Like all kids everywhere ever, I watched an inordinate amount of television growing up. So one of the strangest elements of boarding-school life was the sudden absence of in-room TV. It was completely prohibited. The faculty had it, obviously—they even had cable. I couldn’t see why I should be deprived of the delights of Seinfeld and Jennifer Aniston just because the guidebook said so. There was no way I could splice and hook up an illegal cable line. But I knew some nerds who could.
I outsourced to the AV club, using a two-pronged attack of flattery and a light accusation, suggesting such a technical feat would be completely beyond them. Obviously this provoked the geeks into action to the point where they were dying to hook up my cable and prove their worth. They tapped into the dorm parent’s supply and ran the wires across my ceiling and into a TV hidden under a box, just in case there was a sudden room search. They never caught me, or it. Not until I left and they found the whole setup during maintenance. I’m still proud of that.
So now I was the only kid on campus with a TV hookup. The notion that I’d fucked the rules so thoroughly was even more satisfying than night after night of illicit Letterman. It was risky and illegal. Discovery would mean immediate suspension. But I loved the excitement connected to this, the same buzz every criminal feels. Plus it had the added perk of attracting young ladies into my room, like slutty bees to honey.
“You wanna come over, watch Sex and the City, order Chinese food, play with my Clapper?” It never failed.
Legions of girls in my room was obviously pretty sweet, but to me, it was all about the game. Just winning in unconventional ways. Positive reinforcement through beating the system. Getting out of these manufactured obligations. Not having to do what other people had to do. The school had in place every system necessary for me to learn and destroy, everything I needed to subsequently survive in New York City society. It was such a concentrated microcosm, the perfect storm of self-help and self-instruction.
It was like a fortress of privilege, and I became a master of creatively breaking the rules, getting into trouble, and then figuring out a solution. The perfect grounding for life beyond central New Hampshire. Getting known for being hated. And they all fucking hated me. The faculty, the kids, the town. I looked like a Jewish Thurston Howell, didn’t give a shit, completely manipulated all of them, and was banging the prettiest girl in school. Oh, didn’t I mention that? Yes, the hottest girl in school was on my arm—and elsewhere.
Everyone wanted her. She was incredible. She appeared at least five or six years older than she was, looking completely indecent in dress code. The first time I spotted her I nearly totaled my golf cart. To this day I don’t know how I pulled it off, but she was all mine.
She was to provide possibly the most important lesson I learned at that time. My tenure at Brewster Academy was finally coming to an end. The relief was palpable on all sides. From being this little sprat, scared of everything and daunted by the rules, to by the last year fucking owning the place. At least in my own mind. Everyone there knew who I was. Everyone. As I stood there at graduation, all I could think was “How the fuck did I get away with that?” There were some incredibly close calls, and the threat of military academy was dangled over me. Nonstop push-ups in a violently homoerotic atmosphere was not something I particularly desired. Perhaps the school didn’t want to deal with the paperwork or my mother’s hysterical crying jag that my expulsion would have initiated, but in any case they let me slide, and I stood there with the rest of my graduating class, wearing a goofy hat. I smiled at Doucheborn throughout the ceremony.
I was a legend when I split. The scars I left on the institution still remain to this day. While not mentioning me by name, the student handbook has been revised to reinforce the very rules I circumvented. So I escaped and headed off to college, feeling pretty cocky. I still had my hot high school girlfriend but let my guard down. Big mistake. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say, and she cheated on me pretty much the second Lake Winnipesaukee froze over. I was heartbroken but way the fuck wiser. That’s what I learned. Don’t let them forget you. You have to keep your profile up, or else you’ll be miserable, alone, and embarking on an Olympic-scale blow habit.
What I Learned in Boarding School
It’s not what you know but who you know. Having a man on the inside is invaluable.
If at first you don’t succeed, outsource.
If there’s no law against it, then it’s legal. Make them change the law if they want you to stop.
There’s nothing noble in overachieving. Overunderachieving is more impressive.
Anything can be turned into a performance.
Negative attention can turn into positive results.
Invoke the power of the euphemism. I could never be a water boy, but director of student athletics was something I could live with.
Embarrassment can stop you doing a lot of fun things.
You have to reinvent to be remembered.
No one gives a shit what you did in high school.
Lesson 2: Circumventing the Circumcision
The fucking nerve. The fucking nerve of looking at me and saying, “Here’s your little box. Hop in, and keep your trap shut.” As if that could possibly apply to me.
But that’s what I was facing, growing up in Scarsdale, New York. It was as regimented and defined as the Indian caste system, but with BMWs instead of tuk-tuks. Despite the huge amount of money and privilege sloshing around, no one had any freedom, with everyone pinned down by this fear of being considered “different.” Your status was defined by your perceived successes.
“My daughter won the spelling bee.”
“My son scored the winning home run.”
Who gives a shit? Get to the back of the tremendously long line of everyone else who has done that. When I was young, I didn’t know what I wanted to do; I just knew I didn’t want that. I didn’t want anyone pointing at me and saying, “Here’s what you’re going to be.” Firstly, I didn’t think any of these people were in a position to dictate. They didn’t seem so happy to me—it appeared as if they constantly lived their lives in fear of not living up to each other. Secondly, I knew the roles being offered weren’t for me. Having letters after your name impressed characters like my mother, which is exactly why I had no interest in pursuing any of those things.
It became a defining tenet of my life, circumventing the circumcision. And this has nothing to do with the biblical. I’m not saying you should do anything in particular with your foreskin, either pro or anti. Lop it off, sew it back on, have it pierced—I don’t give a shit as long as I don’t have to see it. I’m talking about embarking on an alternative rite of passage.
My mother can’t even say “Jew” out loud, for Christ’s sake. She covers her mouth and whispers the word. It’s adorably hilarious. She’s convinced that anyone in the retail or liveried transportation industries who hears about our religious inclinations is going to either jack up the price, blow us up, or spit in our entrees. We’d already been transformed from the Liebowitzes to the Lees by my great-grandfather, who wanted to get into showbiz. The die was cast. We were to be “quiet Jews” like the other Jews of Scarsdale. Just Jewish enough to represent but not be noticed.
Again, I hated the idea that I had to suppress my heritage or present it in an “acceptable” way. So I became a “Super Jew,” as the New York Post delights in calling me. It drives my family crazy, but I’m determined to circumvent the circumcision.
“Justin, can’t you cut out all the Jewish stuff?” my dad demands every time I see him. You see, we worked very hard to get accepted as Lees, and suddenly I’m dragging us back down into the last century.
This is the same guy who wanted me to become an investment banker. No, he demanded that I become an investment banker. Can you imagine walking into an office building, carrying a bag with a big dollar sign on it, and handing it over to me? I’d go on shopping sprees for shiksas. What a fucking joke.
No, I figured out pretty
quickly that these predetermined paths ascribed to you led directly to an ugly wife, fat kids, and a gut full of misery. You need to run kicking and screaming in the opposite direction of that train wreck.
There seems to be some weird shame attached to non-conformity. As if you’re letting someone down if you don’t do exactly what was expected of you. Who are you letting down for fuck’s sake? Jesus? Buddha? Your parents? They’ll be long dead while you’re still trudging to the same soul-destroying nine-to-five.
Why excel at mediocrity? There are plenty of people doing that already. Consider your talents, figure out what gets you wet or hard, and strive to focus on that. And if you piss people off along the way, then you’re obviously doing something right.
CHAPTER 3
CON-UKKAH! GETTING
AWAY WITH ANYTHING
The judge, in my opinion, looked remarkably like a scrotum. An angry, elderly scrotum with a thin, pubish beard that failed to help the whole scrotal resemblance. This prick surveyed his courtroom and the motley collection of filth, degenerates, and subpar Mass Pike hookers that make up a decent proportion of the greater Boston metropolitan area and looked as if someone had just placed a shitty dick atop his gavel.
Front and center, standing amongst these dregs, was my good self. I was dressed to the nines. My sartorial game was on point, Ralph Lauren himself may have considered my ensemble “a little too much.” Smooth, coiffured, pressed, exuding privilege and good breeding. I epitomized affluence and the obvious, God-given expectation that I deserved a different tier of justice than the sickening collection of excreta currently cluttering up my eyeline.
Obviously I felt far superior to my courtmates. And in the eyes of the law I was also superior. Just not in a good way. I was the ringleader of these delinquents. I had instigated and then evolved into the head rabble-rouser of a mildly disruptive incident that snowballed into a serious fracas and finally blew up into a full-scale, citywide riot. And not only were there eyewitnesses and circumstantial evidence to attest to my guilt; the entire melee had been filmed and then uploaded to a brand new video-hosting site, something called YouTube. One day YouTube would be a powerful tool in my social-crime arsenal. At this moment, it was being used as evidence to support a felonious charge.
The infamous footage was almost comical in its guilt-defining attributes. I was standing on the hood of a car, holding a powerful industrial megaphone, bellowing at a group of obesely huge Northeastern linebackers, “Hey, losers, I know you can’t win a football game, but can you tip that Toyota Celica over?” while the surrounding throng chanted, “Justin Lee! Justin Lee! Justin Lee!” like I was the Al Sharpton of this scene. Then the camera zoomed in on my face and framed all my identifying characteristics perfectly.
All that was missing was my social security number and dick size flashing across the bottom of the fucking screen. As usual, I found myself in this criminally compromising position due to a number of consecutive events spiraling dangerously out of control. The Patriots had just won the World Series, or the Celtics had just won the Stanley Cup. Some shit like that. I’m a Jew with a Chinese name, so sports are not really my forte. But when I looked out my dorm-room window and saw a drunk, aggressive street party taking place, celebrating this steroid-induced victory, I saw an opportunity. These people needed leadership. A Moses. A Maccabee. A crooked cantor to funnel their violent tendencies in a more creative direction. And, obviously, I was the perfect candidate for the role.
Did all of this get ever so slightly out of hand? Certainly. Did I participate in this madness? It can’t be denied. Did I know that my hectoring would be the trigger for one of Boston’s worst sports-related riots? Of course not. The thought might have excited me, but I never dreamed I could be responsible for such wanton destruction. Once I had invigorated the crowd and various vehicles were happily burning, I retreated back to my room and merrily listened to the mayhem outside at a safe distance. It wasn’t until the next morning when two Boston cops interrupted my hangover to tell me I was being charged with felony inciting of a riot, malicious destruction of property, and public intoxication that I realized I had significantly fucked up. They made it very clear that I was to be made an example of. It turns out cops don’t like riots. Who knew? I was going to jail.
Which was why I was now standing before this slightly scrotal judge, dressed like Jay Gatsby, manically trying to get him to notice the contrast between me and everyone else who stepped foot in this courtroom. But the gentleman would not be swayed. He might have been surprised to see me moving in the same circles as Boston’s leading filth and riot participants (why we were all being tried together was completely beyond me), but he surmised that I was the only one with the mental prowess to dictate such well-orchestrated civil disobedience and so deemed me their supreme leader. And he was right.
After broadcasting the entertaining, if life-destroying, footage to the court, there was testimony from a succession of shell-shocked local residents, emotionally scarred small-business owners, and the titleholder of the afflicted car, who sobbed like a pregnant prom queen at thoughts of his poor Celica. Throughout this litigation, the judge looked faintly nauseated. Eventually he turned to me and asked if I had anything to say.
This was it. My time to shine. Fortunately, I was prepared. I knew that my ass was on the line. Literally. If I fucked this up, my derriere would be the next afternoon activity for the residents of D Wing to enjoy. I attempted to channel all the disgraced miscreants I could—Eliot Spitzer, Bill Clinton, OJ—and addressed the judge with a facial expression usually exhibited by televangelists caught shtupping Hooters waitresses and now trying to make amends.
“Your Honor,” I began, possibly bowing a little. “Like you and the rest of these fine, upstanding citizens [humble nod] I was appalled, nay sickened, by what I witnessed in that hideous video footage [angry fist slam]. I did not recognize that individual in the video. That individual was not me [baleful stare]. That person, standing on the hood of that burning Toyota and screaming obscenities through an American bullhorn [puffs out chest with patriotic pride] was a different human being than the one before you now [holds hands in prayer-like gesture]. I am thoroughly ashamed of my actions that day [wipes away tear]. It would be so easy to blame the pain medication I was taking for an injury caused while helping a woman change a flat tire by the freeway in the snow. But I only have myself to blame. I have disgraced my family [swallows]. I have disgraced my noble seat of learning [voice cracks a little]. I have disgraced this magnificent city that has been so welcoming to me in so many ways [smiles angelically]. And, most of all, I have disgraced myself [bows head]. After much soul-searching and lengthy discussions with various counselors and religious leaders [attempts to look less “Jewy”], I have decided that my greatest wish is to give back to the community that I have so maliciously maligned. I can only hope that in your wise and special heart [opens eyes wide] your honor can allow me to compensate for my vicious misdeeds in an appropriate and restitutional fashion [stares at floor with sorrow].”
The judge sighed heavily. “And what do you suggest, Mr. Lee?”
My lip quivered in thought. “After a great deal of research and meetings with nonprofit organizations, I feel the greatest use of my talents would be to work with a group that helps the hardest hit amongst us. One of my great role models is former president Jimmy Carter, whom I respect for his unwavering faith and charitable approach to life. It would be an honor, Your Honor, if I was able to work alongside this great man, in spirit at least, and volunteer to assist Habitat for Humanity.”
“Fine. Two hundred fifty hours’ community service.”
My fancy, high-powered lawyer bartered it down to 125. And that’s how I got a free vacation to Brazil out of a Boston circuit judge.
Minutes after arriving at Northeastern University, I was already in a slight state of panic. It was the heady brew of having a whole new toy box to play with, but also realizing the vastness of the place. I’d completely conquere
d my prep school, to the point where the general behavioral guidelines had to be completely rewritten after I left to reflect my various ridiculous misdeeds. But this was completely different. Rather than a few hundred kids, there were thousands, and getting their attention was going to be tricky.
My first minor victory was easy. By pulling the same shit that I had at Brewster, I’d managed to swing a single dorm room for myself. I’d claimed to be agoraphobic or claustrophobic or a projectile bed wetter or some shit. I can’t remember. But whatever it was, it worked, and I found myself with a tiny but sweet spot all to myself. Once in this esteemed position, I started a period of casing. I just sat back and watched. I needed an angle. Something to weasel my way in with the alumni and make a name for myself.
Oh, and I occasionally studied. I think the official name of my major was “Entrepreneurship.” It was as bullshitty as it sounds. It was selected solely on the basis of a simple equation: the amount of energy I would have to expend on attendance multiplied by the amount of shit I could get away with. Listen, there is one rule for any student attending higher education: if you’re working hard to get that fucking scroll and stupid hat after four years, you are a dumbass. A massive dumbass. No one needs to work hard at college. It’s not designed for work and perseverance. You’re paying a fucking fortune to be within those walls—they honestly expect you to sweat as well? If you find yourself applying yourself to anything other than drinking and pussy and general indolence during your university tenure, stop and get a job at Jiffy Lube. You’re in the wrong place. Like most things, it was a question of working smarter, not working hard. And, with college, you don’t even have to work that smart. Befriend your tutor so he knows your name, make sure he sees you on occasion, and buy or steal the coursework from someone smarter than you. Simple.
Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole Page 4