisher of
Shatner Rules
a big one. So here it is. Get ready. I am about to drop the bombshell . . .

I am a Canadian.

FUN FACTNER:
Actor William Shatner is Canadian!

I'll let that sink in. And for my American readers, I'll let you all take a break from reading this book so that you can go Google “Canadian” and figure out what one is. Here's a hint: We are the people who live up north who aren't Alaskan and who aren't Santa.

In fact, I'm so Canadian that I'm not even an American. Seriously. I can't vote here. I can't vote in Canada either, which is why politicians on both sides of the border never worry about the Shatner vote. Although I have a green card, which means some American politicians would work very hard to try to deport me. I kept this a secret from Sarah Palin when I met her on
The Tonight Show with Conan
O'Brien
.

To stay in this great nation of America, I must prove that I can do a job that cannot be held by an American. I do the job of being William Shatner. No one else can do it. Kevin Pollak tries with that “impression” of his, and if he continues to do so, I'll see . . . about . . . having . . . him . . . deported.

(NOTE: This rule only applies to Kevin Pollak.)

You know who knows I'm Canadian? Other Canadians. I am a celebrated figure north of the border. In as much as Canadians ever “celebrate” things. And when Canada hosted the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, I was invited to participate in the closing ceremonies. How could I refuse? Canadians would have been furious. Although they wouldn't have expressed their fury.

Seriously, the only way to get a rise out of a Canadian? Place him on a hydraulic lift.

Actually, Canadians and hydraulics don't really mix, as evidenced by the Olympic ceremonies. They outfitted the BC Place Stadium with a false floor, about twelve feet above the normal floor, on which the action would take place. And during the opening ceremonies, four mighty steel pillars were to rise up from this floor. Four torchbearers were to simultaneously walk up to these pillars, touch their torches to the base of them, and then a river of fire would travel up the metal to light the cauldron that held the Olympic flame. A spectacular sight for a spectacular event! One that would be watched by billions!

The four Maple Leaf Olympians selected for this task would be hockey hero Wayne Gretzky, speed skater Catriona Le May Doan, skier Nancy Greene, and basketball all star Steve Nash. What an honor, what a thrill!

What a blunder.

After many rehearsals and test runs, on opening night, the fourth pillar wouldn't rise. Nothing. Each athlete stood there waiting, billions of people around the world watching them slowly getting coated in their own flop sweat. The event director shouted into their earpieces, “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it! It's gonna come up. Wait! Wait! Wait!”

Nothing doing. Eventually, three of the four walked up to their pillars to light the torch, while poor Catriona Le May Doan stood there awkwardly, wishing she could speed skate as far away as possible.

That evening, Canada medaled in embarrassment. But at least I knew they would definitely iron out the kinks before the closing ceremonies. Right?

Right?

If anything, the closing ceremonies were to be bigger and more spectacular than the opening ceremonies. It would be a supreme celebration of all things Canadian! Taking the stage that evening would be me, Michael J. Fox, Catherine O'Hara, and a dizzying display of giant inflatable moose, dancing Mounties, lumberjacks in canoes, a small child dressed as a hockey puck, and inflatable beavers (normally only found in some of Vancouver's seedier “marital aid” stores). The spectacular promised to be the least understated thing in Canadian history.

There would also be a huge concert of Canada's biggest rockers, like Alanis Morissette, Nickelback, Avril Lavigne, and many more I've never heard of.

Canada also wanted to show the world that it had a sense of humor about the opening ceremony debacle. The closing ceremony started with a mime named Yves Dagenais, who rose up on a platform, plugged some extension cords together, and then mimed pulling up the faulty fourth pillar from the floor. It rose spectacularly, and Catriona Le May Doan emerged and finally got to light her torch.

The crowd positively roared. In fact, it may have been the warmest reception a mime has ever gotten!

The closing ceremonies went along without a hitch as I headed to the basement area, to my assigned hydraulic platform, which would carry me to the floor so I could deliver an inspiring and comedic monologue. We had done a few physical run-throughs, but we hadn't run my lines.

That's not a problem for me; I tend to memorize things quickly, but thankfully my old friend the teleprompter would be at my feet. If I blanked momentarily, thanks to the teleprompter, the sixty thousand people in the stadium, and billions around the world, would not see me coated in my own flop sweat.

So I'm in this basement, this subterranean cavern of hydraulic machinery, sound and light equipment, fiber-optic cables, and lots of people running around in headsets looking like they know what they're doing. I can feel the sheer excitement, the energy, of the event going on above me. In my earpiece, I can hear the director calmly giving his instructions to the crew. Fellow Canadian Neil Young was performing on my platform as I readied my entrance.

Neil finishes, huge cheers. His platform lowers, and there he is in front of me, guitar over his neck, resplendent in muttonchop sideburns.

“Hello, Bill,” he says.

“Hello, Neil,” say I. And he heads off into the night.

FUN FACTNER:
Every Canadian knows each other and is on a first name basis. (Hi, Celine! Hope you're enjoying the book!)

Two technicians run over to my platform as I go over my lines in my head. They both furtively attend to my teleprompter, which . . . is . . . not . . . working.

As with the mighty steel arm that never rose, my teleprompter worked fine in the rehearsals. Now it was on the fritz. My earpiece, which was working quite well, helped me hear the director say, “Sixty seconds to Shatner!”

Never mind flop sweating on stage—I was doing it quite well in this subterranean studio. I knew my lines, but . . . what if I didn't know my lines?! Christina Aguilera has performed the national anthem more times than she's had hot meals! And she flubbed it at the 2011 Super Bowl. It's not a long song, and she should know it, but she blanked in front of a huge audience. An Olympic-sized audience. The same size that I was about to face.

“Put Shatner on the platform!” said the voice in my earpiece. Again, the earpiece was working splendidly, unlike my teleprompter.

The workmen now skillfully started repairing the platform by pounding it with a hammer. The teleprompter was working when Neil Young went up, apparently. What the hell did Neil do? Did his heavy sideburns burn out the hydraulics and cause an electrical malfunction?

“Shatner on the platform,
now
!”

A production assistant shuffled me onto the platform, gripping my arm. A good hangman can supposedly guess the condemned's weight just by shaking his hand. That's how I felt! I was being led to my doom. Except that the platform would rise up instead of drop.

I was literally being pushed. I began to think of fellow Canadian Robert Goulet. He forgot the words to the national anthem at a Muhammad Ali/Sonny Liston prizefight in 1965. They never forgave him. Poor Robert! (We were on a first name basis, you see . . .)

The platform began to rise, the mic in my hand trembled, one of the technicians gave one last swing to the hammer and—

The teleprompter fluttered on. I began to rise.

The lights, the sound, the energy of what I witnessed when I rose up through the floor was unlike anything I have ever experienced. I once did the coin toss at the Rose Bowl, and the cheers hit you like a shockwave. Your body trembles as it passes through you. But at least I was no longer shaking from fear.

This is what I said. As you're reading, scream your head off at the end of every line, to make yourself feel like you were in the audience.

 

My name is Bill, and I am proud to be a Canadian.

My pride is an immense as this majestic country who hosted these 2010 games.

As a Canadian, I am proud of many things.

Our magnificent lakes. Our stunning sunsets.

Proud of my hometown, Montreal.

Proud of the University at McGill and the words “
Je Suis Canadien.
”

(NOTE: I made sure to make this sound as French as possible. We Canadians love doing that!)

 

And the fact that we are a people who know how to make love in a canoe.

And our health care system covers the splinters.

I'm proud of our Rocky Mountains, our glaciers, our loons!

(NOTE: If you say “loon” in front of sixty thousand Canadians, sixty thousand Canadians will then impersonate the loon's call. They love doing that, too.)

 

And that, to Canadians, minus thirty degrees is just another sign of global warming.

It's a big country. We dream big, you have to, in a land that is the Final Frontier.

(NOTE: When making a speech to a billion people, it's best not to go too esoteric with the references.)

 

And, damnit, I'm proud of the fact that Canadians, after four beers, in front of worldwide television, can successfully pronounce “the Strait of Juan de Fuca” without being censored.

FUN FACTNER:
The Strait of Juan de Fuca is a one-hundred-mile-long body of water that serves as the principal outlet for the Georgia Strait and Puget Sound, which then empties into Lake Smuttyjoke.

 

For I am William Shatner, one of 35 million Canadians, and we dream big!

 

My speech, my love letter to the nation I adore, was a beautiful, big dream. Amid the cheers, my platform lowered. Triumphantly.

I looked down at the teleprompter, the mother's teat ready for my suckle of safety, flickering lightly.

I never needed it.

I was so thrilled, I almost jumped for joy. But . . . I'm Canadian. We don't do that sort of thing.