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 français; 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.