read: hollywood animal
It's a shame Joe Eszterhas and Russell Crowe never crossed streams. The resulting throw-down of wrong-headed self-righteousness and noble savagery would have been manful and awesome and totally not gay to behold. That imaginary near-miss notwithstanding, there's enough Social Darwinist star-fucking and petty industry score-settling between the covers of Eszterhas' doorstop to offer some schadenfreudelicious pickings if you're willing to wade through the sneakily index-less, haphazardly time-shifting free-associative text. The chapters recounting Eszterhas' childhood are helpfully labeled "flashback" and may be skipped entirely. (PS. Joe, if you ever Google this, please don't punch me or even threaten to do so in a sternly worded, manually typed letter. I will weep like a girl and we'll both be embarrassed.)