Shatner Rules by William Shatner Page A

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.
RULE: Every So Often, Beam Up One of Your Grandkids to Help You Brush Up on the Modern Slang
    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 . . .
    â€œFuck
you!”
    Set phasers on “Oh, Snap!”

CHAPTER 8
RULE: Always Have a Spare Set of Underwear on Hand
    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.
    â€œHello, how may I help you?”
    â€œI’d like to report a crime,” I said to the desk clerk, and gave her my room number.
    â€œI’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
----
    â€œENTERPRISING” THIEVES HEIST HANES
----
    WILL’S