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 1
Aw* ^^l
il

9 ^!^9^H

v^ ^

t
ILLIAM SHATNEP
with CHRJS KRESK1
 $24.00 U.S.

$35.50 CAN.

r;r:
r r
with the possible exception of "Beam me up, Scotty," is
clearly the most repeated catchphrase in the history of
Star Trek % Poking fun at Star Trek's gung-ho fans and
.

conventions in a now infamous Saturday Night Live sketch,

William Shatner's comic rallying cry has been indelibly
emblazoned into the collective psyche of trekkers
00
everywhere. Through the years, the phrase has spurred
laughter, anger, controversy, and far more than it's fair
O
share of debate. It's now also given birth to an honest,
sentimental, insightful book.
Uncomfortable with speaking onstage, William Shatner d
co
had spent the better part of the previous quarter century
steadfastly avoiding convention appearances. However, C*5
to publicize the release of Star Trek Generations, Shatner
agreed to a rare series of speaking engagements at Star Trek CD
conventions around the globe. He was jolted by an
unavoidable dose of reality. s
Shatner was met with wild enthusiasm, love, and good
humor at convention after convention. Touched and
fascinated, he was overwhelmed with the realization that
in almost three decades of starship hopping, he'd never
really taken the time to enjoy or understand Star Trek's
fans or their conventions. That's when the light bulb
clicked on; that's when "Captain Kirk" dove headfirst
into action.
For the past several years, William Shatner has been
treating each Star Trek convention like an enormous
research project. Interviewing fans, dealers, fellow
castmembers, convention organizers, and promoters — even
going undercover beneath alien makeup Shatner's been
scouring convention floors. Having grilled trekkers and
trekkies in all corners of the planet, Shatner's had his eyes
opened and his mind boggled. He's amassed a small
mountain of research material, and cultivated his findings
in Get A Life!

continued on hack flap

ISBN 0-671-02131-1
02131

'76714"02400'
A
•&2S? ^
GET A LIFE!
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2012

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GET A LIFE!

WILLIAM SHATNEK
WITH CHRIS KHESKI

^
POCKET BOOKS
NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY TOKYO SINGAPORE

SOUTH BOSTON
 * POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 1999 by William Shatner and Chris Kreski

and Related Marks are Trademarks of

Star Trek
Paramount Pictures.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue
of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-02131-1

First Pocket Books hardcover printing May 1999

10 987654321
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of
Simon& Schuster Inc. BIOGRAPHY
Printed in the U.S.A. yvi\

lf1
 This is a book about fans. Not the handheld fluttery
kind, disturbing nothing but wind, but the steadfast kind,
those standing on terra firma. The fans who are with you
despite cancellation. The fans who love you despite cata-
strophe. The fans who, with depth and time, become fam-
ily. I am, of course, talking about the fans of Star Trek: The
Trekkies, Trekkers, trekonovich, trekki, and trekoo, and all

the other Trek types. ... 7b them this book is dedicated

with love and affection.
—W. S.

For Amelia, Noah, and Sam, three funny little aliens

who shine brighter than the sun.
— C. K.
/ only work in outer space.

— JAMES T. KIRK
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home

If Spock were here, he'd say that I was an irrational,

illogical human being for going on a mission like

this. . . . Sounds like fun.

— JAMES T. KIRK
Star Trek Generations
•* •

MEA CULPA
April 1999 — Somewhere over the Midwest

A lot of people really love to fly. Go to any airport, in any city,

on any and you can't help but spot them, skipping playfully
day,
along the moving sidewalks, whistling as they check their bags,
always making sure they arrive at least two hours before their
scheduled departure. Kids, adults, old people, these happy pas-
sengers come in all shapes and sizes. Inside the flight cabin,
you'll invariably find them sitting in their assigned seats, buck-
led securely, smiling, sipping slowly at their little plastic cups
full of 7-Up. They are courteous, well-behaved, and cheerful at
all times. They keep their tray tables in the upright and locked
position, and they'd never dream of causing a moment's trouble
for their flight attendants. They're the lively, life-of-the-party
people who'll brighten your flight by yelling "He-e-e-e-e-ere we
go-o-o-o" as you take off, and later, launch into an appreciative
round of applause as you land.
These people make me sick, and I'd like to personally smack
every one of them in the head.
I hate flying; flat-out hate its guts. The boredom, the irrational

fatigue, the god-awful food, the stupid little air-conditioning jets

that blast you from sweltering to freezing in under five seconds,

the midget pillows, the paper-towel blankets, the mile-high Porta
Pottis, the flatulent fat guy who always seems to sit next to me,
4 WILLIAM SHATNER

the fifty-fifty chance of plummeting to the ground in a massive

screaming fireball . . . you name it, I hate it. In real life, I am by
no means "starship captain" material.
Still, wobbly knees and intestines, I'm up in the wild
despite
blue horror all the time. With homes on both sides of the conti-
nent, conventions to attend, film and television locations to
visit, air travel is an absolutely necessary evil for me, but it never

gets any easier. In fact, anyone who's ever seen the old Twilight
Zone gremlin episode, where I got to wreak havoc as an impos-
sibly freaked out coach-class crazy, has witnessed a pretty close

approximation of what I'm like every time I leave LAX.

Without fail, on virtually every aircraft unlucky enough to
welcome me aboard, I find myself gradually succumbing to
fear, monotony, claustrophobia, and a sort of "pressurized
cabin fever." In plainer terms, I go nuts. I can't sit still. I fidget,

I wander, I whimper, I doodle, I hum along with those tinny

airline headphones, I count how many peanuts are packed into

my complimentary foil bag (It's almost always 39.), I play my

Game Boy like a crazed eleven-year-old and then the plane . . .

takes off and it gets even weirder. Let's put it this way: I may be
the only passenger in the history of the airlines stir-crazy
enough to sit through Home Alone 3 . . . twice. Further, were it

not for that legendary drink-cart-squatting, poop-flinging,

drunk-out-of-his-mind businessman who made all the papers a
while back, I believe I might very well qualify as single worst
passenger in the history of global aviation. I believe you get the
picture.
But here I sit, at it again, clumsily poking at my laptop Mac
and cursing the fates as today's 747 wobbles down through a
layer of smoggy turbulence toward the tarmac and yet another
Star Trek convention. Ears pop, babies cry, landing gear ka-
thunks, and we're down — at which point we taxi toward our
gate for just under nineteen weeks.
Finally, in a scene reminiscent of feeding time at the mon-
key cage, the hatch cracks open, and I immediately lunge, quite
 GET A LIFE ! 5

gleefully, past the faux-sincere smiles and "buh-bye now" chat-

tering of today's flight crew, sprinting down through the gate

chute and out into the fluorescent faux-sunshine of the airport.
The chrome, the glass, the indestructible "industrial beige" car-

peting —never before has any place this tacky looked this good.
I'm on the ground, I'm still in one piece, the FAA has made no
attempt whatsoever to incarcerate me . . . my flight's been an
unqualified success. I take a deep breath now, and smile.
Ever notice how every airport smells exactly the same? As
far as I can tell, it's an endlessly recirculated mix of old coffee,

fast-food french fries, newspaper pulp, and a huge collective

cloud of cologne, parfum, and other upscale stinkwaters. Dis-

gusting, yes, but I swear to you, I absolutely love it. Somehow,
over the past thirty years, and countless white-knuckle plane
flights, I believe my subconscious gray matter has come to
equate that distinctively funky airport aroma with official noti-

fication that my airborne torture session's now over, and the

terra-firma fun is about to begin.
It doesn't matter what town I'm in, or what gathering I'm
headed toward, William Shatner's "Star Trek Convention Expe-
rience" always begins right here, with a happy, heaping lungful
of airport funk. It then proceeds pretty much like this.

"shatner" will be black-magic-markered onto a clipboard

sign somewhere within my line of vision. Behind that clip-
board, my driver du jour will be smiling broadly. If I'm attend-
ing a large, well-organized convention, that smile will more
than likely be plastered all over the face of a formally uni-
formed professional chauffeur. If I'm heading toward a smaller,
fan-run gathering, that same smile might come attached to a
fan, a gofer, or whatever convention volunteer owns the clean-
est car. It doesn't matter. I'm always glad to see them, they're
always glad to see me, and together, we're almost always late.

For years, I'd scour the commercial flight schedules in an

effort to time my convention travel flawlessly. Calculator in
hand, I'd figure the airport-to-airport time and distance, factor-
 WILLIAM SHATNER

ing in an estimated drive time from arrival airport to conven-

tion, before finally settling upon whatever flight plan would get
me into town exactly two hours before I'd be due onstage. That
way I could enjoy a leisurely drive from airport to venue, arriv-

ing relaxed, happy, and comfortably ahead of schedule. These

were the best-laid plans of mice and men, but they were also
pitifully unrealistic. After suffering the ubiquitous slings and ar-
rows of unannounced gate changes, airport stack-ups, weather
woes, and perennially sadistic jet-stream hissy fits, my perfect
little travel schedules almost inevitably turned to mush. I'd

estimate that over the years my late arrivals outnumbered the

"on-times" by at least three to one. Punctuality is a bitch.
That's why, once back on Earth, after kissing the ground
and slapping a quick "handshake and hello" on my assigned
driver, we've generally gotta run literally. My sole and
. . .

trusty travel bag is already at my side, but with navigating the

airport, finding the car, and battling the inevitable traffic back
toward the gathering, there's precious little margin for error.

For all of those reasons, with my head down, my eyes lowered,

and using my driver as a sort of moving pick, we're off, com-
bining to plow through the airport at about warp factor six.

Past the airport bookstores that seem to sell only the pa-
perback works of Stephen King and John Grisham, past the gift

shops where you can buy six aspirin tablets for $7.75, as well
as the finest in shrink-wrapped, low-rent "men's magazines"
and last-minute "whoops" souvenirs (" Whoops, I forgot to buy my
kid a T-shirt ). Picking up speed now, we double-time it down
,r

escalators, through corridors, past the duty-free shop, the metal

detectors, and the luggage carousels. Finally, we whoosh
through one last pair of oversized revolving doors, before
breaking out into the April-fresh bus fumes of the parking lot.
At more than half the conventions I attend,
this point, at

there's one last momentary pause, as the driver tries to remem-

ber where the hell he parked the car. Not to worry; ten seconds,
 GET A LIFE! 7

maybe twenty, it always hits them. The lightbulb goes on, the
driver points, the two of us jog, and seconds later we're both
diving into the car. Over the years, I've probably seen more than
a hundred drivers get that panicky "Uh-oh, I'm gonna be wan-
dering all over the parking lot with Shatner" look on their faces,

but never have we failed to find our ride . . . yet. At any rate,

once inside the car, it's time to gun the ignition and roll.

I should also take a moment to note that my "ride" can come

in any number of forms, from a purloined family station wagon
full of baby toys, juice boxes, and half-eaten Happy Meals to a
gaudy, supersized stretch limo that even Liberace would have
described as "a bit much." Don't mention this to convention
runners, but I usually just feel silly in those gigantic "kid at the
junior prom" monsters, and would almost always prefer riding
shotgun in the lived-in, kid-friendly station wagons.
But whatever the car, my driver and I quickly peel away
from the local airport and spend some time seeing the local
sights ... at sixty miles per hour. Barrelling down the highway
that points most directly at today's convention hall, I often get

to sneak quick, blurry glances at whatever points of interest

happen to whiz past. Seattle's Space Needle, the St. Louis
Arch, Nebraska's fabled "House of Mud," you name the land-
mark, I've more than likely spent seven to nine seconds look-
ing at it through a speeding, passenger-side window. With no
time for more conventional sightseeing, my driver and I simply
continue speeding, disregarding local traffic laws until we've
reached the big, bold, highlighted, italicized, starred, and un-
derlined "main event" on today's itinerary. Barring unforeseen
traffic disasters, we'll generally arrive with about thirty minutes
to spare. At which point we head straight for the rancid garbage.
Hotel, convention hall, theater, it doesn't matter; wherever
the Star Trek convention, I always seem to get ushered inside via
the service entrance, which is inevitably flanked by a fleet of
dumpsters wafting pungently with the discarded remains of
 WILLIAM SHATNER

last Tuesday's stuffed-flounder special. Queasy? Excited? I've

no idea, but for some reason, this is invariably the moment
where I'm hit by my first wave of butterflies.
Here and now, it's time to say good-bye to my driver, and
hello to today's convention organizer: in effect, I'm handed off
from one baby-sitter to the next. Another smile, another hand-
shake, and into the kitchen we go. Pots crash, pans clang, and
we press forward through a food-prep area populated by big
guys, in big hats, with even bigger knives, who chop carrots,
point, and whisper back and forth about whether or not I might
be the health inspector. We keep moving.
Down through the bowels of the building now, down
through corridors more familiar to janitors than patrons, we
wander like test mice in a maze. A half-dozen lefts, a half-dozen
rights, we pass maid's carts, dirty-towel bins, dozens upon
dozens of huge plastic garbage bags, and then, just when I'm
sure we're good and lost, we'll hit the backstage area, where I'm
immediately coralled into a curtained-off, makeshift "green
room." The hellos and handshakes multiply now as I'm wel-
comed and glad-handed by convention promoters, coordina-
tors, publicists, and stage personnel. Confirmation of my arrival

begins crackling across walkie-talkies all over the building

more often than not, delivered via some sort of cheesy code
message: "The Eagle has Landed!", "The 411 on 911 is posi-
tive!", "There's a Hooker in the building!", whatever. Now it's

exciting. Now we're getting close.

I can hear the crowd on the other side of the curtain now.
I can gauge their size, soak in their enthusiasm. A rush of
adrenaline begins pounding through me, and I try to maintain
my composure. I take deep, cleansing breaths. I guzzle a bottle
of water. I quickly take one last look at my chicken-scratched
story notes, and I'm ready. I may throw up, but I'm ready. Fi-

nally, mercifully, the house lights dim, the strains of Star Trek's
theme music kick in, and my convention organizer gives me a
 GET A LIFE! 9

thumbs-up. When I return the gesture, they take the stage to in-
troduce me.
"Ladies and gentlemen, William Shatner!" booms a muscle-
bound PA system, at which point, trying very hard to look very
cool, I jog in from behind a curtain, and lose my breath.
Though I've been through this drill literally hundreds of
times now, with every convention entrance, I'm floored all over
again. There's booming applause, and a guaranteed standing
ovation, but I've actually gotten used to that. What I've never
gotten used to, and what I've never come close to experiencing

outside of a Star Trek convention, is the palpable wave of love

that invariably roars forward from these audiences, crashing
down and washing over whatever "featured speaker" is lucky
enough to drown under its wake.
A convention ovation is unmatched, and probably best de-

scribed as a loud, long, percussive "I love you." You can never get
used to it. You can never prepare for it. It's a message that gen-
uinely overwhelms me, every single time it hits. It's unique; a
heartwarming, mind-boggling, ego-inflating, plainly staggering
experience.
Quite obviously, by the time I hit center stage, I'm walking
on air. Adrenaline rushes, my energy skyrockets, and all's right
with the world. For the next hour and fifteen minutes, I get to
telljokes and stories, to answer questions from the floor, to
communicate one-on-one with Star Trek's biggest fans, and
to kid around with my audience. There's always tremendous en-
ergy in the room, applause, laughter, goodwill, and in the mid-
dle of it all, "I'm the man," the six-hundred-pound limburger,
the biggest of all possible cheeses.
Seventy-five minutes later, long before the audience and I

ever come close to catching up with one another, I get the

proverbial hook. The audience "awwww"s at first, then cheers.
I bow. We repeat those last two steps thirty or forty times, and
it's over. I then usually sign a bunch of pictures, say "cheese"
10 WILLIAM SHATXER

into a couple of hundred Instamatics, and head home smiling,

at which point even the airline's turkey tetrazzini tastes good.
And there you have it. We're barely fifteen pages into
this thing, and I'm deeply embarassed to confess that until
fairly recently, what you just read constituted the sum total of
everything knew about Star Trek conventions. Somehow,
I

throughout more than a quarter century of "featured speaker"

appearances. I managed to remain almost entirely ignorant of
the bigger picture, my sole point of view coming from the
podium out.
In effect, while I always had a great time visiting the Trek
fans' parties. I spent decades with absolutely no idea what fu-

eled, or drove, or even necessitated these large-scale love-ins. I

had no idea where Star Trek's conventions came from, nor any
inkling as to how they worked, or what, if anything, they might
have to offer outside the speaker's auditorium. In an even
broader sense. I simply couldn't fathom why Star Trek itself
invoked such rabid and undying loyalty, such enthusiasm,
such public displays of affection, and such slightly aberrant
behavior.
Ebullience, love, friendship, goodwill — I'd seen and felt

even one of those things

7
at every convention I'd ever attended.
It was always thrilling, always enchanting, and always appre-
ciated, but I have to admit I just didn't "get it." I simply
couldn't get a handle on the driving force behind the obses-
sion, couldn't feel the magnetism that tugged at so many fans
with such fervor. In my own mind. I knew Star Trek was a
pretty good television show, but c'mon already, did it really en-

gender all of this?

How could a long-dead television series still inspire seem-
ingly normal grown-ups to paint themselves green? To wear
pointed polyvinyl ears in public? To glue brown rubber
omelettes onto their foreheads while grunting and scratching
and posturing like Klingons? Why would any human being
want to collect little plastic figurines of me or, worse, Leonard?
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