Or at least that’s how I wanted all of them to end. I sometimes shout my tweets to my assistant, Kathleen, who occasionally shouts back, “Too long!” The courtesy of “my best, Bill” was rudely taking up too much space, so it was shortened to my current sign-off of MBB.
FUN FACTNER: William Shatner sometimes uses a voice-activated recorder to transcribe his tweets. Unfortunately, most voice-activation systems shut off during dramatic pauses.
MBB has become a guessing game for people late to my Twitter game. Folks in the Twitterverse sometimes wonder what it means. I have often considered mixing up my sign-offs, just to keep people guessing.
WILLIAM SHATNER’S ALTERNATE TWITTER SIGN-OFFS
TO!B = Tweet out! Bill
BTUS = Beam this up, Scotty!
IYNMIBOMH = If you need me, I’ll be on my horse
LTEBGT = Love to everyone but George Takei
W$#*!MDSOICU = Watch $#*! My Dad Says or I’ll cut you
Oh yes, did I mention $#*! My Dad Says? Thirty years ago, I was on the cutting edge of the “wonder computer of the eighties,” and then I was on the first television show spun off from a Twitter feed.
Justin Halpern, along with masterful comedy duo and Will & Grace creators David Kohan and Max Mutchnick, managed to turn 140 characters about Halpern’s cranky old father into a television show, and they asked me to star in it.
FUN FACTNER: Many call the casting of William Shatner as an outspoken, opinionated old man “inspired.” Shatner’s children call it “typecasting.”
I had never heard of the $#*! My Dad Says Twitter feed, and was barely able to figure out my own Twitter feed, and suddenly 10 million people a week were watching the show to see me as Dr. Edison “Ed” Milford Goodson III, a sharp-tongued, politically incorrect man who has his grown son move back home with him. It even won Favorite New TV Comedy at the People’s Choice Awards. That didn’t stop CBS from canceling it, unfortunately.
Executives don’t know $#*!
Bill says some shit on the set of $h*! My Dad Says in 2011. (Courtesy of Paul Camuso)
No matter how much at sea I am with technology, technology always throws its virtual arms around me. My relationship with technology is similar to Michael Corleone’s relationship with the Mob: Just when I think I’m out—they pull me back in! And Twitter keeps pulling me in to late night comedy!
Some of you may remember my now famous late night television appearances on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien, reading the tweets of former vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin. When the fractured nature of the 140-character feed met the somewhat fractured musings of the Grizzly Momma, it occurred to Conan that they felt like poetry. Spoken-word Beat poetry.
Take one Twitter feed, add one stand-up bass, one set of bongos (or is that two bongo?), and one William Shatner, and you have yourself some late night gold.
Conan introduced me to the screaming crowd. I took my spot on a stool and read Sarah’s tweets—stone-faced, dry as a bone—while the cool jazz combo played behind me and Conan snapped his fingers.
From sea life, near lush wet rain forests
To energy, housed under frozen tundra, atop permafrost
God most creatively displays his diversity in Alaska.
Tourists from across America, here, loving their forty-ninth state
I’m reminded one heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag
From sea to . . . sea.
Awesome Alaska night
Sensing summer already winding down.
With fireweed near full bloom
Finally sitting down to pen
Listening to Big & Rich.
Somewhere, the ghost of Johnny Carson was mouthing, “What . . . the . . . fuck?”
We were a hit. Here I was, a technophobe, making poetry and music from technology I could barely comprehend. I was so successful, in fact, that I found myself in Sarah Palin’s crosshairs. Her comedic crosshairs, mind you. Thankfully, not the “kill wolves from a helicopter” crosshairs.
While I was making a return appearance on Conan, this time to read from her autobiography, Going Rogue, Palin walked onto the stage, grasping a copy of my autobiography Up Till Now under her arm. The jazz combo backed her as she read some portions of my book. She got her laughs, all right, and I had to stand there and take it!
Needless to say, Sarah Palin is no William Shatner when it comes to droll Beat poetry. I say to her: Keep your day job! Whatever that is!
Which brings me back to my Facebook crisis. There was no longer a me to protest me getting shut down. And I was getting nowhere online.
Facebook gave me a telephone number, but all I got was a recording telling me to log on to Facebook, which I could no longer do. Eventually, when we did contact a human—via phone, not poking—I was told that they would need a scanned “government-issued ID” from me.
Would you send a scanned driver’s license or birth certificate to a stranger at Facebook? Would you do it if there were a chance that some clown could take it and put it on a T-shirt and then toss it up on eBay? No way. I mean, you can buy my kidney stones, but no one may steal my identity.
It seemed as though I was never going to get back on the Facebook. But then, sage Paul, from his den of tubes, wires, and little motors that go whhhrrrrrr, reminded me that there was still Twitter. We decided to use social media to fix social media! I grabbed my voice-activated whatchamacallit, and tweeted: “Facebook disabled my acct. this weekend as an imposter acct. Now they want me to prove that it’s me. Don’t they know who I am? MBB.”
That is all it took.
Within thirty minutes, my good, virtual name had been restored. I once more had an account on the Facebook! Again, I could take part in the community that has revolutionized the way we communicate with one another. William Shatner would not be denied.
Although frankly, I wish Adrian Zmed would knock it off with all the poking. I mean, I know I started it, but it has to end somewhere, Adrian!
WILLIAM SHATNER ANSWERS YOUR FACEBOOK QUESTIONS
In addition to my on-again, off-again Facebook profile, I also have an official fan page on the site where people sometimes post questions to my wall. I would like to take this opportunity to answer some of those questions. These are all real questions.
Brenna Casper
Do u know where Leonard went??? He hasn’t been on Facebook for a long time!! :)
I don’t know. But you’re using the wrong emoticon for discussing a Vulcan. The correct one is :| . Remember—no smiling! (But, like most people, Leonard probably has ditched Facebook and spends all his time on Twitter.)
Joan Arnet
When do you come to Switzerland? :-)
When I get the e-mail alert PRICELINE DEALS—DON’T SWISS OUT ON SAVINGS!
James Lopez
Hi Mr. Shatner,
You were in Pittsburgh, PA in the 1970s and stayed with my dad’s brother and his wife. They are Joe and Betty Lopez and had a large pool and a horse. My dad John and mom Kathy were there also. Just wondered if you recall that stay back then.
Okay, buddy, I know what you’re getting at. I’ll return the bath towels! I accidentally packed them. Also, sorry about the wet horse. You shouldn’t keep those things so close to the pool.
Michael Deforest
In Australia, does the water really flush down the other way, Bill?
I don’t know. I never flush. That’s what my spotter is for (see my ad on Craigslist).
Fredrick Aman
Happy birthday, Bill! You’re the greatest Canadian actor ever! ; )
Okay, that’s not a question. But I felt it should be shared.
Allison Byrne
Hey, Bill! We still on for dinner next week?
Let me know if you’re buying.
Adam Lars
Happy birthday, you old condom-stretcher.
I told you, I’ve only ever gotten money for performing. That is obviously a skilled trade.
Wendy McDonald
Bill— I fell in love with you when I was 9 years old. I will be 55 this year. How’s that for fandom!!!
Your fandom is beyond reproach, but I do find some fault with your depressing mathematical calculations.
Nila Martinez
SUP KIRK? NICE TO HAVE BEEN ABLE TO GROW UP WITH YOU BRAH YOU DA BOMB..ALOHA..
I am fluent in French and English. Neither is helping me here.
Sarah Goldfarb
I’m so glad you are Jewish!!!!! Want to come to my house for Passover?
Certainly. But only if I get to ask all four questions. I only travel if it’s a starring role.
CHAPTER 17
RULE: Remember Where You Came from . . . Eh?
Every celebrity bio needs a bombshell. Be it addiction, abuse, shocking sexual conquest. I promised the publisher of Shatner Rules a big one. So here it is. Get ready. I am about to drop the bombshell . . .
I am a Canadian.
FUN FACTNER: Actor William Shatner is Canadian!
I’ll let that sink in. And for my American readers, I’ll let you all take a break from reading this book so that you can go Google “Canadian” and figure out what one is. Here’s a hint: We are the people who live up north who aren’t Alaskan and who aren’t Santa.
In fact, I’m so Canadian that I’m not even an American. Seriously. I can’t vote here. I can’t vote in Canada either, which is why politicians on both sides of the border never worry about the Shatner vote. Although I have a green card, which means some American politicians would work very hard to try to deport me. I kept this a secret from Sarah Palin when I met her on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien.
To stay in this great nation of America, I must prove that I can do a job that cannot be held by an American. I do the job of being William Shatner. No one else can do it. Kevin Pollak tries with that “impression” of his, and if he continues to do so, I’ll see . . . about . . . having . . . him . . . deported.
RULE: If You Are Only Five Foot Five, You Can’t Do a Good Impression of the Five Foot Ten William Shatner
(NOTE: This rule only applies to Kevin Pollak.)
You know who knows I’m Canadian? Other Canadians. I am a celebrated figure north of the border. In as much as Canadians ever “celebrate” things. And when Canada hosted the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, I was invited to participate in the closing ceremonies. How could I refuse? Canadians would have been furious. Although they wouldn’t have expressed their fury.
Seriously, the only way to get a rise out of a Canadian? Place him on a hydraulic lift.
Actually, Canadians and hydraulics don’t really mix, as evidenced by the Olympic ceremonies. They outfitted the BC Place Stadium with a false floor, about twelve feet above the normal floor, on which the action would take place. And during the opening ceremonies, four mighty steel pillars were to rise up from this floor. Four torchbearers were to simultaneously walk up to these pillars, touch their torches to the base of them, and then a river of fire would travel up the metal to light the cauldron that held the Olympic flame. A spectacular sight for a spectacular event! One that would be watched by billions!
The four Maple Leaf Olympians selected for this task would be hockey hero Wayne Gretzky, speed skater Catriona Le May Doan, skier Nancy Greene, and basketball all star Steve Nash. What an honor, what a thrill!
What a blunder.
After many rehearsals and test runs, on opening night, the fourth pillar wouldn’t rise. Nothing. Each athlete stood there waiting, billions of people around the world watching them slowly getting coated in their own flop sweat. The event director shouted into their earpieces, “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it! It’s gonna come up. Wait! Wait! Wait!”
Nothing doing. Eventually, three of the four walked up to their pillars to light the torch, while poor Catriona Le May Doan stood there awkwardly, wishing she could speed skate as far away as possible.
That evening, Canada medaled in embarrassment. But at least I knew they would definitely iron out the kinks before the closing ceremonies. Right?
Right?
If anything, the closing ceremonies were to be bigger and more spectacular than the opening ceremonies. It would be a supreme celebration of all things Canadian! Taking the stage that evening would be me, Michael J. Fox, Catherine O’Hara, and a dizzying display of giant inflatable moose, dancing Mounties, lumberjacks in canoes, a small child dressed as a hockey puck, and inflatable beavers (normally only found in some of Vancouver’s seedier “marital aid” stores). The spectacular promised to be the least understated thing in Canadian history.
There would also be a huge concert of Canada’s biggest rockers, like Alanis Morissette, Nickelback, Avril Lavigne, and many more I’ve never heard of.
Canada also wanted to show the world that it had a sense of humor about the opening ceremony debacle. The closing ceremony started with a mime named Yves Dagenais, who rose up on a platform, plugged some extension cords together, and then mimed pulling up the faulty fourth pillar from the floor. It rose spectacularly, and Catriona Le May Doan emerged and finally got to light her torch.
The crowd positively roared. In fact, it may have been the warmest reception a mime has ever gotten!
The closing ceremonies went along without a hitch as I headed to the basement area, to my assigned hydraulic platform, which would carry me to the floor so I could deliver an inspiring and comedic monologue. We had done a few physical run-throughs, but we hadn’t run my lines.
That’s not a problem for me; I tend to memorize things quickly, but thankfully my old friend the teleprompter would be at my feet. If I blanked momentarily, thanks to the teleprompter, the sixty thousand people in the stadium, and billions around the world, would not see me coated in my own flop sweat.
So I’m in this basement, this subterranean cavern of hydraulic machinery, sound and light equipment, fiber-optic cables, and lots of people running around in headsets looking like they know what they’re doing. I can feel the sheer excitement, the energy, of the event going on above me. In my earpiece, I can hear the director calmly giving his instructions to the crew. Fellow Canadian Neil Young was performing on my platform as I readied my entrance.
Neil finishes, huge cheers. His platform lowers, and there he is in front of me, guitar over his neck, resplendent in muttonchop sideburns.
“Hello, Bill,” he says.
“Hello, Neil,” say I. And he heads off into the night.
FUN FACTNER: Every Canadian knows each other and is on a first name basis. (Hi, Celine! Hope you’re enjoying the book!)
Two technicians run over to my platform as I go over my lines in my head. They both furtively attend to my teleprompter, which . . . is . . . not . . . working.
As with the mighty steel arm that never rose, my teleprompter worked fine in the rehearsals. Now it was on the fritz. My earpiece, which was working quite well, helped me hear the director say, “Sixty seconds to Shatner!”
Never mind flop sweating on stage—I was doing it quite well in this subterranean studio. I knew my lines, but . . . what if I didn’t know my lines?! Christina Aguilera has performed the national anthem more times than she’s had hot meals! And she flubbed it at the 2011 Super Bowl. It’s not a long song, and she should know it, but she blanked in front of a huge audience. An Olympic-sized audience. The same size that I was about to face.
“Put Shatner on the platform!” said the voice in my earpiece. Again, the earpiece was working splendidly, unlike my teleprompter.
The workmen now skillfully started repairing the platform by pounding it with a hammer. The teleprompter was working when Neil Young went up, apparently. What the hell did Neil do? Did his heavy sideburns burn out the h
ydraulics and cause an electrical malfunction?
“Shatner on the platform, now!”
A production assistant shuffled me onto the platform, gripping my arm. A good hangman can supposedly guess the condemned’s weight just by shaking his hand. That’s how I felt! I was being led to my doom. Except that the platform would rise up instead of drop.
I was literally being pushed. I began to think of fellow Canadian Robert Goulet. He forgot the words to the national anthem at a Muhammad Ali/Sonny Liston prizefight in 1965. They never forgave him. Poor Robert! (We were on a first name basis, you see . . .)
The platform began to rise, the mic in my hand trembled, one of the technicians gave one last swing to the hammer and—
The teleprompter fluttered on. I began to rise.
The lights, the sound, the energy of what I witnessed when I rose up through the floor was unlike anything I have ever experienced. I once did the coin toss at the Rose Bowl, and the cheers hit you like a shockwave. Your body trembles as it passes through you. But at least I was no longer shaking from fear.
This is what I said. As you’re reading, scream your head off at the end of every line, to make yourself feel like you were in the audience.
My name is Bill, and I am proud to be a Canadian.
My pride is an immense as this majestic country who hosted these 2010 games.
As a Canadian, I am proud of many things.
Our magnificent lakes. Our stunning sunsets.
Proud of my hometown, Montreal.
Proud of the University at McGill and the words “Je Suis Canadien.”
(NOTE: I made sure to make this sound as French as possible. We Canadians love doing that!)
And the fact that we are a people who know how to make love in a canoe.
Shatner Rules Page 10
