Stone Cold Shatner
I’m not ordinarily a squeamish person. I live with four kids and two dogs, one with a serious slobber problem. The dog, that is, and I’m talking about flying slobber of nuclear proportions. So it takes a lot to make me squirm. But the news report of William Shatner’s kidney stone going for $25,000 on the open market did induce a slight stomach flip in me. I think it was just the images burned into my brain as I imagined the packaging and handling issues.
But my initial repulsion quickly turned into fascination as I thought about the deeper implications of the story. My first question, of course, was who would buy this questionable trophy? GoldenPalace.com is already infamous for its collection of oddities. Said collection includes a partially eaten grilled-cheese sandwich thought to contain the image of the Virgin Mary. Keep in mind that I’m not allowed to lie in these columns. Kind of makes Shatner’s expelled body parts pale in comparison, doesn’t it? Both artifacts pose certain sanitary challenges, but I’m guessing the Virgin Mary trumps Hollywood. Although why she’d choose to reveal herself in a lunch plate is puzzling.
And that brings us to the deeper issues of motive and ego. I’m trying not to picture William Shatner enduring hours of bathroom agony, only to emerge triumphant, stone in sweaty hand, dollar signs flashing in his wild eyes. How did he make that leap? At what point did it occur to him that there was money to be made in this misery? And if you think I’m kidding, consider this: he turned down the initial offer of $15,000 and counter-offered the final tag of $25,000. You have to reluctantly admire an ego of such monstrous proportions. Give him props for sheer gall, and I don’t mean stones. Let’s not give him any ideas.
It would be nice if I could look down on Shatner from a lofty perch onhigh, casting judgments on his ego and our celebrity-driven culture, and I’d be happy to do it, too, if it wasn’t for that dastardly Norman Fell. You remember, Mr. Roper from “Three’s Company”? Years ago he came into the restaurant where I worked, causing a major frenzy among the other waitresses. I watched it all from the exalted heights of my coolness, of course, scorning their excitement. When he sat at my station it seemed like a prime opportunity to display my vast superiority and as I strolled to his table, arctic breezes blew in my wake. You know, my coolness dispelling and all. That is, until I reached the table and he actually talked to me. I was probably the only one surprised by the sudden case of rubber-legs that came upon me, and my sputtered words made our conversation difficult. I crawled away from that table a humbled and broken woman, a shell of my former self. I did, however, still have my gall stones. Any takers?
TrackBack URL for this entry:
Post a comment