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.
RULE: If They Do It in the Movies, You Should Do It in Real Life
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
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.
RULE: If They Do It in the Movies, You Should Do It in Real Life
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