Shatner Rules Read online

  QUIZ

  Which celebrity did not attended the premiere of Incubus at the San Francisco Film Festival in 1966?

  A. Roman Polanski

  B. Sharon Tate

  C. William Shatner

  C, William Shatner. I had something else going on. And judging from the fact that the curse might have extended itself to the people who did attend, I consider myself lucky.

  CHAPTER 11

  RULE: Balls Are Important, but Stones Are Money

  My wife and I were in New York to attend a black-tie charity gala a few years ago. We were both dressed to kill, but a sudden, sharp pain in my side felt as if someone were killing me.

  So I wound up in the hospital, in my tuxedo, on a weekend evening. Have you ever been inside an emergency room? In New York City? On a weekend? I don’t remember the name of said hospital, but from the looks of things that night, it was somewhere in the outer borough of Despair.

  The emergency room was so crowded, in fact, that I was not admitted to a proper room with a proper bed, but stuck on a gurney in a dark hallway. The gurney had stirrups, and in my sufferings, I stuck my feet in them to take some of the weight off my nether regions. My eyes were closed tight with the blinding pain, but I remember distinctly at one point a female passing me and saying, “Look, Captain Kirk is having a baby!”

  RULE: When Insulting William Shatner, Don’t Be Afraid to Dig a Little Deeper into the Résumé. Even in Great Pain, He Will Appreciate the Effort of a TekWar or Kingdom of the Spiders Reference.

  Yep, the doctor said I had a kidney stone, and there was nothing to do but wait for it to pass. And take morphine. One, two, three shots of exquisite relief. Feeling no pain, I was now ready to go and hit the gala, but the wife wisely suggested that we stay in, and await the glorious arrival of my tiny bundle of uric acid and/or calcium buildup.

  All things must pass, and my stone was no exception. It left fairly painlessly, we headed back home to Los Angeles, and for a few years my kidneys dutifully sorted waste products from my blood without incident.

  Then, in 2006 . . .

  Denny Crane was bent over Candice Bergen’s desk, in a swirling maelstrom of physical agony.

  (NOTE: This is not a passage from some kind of depraved Boston Legal fan fiction one would find on the Internet. Characters I’ve played, for some reason or other, always wind up in the most licentious fantasies of fan fiction authors. For years now, Kirk and Spock have heated up the pages of the fan fiction subgenre known as slash fiction, which deals primarily in gay relationships. Neither of us is homosexual, but if I were to dabble, I would surely avoid any encounter with a creature famed for its Vulcan death grip.)

  (ADDITIONAL NOTE: I have also been informed that there is more than one webpage out there dedicated to Denny Crane/Alan Shore slash fiction. It must have been all the cigar smoking we did. Either way, the fair-haired dazzlement that is James Spader is a bit more appealing than Spock. Sorry, Leonard.)

  (FINAL NOTE: And it has come to my attention that some enterprising web scribes have also published T.J. Hooker slash fiction. I guess I had a way with a nightstick.)

  (ADDENDUM TO FINAL NOTE: Please, slash fiction writers, don’t ever write any Twilight Zone “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” stories. (I’d hate to picture myself making love to a gremlin.)

  Let us return to a subject slightly more savory: my agony. I was there on the set, collapsed on my costar’s desk, bellowing, writhing, and flailing my arms about. For some, such histrionics are the universal signal that “Shatner’s acting again,” but eventually I was able to convince the crew and the producers that I was in pain and needed medical attention. I was carted off from the set in an ambulance.

  (Keep in mind, in the four seasons of Boston Legal, more than twenty different actors were hired to play recurring characters on the show, and many were fired after a season as David E. Kelly tinkered with the program’s formula. Dramatic exits on that set were the norm, but since I didn’t have a cardboard box of my belongings on my belly as I lay on the stretcher, people assumed I would be coming back.)

  My body had manufactured more kidney stones. I was taken to a hospital in Burbank, where I was refused painkillers until the doctor examined me. I was desperate for them, and I pleaded for a doctor, any doctor—Dr. Scholl, Dr. Pepper, anyone—to hit me with that morphine syringe.

  No dice—I had to wait in an agony akin to the kind experienced by the crew of the Starship Enterprise when they were forced to wear the collars of obedience in the episode “The Gamesters of Triskelion.”

  RULE: TekWar and Kingdom of the Spiders—While Esoteric—Sometimes Won’t Give You the Reference You Need

  Eventually, it became clear that this latest stone had no intention of going peacefully like its predecessor. It was not going to walk out of me with its hardened, crystallized hands in the air. The doctors were going to have to go in.

  We were going to go . . . where no man . . . should go . . . at all.

  The probe went up my urethra like Marlow trekking up the Congo to retrieve Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. (By the way, high school students, feel free to use this analogy in any paper you might be required to write on Conrad’s seminal work. A for originality!)

  And they produced from my insides a little black crystal, a diabolic diamond, an onyx of agony. Forged in the heat of my body, compressed in my mighty urethra.

  RULE: In the Shatnerverse, Even the Surgical Procedure of Ureteroscopy Demands Dramatic Flourish!

  I could now put my kidney stone behind me, and return to a normal life.

  Oh, did I mention I’m William Shatner? A “normal life” is sometimes just out of my grasp, which I was reminded of when I got the phone call from GoldenPalace.com.

  Golden Palace is an online casino, run out of the Kahnawake Mohawk Territory near my beloved Montreal. When they aren’t separating Internet gambling addicts from their hard-earned money with online blackjack, the people at Golden Palace engage in all sorts of bizarre publicity stunts. They once purchased a ten-year-old grilled cheese sandwich with an image of the Virgin Mary burned into the toast for $28,000. Did they eat it? I mean, talk about Immaculate Indigestion.

  Golden Palace is the company that had their logo painted on Danny Bonaduce’s back when he participated in the reality show Celebrity Boxing. They are the company that sponsored the work of professional streaker Mark Roberts. (How much overhead does a streaker need to cover?) They even paid a woman $15,000 to get their logo tattooed on her forehead.

  They obviously wanted to class up their image a bit by getting into the business of William Shatner’s urethra. Golden Palace reached out to me with an offer of $25,000 for my kidney stone.

  The whole thing struck me as rather distasteful. And insulting.

  Only $25,000? I won’t get out of bed for that kind of money, and I certainly won’t lie down in a gurney with my feet in stirrups for it. My kidney stone was a precious and pure calcification of magic publicity. It was time to do what I do best:

  Negotiate!

  My counteroffer was $100,000. This was a genuine William Shatner kidney stone. It conceivably could have been the most famous kidney stone extracted in the world; $25,000 was a pittance for my pain and suffering. If I were to settle for such a paltry amount—forget GOLDEN PALACE; they could tattoo SUCKER on my forehead.

  And not just my pain and suffering—there was Elizabeth’s suffering, the suffering of the Boston Legal crew, and the suffering of Candice Bergen to think about.

  FUN FACTNER: One of Candice Bergen’s first films was The Sand Pebbles, which was also my nickname for my kidney stones.

  Perhaps it was the mental duress imposed upon this five-time Emmy-winning actress that touched the hearts of the folks at Golden Palace, because they came around to offering $75,000 for my kidney stone. And since I had no plans to save the stone
and press it into the pages of a scrapbook, or mount it onto a ring for my wife, I accepted the offer, and pledged to give the money to charity.

  And Golden Palace could do with the stone what they wanted. I’m sure it tasted better than a ten-year-old grilled cheese Virgin Mary relic.

  The Boston Legal family also kicked in an additional $25,000, and I donated the money to Habitat for Humanity. Such is the power of saying “yes!” (Seriously, remember that rule the next time an online casino wants to pay you for your kidney stones. You’ll thank me.)

  Habitat for Humanity is an international nonprofit organization devoted to building homes for the people without the means to buy one. They are located in Atlanta, Georgia, and in 2006, they were busy helping rebuild after the carnage of Katrina. Our $100,000 was used to build a home in Louisiana for a family who had been displaced by the storm. My kidney stone, more viable than Freddie Mac or Countrywide, built a wonderful, lovely home. It was worth all that pain and humiliation.

  I was later blessed with a photo of the house that my kidney stone built, and the smiling Louisiana family out front. I have never spoken to them, but perhaps this is a good time to explain to them some of the . . .

  RULES FOR LIVING IN THE HOUSE THAT SHATNER’S KIDNEYS BUILT

  1. If Shatner ever comes by, he gets to use the bathroom.

  2. As a sign of tribute, please rename your home Billstone Manor. I can provide you with my measurements for the statue out front. (They won’t be exactly accurate—the statue might be made a little taller and more ripped—but this is a tribute.)

  3. If Shatner does come by, please provide fresh water and foods that are not high in oxalate. I know you like your home, but I never want to get kidney stones again.

  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!

  CHAPTER 12

  RULE: You Can Always Find a Good Friend in a White Crowd

  Um, 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.

  RULE, TAKE TWO: Never Wear White after Labor Day. Or Any Day until the Following Labor Day.

  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.

  RULE: Anything Can Be Negotiated—As Long as You’re Not Negotiating with Your Wife

  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 h
it 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.)

  Shatner Gets Serious

  All kidding aside, I love Scott, and we have remained great friends to this day. His ability to overcome hardship is one of his many strengths. As a child, he suffered a growth disorder, and he overcame it to become an Olympian and a gold medalist. And now he is a cancer survivor who—even after having a benign brain tumor removed—can still do a backflip on skates. Nowadays, he heads up the Scott Hamilton CARES Initiative, an advocacy group working hard to find a cure for the disease. Every year he raises money with the Scott Hamilton Ice Show and Gala, a black tie event. Or, in Scott’s and my case, a “black-robe soiree.”

  CHAPTER 13

  RULE: Know When to Turn Shatner On, and When to Turn Shatner Off

  Okay, 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.)