Shatner Rules

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 hit 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
    O kay, 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.)
    Not only do I find Germany unsexy, but I also find it unsettling. Why?
RULE: Never Watch the History Channel before Visiting Germany
    Please don’t