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

by Justin Ross Lee

  I fucking hate ties. Back at Brewster Academy, ties were compulsory. I always wanted to look my best but found it impossible when I had to wear the same tie for ten hours straight every day. They got dirty. They got creased. They looked like shit.

  After I finished school, ties represented the norm to me. Only the repressed wear ties. No one wears them out of choice. It’s just symbolic of your subservience. Bosses don’t bother with ties. Not the big bosses. Their underlings do. It’s a marker that denotes “us” and “them.” The proles and the privileged. They are disgusting fashion items. People hang themselves with their ties. And I don’t blame them.

  I had a smoking-hot date. I forget her name. But this bitch was dragging me to a black-tie event. Evening dress compulsory. Tuxedo. My worst fucking nightmare. I hate weddings, I hate formals, and I hate black tie. The problem with tuxedos is that that everyone looks good in them. Some fat fuck fifty-five-year-old or some eighteen-year-old runway model. It’s the great leveler. I don’t do levelers.

  I wanted to stand out from this crowd of penguins. But how the hell do you do that with a tuxedo? I hit up the three Bs: Barneys, Bergdorf, and Bloomingdale’s. I wanted to see what they had to offer. Then I found the pocket squares and realized I’d stumbled across something. Pocket squares were perfect. They displayed color and individuality but were formal and refined. I felt like I’d come home.

  But the pocket squares I came across were pretty awful. Crappy polyester pieces that I could pick up at Macy’s for next to nothing. Or luxury 100 percent silk Hermès objects that retailed for $130. And nothing in between. That’s when I realized, like so many times before, that I could slip in between.

  This was the perfect product for me. JRL personified. Garish, obnoxious, and the perfect conversation starter. It was eye-catching and different. And a great identifier of assholes. If people knew what a pocket square was, they were worth knowing. If they called it a “handkerchief” or “that colorful thing,” you knew they were a fucking schmuck and you should get away from them as quickly as possible. I knew I wanted to get into the pocket-square business, but I just couldn’t come up with a name.

  Then one night I was lying next to the first rabbi’s daughter, mentally masturbating, when I had a eureka moment. Pretentious. I scared the shit out of her by screaming the word. “Pretentious!” That would be the perfect fucking name. Truth in advertising. Alliteration to boot. Beat all the haters to the punch. It could never be accused of being pretentious, because it says it right there on the fucking label.

  I didn’t know a thing about the fashion industry or the fabric trade apart from my few weeks working for Kenneth Cole when I was 17. All I knew was that Kenneth Cole was not the way to do it. I didn’t want shitty knockoffs, barely put together in China and accepted with a shrug by idiot customers before they fell apart a couple of months later. I wanted a product that would make people talk.

  I took my Hermès pocket square around the globe trying to find the perfect silk. I didn’t have a clue, but I got educated by failing. Unfortunately, the countries that make silk are also the countries with the highest proportion of garmentors trying to rip you off. It’s a point of pride in India and China to screw poor Jews like myself. But slowly I gained some knowledge and discovered the difference between chiffon and charmeuse. I got wise to bullshit and knew when I wasn’t getting the best goods. I’d rub my Hermès through my fingers and then try the material that was being offered to me. I’d learn the weight. If it wasn’t as soft, it didn’t make the cut.

  I finally found my guy in South Korea, just outside Seoul. Outstanding silk that was actually better than what Hermès used. I’d often offer a Pretentious Pocket square alongside a Hermès square in a blind taste test and ask the potential client which pussy they would rather stick their dick in. They’ve never said Hermès. They’d always want my pussy.

  Now I had the perfect material for my product. I just needed one last touch: a label telling its owner they were wearing 100 percent “Fuck You” silk. This colorful language has kept me out of most big-box establishments. But it’s important. It’s an homage to the most inspirational figure in my fashion life: Ralph Lauren.

  The legend goes that Ralph was an up-and-coming tie designer who wanted to make it big. He took his designs into Bloomingdale’s, who loved them and wanted to manufacture them in bulk, with one condition: that Ralph take his initials off the tie. He thought for a second, told them to go fuck themselves, and walked straight out of there. That beautiful parable has been an inspiration throughout my mock career. If Ralph hadn’t stuck to his guns and offered a great fat FU to the big boys, there’d be no Polo or any of that shit. Can you imagine a Waspy world without Lauren? Horrible thought.

  So now my pocket squares are dropped into Grammy gift bags, worn by celebrities, and shipped to twenty-five countries all over the planet, exhibiting the “Fuck You” silk label for all to see. It’s sensational. And the perfect advertisement for me. I’ve never spent a dime on conventional promotion. It’s all just me and my smug face, shoving this thing down people’s throats. Any opportunity I get, I promote Pretentious Pocket, and that, in turn, promotes me. It’s the ideal, never-ending cycle of infamy.

  And it makes for a pretentiously perfect present. Once I’d had my first batch of pocket squares, I went on a wild rampage around Manhattan, handing them out to every doorman who had ever crossed me. Those who hated me now liked me. Those who liked me now loved me. It’s the perfect thing to give to maître d’s and people in positions of respect and authority. It looks amazing and garners compliments every day. And when someone says to them, “Holy shit, what is that thing; it looks incredible,” they’ll think of me and my punim.

  And, as I always espouse, it’s the perfect example of working smart, not working hard. The orders and admin are pretty much completely automated. The whole operation takes care of itself. It’s passive income. I just have to work on the organic advertising. Which tends to involve me showing off in some way. Which I obviously don’t have a problem with. It’s a pretty sensational business model. My MBA professors would be proud.

  This whole fashion line has also helped to define me. Famous for being famous will only take you so far. Eventually you have to come up with something better than that, or else people will yawn and move on. Say the words “fashion designer” to me, and visions of the biggest douche bag in the world pop into my head. But I guess that’s what I do now. I mean, I do design the things and pick the names and select the colors. It’s all me. So if I’m trapped in a dire conversation with someone I couldn’t care less about, telling them I’m a fashion designer gets them off my back. As you know, I hate people asking me what I do. This is an easy out.

  Most of all, it’s a prop. And I do my best work with props. It’s all about being the best. That’s why I could never have a day job. I’d never be the best in whatever day job I was crammed into. The best ladies’ shoe salesman in the world? Who cares. The best financial administrator or whatever the fuck it was I did at the hospital for two days? Fuck no. I’d be hanging from my tie before the first week was through.

  A quick tale. My hatred of ties nearly got me lynched once. I was traveling abroad and in a crowded store sourcing some silk when I was asked if the fabric was for ties.

  “Ties? Ties!” I screeched. “I fucking hate ties!”

  Of course I’d forgotten I was in Bangkok and soon had a streetful of Thais wanting to kick my ass. That’s why I stick to pocket squares.

  The Shatner Shimmy

  Now, I’m not sure if this story is an example of working conditions, social malfeasance, or the power of celebrity. But before we begin, let me just clarify that I was just a bystander in this escapade. The genius behind this grift was not mine. I was merely an accomplice. But then, as you will realize, I would say that.

  No, this whole swindle involved a close compatriot of mine who will remain nameless. He’s as much of a social criminal as I am though he occasionally drifts acro
ss the line and drops the “social” part from the title.

  I’m going to try and simplify this whole process, as it all got pretty complicated and involved while still being beautifully corrupt. The gentleman behind the entire shebang is a professional middleman. He sets up deals, mainly between Israelis and the Brooklyn-based Hasidic Jews who hate Israelis. Both sides think they are fucking him, but he’s fucking both of them in an exceptional fashion.

  As with most of these stories, a friend of a friend is involved. In this case a friend of a friend told my fixer colleague about an Indian-based engineering firm that was seeking some kind of celebrity for their annual general meeting, which was taking place in Toronto, home to their North American corporate headquarters. They were willing to spend big to get the right guy. He asked to be put in touch, as he had the perfect candidate.

  He told the company in India that he could supply William Shatner to their shindig. He’d give a speech, press some flesh, pose for selfies, the whole fucking rigmarole. Believe it or not, Captain Kirk is a huge global superstar. He’s bigger in India than not fucking with cows. The bigwigs in Asia got very excited by the thought of Captain Kirk and TJ Hooker making a personal appearance. They were told that he’d talk to Bill, check his schedule, work out a fee, and get back to them.

  Of course, my friend had absolutely no connection with William Shatner at all. All he was to him (and to me) was the guy with a bad rug from the Priceline commercials. But this didn’t deter him. He got in touch with Bill’s people, claiming to be working for the Indian firm in a PR capacity, and asked how much a personal appearance would set him back. He was told, fairly unbelievably, that the bargain basement rate was $100,000. One hundred thousand dollars for what would equate to three hours’ work. Fucking outrageous, but just goes to show the power of celebrity. Shatner is worth over half a billion and is eighty-five years old, but he’s still willing to shill for this type of shit.

  So to recap, my friend was telling the Indians he worked for Shatner and told Shatner that he worked for the Indians. He Jewed Bill down to $75,000 while telling the other side that Shatner wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $125,000. He set the whole thing up with a series of heart-pounding conference calls, in which he somehow convinced both sides at once that he was working for the other.

  Fuck knows how he pulled it off, but a few days later he called me and asked, “Hey, how would you like to be in William Shatner’s entourage?”

  Usually I’d never take the backseat in schemes such as this. But when he broke the whole thing down to me, I just had to see what happened. We arrived at the Ritz-Carlton in Toronto, where this brilliant fucker had booked some ludicrous employee rate. So he got a pretty nice setup for seventy-five bucks a night or something. At the Ritz-Carlton. And we were sharing. So everyone there thought we were gay. Small price to pay for such a sweet room.

  Then we started working the hotel. My one role in this venture was to case the property and identify any weak spots in the management chain—my particular area of expertise. But there were no weak spots. The general manager was a total pro. Bald, shit-eating grin, eyes everywhere. A bread roll didn’t fall on the floor in the dining room without him knowing about it. And he knew we were up to something. He could just smell it.

  All we could do was play the Shatner card as much as possible. Here we were, two guys in our twenties claiming to be Bill’s agents and protectors. It didn’t add up. But we assured them that Mr. Shatner would be arriving in a couple of days and would expect everything to be perfect. We gave them a laughable list of demands: chilled M&M’s, no diet sodas in the minibar, that kind of thing. Plus we requested a perpetual tour of the Club Lounge to make sure it met Bill’s standards.

  The Club Lounge at the Ritz-Carlton is a private area for the elite who want to be kept separated from the general guests. You get free drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and we made it our personal tree house. For three days we filled ourselves for every meal and drained the bar dry. When they tried to close the joint, we’d insist that it wasn’t “fully inspected” enough for Shatner’s purposes. We were really pushing it. Or my friend was. Except he did not understand the meaning of “pushing.” I’m always willing to bend the rules. He just pisses all over them.

  Meanwhile, as far as the Indians were concerned, they just needed to be appeased and convinced that Shatner would actually show. And there was no guarantee of this. Anything could go wrong at this point. A quick Google or a couple of awkward questions and this whole fucking thing would crumble like matzo. It was a tightrope we were walking. A tightrope that was on fire. But that’s why it was so much fun.

  It was the day of Shatner’s arrival. The hotel and the general manager were still unconvinced. But we acted like complete pricks anyway. We drilled them on what to do when Mr. Shatner arrived. We had the lobby set up in a certain way. We told the staff not to approach or talk to Mr. Shatner when he appeared (because, of course, he had never met us and had no idea who we were). We even straightened the bellman’s tie and told him to be on his best behavior. Just awful stuff.

  Meanwhile, at the airport, my compadre was too cheap to cough up the extra seventy bucks to have the limo driver stand by the gate with a sign. So, soon a befuddled, elderly Canadian celebrity was waddling through the Toronto arrivals hall, looking for his ride while being besieged by Trekkies screaming “Live long and prosper!” into his fat, baffled face. Shatner is like a god in Canada.

  Eventually Bill found his car and reached the Ritz-Carlton. We were anxiously waiting in the lobby, scoping out the place. The second he stepped out of the car, we darted over to him. All he had to say was something like “What are your names again?” or “Who the fuck are you?” and the staff would have realized we weren’t part of his agency, and the whole fucking thing would be over. But luckily, Shatner breathlessly said, “Why didn’t you guys meet me at the airport?” which sounded convincing.

  As soon as Shatner arrived, everyone’s attitude toward us changed. We were totally legitimized, and even the fucking GM, who hadn’t bought our bullshit, started kissing our asses.

  They had given Bill a really beautiful suite. We’d been given the keys earlier, so he wouldn’t have to deal with any of that checking-in bullshit. But my fucking friend, a true grifter, traded our rooms, so Bill and his wife were in our hundred-dollar love nest while we had his fancy suite, which featured a huge gift basket full of upmarket spa products that I purloined and gave to the girl I was banging back in New York.

  So stage one was complete. Shatner was in the building and believed we were his handlers, courtesy of the Indian engineering firm. He took a liking to me and asked that I personally escort him around the event (there wasn’t much of a security detail). He also took a liking to my pocket square.

  “How many of those do you have for me?” he asked. What a chazer! He’s worth half a billion, and he’s still out for every free item he can get his porky mitts on. I gave him a few Pretentious Pocket squares I had on me, which he still wears. If you see a picture of William Shatner at some formal event, he’s probably got one of my pocket squares making him look good.

  Now we had to get him to the event and make him do his shtick while convincing both parties that we represented the other. I just kept repeating to myself that this wasn’t my scheme and the worst that could happen would be my plausible deniability, if that was even a thing. Luckily, when we arrived, practically everyone at this huge annual meeting was getting drunk. They started early and drank hard. And they were manically excited by Shatner’s presence.

  Unfortunately, Bill was a bust. He spoke in an unenthusiastic fashion for about thirty minutes, took a tour around a few tables, had a few pictures taken, and then wanted to escape as quickly as possible. I tried to keep him there for as long as I could. People had flown in from Delhi to meet Kirk and were happy to slip me hundred-dollar bills to make sure it happened. I made $800 by telling Shatner he had to have his picture taken with this guy, who was the head of deve
lopment or some other important-sounding bullshit title.

  But eventually I was worried that the old guy was going to have a stroke or something. His face started to go a peculiar color, and he implored me, “Justin, get me out of here.” I was in charge of Shatner’s escape, which was as intricate as a POTUS departure from the White House. We got him out of there, through a gaggle of disappointed Indian devotees and into his limo. The bigwigs at the firm were pretty disappointed, but we just had to tell them, “What can we do? It’s Shatner—he’s crazy.” They seemed satisfied by this explanation.

  And that should have been it. Shatner flew back out to Los Angeles the next morning, we got out of there with as many Ritz-Carlton products as we could carry, and apparently all the checks cleared. But it wasn’t enough for my ballsy friend. Like I said, this fucker doesn’t know the meaning of “pushing his luck.” He’d gotten all the money from all the parties concerned and made a healthy profit, considering he did barely anything. But a couple of months after the event, he called Shatner’s people to complain about their client’s performance.

  He told them that Bill only spoke for thirty minutes, didn’t press enough flesh, was generally disappointing, and in material breach of their contract. He wanted some of the money they’d paid returned to him. Unbe-fucking-lievable. The balls on this guy. At first they refused, and it got ugly. Eventually they relented and returned ten or fifteen grand to him, assuming it would be passed on to the Indian firm. Some hope.

  But even this wasn’t enough. Then he called the hotel and complained about the shitty room that we had given Shatner. Bill was upset by the service and the attention he got and so on. Frankly he was pissed by the whole endeavor, and, as Bill is the spokesman for a large travel company, things could get difficult if he started talking about his unhappiness at the Ritz-Carlton. Again, after some initial reluctance, they relented and compensated him for the full amount. Just a staggering amount of chutzpah. Golf clap.