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

by Justin Ross Lee

  I’d made it onto the inside. But the important thing was to get pictures. By now the celebrities had started to drift in. The Entourage people were ensconced at their little tables away from the riffraff.

  “Yeah, I’m going to bug Adrian,” I said to the agent, and moved off. I went from table to table, feeding them the same line about being Piven’s cousin and getting pictures with everyone. All the cast, all the execs, other random celebrities who happened to be around. It was great. Dynamite material. And my date was loving it. She was just dripping off me, thanks to all this celebrity contact, and she still had absolutely no idea what was happening. Before anyone could question me about my credentials or ask me salient points about Piven family history, I just edged her chest in their direction. It seemed like nothing could derail this perfect grift.

  Then Jeremy Piven walked in.

  I’d gotten so excited by all the high-end booze and star-spangled elbow rubbing, I’d momentarily forgotten about the lie I’d laid down to get there in the first place. Now I was looking at the angry-looking dude heading my way, who could quite easily bring this house of bullshit crashing down onto my perfectly shaped head. I saw him examining his exclusive area, which was now destroyed and liberally littered with used plates and empty bottles. I saw the words “What the fuck?” take shape on his lips. I acted fast.

  I strode right up to him before anyone else could get close, slapped my arm around his shoulder, and smiled.

  Then I whispered in his ear: “Hey. Great to see you. I’m Kevin Dillon’s cousin.”

  He looked at me, openmouthed.

  “I’ve been really enjoying your table. Kevin thought it would be really funny if I crashed it since no one else was here yet.”

  For a second Piven looked at me like I was a complete schmuck; then he laughed and slapped my shoulder and offered me a glass of Cristal from a bottle I’d ordered earlier on HBO’s tab. This was beautiful. The agent, who could have completely blown the whole fucking thing for me, saw the two of us laughing and assumed it was cousinly love. If I may say so, it was a stroke of genius to simply switch family allegiances, and rather than be related to Piven, I just traveled one rung down the Entourage ladder and became Dillon’s cousin instead. Then Piven bitched to me about a girl who was stuck outside and how the security wouldn’t let her in.

  “Leave it to me,” I told him.

  I walked over to my new pals, the security guards, the ones I’d ass-kissed earlier. I told them of the situation. Of course to them, I was some hotshot HBO fixer of no fixed title, so they jumped to help me. They went outside, found Piven’s girl, brought her inside, and gave her the full VIP treatment. Now I wasn’t just an interloper to the people in the inner circle; I was a fucking god.

  We continued to party amongst the elite, but soon it was loud, it was sweaty, the music was booming, and polite conversation was impossible. No one was going to blow my cover. And the complete relief I felt at not only getting in there, but also affixing myself at the celebrity level and obtaining all the pictures I needed, was incredible.

  “You know what?” I said to my date, who now thought I was the coolest fucking douche bag in this entire ZIP code, and if she wasn’t going to fuck me before was certainly going to fuck me now. “This is lame. Let’s split.”

  I wanted to be out of there at a decent celebrity time. The party would be dying soon anyway; I didn’t want to be there to see it die. I waved at my cousin Kevin, I waved at my cousin Jeremy, and then I got the fuck out of there.

  I eventually uploaded those pictures to Facebook and caused a mild sensation. Suddenly people were interested.

  “Who is this guy with all of Entourage? How did he get invited to the party? He must be someone.”

  “I must be,” I thought. “I must be someone.”

  And the girl with the tits? Yes.

  I never gave a shit about celebrities when I was a kid. I only liked famous comedians.

  While my family would text me if Barbara Walters was three tables over from them at Elio’s on the Upper East Side, I already fully appreciated the bullshit of that situation. These people weren’t special. People just acted like they were special. They got lucky. Sure, some of them had talent, but luck was more important than any talent. Getting lucky was their fucking talent.

  I loved Seinfeld and Larry David and any other purveyors of the peculiarities of the Jewish condition. So I know what you’re asking: Why didn’t I become a stand-up? Really? Have you ever actually met a stand-up comedian? They are the most fucked-up people on earth, who, despite their profession, seem incapable of joy. And besides, stand-up has been done. No matter how fucking hilarious I am, no matter how long I do it for or how many Adam Sandler vehicles I manage to land a costarring role in, I’m never going to be the best stand-up in the world. And if I’m not going to be the best in the world, I’m not interested.

  I wanted to perform; I wanted to be known. I didn’t want to break a sweat. Why try to claw your way to the front of an enormous crowd when you can be a pioneer? Sure, there might be pitfalls and snakes and hordes of angry Native Americans, but there won’t be any fucking competitors on the trail you’re blazing.

  This is exactly what I decided to do. If I was going to be famous simply for being me, then I could use other celebrities to thoroughly lube my fame hole. It’s fine; they understand. Do you think they got to where they are through their consummate skill and startling performance technique? Of course not. They rose to the top through the usual backbiting, cocksucking, and general manipulation. They know how the game is played.

  Celebrities aren’t people. Well, technically, they are people. Just highly agitated people. Imagine constantly being asked things.

  “Hey, can you sign this?”

  “Hey, can you read this?”

  “Hey, can I just slip this into your mouth?”

  Combine that with the complete coddling that celebrities encounter, with every whim catered to and every dreg of life taken care of, and you create someone with a pretty fucked worldview. They are all batshit crazy and faintly dangerous if cornered.

  Once you hit a particular level of fame, you are basically transformed into a giant baby. You no longer have to deal with anything. Anything. All the mundane, distasteful, pointless facets of life are completely taken out of your hands. So if you’re someone like me who enjoys fully exploiting celebrities for his own advantage, the only way to get that baby interested is to offer it something it hasn’t seen before. You need to stand out. You have about four microseconds to get this putz’s attention as they weigh up whether you are worthy of their indulgence, so you need to make it count.

  As I found with the Entourage party, the familiar really helps. You claim to be a relative or the friend of a relative or lightly drop something into the conversation that validates your existence.

  “Yeah, I met you at that screening. I’m [insert costar’s name] brother’s kid.”

  “Oh yeah, right.”

  They don’t fucking know. They don’t fucking care. Thirty seconds before this conversation they were probably having Vicodin blown up their ass while sipping Fresca.

  “Oh yeah, I work with Kenny over at United Artists.”

  “I was the best boy on that last piece of shit you were in.”

  Just imply that you orbit their world. Make sure you don’t offer anything they’ll be afraid of. If you scream “I loved you in Nutty Professor II: The Klumps” in their face, you’ll be swiftly dragged away by your hair. But they’ll listen if you say, “Yeah, I was doing set continuity on Nutty Professor II: The Klumps. Remember that guy at the craft-services table?”

  I call it my “familiarization technique.” Just latch on to something they can recognize to set you apart from the herd and ensure that you’re not immediately identified as a murderer or (worse) a tabloid reporter. This technique can be as blunt or as sophisticated as you like. “I’m so-and-so’s cousin.” That’s pretty blunt. But if you want to get tricky, do like I di
d: I once convinced the manager of a leading actor that his client and I were fabulous pals. I changed the contact name of a friend of mine on my phone so when he texted back in real time I looked like the real deal. It might have gotten slightly out of hand.

  I know that might sound completely insane, but you have to try this shit out. What’s the worst that can happen? You’re not going to jail for any of this. That’s what I understood at that Entourage party. You can’t get arrested for impersonating Jeremy Piven’s cousin (unless you’re defrauding someone for that purpose, in which case I’d pick a better target than Ari Gold). The very, very least you’ll get out of it is a story. They may even admire your chutzpah as they have you thrown out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Of course, all of this has to be adapted to suit the situation. If you’re dealing with someone outside the sweet, fluffy world of showbiz, say a Trump or a Clinton, there’s no point buttering them up or dropping shit about being someone’s kinfolk. Unlike actors, those people are smart. You need to challenge them. Not that anyone would, but don’t bother telling the Donald that you loved The Art of the Deal or that his hair is “really neat.” That will sail right over his well-coiffured head. It’s better to critique his work and then tell him why. Or say, “I really enjoyed that speech you made, and here’s where you got everything wrong.” They adore that shit.

  So what’s the point of all this celebrity sucking up? Celebrities are currency. You exchange their notoriety for your own purposes. Whether it’s getting a picture taken with them, using their name to get you into the papers, or acting as if they are your best friend in the whole fucking world, you manipulate their elevated status to promote your own. No one gives a fuck who you are. But if you are next to a Kardashian, then that’s a story. If you are next to a Kardashian who has their hands around your throat, that’s an even better story. (And by the way, if OJ Simpson had just taken a Xanax on that fateful night, there wouldn’t even be any Kardashians. Surely a more notable reason to jail him.)

  For instance, I got a lot of air mileage from a JewJetting incident with Ashley Olsen, the lesser of the Olsen twins. She had the misfortune of sitting next to me in first class (obviously) on a flight between Los Angeles and New York City. For many, that would be the extent of the story: “I sat next to an Olsen twin! On one occasion! She even spoke to me! Sort of!” But I knew I could wring a huge amount of exposure out of this good fortune.

  She already seemed fairly damaged when she sat down, exuding the privileged contrariness of celebrity. Someone helped her frail frame onto the plane, guided her to her seat, and dealt with her luggage. She proceeded to crawl under a $2,000 cashmere Hermès throw and tried to obliterate any thoughts about who she was. Basically she drank, lay down, and fell asleep. But with a few surreptitious photographs, I was able to convince Star magazine that I spent a glorious few hours in the air “sleeping with an Olsen twin” and reporting on her “wacky behavior.” Was Ashley that wacky? Who gives a shit? When the bullshit is better than the story, print the bullshit.

  People loved the idea that I pretended not to know who she was and called her Amy throughout the flight, only revealing everything to her at the baggage claim. It extended my legend. The story was picked up in various papers and blogs, and my pretentious punim was sitting there right next to Ashley’s. It was glitz by association, and it kept the JRL choo choo rolling, pushing me a few more column inches up the hill. And was Ashley “harmed”? Who cares, she’s richer than foie gras blintzes.

  You may need to exaggerate, elaborate, cajole, and outright fib, but the important thing is to own the narrative, good or bad. Most people are naturally inclined to want a positive outcome during an encounter with a celebrity. But sometimes that’s just not the most profitable direction. Take my altercation with Star Jones. I had my picture taken next to her, which I could have just posted and then moved on with my life. Hardly anyone would have noticed, and an equal amount of people would have cared. But print a picture of her that includes a thought bubble displaying an image of some Devil Dogs? That is going to get some mileage. I made sure the world knew of her outrage, which led to me being banned from a number of high-profile locations due to Star’s wrath. All parties concerned were wounded and appalled, but I managed to spin that story out far beyond its expiration date.

  You also have to establish the right target. There’s no point in me propagating a feud with someone like Sandra Bullock. People actually like Sandra Bullock. Sure, if I could get a picture with her, that would be great. But if I tried to pull some Ashley/Star bullshit with her, it wouldn’t fly. She’s too beloved. Same with Paul Rudd. I attempted to get something going with that asshole but soon discovered no one really cared. People were aware of his existence but hadn’t really formulated an opinion about him. Your targets have to be either loved or hated for them to be significant—hated being better than loved. Prove that someone who is known for being a dickhead is being a dickhead, and that will run and run.

  What matters is eliciting a reaction. As the upcoming case studies will illustrate, it’s win-win once the wheels are set in motion. If a celebrity ignores you (which is always the most sensible response), then great! You own the story and can mold it into any shape you wish. If you do provoke them into action (usually through “their people”), even better! You respond, they respond, you say something else inflammatory, and they get outraged; it’s the gift that just keeps giving.

  The best approach when dealing with celebrities is to not have any loyalties, any heroes, or any preconceived notions. I wanted to be notable, but on my own terms. So I became a celebrity on my own terms. Through sheer force of will. I was a celebrity. That was it. I told people I was one, I certainly acted like one, and I lived like one. I was one. Am I more worthless than Rick from Pawn Stars? That guy gets to enjoy celebrity status by working in a store. I’m supposed to act like I’m lower down the ladder than someone like him? Fuck that shit. Being a celebrity isn’t hard; you just have to convince yourself you are one. Surprisingly, there’s no entrance exam to get in and no one to kick you out. All you need in order to own it is major chutzpah and the ability to think on your feet. And now I’m actually treated like a celebrity. Where once I was riding on the immense coattails of Star Jones, people now write about JRL. Just JRL. I’m the focus of the story. As we will discuss later, in certain parts of the world I’m fucking bigger than a Baldwin brother. Just for being me. Hey, I know that shit is crazy, but what can I do?

  But before all that, here are some more prime examples of celebrity interaction and the rewards it can reap . . .

  Case Study: Brad Pitt

  Always follow the valets. If they are dressed fancy and looking nervous, you know some shit is going down. Plus they are usually fairly disgruntled and will happily give up information if it provides an outlet to bitch about their appalling lives. And the valets surrounding the Mondrian were supersquirrelly.

  I was in Los Angeles and staying at that swanky location (comped, natch). Even in this rarified atmosphere, I could tell something big was happening. Then I found out what was happening. Brad Pitt was happening. The Mondrian Hotel was to be the location of the premiere party for Inglourious Basterds. All the stars would be there. Including Brad Pitt. Actual premieres are boring as shit, but premiere parties are a prime location for celebrity action.

  Now, I have no preconceived notions about Brad. From what I can gather, he’s a perfectly reasonable, decent guy who just happens to be the most famous male face on the planet. Which translates as complete inaccessibility. You can never get anywhere near him. That makes him a challenge. I wanted Brad Pitt. A picture of Mr. Jolie and me would be like all my Hanukkahs come at once.

  My techniques and strategies had developed significantly since the formative days of the Entourage party, but this was still going to be difficult, even for an arch manipulator like me. I had the advantage of being a guest in the hotel, so I could legitimately be in the area, but I knew I would not be able to ge
t within fifty feet of that party before a large black man wrestled me to the ground and stood on my neck.

  I’d been to events at the Mondrian before—I knew the layout. Obviously I couldn’t approach from the front. There was no way I could charm my way in there. (I have unlimited amounts of charm, but this was the Weinstein Company’s show and Brad Pitt was on the menu. I’d be midway through my charming spiel when I’d feel the warm red dot of a sniper’s sight on my forehead.) I had no big-busted accomplice to grease the wheels. I knew I’d have to bum-rush my way in and play it by ear.

  I decided to case the joint. I walked up an innocuous set of concrete stairs at the back of the building until I knew I was within the vicinity of the event. There was a plain, unsuspecting door in front of me. I had no idea what was behind it. It could have been the kitchens, the hotel detective’s office, or I could have hit the jackpot. My heart was in my mouth, and my matzo balls ached. They do that when I’m anxious.

  I hit the door hard and walked through with a flourish. I came face to face with three of the biggest, baddest, blackest bouncers I had ever seen. These guys were huge. They could have easily been linebackers, if I had any idea what that term meant. I had two choices: go back the way I came, or forward into death. Obviously I chose death.

  I approached the hugest of these dudes, prison-rules-style, and smacked that motherfucker as hard as I could on the shoulder. He barely flinched. I followed this up with, “We got people arriving in forty-five. Look alive, fellas.” There was a potentially cataclysmic pause as they stared at me as if I’d just casually slipped my predilection for cross burning into the conversation. They looked at each other, and then they looked at me. Then one of them said, “Yes, boss,” and stood aside.

  Even for me this was ballsy. I’d just managed to bamboozle the bouncers by instructing them to keep an eye out for people exactly like me. Seducing security—it works every time. I strode right through them and into the party.