Profound Thought of the Day

Do you remember the TV show, "Sea Hunt?" If so, then you're at least as old as I am. But that's not the point. The point is this: the name of the actor who starred in "Sea Hunt" was Lloyd Bridges (father of Jeff Bridges), but here's the thing... are you ready for the thing?

The thing is that BRIDGES go over water, while Lloyd Bridges went under water.

Did you ever stop to ponder this? If so, Dear Reader, then you have the same problem I do.

More "Cut to the Chase Greeting Cards!"

By Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2010

Here's the latest batch, hot off the press! These are the cards that Hallmark missed, and now, you can actually ORDER THEM FROM ME, Dear Readers. Just shoot me an email (on my profile), and we'll work out an offer you can't refuse. Please also see my June 30, 2010 post, containing the "Birthday Card" and "General Greeting" series--also available for purchase.

And now, without further adieu, I present for your pleasure, the ALL NEW selection of "Cut to the Chase Greeting Cards, " for when tact just won't cut it....

The "Friends and Lovers" Series

#1
(Outside of card)
I'm so sorry about our fight
(Inside of card)
but you're still wrong
and I'm still right

#2
(Outside)
Let's make up
(Inside)
...a big LIE, and say we're still friends

#3
(Outside)
I'm sorry about our falling out
(Inside)
But I wouldn't be sorry
about your falling out
of a 20th story window

#4
(Outside)
You are my reason for living
(Inside)
BY MYSELF

#5
(Outside)
Without you, I'm nothing
(Inside)
Nothing but smiles

#6
(Outside)
How much do I love you?
(Inside)
Not one damned bit

#7
(Outside)
Thinking of you
(Inside)
Every time I throw up

#8
(Outside)
Something's in the air
(Inside)
Your stench

#9
(Outside)
Without you, I'm a wreck
(Inside)
With you, I'm an even bigger f*cking wreck

#10
(Outside)
There's something about you
(Inside)
That gives me dry heaves

#11
(Outside)
I cannot begin to express
how much I love you
(Inside)
Because I don't

#12
(Outside)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
(Inside)
And you SUCK
on f*cking hot ice!

Love 'em? Hate 'em? Wanna BUY the whole freaking LOT? At the very least, leave me comments, and tell me your faves! PS: Just so you know, Dear Readers. I truly love you more than even Hallmark could say. xoxoxox ~kkr

Crime Scene Dictation of the Week

By Karen Kay "Joe Friday" Remus
Copyright 2010

"We found the victim lying in a pool of blood. It was an above the ground pool. I asked him where all the blood had come from. He said he'd cut himself. He had to have been lying."

“William Shatner”

A Free Verse Fiasco
by Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2010

I hate William Shatner
I love William Shatner
I don’t know William Shatner

William Shatner makes me gag
William Shatner makes me cringe
William Shatner fills me with glee

I’m going to call him Bill now
Bill’s been in my head since 1969
Bill on the brain for 41 years

Why is Bill in my head?
Does anyone care?
It doesn’t matter; he’s there to stay

I have a confession to make
I like Leonard Nimoy better (audience gasps)
Leonard Nimoy rocks my casbah

The above verse was a half truth
You decide which half
Len & Bill = apple & orange*

Len & Bill cannot be compared
Me talk like cavewoman now
Want Len & Bill to fight over me

With clubs & bloody fists
The victor dragging me by hair
To love cave


*William of Orange?

The Six Million Dollar Man

Who comes next in Crushville, circa 1970s, after Captain Kirk?

Spock?

Yes.

OK. Who next?

STEVE AUSTIN, of course! The Six Million Dollar Man.

Just now, I'm finding out that I was not alone, way back when in grade school, with my heavy hots for STEVE AUSTIN, The Six Million Dollar Man. In recent years, more than one of my intellectual perverted girlfriends has admitted to having had BIONIC CRUSHES on STEVE AUSTIN, just like me.

"Da da da daaaaaaa, da da da da da da da da daaaaaaaa......" plays the music, as I run slow-motion through my mind field, toward STEVE. "Shht-t-t-t-t-t-t...!" --or however you spell that "sound effect" produced when Steve lifts an airplane off someone, throws a steel girder, or leaps a chasm---"Shht-t-t-t-t-t-t..." goes that sound effect, as he lifts me up, and carries me off to his six million dollar make-out pad.

She's breaking up! She's breaking up!

We can rebuild him. We can make him better. Stronger. Faster.

Oh, how those words filled me with ecstatic bliss each week, knowing I would soon see images of Steve Austin, who, you really couldn't compare with Captain Kirk, because they were in totally different time zones. HOWEVER, they WERE both "astronauts." Interesting! Strange! That never occurred to me before. What is this thing called "love?"

Anyway, my fellow intellectual perverted girlfriends and I never discussed this, but I'd be willing to bet SIX MILLION DOLLARS that they wondered, like me, if Steve had had a bionic.... a bionic....

Did Steve Austin have a bionic....

NO NO NO! This is a "family blog!" I WILL NOT go there, and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!

And yet, I wonder....

I'll bet they replaced it with some cheap, off-the-shelf, vibrating thing. Otherwise, he would have cost Seven Million.

The Seven Habits of Highly Infective People

By Karen Kay Remus Covey Pasteur Shatner
Copyright 2010

WARNING:
The following habits are WAY GROSS to those who do not practice them. Please read at your own risk, preferably with a barf bag in close reach.

#1
Seldom washing any body part--especially hands

#2
Coughing, sneezing, and/or vomiting* uncovered onto others

#3
Picking nose

#4
Eating it
(and offering uneaten portions to bystanders)

#5
Wiping nose and/or mouth with tissue, then immediately wiping public food preparation counter with SAME TISSUE**

#6
Having unprotected sex with multiple anonymous partners--especially with "that gooey stuff always leaking out of" and/or "those funny looking/itchy things on or in" key parts of sex machine.

#7
Health care or food preparation employee wearing same pair of vinyl or rubber gloves ALL DAY FOR EVERYTHING.

*Just learned that this one is punishable by JAIL--AS SHOULD BE ALL THE REST!

**Actually witnessed this one at a Subway (fast food sandwich chain).

Hey, William Shatner and/or his people: are you getting all of this?! What do you think? Talk to me. Read my older posts too. Don't be shy. Bill, Darling, I know you're not shy.

PS: I love you

Kardashian Sisters Hit the---WHO CARES??!!!

Ooooo! "Kardashian Sisters Hit the Beach!" Big freakin' headline. Who the f--- cares? I MIGHT read an article or view the pictures if the title were, "Kardashian Sisters Wash Up On Beach." I don't mean "wash up" in the sense of washing themselves with luffa sponges and expensive moisturizing soaps from Bath & Body Works. I mean "wash up" in the sense of sun-bloated, stinking trout carcasses, tangled in seaweed. Anybody have a problem with that? Bring it on!

"Cut to the Chase" Greeting Cards

by Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2010
All Rights Reserved by the Artist*

Please note: the following greeting cards are printed in black ink, in Times Roman font, on white cardstock, without any decoration whatsoever.

Birthday Card Series (for ages 39 & up)

#1
Outside of card: What's Older than Dirt?
Inside of card: YOU!**

#2
Outside: On this Special Day...
Inside: You Are F*cking ANCIENT

#3
Outside: Happy Birthday!
Inside: You G*ddam Ancient M*ther F*cker


General Greeting Series

#1
Outside: I Hate You!
Inside: (blank)

#2
Outside: I Love You!
Inside: (insert porn photo of self)

#3
Outside: After all these Years...
Inside: You still suck

#4
Outside: (blank)
Inside: GO F*CK YOURSELF!

*If you try to rip me off, believe me: either I or my boy, William Shatner, WILL come after you (with phasers NOT on "stun").

**Just sent this one to older brother. Awaiting reaction.

Bad Names for Health Care Institutions

1. Yankee Dental
2. Yikes Institute
3. Probes, Slaughter, Payne, & Gore
4. Blast Masters Procto Palace
5. Jiffy Spine
6. Bubba Guts Gastroplasty
7. Jimmy Crack Bones Chiropractic
8. Eyeballz R Us (or ...'Z Us)
9. Direct to Morgue
10. Gizzard Fix
11. Whack Job Day Surgery
12. Staples

What's in a Name?

In my last post, I mentioned Caster Semenya, who, for those of you even less informed about sports than I am (if that's possible), is an astonishingly fast, young, female runner, accused of being a man and therefore, possibly stripped of her right to compete.

My heart goes out to her, because she was born the way she is, she was born to run, and yet she is being subjected to public scrutiny and possibly being barred from doing the one thing at which she excels most. Can't there simply be a human league for non-contact sports? Or was that just a bad '80s band?

And here's another question: does anyone besides me notice an ironic connection between her name and her predicament? I mean, woe to the male athlete named Hyster Ovaria.

99.9% Me and .1% William Shatner

I don't know who said it first, but a particularly wise gem of writing advice that's always stuck with me is: "write what you know." This adage greatly appeals to me, not only because writing what you know will yield your most passionate result, but because I am lazy and don't want to research things that don't interest me.

For example, I am mainly driven to write comedic memoirs, because they really happened, I naturally see things from a humorous perspective, and I don't want to invest one nanosecond of precious time digging into some phenomenon deemed "important" by the masses, but about which I couldn't give a rat's filthy, pointy-tailed, hiney. Like sports, for example. I know I'm going out on a limb here and risking the wrath of sports fans, but I really don't give a flying, flaming f*ck about sports unless: 1) there's something interesting about a particular athlete, as in the case of Caster Semenya, 2) a close relative is involved (my niece = volleyball star), 3) it's beautiful and artistic to watch once a year, like Olympic figure skating, or 4) William Shatner is involved, which brings me to the real topic of this post: What the HELL is this blog about, anyway?

As stated in the subtitle of my blog, it's 99.9% about me and .1% about William Shatner. That's because I write what I know. All I know about William Shatner is based on his old TV & film performances, the fact that I posed for a photo with him once in 1987 at the Grand Rapids MI "Autorama," stuff I've read by and about him in various "Star Trek" memoirs, little news snippets I've seen and heard over the years, and his "Negotiator" performances in PriceLine commercials. That is to say: Not Much.

By contrast, I know more about me than anyone--that is, from my perspective. Here's a little poem to illustrate the point...

My life: I hold a PhD
Schooled in every facet
If I gave a test on me
Only I could pass it

(And no one else would care,
so what would be the point?)

When I first started this blog, I felt as if its title locked me into writing about William Shatner, but you know what? Here's what: I appreciate The William, and he's always served as a symbol of strength, success, amusement, and extreme drama in my life, but I know very little about him. Me on the other hand--I've been connected with intimately for what will be 46 years this July. You'd think in all that time, I'd know what I wanted to be when I grew up, or at least what this blog was about, but all I know right now is that I'm really tired and must go to bed.

Off of the Couch and onto the Wall

On May 22nd, 2010, I posted a photo of my IKEA Lillberg sofa, upon which I had painted 3 Van Gogh reproductions. What I did not post, was that I had also submitted the photo to IKEA, along with a proposal to create designs for them in the same vein. IKEA has since sent me a very gracious rejection letter--frankly, I was surprised that they acknowleged my effort at all--and I have since mounted the paintings on stretcher bars and hung them on our bedroom wall (pictured above). I also bought new slipcovers from IKEA, so that our couch is once again comfortable. As noted in my earlier post, sitting against dried, impasto, acrylic paint is darned unpleasant. Duh.

New, Improved, Question of the Day

What's gooey and sings, "My Way?"

A. Frank Snotra
B. Elvis Pusly
C. Sid Viscous
D. All of the above

If you answered "D," you're correct!

If you're aware of any other stars who've covered, "My Way," please let me know, and I'll add them to the list (with appropriate name alterations).

Question of the Day

What's green, runny, and sings, "My Way?"

"The Right Prescription" A Short Work of Fiction by Karen Kay Remus

Dr. Myra Puddles was a successful young American vascular surgeon. She was so involved in her booming practice that she had no time for a social life, and her family was always giving her grief about it. "You work so hard and make so much money, but you never allow yourself time to enjoy it," said her mother, her sister, her aunt, her cousin, and her 10-year-old learning-disabled niece.

Myra was 38 years old and had yet to find true love. She had very high standards and no time to date, so she had never married or even been in a serious relationship before. Her family gave her grief about this also. "You should get out more, find a nice man, and settle down," said her mother, her sister, her aunt, and her cousin. The niece couldn't have cared less on this score, and figured it was none of her business, anyway.

So one night, after an exhausting work week, and an an even more exhausting cumulative dose of nagging by various family members, the good doctor made a decision: to take that bike tour in Ireland she'd been dreaming about for years. The next day she arranged to take two weeks of vacation--her first ever--and fly to Ireland.

As she mounted her bicycle on the first day of the 100-mile tour of Irish countryside, she was overwhelmed with a feeling of joy and freedom that she had never before experienced. "There's so much more to life than vascular surgery!" She practically screamed out loud.

Michael, the bike tour leader, was drop-dead gorgeous, fit as a fiddle, and barely comprehensible, as he delivered the tour spiel in his heavy Irish brogue. "Could you repeat that please?" Myra asked a total of 19 times during the first day's 20 mile ride. She almost asked a 20th time, but stopped short when she replayed his remark in her head and realized that she had understood. She also realized that she was in love.

To make a long story short, Michael fell in love with Myra and asked for her hand in marriage on the last day of the bike tour. They were married in Ireland and moved back to the US, where Myra resumed her surgical practice, and Michael worked as a rocket scientist by day and folk singer by night. They were high on love and knew they would be for the rest of their lives. Everyone was ecstatic, including Myra's family, who were inspired to get lives of their own and stop nagging her.

However, after a few months of Myra's marriage and return to the US, her once thriving surgical practice completely dried up. No one could figure it out. But you know what? She didn't care, because for the first time in her life, she was truly happy. She also discovered a knack for Irish singer/songwriter management and lived happily ever after.

That concludes the story of retired vascular surgeon, Dr. Puddles-O'Blood.

Couch Painting

I just finished painting my Ikea couch cushions after VanGogh's: "The Sower," "Starry Night," and "Enclosed Field with Rising Sun." Painting my plain, stain-prone couch sounded like a great idea at the time, but after investing so much labor, I've discovered that dried, impasto, acrylic paint is damned uncomfortable to sit against. Duh. So I've decided to buy new, patterned cushion covers and stretch my painted reproductions on stretcher bars like proper paintings.

The Call Back and the Photo Story.

Great news! I got called back to work and so did William Shatner. I was going to describe my work as "glorified data entry," except that it's not glorified, so I'll just say that I'm back to my old, paying job.

Shatner's work is starring in a new sitcom as an opinionated father whose kid posts his rants on Twitter. Now that's glorified. He's getting paid to do what he loves, in a highly visible, creative medium, as he has for decades. That's what I've always wanted to do, and have tried, but haven't achieved so far. The amazing thing about Shatner's career is it's unparallelled length and diversity. The amazing thing about my career is...nothing. Yet. You can't even really call it "career." But that's a subject for another post.

The subject of this post was going to be what I'd initially set out to do in this blog: explain how I obtained a picture of myself in a dressing room in 1987 with William Shatner standing behind me, gripping my upper arms, beaming like he's my dad. In fact, when I showed this photo to my co-workers at the time, they asked, "Is that your dad?" I wished. No one realized it was William Shatner, which was a big let down.

Yes, I was finally going to tell the tail, but now I'm mentally exhausted after a long grueling day of unglorified data entry, and I'm afraid, Dear Reader, that in my current condition, I cannot do my story justice. So in the words of Scarlett O'Hara , "tomorrow is another day." God as my witness, I'm going to post this cotton picking story if it's the last thing I ever do in this fleeting plane of existence! Please stay tuned.

Boom-boom’s Dilemma, or Sex and the Pity

My friend Natasha has a friend, Boom-boom, who I’ve only met once or twice. By Natasha’s accounts, and by my own brief observations, I have concluded that Boom-boom is an extraordinarily sexually-obsessed, exhibitionistic, 60 year old woman. I have no problem with that. Whatever floats your boat. The problem is that Boom-boom could not attract a fly, if she were flypaper. William Shatner in drag could get more man-action than Boom-boom, and that’s where the tragedy lies.

Like Boom-boom, Natasha is an older, sexually-driven, single woman, but unlike Boom-boom, she is a total fox and has no problem quenching her manthirst. Natasha constantly tries to mentor Boom-boom in the ways of foxiness, but Boom-boom just ain’t havin’ it. Consequently, Boom-boom just ain’t gettin’ any. All Boom-boom gets is angrier and angrier.

You know, Dear Reader, I firmly believe there is hope for everyone in the nookie department. For one thing, if you haven’t got great looks, personality really is the final frontier. I would go so far as to say that personality is 9/10ths of attractiveness. For example, a woman who looks like Truman Capote can go from a “-6” to a “10,” if she has a knock-out personality (and probably some money).

Anyway, Natasha had lunch with Boom-boom today, and no sooner had they sat down, than Boom-boom announced loudly, “I REALLY NEED SOME D--- (slang for male sexual part)!” That was even before the waiter arrived. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had some D___!” She went on. Apparently, her two prospects for “D____” hadn’t touched her in months. So on top of her repellant appearance, she has a negative, pissed off, personality--a killer combo that I call the, “nympho nightmare.”

I agree with Natasha that Boom-boom could be attractive and far healthier if she would merely take care of herself—you know, bathe, exercise, eat right, get enough sleep, drink alcohol in moderation… But no, she loves the night life. She likes to boogie (in place). “Men should want me for who I am!” insists Boom-boom. OK. Whatever. We tried.

Natasha is always taking Boom-boom out in an attempt to get her some AK-SHON (she’s got so much to geeuv!), as if Natasha’s foxiness will somehow rub off on her. Once, they went to “Ladies Night” at a local bar, and when Boom-boom was asked for ID at the door, she lifted up her shirt and flashed the guy her enormous, bra-less, tiddies.

Now, the average straight guy normally likes giant tiddies, but not when they’re attached to a flabby, warty, 60 year old, built like a brick sh*thouse, with Earnest Borgnine’s head. The man recoiled. “Uh, ma’am,” he stammered, “you are not permitted to do that here.” Obviously, that wasn’t the desired response.

Natasha never actually witnesses Boom-boom’s “success stories,” but she sure hears enough of them. Like the one where Boom-boom goes to Applebee’s by herself, strikes up a conversation with some dude at the bar, and 15 minutes later, they’re in the back of his van in the parking lot. Or the one where she meets a guy online, arranges to meet him in person, and they wind up in bed, pouring chocolate syrup all over each other.

Once I joined Natasha and Boom-boom for lunch. I was silent for the most part, eating, listening to their guy stories. Boom-boom was delivering a high-pitched, nasal, monologue to the effect of, “...and then he did this, and then he said that, and...bla bla bla...something something...bla bla...my dentures...”

Wait a minute. *Gulp*

“Did you say you wear dentures?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. It caught me off-guard.

“Yes!” snapped Boom-boom, almost sending them flying into her sushi.

I guess there are two things one should never ask a lady: 1) whether or not she is pregnant, and 2) whether or not she wears dentures—even if you think she just said, “...my dentures.”

Well, if she didn’t want me to know, then why did she mention them?

In conclusion, I think the main emotion that binds Natasha to Boom-boom is pity. Both share an enormous enthusiasm for sex, but Natasha gets lots of it, and Boom-boom doesn’t. Boom-boom’s dilemma is similar to that of the aspiring opera singer with a laryngectomy. However, unlike the ill-fated opera singer, Boom-boom’s lot is reversible. She could be fit and healthy, if only she would try. That’s what’s frustrating to me. At the end of a recent lunch date, Natasha reported that when she hugged Boom-boom, she smelled like “Funky P____ (slang for female reproductive part).” Come on, girl! Every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Yours should be into the shower.

Pet Peeve of the Day

Today's Pet Peeve: People in authority over me who are at least 10 times MORE STUPID than I am.

I am temporarily laid-off and collecting unemployment benefits. Although my employer has promised to call me back within a month or so, the Department of Labor (hereafter, DOL) still requires me to apply for several new jobs each week. I play their game to avoid losing my benefits--and who knows?--maybe I’ll find an enjoyable new job that won’t lay me off.

So a few weeks ago, I applied for a job on the DOL website. One week after applying, the employer sent me a job offer letter, sight unseen, and phone unheard. Now you must understand that in my “real profession” (that is, the one that pays), a sight-unseen job offer is a huge RED FLAG, signaling desperation, high-turnover, lack of professional standards, and a host of other bad things.

I actually had doubts when faxing my resume, due to the employer's strange name, which strongly suggested: 1) Starting with "A," merely to appear first in the phone book, and 2) English as a 2nd language, learned from someone for whom English was a 3rd language. A close approximation of the name is "APlus Everything Solution," hereafter, referred to as "APES." I should have known better, but I had to make my application quota. By the way, "APlus" is one word.

When I finally reached APES on the phone, the representative who I'll call, "Krista," couldn't answer any of my questions but said she'd refer them to--I kid you not--"Snookie," the CEO. This name has been slightly altered to protect the probably-not-so-innocent, but I swear to you, Dear Reader, that "Snookie" captures the vibe of the true name exactly. Krista also invited me to a combination orientation/interview in a city 2 hours away from me, at which, I would meet Snookie face-to-face.

All of my senses were on high alert, especially my common sense. I REALLY didn't want to follow through with APES, but since "work refusal" could revoke my unemployment benefits, I figured I'd better inform someone at the DOL. I called a DOL Specialist, "Steve," whom I had met before and trusted. Steve completely understood my reservations about APES and Snookie and all, but he said I would need to come to the DOL in person next Tuesday at 7:30 AM and make a verbal statement with a "Claims Specialist"

That Tuesday was yesterday, and, Dear Reader, that encounter directly inspired Today's Pet Peeve: people in authority over me who are ten times more stupid than I am. I arrived at 7:2o AM, and stood in the long line of fellow Americans that had formed outside the cold, dank, DOL building. Some smoked. Some talked. Some b*tched. Some almost got into physical altercations when some guy let a lady in pajamas cut in front of him in line...

To make a long story short, I was there from 7:30 AM to 9:00 AM. When I finally met with the "Claims Specialist," who I'll call "Ms. Shrew," and explained my situation, producing all necessary documents, she said (after not having listened to a word I had said), "I cannot take a verbal statement from you because NOTHING HAS TRANSPARENT."

"Nothing has transparent?" I asked.

"Nothing has actually happened," she replied, condescendingly.

Condescension + Word Ignorance = THE WRATH OF ME (10 x worse than the wrath of Shatner).

She had obviously meant, "TRANSPIRED" but didn't know the freaking correct word! Plus, she didn't listen to me, refused to help me, and treated me like crap.

When I got home, I called Steve and told him what had TRANSPIRED with the so-called "Claims Specialist," Ms. Shrew. He was very understanding (he deals with this crap ALL THE TIME) and transferred me to his supervisor, with whom, I think I got it all straightened out.

Later, it ocurred to me that I could have replied to Ms Shrew, "Maybe nothing has transparent, but from where I'm sitting, a whole sh*tload has opaque."

Multiple Choice Question of the Day

What is the difference between gangrene and Lorne Greene?

A. One is really the color green, while the other is not.

B. One died in 1987, while the other will probably exist until the end of life on Earth, as we know it.

C. One is an actor, best known for his role as Ben Cartwright on Bonanza,* while the other is a death of tissue, commonly caused by Clostridium perfringens.

D. One stinks, while the other does not.

E. Both stink; there is no difference.

*Lesser known for his role as Commander Adama, in Battlestar Galactica--a cheap imitation of Captain Kirk in the original Star Trek (played brilliantly, flawlessly, and gut-wrenchingly, by none other than William Shatner).

Me + Dreams + Magic 8 Ball + William Shatner = ?

What has William Shatner done for me lately? Well, appeared in my dream last night, for one thing. I rarely dream about William Shatner, despite what my blog title may imply. In the dream, by some sketchy, accidental occurance, William Shatner and I were to appear together in a stand-up comedy routine at a small nightclub. I was supposed to write our material. Shatner and I had known about the gig for several months but hadn't contacted each other. My "script" consisted only of a vague notion that we would do a short, improvised scene involving a Magic 8 Ball. You know, that wonderful decision-making tool with all the answers, like, "You May Rely on it," and "My Sources Say No," that NEVER EVER LIES, so you must be careful what you ask.

Suddenly, gig night was upon us, and I met William in the backstage dressing room area. We didn't know each other (as in real life) and his tone toward me was distant and superior. However, that tone was a bit confused by the fact that he was wearing a DRESS. At first, I thought nothing of it, but as we discussed the sketch, I thought, "Wait a minute. Why is he wearing a colorful, circa-1970s, mu-mu shift?" I didn't dare ask, because he was ROYALLY PISSED OFF about my improv idea. He had wanted a straight-up SCRIPT. "I don't DO improv!!" He forcefully declared with every ounce of Shakesperian indignation he could muster while wearing a mu-mu.

I was crushed! I felt like I do in dreams where I'm about to take an exam for which I didn't study--and on top of that--THE WRATH OF SHATNER. I guess this "dream" was really a "nightmare." I had let him down, and there was nothing worse than that. Yet, the show had to go on, and he was going to go through with it--without me--as a punishment.

He went on stage by himself, having changed into black jeans and a red sweater. Looking sharp. I was glad he had ditched the mu mu. Although he was doing it solo, he did take my my Magic 8-Ball idea plus a translucent trash bag (the trash bag was his idea). Basically, his act consisted of asking profound questions of the universe, while swinging the Magic 8 Ball around at the bottom of the large trash bag, like a mace. When he was done asking and swinging, he would hold the 8 Ball up above his head, stretching the trash bag tightly over it, with the excess bag hanging down like a tail, and read the answer through the bag. Now that I think of it, this is a physical impossibility, since the Magic 8 Ball must be read in the upright position (so that the "answer thingy" can float to the top). But hey, it was a dream, so I cut William Shatner some slack (like his tailor).

What was the meaning of this dream? Did it have any meaning at all? Hey, I know! I'm going to ask the Magic 8 Ball (which I have in real life)!

Magic 8 Ball, did my dream about William Shatner last night have any meaning? "Cannot Predict Now," replies the 8 Ball. I'm not surprised, as this dream was pretty darned HEAVY. I'll give the 8 Ball some time to digest, and ask it again later.

ME (and william shatner)

Question: Has there ever been a picture, motion or otherwise, of William Shatner and another person, in which William Shatner was NOT the focus?
Answer: Not if William Shatner had anything to do with it.

I've read complaints by past co-stars that he would hog all of the close-ups and most flattering camera angles to their diminishment. Well, all I can say to that is: cut him some slack, people! His tailor does.* He's William Shatner, for Pete's sake. No further explanation needed. Case closed.

*Nowadays, that is. Back in the Star Trek TV era, his tailors cut him a conspicuous LACK of slack--especially in the pants department.

Kung Fu Grip

Move over, GI Joe with Kung Fu Grip. William Shatner has your sorry plastic behind SO WHOOPED in this department! Just look at the evidence (see photo exhibit WSKFG above). For approximately 20 seconds in 1987, William Shatner actually gripped my arms bilaterally (with my full consent, of course) at the deltoid/biceps junction, thus permanently instilling in me ETERNAL SHATNER MAGIC. To this day, my arms still have incredible muscle definition in this area.

Me & William Shatner: The Photo, Part II

And then one day in 1987, something interesting happened: WLAV, the local rock radio station, announced that...

We interrupt this story about the photo of Me and William Shatner to bring you a special news bulletin: I don’t freaking feel like writing about William Shatner today! In fact, I haven’t felt like writing about William Shatner for FOUR DAYS now, and there’s nothing anyone, including William Shatner, can do about it! No, I haven’t suddenly become a Shatnerphobe or Shatnostic; I am just, for whatever reason, all Shat out at this juncture, and I need some space.* Today I exercise my First Amendment right of Shatner-free speech. Yes, I may be writing his name repeatedly, but you will note that there is not one shred of Shatner-rich content behind it. It’s like diet soda, except it won’t give you cancer, and it’s I-Can’t-Believe-it’s-not-about-William-Shatnerlicious.

*The final frontier.

Me & William Shatner: The Photo, Part 1

The year was 1987. Ronald Reagan ruled the West, Madonna ruled the rest, and small, portable cell phones were still the stuff of science fiction. I had just graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Nursing—a field for which, I could not have possibly been more ill-suited—and begun working full time, second shift, as a hospital oncology nurse. This job so drained every ounce of my 23 year old being, that at the end of a work night, all I could do was sit zombified on the couch, watching re-runs of the original “Star Trek” series that, thank God, came on at 11:30 PM. I called it, “warping out.” At that time in my life, William Shatner as Captain Kirk, may well have been the only thing standing between me and a future of gurgling, ranting, heavily medicated, lunacy.

To Everything There is a Season

...A time to be born, a time to die. A time to sow, a time to reap. A time to kill, a time to heal. A time to talk about William Shatner, a time to refrain from talking about William Shatner. Yes, there is actually a time to stop talking about William Shatner (like, for example, when it's time to "get a life"), but that time is not now. Now is the time for all good men and women to write, read, and yak their fool heads off about the greatest thespian of all time, William Shatner. So without further adieu, I am pleased (and mortified) to present the 100% true story of "Me and William Shatner."

No Shatner Bashing

People who don't like William Shatner are what I like to call, well, "idiots," for one thing, but more scientifically, "Shatnerphobes." There are basically three kinds of people in this world: Shatnerphiles (that's me), Shatnerphobes, and Shatnostics (a tiny minority of persons unaware of the existence of William Shatner). It is my hope that one day all 'phobes & 'nostics will attain enlightenment, and learn to live in peace and harmony with William Shatner.

One More Thing

Actually, I must add one more thing before relating the amazing tale of how my prized possession, a photo of me and William Shatner, came to be. I was recently laid off from my "real job" for two months. Upon receiving this news, my first thought was, "What am I going to do during this time to pay my monster debt?!" I was all in a tizzy. Then a calm washed over me, and I thought, "WWWSD?" At times of great crisis, Dear Reader, I highly recommend asking yourself this simple question. What would he do? Well, whatever he'd do in any given situation, you can darn well bet he'd do it with intense, dramatic flair, by God! For several minutes, I had no idea WWSWD, but I remained calm, breathed deeply, and searched my inner Shatner. Then it came to me. He would start a blog. That blog would be entitled, "Me: William Shatner." And it would be good.

Me and William Shatner

That's me and William Shatner in 1987. I'd love to tell you that we met (both single, of course), sparks flew, and the rest is history. But alas, this photo is just one of thousands that Bill has undoubtedly posed for with persons whom he neither knew nor cared for one iota. I guess I'm going to have to tell you the awful, embarrassing, and awfully embarrassing truth about how this photo came to be. Eh hem. Are you ready? Here goes...
First, I must preface my story by pointing out that my appreciation of William Shatner is neither obsessive nor unhealthy. It is simply based on his being one of the greatest actors/artists of our time, and I'm not just talking "Star Trek." He's on par with Orson Welles, and in fact, he sort of reminds me of Welles and vice verse. I would have called my blog "Me and Orson Welles," if I'd had a picture of us together. Or, "Me, Orson, and Bill," if I could have managed such a dreamy photo op. Whew. It's getting hot in here! (Sipping on water. Fanning self daintily) Now back to our story...