Saturday, July 31, 2010

More Bullshit

So why am I risking exposure by writing this blog? Good question.

First of all, I am safe. The scumbags who booted me out of Hollywood are buried at Forest Lawn. May their souls rot in hell.  

Secondly, I am bored.

Thirdly, I have not indulged my narcissistic impulses for thirty years. In that regard, I recently cooperated with a French publisher on a book of collected articles about my life and work

The book is not available in English. There are a number of explanations for that: 1. The French are a cultured people who appreciate important film directors more than Hollywood douchebags; 2. Nobody in America has the balls to publish the dirt I dish en fran├žais; 3. I want an advance from a U.S. publisher. A large one.

Though you’ll need to buy the book for a full account of my tawdry life and times, J.X. won’t let you walk away without a cheap thrill! “Chez Williams” is cooking up an all-you-can-eat buffet of celebrity dirt, mafia dirt, political dirt, music dirt, and model dirt that will sate even the most ravenous of voyeuristic appetites.

And as for those old studio geezers in Bel-Air who thought J.X. would go gently into the night, brace yourselves. I’m coming back with a bang.

After the carnage, you rationalized privately and lied publicly. The patina of wealth and fame masked the stench of your wicked deeds. You invented a separate persona for your wife and kids. At times, you pretended so well that things almost did seem normal. Decades went by and the evil you wrought abstracted itself. Distance mellowed everything. Red blood turned sepia.  And as the wreckage shrank in the rear-window of your memory, it almost became cool and legendary like Al Capone or Dillinger.

But, you see, that doesn’t cut it with me. The fault lines that were your personal weaknesses and moral failings, they never went away. And now there’s a seismic shockwave of scandal heading on a direct course for your comfy country club lifestyle.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men...

Stay tuned.

Ground Rules

You do not know me and you never will. Do not attempt to find me.

I have an assistant. Do not bother him. He does not know where I am and can tell you nothing. Even if you put a gun in his mouth.

For these postings, my assistant takes dictation from myself over a satellite phone. I throw out and replace the SIM card after finishing each and every call. Yes, that is an expensive thing to do but I’ve got the money. For longer postings, I compose written messages and give them to a courier who faxes them from locations hundreds of miles away or even from a different continent. Said faxes are burnt upon receipt.

Do not attempt to find me. Or I will find you. And, brother, you will not like that.

I carry six passports. Perfect forgeries. Even a diplomatic one to get me out of tough situations. Unfortunately, I never got to use my favorite. I got it courtesy of Reza Pahlavi before Iran went medieval. 

Just to be on the safe side, I have plastic surgery done every five years. I get the surgeons to carve me like my favorite actors. In the 80s, I played Cary Grant before making a brief cameo as Fred Astaire. Daddy Long Legs didn’t suit me though. I looked like a queer. So I had the doctors recut me as Clint Eastwood and kept the tough guy look for a long time. As for my current role, I’ll just have to leave you guessing.

Do not waste your time looking for me.  The paper trails have gone cold decades ago. Social Security Number? Never had one. Birth Certificate? Lost after a mysterious fire in a hospital basement. FBI file? Expunged. There’s a funny story behind how a friend pulled that caper but I think I’ll keep it to myself. 

I’m so fucking good at this that there are conspiracy theorists who say I don’t even exist. Anyone who is anyone on Mulholland probably heard the rumors already. For the rubes in Peoria not in the know, let me give you a clue. My identity is “on the QT, and very Hush-Hush.” And if you haven’t figured it out already, that’s a double-entendre: could be the tall one or the bald one. Or let’s triple the entendre. Maybe they’re doing it together.

Anyway, keep guessing away, fuckheads. I’m going out for a hot sake and a blow job.