Shatner Rules (5 page)

Don't despair, though; you can still buy a signed copy at WilliamShatner.com. You appear on pages 121 and 148 of the hardcover. I say nice things.

“B
eam me up, Scotty.”

It is one of the most famous catchphrases in popular culture. Perhaps you've seen it on a bumper sticker, along with the humorous addendum, “. . . There's no intelligent life down here.” That's a rather haughty commentary on the intelligence of others from someone who likes to litter his/her car with bumper stickers.

(NOTE: This is not to be confused with a more “Rapture-ready” bumper sticker I've seen, which reads “Beam me up, Lord!” Ironically, if the Rapture does occur, Jews like myself aren't supposed to be “beamed up” by God. I can't believe there is such a flaw in the reasoning of people who are awaiting the Rapture! Either way, like it or not God, I'm getting into Heaven. I can negotiate
anything
!)

The famed line has appeared on mugs, fridge magnets, and T-shirts, and corrupt Ohio congressman James Traficant would end his House of Representatives floor speeches with the phrase. (Unfortunately, no one beamed him up before he was sent away to federal prison for a few years.)

“Beam me up, Scotty” has been used as a lyric in dozens of popular songs by such artists as Kid Rock, Jimmy Buffett, Erykah Badu, Nicki Minaj, and R. Kelly. It's been used in too many television shows to count:
Family Guy, Stargate SG-1, Bones, Heroes, Gilmore Girls, Friends, Futurama,
and
Robot Chicken.
In an episode of
South Park
, the Latin version of the phrase was used:
“Me transmitte sursum Caledonii.”
And honestly, if the Catholic Church would update their masses with Latin phrases such as these, they might see a spike in attendance.

James Doohan used
Beam Me Up, Scotty
as the title of his autobiography. I imagine the working title of that book was
Things I Hate about Shatner, Vol.
1.

Yes, people around the world all know the phrase “Beam me up, Scotty.” What many people
don't
know is that it was never used in the television show
Star Trek
.

Like “Play it again, Sam,” “Elementary, my dear Watson,” and “Luke, I am your father” (whatever
that
means), “Beam me up, Scotty” is one of pop culture's most famous misquotations. We said, “Scotty, beam us up,” we said, “Scotty, beam me up,” we said, “Beam them out of there, Mr. Scott,” we said, “Scotty, beam up Kirk, unless you are concerned that the process of beaming will give him a close-up.” (Okay, that one is a lie, but it would make a funny T-shirt.)

None of this has stopped people from using the phrase “Beam me up, Scotty.” And it has not stopped people from shouting it at me over the last forty-odd years.

Ever since the early 1970s, when the show grew exponentially in popularity through syndication, part of the price of being me is that many folks think I like to have “Beam me up, Scotty” yelled, screamed, and shouted at me.

You know, I've been acting since 1937—I have done other work! Feel free to clip out this handy guide and keep it in your wallet for the next time you see me in person.

SUGGESTED THINGS TO SCREAM AT SHATNER BASED ON HIS WORK (OUTSIDE OF THE
STAR TREK
CANON)

 

“Put on a fake mustache, Agent Cable!”

I played nineteenth-century government agent Jeff Cable in the short-lived 1975 ABC series
Barbary Coast
. The character wore many disguises. It makes sense!

 

“Let's keep America free, brave, and white!”

This is a super-obscure nod to a line I delivered as the racist hatemonger in Roger Corman's
The Intruder
. Please make sure not to shout this one at me in a public place.

 

“Where's your naked Angie Dickinson?”

Another nod to the Roger Corman universe, this time to the film
Big Bad Mama
. It's okay to shout this one in a public place, but please make sure I am not with Mrs. Shatner or my grandkids.

 

“Hey, Dad? Say some bleep!”

Okay, this one is a little awkward. And frankly, I'm still smarting that the show got canceled.

Despite the facts at hand, people have just stuck with “Beam me up, Scotty,” and eventually I got used to having it shouted at me.

Mockery is a tricky thing with me. Laughing
with
? Fine. Laughing
at
? Trouble. But the problem about laughing
with
is that sometimes you mistakenly join in the derision.

I certainly understand that shouting “Beam me up, Scotty” to a total stranger is a way to connect . . . with a total stranger. I'm a total stranger who's been barging into everyone's living rooms for the past half century, so I guess some folks feel a kind of connection when they see me.

I brought my car in to be repaired a few weeks back, and the mechanic said, “Must be weird that people come up to you assuming they know you.” He thought about it for a second and added, “You know, we
do
know you, because you're in our lives daily.”

I was always proud of my work on that low-budget, always-about-to-be-canceled science fiction show. I was proud of the fact that I was able to breathe some human life into a series that sometimes had little physical connection to the real world, all the while trying to remember nonsense words while talking into a cardboard prop. But at some point, as a defense mechanism, I just joined in on the big joke.

In fact, I got
in
on the joke to protect myself
from
the joke.

A few years back I appeared on a British talk show and was having a nice time, when suddenly the host said, “Take a look at this.” He then proceeded to show a clip from
T.J. Hooker,
an out-of-context clip. Taking something out of context is the stock and trade of the prankster, and my performance in this clip seemed a little . . . blustery.

The audience laughed while the clip ran, not knowing anything about the reasons for Hooker's bluster, or the choices I made as an actor while trying to convey the emotions. I could see what this host was trying to do. He was laughing
at
.

When the lights came up, he was readying his quip, and I jumped in with, “My God, that was awful.” He had nowhere to go, the crowd laughed along with me, and we moved on.

Did I think my performance was awful? No—the lines were a little overheated; the emotions were the kind that you found throughout television drama in the 1980s. Hooker was written as a walking raw nerve with a badge. He was played so accordingly.

If I have been involved in some subpar projects over the years, I can assure you the preparation and discipline I brought to the roles was always way above par.

Discipline. In my many years of performing, I have never once taken a sick day. Not one. I was deathly ill with the flu during the filming of a
Star Trek
episode, and rather than call in sick, I had the producers put a cot down next to the set. In between takes, I would collapse, toss and turn in a cold sweat, and be mopped up in time for the next take. I barely had the strength to steal a close-up! I would not call in sick!

Here's what I think: I'm a good actor. I know what to do, I can make you laugh, I can make you cry, and I can always find the good moments. I can say the words so that they have some meaning to them. There are thousands of actors out there in Hollywood, and producers throughout the years have scribbled
WILLIAM SHATNER
onto some of the checks that they've cut, for varying sizes. They could have written someone else's name. They didn't.

For close to seventy-five years now, since I was a kid, I have been acting. I have never made money for anything other than performing. That is not a joke.

 

MOCK NEWSPAPER REVIEW FROM 1930s

Also in the Little Players' production of
Red Riding Hood
was young Billy Shatner as a tree. A solid performance, although this critic sometimes found he was playing the charm. Also, why would a tree shout “KAHN!” in the middle of the second act?

But for many, it seemed
Star Trek
was a joke. And I got in on it.

All those people yelling “Beam me up, Scotty” must have thought that the show, and Kirk, were subjects worthy of mockery. And to protect myself, I joined them. As with that British talk show host, I have tried to beat the mockers to the punch. I soon started laughing and giving a thumbs-up whenever someone shouted the line to me. To many,
Star
Trek
is tacky, a campy joke, and so was my performance. Best thing to do is laugh the loudest, right?

And I kept laughing until I made
The Captains
.

The Captains
is a feature-length documentary I produced in which I traveled around the world and interviewed everyone who has played a captain within the
Star Trek
canon. I sat down with Scott Bakula (
Star Trek: Enterprise
), Kate Mulgrew (
Star Trek: Voyager
), Avery Brooks (
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
), and Patrick Stewart (
Star Trek: The Next Generation
). Even Chris Pine, the latest incarnation of Kirk, sat down for a one-on-one.

During the filming, I flew to London to meet Patrick Stewart. For the flight I was seated in the quiet of the wonderful jet that my sponsors at Bombardier generously provided for me . . .

. . . and in the luxurious quiet of the cabin (thank you again, Bombardier) I was studying my notes on this portrayer of Jean-Luc Picard.

Stewart and I had worked together before, on the film
Star Trek: Generations,
but I didn't know him all that well. We had a scene together in that film where he and I were riding horses, and I gave him the handy tip of wearing panty hose under his clothes to prevent chafing in the saddle.

(NOTE: Tell British actors that they should wear panty hose under their pants while riding horses to prevent chafing. They often fall for it.)

Either way, I had a great epiphany with Stewart and with my place in the world as a guy forever associated with Captain Kirk. It was a total paradigm shift for me!

I had gotten in on the joke, but for Patrick Stewart there is no joke to be had with
Star Trek
.

Patrick is a marvelous Shakespearean actor. He spent his life doing the classics, and he said “yes” to being in
Star Trek: The Next Generation
. And I soon realized that he approached his performance with the same respect and reverence that he reserved for the Bard.

As I considered this wonderful actor taking
Star Trek
so seriously, I thought,
I haven't done that in a long time
. There was a fullness of his pride in playing that role and doing it well. I wanted that pride back.

And I took it back.

Somewhere along the way I got lost and caught up in the derisive laughs of the haters.

My encounter with Stewart was a revelation for me. I'm proud of my work as Captain Kirk, and it helped carry the viewer into a fantastic faraway world often populated by creatures in rubber suits. No more laughing
at
for me. Sorry folks.

My three years of work on that show, and in the subsequent movies, is much more than the occasional “Beam me up, Scotty” hurled out of a car window. I have once more engaged my shields, and I carry my fictional rank of fictional captain with a great deal of REAL pride.

So go ahead and yell, “Beam me up, Scotty.” I have a thing I yell back nowadays, hopefully you'll find it amusing, and it goes . . .

“Fuck
you!”

Set phasers on “Oh, Snap!”

A
nd keep your spare underwear in an undisclosed location.

Does this sound silly? Well, let me tell you something: It won't sound silly when you're negotiating with the kidnappers.

Did that wipe the smile off your face? I thought it would! Or did it at least replace your smile with a quizzical stare? Even better!

I was in Denver in the late 1970s, at one of that city's finer hotels. There was a Star Trek convention being held nearby, and I decided to stay in the city for a few days after the event to see the sights. This was back in that dark age when people paid full price for airfare. I was traveling on someone else's nickel, and I thought I would turn it into a mini vacation. So I packed a full bag.

I packed an outfit for my Q&A at the convention, a more formal look for the evenings, and a sportier ensemble for enjoying the many outdoor activities promised by the Mile High City. And since this was the 1970s, there was probably enough polyester in the collection to create a static electricity shock powerful enough to melt a glacier.

The afternoon had included my convention appearance and an autograph session that had to be cut short for a local news interview. Afterward, I got back to my hotel, showered, and then went to my dresser to get ready for dinner. I opened the top drawer, and realized I had been the victim of theft!

My undergarments—every last pair—had been stolen. Someone had snuck in, ignored my camera, some jewelry, and a bit of cash, and decided instead to heist my versatile mix of jockeys and boxers.

Throughout my career, I have received many an honorary title, and I was deputized once or twice. But I had no idea how to access my honorary crime-fighting skills in this situation. I checked all around the room to make sure the culprit wasn't hiding anywhere (and to reassure myself that I hadn't misplaced the garments), and called down to the front desk.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

“I'd like to report a crime,” I said to the desk clerk, and gave her my room number.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Shatner. What was stolen?”

(NOTE: If your name is William Shatner, and you are the victim of an underwear thief, it'll probably make the papers.)

I thought better of it. “Never mind,” I said, “I found my . . . stolen things.”

The media culture was not the same in the 1970s as it is now. Today, theft of my unmentionables would be blogged, tweeted, and Facebooked up the wazoo. But even then, in a smallish city, an enterprising reporter could have been listening to a scanner and gotten a scoop about my crime.

Imagine the headlines!

SHATNER SHORTS SWIPED

“ENTERPRISING” THIEVES HEIST HANES

WILL'S WHITEYS: WHERE NO THIEF HAS GONE BEFORE!

I figured I would have to solve this crime myself. Or at least run down to the local Sears and just—

The phone rang. I picked it up. Whoever was calling me was in a crowded place.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Shatner, I have your underwear,” said the woman on the other line.

“I see.”

“All of it!” she threatened.

“Of course. I'd like it back please.”

“Sure, but first you have to do something for me . . .”

“Call me back in three minutes, on this line. I'm calling the shots now!” I hung up the phone.

She had to understand that she was playing with the big boys now. I sat on the bed until she called back.

“Okay, what is it? What do you want?” I said in my best authoritarian voice.

“I'll give you back your underwear, but you have to give me your autograph.”

Time to play hardball.

“I spent forty-five minutes giving out autographs today at the convention. Where were you?”

“On line,” she snapped. “But then you took off before I got to your table.”

Oh dear. Remember all that stuff I wrote about my commitment and dedication to my fans? Well, I've always felt that was important, that's always been my credo, even way back in the early days of the conventions. My interview with the local news station was a contractual obligation, but it's quite possible that this poor woman, this mastermind behind the underwear job, had waited for nearly an hour, only to see me pack up and shuffle off.

She wanted my attention. And rather than grab me by the nuts, she grabbed the things that contain the nuts. I felt guilty, and I at least owed her an autograph. I relented.

“Okay,” she said excitedly. “I'll be up to your room in two minutes.”

“No way in hell!” I yelled, forgetting the fan loyalty credo, and headed down to the lobby once we agreed on a drop location.

I went down to the lobby and scanned the room. Many folks in town for the convention were staying at the hotel, judging from the number of homemade Federation uniforms worn by the mingling masses. Would my underwear-napper be dressed as Uhura? Would it be a Nurse Chapel, giving my loot the once-over with a cardboard tricorder? Perhaps I should be looking for a lady costumed as the Vulcan matriarch T'Pau, my shorts in her death grip?

Nope. It was a young, seemingly normal woman in her late twenties, seated in an overstuffed chair, gripping a wrinkled brown bag in her lap. Next to her was a largish portfolio of some sort. She nodded to me, keeping it cool.

“Okay, I'll sign whatever,” I told her. “Gimme my stuff.”

“Not until you sign,” she threatened. “What if you just take it and run?”

“I'm not going to sprint across a crowded hotel lobby with a paper bag full of my underwear. Some of us have dignity.”

She nodded, handed me the bag, and undid the strings on her leather portfolio. The case opened, revealing a variety of 8×10s of yours truly, from
Star Trek
,
The
Twilight Zone
, a few movies, some candids. This was a
fan
.

She pulled the cap off a marker, handed it to me, and began sorting her photos in the order she wanted them signed.

“All of these?” I exclaimed.

“You promised!”

“I promised
an
autograph. Not a dozen. I'll get writer's cramp. I'll be left to pull on my underwear with only one good hand. Pick your favorite and I'll sign it.”

She pouted, and sorted through the photos. “Just one? That's all?”

“Yes, one signature,” I explained.

She sat back in the chair, smiled, and then bounded up. She pulled down the front of her shirt, revealing her left breast contained in its bra cup, and said, “Autograph my boob.”

Dignity. It's always been important to me, and my code of dignity has guided my life. And it then guided me to run across a hotel lobby, holding a bag of my underwear under my arm.