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.
CHAPTER 9
RULE: Eat What You Kill! (Provided It Doesn’t Kill You First!)
I t was November 1969. Thanksgiving was just around the corner, and I was on all fours, in a dense tunnel of underbrush on California’s San Clemente Island. My bow and arrow were slung over my back, and there was barely any room to move. I was hunting.
What was I looking for? What was my prey? A wounded wild boar—one that might come charging at me at any moment, with my arrow sticking out of its bristly hide.
Star Trek
’s five-year mission had recently been cut short at three years, and in that very moment I wasn’t concerned with forever being known as Captain Kirk. In that tunnel, I was now concerned with forever being associated with the newspaper headline ACTOR KILLED BY PIG.
There was only one way out of this tunnel for the massive, tusked, wounded beast, and it was through me.
Now, I have stared down formidable beasts before in the course of my career. Remember Lee Van Cleef? He was a sinister layer of marinara in many a spaghetti Western. In 1963, I was acting in an episode of the anthology program
The Dick Powell Theatre
, in which I played a Swedish (of course) rancher fighting off a hostile land grab by his bigoted neighbors. I played the part with a thick Swedish accent, and in some scenes I wore a too-small bowler hat with a feather.
RULE: Take Some Stuff off Your Résumé
Never mind that rule. The entire episode is on YouTube. You can watch nearly everything I’ve ever done on YouTube, good and bad, highlights and lowlights. Nearly every week, things I’ve done in my career that I’ve long forgotten about come charging back at me, courtesy of YouTube, like a wounded pig in a tunnel.
Which is why I started talking about Lee Van Cleef, right?
Lee was well over six feet tall, a huge man, powerful. And like a wild boar, he had a cold, calculating look. Even when the cameras weren’t rolling, he was an intimidating figure. He was missing part of one of his middle fingers, but it didn’t matter—his whole body had a way of flipping you the bird.
And he and I had to fight in this show.
A movie fight consists of throwing blows, missing by a foot, and actors snapping their heads back. But I was still kind of new to this whole movie/TV acting business. During filming, Lee and I were throwing punches, while I was predominantly occupied with not knocking off my too-small bowler hat.
And I took one swing and hit the tip of Lee Van Cleef’s nose.
Cut!
Take two! I swing again, and clipped his nose
“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.
CHAPTER 9
RULE: Eat What You Kill! (Provided It Doesn’t Kill You First!)
I t was November 1969. Thanksgiving was just around the corner, and I was on all fours, in a dense tunnel of underbrush on California’s San Clemente Island. My bow and arrow were slung over my back, and there was barely any room to move. I was hunting.
What was I looking for? What was my prey? A wounded wild boar—one that might come charging at me at any moment, with my arrow sticking out of its bristly hide.
Star Trek
’s five-year mission had recently been cut short at three years, and in that very moment I wasn’t concerned with forever being known as Captain Kirk. In that tunnel, I was now concerned with forever being associated with the newspaper headline ACTOR KILLED BY PIG.
There was only one way out of this tunnel for the massive, tusked, wounded beast, and it was through me.
Now, I have stared down formidable beasts before in the course of my career. Remember Lee Van Cleef? He was a sinister layer of marinara in many a spaghetti Western. In 1963, I was acting in an episode of the anthology program
The Dick Powell Theatre
, in which I played a Swedish (of course) rancher fighting off a hostile land grab by his bigoted neighbors. I played the part with a thick Swedish accent, and in some scenes I wore a too-small bowler hat with a feather.
RULE: Take Some Stuff off Your Résumé
Never mind that rule. The entire episode is on YouTube. You can watch nearly everything I’ve ever done on YouTube, good and bad, highlights and lowlights. Nearly every week, things I’ve done in my career that I’ve long forgotten about come charging back at me, courtesy of YouTube, like a wounded pig in a tunnel.
Which is why I started talking about Lee Van Cleef, right?
Lee was well over six feet tall, a huge man, powerful. And like a wild boar, he had a cold, calculating look. Even when the cameras weren’t rolling, he was an intimidating figure. He was missing part of one of his middle fingers, but it didn’t matter—his whole body had a way of flipping you the bird.
And he and I had to fight in this show.
A movie fight consists of throwing blows, missing by a foot, and actors snapping their heads back. But I was still kind of new to this whole movie/TV acting business. During filming, Lee and I were throwing punches, while I was predominantly occupied with not knocking off my too-small bowler hat.
And I took one swing and hit the tip of Lee Van Cleef’s nose.
Cut!
Take two! I swing again, and clipped his nose
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