Who Am I?
How dare you. I refuse to believe you don’t know who I am. I’ll tellyou who I am. I have an army of Facebook friends and legion of Instagram followers. I’m hours of global TV coverage and the front page of The New York Times style section. I’m a sexual exciter of flailing fans from Oslo to Osaka (yes, they all came). I’m the savior of Bravo’s The Millionaire Matchmaker, headliner for VH1, and crooner on national radio. I’m a monopolizer of tabloid pages and riot instigator in Sweden. That’s who I am.
Famous for being famous? Please. I’m miles beyond that. I’m famous for telling you I’m famous. There’s no one and nothing like me. I’m a legend. A pioneer. A completely self-created, self-inflated, internet celebrity and social-media monger. The media and various dip shits and concerned citizenry everywhere are always bawling that I represent everything that’s wrong in the world. Absolutely. I completely agree. There’s no point disputing it: I’m your worst goddamn nightmare. All I want to do is tell you precisely where it all went right.
Don’tYou Know Who I Think I Am? is the tale of how a privileged putz growing up in Scarsdale became this JewJetting, shiska-banging, celebrity-baiting, nightclub-blacklisted aristo-brat. It’s the story of how Justin Ross Lee morphed magnificently into JRL, aka “The EgoThat Attacked New York,” as The New York Post aptly called me.
In Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?, I discuss and dissect my many run-ins with celebrities, including flights with Brad Pitt, fights with Paul Rudd, walking the red carpet with Gwyneth Paltrow, grifting Jeremy Piven (and banging his ex), and feuding with both Star Jones and Ashley Olsen (Star was more fun). I’ll explain just why the hell would William Shatner want anything to do with me. I’ll reveal the importance of keeping the press on a tight leash and how the right photograph in the right place can be more valuable than a million column inches.
I’ll reveal my secrets to gate-crashing major awards ceremonies, A-list parties, and gaining entrance to the most exclusive nightclubs and restaurants. I’ll cover the three P’s I never pay for: parking, publicity and pussy (the last one will help get the first 2 P’s for free). You’ll read about my tales of tail, my cunning conquests, and how I banged the Rabbi’s daughter on the holiest day of the year.
And yes, for all the road warriors and would-be jet setters, I will detail how to fuck the major airlines and hotels as hard as they fuck you. Shatner may negotiate for you. But let’s be clear: this is not a negotiation. This is guide to guerilla warfare in the battle for luxe.
That is the JRL guarantee. I’m the love child of a three-way between Howard Stern, Kathy Griffin, and Larry David, if you can stomach the image. Feel free to hate me if you wish (actually I prefer it), question everything I say (I honestly don’t care), ridicule me (for someone circumcised, I have remarkably thick skin), but I can promise you’ll still find me fucking funny. Laughing with me? Laughing at me? Laughing towards me? As you will discover, in my world it’s all inconsequential. Attention, good or bad, is its own reward.
Maybe it’s satire. But maybe it’s just the instructional manual for the modern narcissist. I’ve created and cultivated this shtick over many years, writing the book as I go. Now I’m ready to share it with the world.
Thanks for coming with me. Fuck everyone else.