Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole

by Justin Ross Lee

  Even for me, that was an inspired combination of brilliance and lunacy. I don’t know where that survival instinct came from, but thank fuck it kicked in when it did.

  That was it. Shit was too scary. I stopped taking coke. I just stopped. I ditched my coke friends. And I decided to keep my head down for a while. Because I liked my asshole way too much.

  Bending the Law, Breaking the Rules

  I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t look good in orange. I don’t even want to go to Lisbon, just because it sounds slightly like “prison.” I wouldn’t survive. Actually, scratch that, of course I’d survive. I’m JRL. I’d be running the block before the end of my first week. I’d have the warden on my knee and be betrothed to a beautiful transsexual Filipino called Cookie.

  I’d just rather not, that’s all. I like champagne and pussy and being outside. Three things that are quite marginal in most correctional facilities. Thankfully, these legal run-ins during my formative years made me realize the importance of lines. And I’m not talking about big, fat, tasty lines of blow. I mean the line between normal and criminal behavior that you can bend as much as is physically possible but that shouldn’t be breached under any circumstances.

  Look at it this way. You’re walking along the corridor of some pointlessly lavish hotel that you’ve just paid $740 to sleep in for the night. You need soap. There’s an unmanned maid’s cart. The soap is right there. Nice soap. That L’Occitane shit or something. So you take one. No big deal. Then you think, “Wait, I’m a filthy fucker. I’m sure to need more soap than that.” So you take four. Still no big deal. Then you think, “Hey, I paid good money to stay in this place, and they treated me like shit. There was a USA Today outside my fucking door, for fuck’s sake. I deserve more.” So you take twenty soaps. Are you ready to call the Feds yet? No, of course not.

  So how many is too many? Is there a number? Is there a line? Sure, if you’re not even a guest at the establishment and you crack a security guard over the head before cleaning the place out of their toiletries. Then you’re a felon and deserve to go to jail. So the line does exist between those two places. And that’s the gray area I love to play in.

  I’d never swipe someone’s wallet or hold up a Hess station. It’s against my moral code. But I am fascinated by all forms of social crime—where there are victims and confusion and red faces, but no actual law is ever broken. Sure, you bend that line until it starts to make a worrying creaking sound. But you have to pull back before you follow through.

  So my relationship with the law is complicated. You definitely want cops on your side. Or if not on your side, then miles and miles behind you. But you don’t want to piss them off too severely.

  Going to court thoroughly sucks. You have to get up really early, sit in a corridor with a bunch of people in soiled leisure wear, and have conversations with lawyers. Then policemen make you feel bad, your victims make you feel bad, and finally the judge makes you feel bad. There is simply no fun to be had within a million miles of this situation. But it took me two fairly severe court appearances, a spell of community service, and being a pussy hair away from a full felony cocaine-possession bust to realize that.

  It was good to get all this shit out of the way. By the time I was ready for my first legitimate ID, I’d lived a life of recidivism and come out the other side. I knew I wanted to fuck shit up, but without any legal consequences. And I was on the road to working out exactly how to do that. The road to JRL.

  CHAPTER 4

  CELEBRITIES ARE

  MY CURRENCY

  So things were looking truly fucking bleak for me. Not only had I lost my first job, but the fairly brutal way in which I had been dishonorably discharged made me realize that I had no business in business. Not in anybody else’s business, anyway. The only thing that I completely excelled at was being me. But I couldn’t imagine anyone planning to cut me a check for excelling at being me in the immediate future. I was broke. I was depressed. I was distressed. Trouble was He-brewing.

  But desperation can often provide a great source of energy. I knew there was something there. All the limbs, vital organs, and discarded genitals needed to form the Manhattan Monster that would become JRL were hovering around me. I just needed to slot the pieces together. I had unchartable levels of charm, and a perverse skill for performing social crime. The incident at Pastis felt so right. The rush I experienced by displaying such public bullshit bravado was the ultimate high.

  If I could just make a living by doing shit like that, I’d be pretty fucking happy. Jewbilant, if you will. But right now that seemed like an impossible dream, and I was flailing. And by flailing I mean sitting in my apartment, pouring vodka on my Honey Nut Cheerios.

  I knew I needed to tear down the old me and rebuild. Begin some bullshit—maybe Jimmy Carter–style? Habitat for Humanity? I could always provide a safe space for derelicts to smoke meth in. But no, I needed to construct the legend of JRL. Generate that buzz again and share it with the world. Get my face out there. Be seen as someone. By everyone. Become as legitimate as any other schmuck haunting Page Six in the New York Post every single day.

  The particular Page Six I was staring at was talking about a lavish launch party for the TV show Entourage, taking place that very evening. It was a sign. In terms of social crime, this could be the perfect hit for me right now. Exactly dead-on at the very beating heart of my demographic.

  Just thinking about it gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my balls—and beyond. To suavely slip myself into that Hollywood soiree was exactly the sort of boost I needed. It wouldn’t be easy, of course. I needed an accomplice. Or rather—since my accomplice would have no fucking idea what the fuck was going on—I needed a bimbo.

  Her name wasn’t actually Bimbo. As I am a gentleman, I shall not reveal this young lady’s real name. Suffice it to say that she was a blonde with big tits. Really big tits. And I was desperate to get into her pants. Or she was desperate to get into mine. I can’t quite remember now. Probably the latter.

  I knew an HBO party was going to be a star-studded fest—it’s that sort of show—and a glorious blonde on my arm would be the perfect prop. And that’s entirely what I thought of her as: a prop. With tits. In fact, the tits were the prop. I figured I could get up to pretty much anything under the cover of that insanely beguiling rack. Should I find myself in real trouble, I could just shove her abundant chest toward the problem and run like hell.

  She couldn’t know what was going to go down. Actually, I had no idea what was going to happen myself, so there really wasn’t anything to tell. I thought of her as a kind of drug mule, albeit a very attractive one. She was trafficking me into the party, but if she knew about the precious cargo she had concealed in her keister (figuratively, for now; physically, if I was lucky), it would be written all over her face. So no, no explanations as to her role. As far as the bimbo was concerned, she was getting a free ride into a swanky celebrity-filled shindig. That’s what I wanted her to think. She thought she was using me to obtain free fizz and be within panting distance of Marky Mark. This is the essence of JRLism. Convince the suckers that they are getting something from me, when in fact I’m using them up the tuchus.

  My plan, as far as I had one, was to get in, get pictures with every notable in attendance, and get out. To do that as a lone schlub would be difficult, bordering on pathetic. But with Tits McGee by my side, turning heads and manufacturing pant tents, life would be oh so much easier.

  I called her and convinced her to meet me at my apartment. Why? I wanted to get pictures of her in my building. I was constructing a narrative of the entire evening, which I would spell out via images on my newly formed Facebook page. Placing her at my place added to the legitimacy of the event and also included a dash of intrigue. It suggested we were fucking or had fucked or were about to fuck. (There always needs to be a little romance in every story.)

  Though I had yet to develop and solidify all my prime JRL manipulation techniques, I knew I had to be ther
e early. If you plan to show up at something you are expressly not invited to, this is always the best option. Especially when famous people are involved. Most celebs aren’t starved for parties. Even at events that are purportedly honoring them, the stars just want to show up, shake some hands, roll their eyes, and get the fuck out of there. The longer a celeb inhabits any fixed environment, the greater the chance some no-name will try to shove a spec script into the waistband of his Armani.

  To wit, I had no desire to arrive hopelessly late and be refused entry into a party that famous people had already left and that thereafter was only populated by the sweaty, drunken production assistants.

  The event in question was taking place at a swanky nightclub on Manhattan’s West Side. One of those unnaturally cavernous establishments that have exclusive spaces within exclusive areas, which no one ever seemed to be exclusive enough to gain admittance to. Such clubs often possess a single obtuse name that is a mishmash of upper- and lowercase letters in an undecipherable font. Or they have no name at all. Viewed from the street, these places tend to show only a roll-top shutter on a derelict wall connected to a building that looks like a rug warehouse.

  Not to brag—OK, I’ll brag: I was looking fucking incredible. Every inch of me was impeccable. And my date complemented me perfectly: blond, glamorous, slightly disheveled, slightly wild in that way that men find irresistible. Even if we were going to completely flame out (and there was a good chance we would, since I had no idea what I was doing), we’d look magnificent while doing it. And I knew there’d be no half measures with this job. Either we were getting in or I was going home alone with a hard-on for company.

  We arrived early. Stupidly early. My companion was baffled by this, so I fed her some bullshit about “screening times” and “fire codes” and “insulin injections,” all of which she accepted in a clueless sort of way.

  I hadn’t completely scoped out just how enormous this event was going to be until we pulled up outside. I saw searchlights and banners and security and enough velvet ropes to supply a full-scale, decadent bondage party. HBO had pulled out all the fucking stops for this extravaganza. Shit. That didn’t exactly make things easier for me and blondie. But because we were so early, there was just a rookie on the door. I deployed my secret weapon, and she deployed her less-than-secret weapons, aimed them at the dude, and smiled widely while I slipped in beside her. He was dazzled. We were in. It was that easy.

  And there was that rush again.

  I saw a steady stream of harassed-looking, white-shirted entities entering and leaving the main room, relishing their final few moments of palpable humanity before they were forced to offer champagne to a fat studio hack who was verbally assaulting them (or possibly physically and/or sexually assaulting them, depending on what studio they represented). Other than the setup staff and the security dudes starting their shift, the space was completely empty. Enormous and empty.

  The room was set up in a particularly nonegalitarian fashion. There was a large circle on the outside that was obviously set up for the plebes. Within that was an oval of tables for the use of those who were important enough to be allowed to sit but who were not quite important enough to enter the very center of the room, where each of the Entourage stars had their own little enclave. Thus arranged so the stars didn’t have to actually mingle with any mortal human beings. At such celebrity events, it is imperative to keep the talent as completely inaccessible as possible. Otherwise, what’s the point of their celebrity?

  Upon our entry, there were no celebrities or civilians present, just worker bees. I stuck out like a foreskin at a synagogue’s grand opening. It was too early for us to be partygoers, and I was too debonair to be a member of the support staff. Some unconscious, innate JRLness kicked in. My mind flipped through the plausible reasons why I could possibly be in this situation and, given who I might possibly be, how I would react. A few confused glances darted my way, as various people began to notice my presence.

  Obviously I was some honcho at the studio or the DVD distributor or the artists’ management. I was the guy they parachuted in early to do the groundwork and make sure no one fucked up. I mean, look at me: blazer, shades, shoes that cost more than the monthly salary of that guy erecting a banner with Vince Chase’s face on it. I was obviously an important dude. And that was exactly the kind of essence I tried to exude.

  I slowly toured the room, my date on my arm, complimenting staff on their placement of the crab cakes, adjusting the occasional floral display, nodding expressively, and generally strutting around like I could explode into a furious spittle-flecked rage at any second if I noted even the merest suggestion of incompetence. I was the “adjuster,” the “equalizer,” the “commandant.” Someone who was so important and so kick-ass that I didn’t have a dedicated job title; I just walked in and sorted shit out.

  Then I walked up to the guys on the door. This is a maneuver I would later dub “seducing security.” No one ever talks to these dudes unless they have a problem or want to start a fight. But I wandered over, with my gorgeous chesty companion, and started to schmooze. Why? I needed these fuckers on my side. I didn’t have an invite, I didn’t have a lanyard, and I didn’t have any fucking reason to be there. But if I could place myself in the minds of the security guys as someone who was definitely a legitimate member of the party, they wouldn’t give me shit. I was there, so I was supposed to be there. I told them my name, shook their hands, and started my spiel.

  “Don’t think we’ve met. Just wanted to introduce myself. Harvey couldn’t be here himself (I had no fucking idea who Harvey was, but it sounded like the sort of name the big guy at the top might have), but he wanted me to thank you fellows for all your great work. Maybe you could introduce me to the whole detail . . .”

  I got the first security guy to introduce me to all the other security guys. I shook all their hands, looked them in the eye, and congratulated them on their excellent work. And now I had them. My hand was stamped. I made a point to remember all their first names. They couldn’t throw me out now, despite my lack of credentials. I’d preempted the situation and had the chutzpah to befriend these walruses in tuxedos before they could start to consider who the fuck I was. And with that I retreated to the bar.

  All the guests had been at another location, watching the season premiere. Now that was over, and the room slowly started to fill. Two things crossed my mind: First, my date was getting bored, and I needed her as an accessory to my social-criminal activity. Also, I didn’t want her to leave, as I wanted to fuck her eventually. Second, and even more importantly, I, too, was getting bored. I didn’t want to be orbiting the celebrities at the outer edges of this party. I needed material, and that wasn’t going to happen from where I was standing. I was losing the buzz. It was time to get myself a little bump up.

  At the very core of the room, where the top tier of celebrities was to be accommodated, each table had a particular high-falutin’ alcoholic beverage sitting on it. There seemed to be some social status associated with this. There was Veuve Clicquot next to Perrier-Jouët and finally Cristal. The Cristal was on the table reserved for “Jeremy Piven and guests.” Obviously it was the best one in the joint, reflecting Piven’s stratum in this world. Sitting at the table was a guy who obviously inhabited the upper echelons of Hollywood. He looked bored. Bored in the way I look bored when I walk into a frozen-yogurt store. Like he’d seen all this shit before. My initial thought was to sidle up to this guy, shake his hand, and feed him some bullshit story. Instead, I had a far more insane idea.

  I grabbed my date, strode over, sat down at Piven’s table like it was my given birthright to be there, and popped the cork on the Cristal while releasing a celebratory cheer. The guy looked at me like I’d just popped his daughter’s cherry. I glanced over, smiled him the sweetest beam I could muster, then slowly poured my date, and myself, a glass of extraordinarily expensive sparkling grape juice. I offered the guy some. His expression was one of complete bemusement.
r />   “Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m Justin. I’m Jeremy’s cousin. He wanted me to keep his table warm.”

  The guy cautiously told me he was Jeremy’s agent from CAA. Of course he was. He had agent smeared all over him.

  He started to question me. “So are you on his mom’s or dad’s side?”

  Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t even know if he has a mom or dad. But I know who does. This fucking guy asking me the questions. It happened in a New York minute, so I didn’t have the time to Google myself out of trouble.

  I took a stab. “Yeah, his mom’s. Hey did you meet . . . ?”

  I pushed my date and her hooters toward the guy. Though in theory he was talking to me, his eyes were transfixed by that luscious cleavage. While he was distracted, I had another lunatic idea. I quickly changed a contact in my phone to read “Cousin J.” Then I got the real person whose number it was to text me. “Just message me any old shit,” I told the real person. He did, and of course my phone flashed up with “Cousin J,” and I made sure the agent saw it.

  “Hey, Jeremy’s trying to contact me. He’s running late again. That asshole . . .”

  Yadda, yadda, yadda. Seems crazy, I know, but it worked. This guy completely bought that I was part of the Piven clan. And that was it—I was in. I was now firmly cemented in the inner circle. And now that I was there, I made sure I stayed there. A great way to do that is to start ordering stuff. If you sit there looking meek and nervous, you’ll stand out like a stiff dick at a convent. If you start yelling at servers and asking for more Cristal and blinis and smoked salmon, they’re suddenly working for you. You’ve put yourself in charge, and obviously you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. It’s all about rank, and now I outranked them. This kind of bravado ensured that I wasn’t going anywhere.