Now this old cowboy always promised himself that someday, before he went to that big roundup on the big Facebook in the sky, he'd clear up the maze of bullshit surrounding Electra Glide in Blue. There has never been a movie in the world with so many people telling so many flat out lies and taking so much credit for shit they had nothing to do with than this poor little movie, Electra Glide. I'm not going to finish this story tonight, I'm too tired from the bullshit of my life, but I'm going to jump around with what I'm going to tell you.

First of all, when you buy a DVD of Electra Glide, they switch you over to James William Guercio, who tells you how he was the single-handed mastermind of Electra Glide in Blue. He is more full of shit than my grandma's two-hole outhouse in New Jersey. Every fucking word out of his mouth is lies and bullshit.

Now we'll leave that for a minute.

A year or two after the film was made, I get a phone call from my friend, Steve McQueen. He's up in the wilderness starring in a film, Tom Horn. Now I know what he's calling about. He yells, "You dirty motherfucker, why didn't you tell me that 14k little cocksucker can't direct a turd in a commode. He can't find his ass with both hands, he don't know a camera from a fucking artichoke." Before I can respond, I hear a gun going off (see at bottom of the review). McQueen used to do that in his motor home or his front room, or anywhere. If he got pissed off, he'd kill the fucking couch with his .41 magnum. He fires off all six rounds, and says, "What the fuck have you got to say for yourself?"

And I say, "Why the fuck didn't you call me in the first place?"

Now the back story here is, McQueen loved Electra Glide, so he wanted to hire the guy who directed Electra Glide to do Tom Horn. Brings Guercio on board. Tons of public relations bullshit going on. I'm sitting there watching it like the cat who ate the fucking canary. Big time agent making big time deal for big time director. As it says in the advertisement for Electra Glide, An American Film By A New American Director. Jesus Christ, I didn't think you could pile bullshit that high.

Back to McQueen. I said, "Why didn't you ask me?"

I would not have called anybody like the big time agent or the big time producer and ratted out the Little King, but if somebody would have asked me, I would have told them the truth. So I said to McQueen, "I'm not going to rat the fucking guy out, it ain't my style." I was plenty pissed off about him taking the film to the Cannes film festival and lying to everybody about everything, but it just ain't my fucking style. By now McQueen has reloaded his .41 mag and kills his other couch. And I asked him, "What are you going to do?" He said, "We already cast the picture," and they had, with some of my Electra Glide people--Billy Greenbush and some others. I said, "Steve, it's a good script, I've read it. You're a good actor, those Electra Glide people are very good. The picture will direct itself. Wind up that silly little toy soldier Guercio, send him to the showers, hire somebody you're comfortable with and make your fucking movie." That's the end of that tune.

I happen to love Tom Horn. One of my favorite movies about the Rocky Mountain Men along with Redford's Jeremiah Johnson.

So now, dear reader, if you have a copy of Electra Glide, go to the place where they introduce you to the little wind up toy, listen to all his bullshit, then the old cowboy will tell you the truth. And this truth I swear before God, I swear on the head of my daughter Rosie, I swear on the head of the people that my readers love, I'm going to clear up this bullshit once and for all.

Now. Jim Guercio was a massively successful record producer, owned a big hunk of the Beach Boys, owned a big hunk of the group, Chicago. Aside from Spector and a couple of others, he was the man. That was his talent and his only talent, bringing great musicians together, getting great work out of them, and giving it to the public in a high end, very classy, very successful way.

United Artists was a successful movie producing company. They were in expansion mode. They wanted to get in the record business. They say, "Guercio, we'll buy you out." Guercio says, "No way, but I'll put you in the record business if you put me in the movie business."

Enter a fellow named Rupert Hitzig. I think he had directed before, but I'm not sure. Had a script based on a true story of a little cop in Arizona named big John Wintergreen. Script written by Rupert Hitzig and Robert Boris. United Artists makes the deal. Big time agents come in, all the bull shit on the street, Martin Sheen is going to play the part. Period.

Hitzig wants him, Boris wants him, United Artists wants him, clean, nice, white kid, heir to the Jimmy Dean throne. Guercio says, what about Blake. Now I don't have an agent. Don't have a manager. But I got a couple of films in the can. Cold Blood, Willie Boy and a pretty good track record around town. Hitzig has a powerful contract, co-producer with Guercio. Co-writer and director. Guercio, and I didn't know why at the time, started maneuvering Martin out and me in. At the time I thought it was because he had exquisite taste. I'll answer that one in a minute. When the war is done, the casting guy, and I can't remember his name, and it's better that I don't, I'm too old for fist fights, wasn't that good when I was young. He's disappointed, big time Freddie Fields agent, disappointed, United Artists disappointed because we have a white story about a pretty little white cop in white Arizona and when I refer to white, I don't mean color, I just mean, that Robert Blake is a noir kind of person. He brings a cloud with him where he goes, and his acting puts a cloud on the screen and a cloud in the audience. And they think that's all there is. Well fuck them, they ain't seen nothin'.

We go into rehearsal. I fought real hard to get the cast that I wanted and Guercio remained on my side. I cast the picture. But I did it through Guercio so United Artists and Hitzig didn't get their dick out of joint. Nobody knew I was behind the scenes. You're still wondering why Guercio wanted me in the picture and why he was on my side. Well I'm going to tell you why. And it's going to turn the hair on your ass into Brillo.

We start rehearsals. Now I know that all I need to make a good picture is a good story because I can write the scenes every night and shoot them the next day. I was doing that in six-day pictures at Allied Artists in the early '50s. This was a good, solid story. I had my cast. Now I go to my friend, Tommy Shaw, who's a combination assistant director, production manager and line producer. Did that on a dozen John Houston films and a half a dozen Richard Brooks films, including In Cold Blood. Tommy got me In Cold Blood and covered my ass 24 hours a day throughout that entire production.

I go to Tommy, say "Tommy, I need a favor. I got a good ship, got nobody at the helm. Please help." Tommy says, "I love Arizona." He's got a wife and at least a half a dozen little kids. "I'll take the wife and kids, we'll make a summer out of it." I go to Guercio, "Guercio, you're a bright kid, but you don't know snot from applesauce about making movies. You'd have a better time performing brain surgery than trying to produce a film." He meets Tommy, checks out a half a dozen of his films, Tommy holes him up for a real good deal, and he's in. Now, Conrad Hall, arguably one of the best cinematographers in the history of world filmmaking, was available. My two previous films were In Cold Blood, which Conrad was the cinematographer on, followed by Willie Boy, which he also photographed, and fell in love with Kathryn Ross, the leading lady.

Now he had just come off of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Huge film. Huge success. Big production. I said, "Connie, this film will be your signature piece because in all of your other work you had to cooperate with directors, studio heads, people of all kinds. Here, there's nobody. Conrad, I give you my word. If anybody bothers you, if anybody talks to you, if anybody even calls you by your first name, you can chop them up like strawberries and eat them with your corn flakes in the morning. There's nobody here. First time director, first time producer. First time writer. There isn't enough experience on this set to fill a fucking cavity in your tooth."

Now I know that Conrad always wanted to be a director. I take him to Guercio. Now Guercio is getting more and more puffed up all the time because he's got Tommy Shaw and he's got Conrad Hall. What I didn't know at the time was that he also had "a partner in crime," Robert Blake. Guercio knew that if he brought in Martin Sheen with his big-time agents, managers and all that bull shit, that he would never be able to stab Hitzig in the back, bury him on the side of the road and grab the director's helm of the ship before we left the dock. Well that's what happened. I'm trying to rehearse this motherfucking movie and there ain't much professionalism going on. I'm stuck with the writer and the director. Tommy and Conrad are in Arizona preparing the film and I'm in Santa Monica with my dick in my hand saying I'm fucked.

Guercio's arguing with Hitzig at every turn. I start arguing with Hitzig. I start arguing with Guercio. Let me rehearse this motherfucking film. It turns into a shit storm. I call my lawyer, Lou Goldman, who's the only guy I got working for me, nobody else represents me, no agent, no manager, nothing. And I say, I'm down here in this building on Santa Monica Blvd. and I'm about to eat somebody's fucking head. Now Lou Goldman, was my man. My friend Richard Boone, one of the craziest motherfuckers in the world, brought me to Lou in 1962. At that time, Lou Goldman handled all the colorful, tough actors in Hollywood--Steve McQueen, Lee Marvin, Richard Boone, Jimmy Coburn, Charlie Bronson, all of them tremendously talented, but if you tried dealing seconds with any of them, you could wind up a stain on the sidewalk. Boone says, "Robert you'll never survive in this fucking town. You need Lou." OK, so I call Lou and he says "Robert, go into an office by yourself, lock the fucking door, and don't come out unless I'm on the other side of it." I say "Hitzig, Guercio, I'm gone." Lou comes shooting over from his office in Beverly Hills, comes to the door, says, "Robert, are you in there. "Is that you, Lou?" "Yes. This is me, Robert." He says, "Stay in there, keep the door locked, and don't fucking talk to anybody."

I don't know what he says to who because I'm locked in the fucking closet. After a long while, he comes over, unlocks the door and he talks to me. I said, "Lou, I got Willie Boy, I got In Cold Blood, I don't need this shit. Get me the fuck out here. This ship is sinking in a shit storm. This guy Guercio is using me to bury the fucking director. I can make this film with this director, but I can't do it with Guercio gunning for him." Goldman says, "Well, Guercio can't go. He owns United Artists, United Artists owns the project and the money. We can't fire Guercio. So it's either you or Hitzig." I agreed. He locks the fucking door again and he's gone. He comes back, says, "Hitzig is gone, off the picture, we're going to get a new director." I say, "Great, I know at least a half a dozen really good directors that can make small films. Guys that I worked with in television. I don't need a fucking genius. I just need somebody to sit in that chair and say action." Hitzig's gone, I start making suggestions to Guercio. Now the fucking plot thickens.

Guercio don't like anybody. He don't like anybody that I pick, he don't like anybody that he picks, he don't like anybody that Tommy Shaw picks, or that Conrad Hall picks. He's got United Artists by the nuts because they don't give a fuck about this little dollar and a half picture. They want to keep him happy to make millions in the record world. Guercio knows that he's gotta get past me if he's going to direct this picture, which was his plan from the beginning.

Dear reader, do you feel your asshole tightening? Now I either walk, or Guercio directs.

Now here's where the Blake fox outfoxes the Guercio fox. He thinks he's dealing with an actor. He don't know that I was born and raised on the streets. That I knew more about gurerilla fighting than the marines at Guadalcanal.

Now I lay some of my world class bullshit on him. Remember, I make a living acting. "Oh Mr. Guercio, sir. Thank God you're going to pull our chestnuts out of the fire. If you're half as good a filmmaker as you are a record maker, this will be moviemaking history." Now I've got enough smoke up his ass that we gotta pull him down from the ceiling like the fucking Hindenburg.

We start rehearsing. And I go to my cast. They're my people. And I say, "Don't worry about a fucking thing. I swear everyone of you is going to look better than you've ever looked before. Just smile at this little turd and keep him happy." And they all start blowing smoke up the Little Prince's ass.

We get to Arizona, First thing I do is call my friend, Michael Butler. We've written a great deal together before and we're very, very good together, but there's a writer's strike, but the ol' cowboy, who was a young cowboy at that time, and his teeth were much sharper. Michael always wanted to be an actor, so I hire him as an actor. Now there's no law in God's green earth that an actor can't make script suggestions. All actors do.

Now the first couple of days, I let Guercio drown. McQueen is right. If it ain't got a guitar connected to it, this guy is on fucking life support. Rushes looked terrible, United Artists don't give a shit. They're in the record business. The fucking budget is a dollar and a half. They don't want to know nothing. I take the Little Prince for a walk. I say, "Little Prince, here's the deal. We can leave everything just the way it is because I don't give a fuck. I've been in front of the box since I'm five years old and I'll be there long after you're dead and gone. Or we can make a deal. Now you thought you had everybody by the nuts, how do your nuts feel now, Sunny Jim? Little did he know that I had already taken my friends, Tommy and Conrad aside and said, "This ship is sinking but I got a way out."

We make a handshake tribunal deal between the three of us. "Conrad, you handle everything in front of the camera, and everything behind the camera, except the actors. Tommy, you handle the money, you're the assistant director, you're the production manager, you're the producer, whatever you say goes, except in Conrad's area. Nobody tells him where to put the camera, nobody discusses lenses with him, none of that shit. And if I see either one of you go near an actor, on camera, off camera or at the motel, I'm walking. Do we have a deal?"

Now for these guys it's great. Tommy's actually going to be able to make a movie without anybody telling him a fucking thing. And Conrad is going to be able to put his vision on film, no director, no producer, no big time star, nothing. And believe me, no matter who you are, when you make a picture like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, you fall into line, with the studio, the superstars, the superstar director and all the rest of it. Guercio don't know nothing about this deal. So on my little walk with the Little Prince, I say, "I will take your little chestnuts out of the fire and you can tuck them back in your pants. You sit in the chair." He says, "What do I do." I say, "You do nothing. I'm going to make you a fucking star. Keep your mouth shut and your nose clean. Go to the rushes. After two or three days, you don't like what you see, get a gun."

Now it's my cast, it's my writer, and that night, I write 10 pages, and it's the scene where I stop the 18 wheeler truck, which, by the way, Michael Butler, my ace in the hole, is playing the truck driver. Conrad is happy as a pig in shit. First time ever, he don't discuss nothing with nobody. He sits on the camera eating oranges and tomatoes, which he loved, and somebody told him they're good when you're working in the heat. I prepare the scene, rehearse the actors, do everything. Tommy don't say a word, Conrad don't say a word, until Mr. Blake is ready. Guercio is standing there with knee high general Patton military boots on, Jodhpur pants that flop out on the sides like polo players' pants, an African hunter bush jacket and a fucking pith helmet. He tries to make a move toward Conrad, Conrad looks at him like Moses looked at Sodom and Gomorrah. The Little King doesn't dare make a move toward me because he knows if he opens his mouth, there will be nothing left but a cloud of dust.

First day looks great, next couple of days, United Artists is on the phone constantly with the genius director, telling him the rushes look great. We keep working. Everything is going great. Butler's doing his part, Conrad couldn't be happier, we're on time, on budget, Tommy's got that crew so fucking oiled that you could hear a fucking pin drop on that set.

We're about three-quarters of the way through the film, everybody is delirious. The Little King has left me so much alone that I actually let him come in front of the camera once in awhile and bullshit around so he don't feel too fucking lonely. Conrad's doing the same thing. Guercio is so fucking thrilled that he is now Academy Award caliber and everybody in Hollywood is convinced, not only United Artists but everyone else. The buzz is around.

This picture is the next Easy Rider. It's the next this, and it's the next that. Guercio is all mouth and all cock. He says, "We gotta move the company to monument valley to shoot some exteriors. Monument Valley's the most beautiful place in the fucking world." Fine with me, fine with me, fine with Connie, fine with everybody. Allied Artists says we're not touching the fucking budget. Now their music deal with him is firm and hard and they have plenty of people to make movies besides the Little King with the boots on. He says, "I'm rich Monument Valley is on me." We go to Monument Valley and it's beautiful. Conrad couldn't be happier.

Now good reader, I want you to take a breath and catch up with me because we're going to hoof it over some difficult psychological terrain.

James William Guercio now becomes a loser. Hugely successful in the music world, about to commit suicide in the movie world. I think personally it's because he's ashamed of himself for living this horrendous lie. But boy when it's a lie that big, you gotta keep on lying for the rest of your fucking life. Just like he did with McQueen, just like he did with United Artists, just like he did at the Cannes film festival (where I was not allowed to go) and just like he did a couple of years ago on the DVD.

So what loser move does he make? Electra Glide is a gentle film. The color is subdued and quiet. The wardrobe is subdued. The desert is quiet and open. It's not a violent film. It's a very personal film. And that's no accident because I'm an actor and I'm directing actors. I don't give a shit about 1,000 Indians coming over the hill. And Conrad got that instantly. And he made sure that the acting was on camera and ever present for the audience. There was one motorcycle chase scene in the film. We shot it all in the desert, some of it was slow motion, beautiful stuff that no one had ever seen before. Those dirt bikes flying through the air like seagulls over the ocean and it was visually exquisite. Conrad may never have been that good again.

Now mind you, sometimes, Conrad did such strange things with the camera I thought he was fucking nuts, but I never even looked cross eyed at him because we had a deal. And every time I went to the rushes, he was right. Guercio says, "The movie won't work. I'm the producer, it's my money, there's a movie on the streets called The French Connection, it's making fortunes. Chase scenes through the streets of New York, cars leaping over cars, shootouts, blood all over the place, raking in millions."

Come to the end of the film, Connie says, "I'm gone. You got your chase scene, you got everything" Tommy Shaw says, "I'm wrapping this film up, I'm gone." Come back to Los Angeles. The Little King insists he wants The French Connection. I say Jimmy, "This movie is a Valentine. You can't mix a Valentine with a Jackson Pollack painting. It is what it is, It's beautiful, it's not shocking and it's not crazy." He says, "I'm the director, I'm the producer. Goes to United Artists and says, "It's my money, I'm paying for the added scenes. We're throwing out the old chase in the desert with the bikes looking like seagulls. We're going to make a chase with cars on the streets and I'm hiring the stunt coordinator from The French Connection."

I can't do a fucking thing, everybody else is gone, I can't argue with him, all I am is a fucking actor. Conrad is gone, Tommy Shaw is gone, everybody is gone, I have to report to Palmdale fucking California. Can you imagine that desert in California trying to match Monument Valley? Kiss my ass.

Well the stunt coordinator, a really nice guy named Hickman, he's hired to do a fucking job. He's not hired to mend my broken fucking heart. So we shoot this shit, and we're there for I don't know, 10 days, nothing but crazy violent shit. He's got cop cars rolling over innocent people in the street squashing them like fucking grapes. French Connection's making a fortune, the little asshole with the pith helmet says, "I want more. It's my money, I'm the producer, I'm the director, if I want to hire God to take a shit on camera, I'll do it."

We get all that pile of shit done. Now I'm trying to stay in good graces with the little bastard, because I've got to edit my film. Everything I shot I shot with an eye toward exactly how I was going to edit it. I may have had an actor improvising on camera for five fucking minutes and all I wanted was the last 30 seconds, but if she improvised for the five minutes, those tears at the end would be golden. I shot the whole film that way. Guercio had no idea what I was doing. Connie and Tommy knew exactly what I was doing. I even talked to them about how I was editing the film. I gave the script supervisor daily editorial notes. Billy Greenbush has a scene where he goes crazy and tries to kill me. And I let that guy wail. He picked up a fucking log that must have weighed 200 pounds and tried to throw it at me. And all the time, I'm editing.

Jeanine Riley, the leading lady, had such confidence and love for me, she never even paid attention to when the camera was rolling or when it wasn't. Had the whole film in my head.

Well he took that movie and he went to his $10 million ranch and he started editing the film there. I couldn't even get him on the fucking phone. Then he fired editors, came to Los Angeles, and edited again. And he took the film here and he took the film there, like a fucking dog burying a bone and digging it up again. Everybody's gone except the Little King who doesn't know what the fuck he was doing. Loser, loser, loser all the way. Scenes that were supposed to be three minutes long were 10 minutes long, scenes that were supposed to be 10 minutes long were 3 minutes long. The most beautiful lyrical action sequences, all gone in place of violence and bullshit. Some of the best scenes and the best acting are on the cutting room floor. You'll never see them.

I get called in to do post production looping. That means when the sound was no good, you come in and say the dialog while you're watching the screen. I see how badly he has fucked up the movie. Not only that, but he is personally writing the score for the movie. And Chicago is going to play and sing. Now mind you, I had already scored the film in my head with live music, which I was playing on the set and singing on the set to help the actors in the mood of every scene. I had the film scored in my head. The theme song was going to be American Pie by Don McLean. And when the little guy gets shot off the motorcycle at the end, you'd here "this will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die." I had four or five other records much like Dennis Hopper did in Easy Rider, using music from the day, successful records. And my title for the film was Chopper Copper. Who the fuck knows what Electra Glide in Blue means. Sounds like an episode of Star Trek.

Well, I was gone. My music was gone, Guercio writes a 10 minute fucking symphony after the little guy is shot off his motorcycle that goes on and on and on. The people to this day never know when the movie's over or when to leave the theater. Film is done, millionaire Guercio invites the press of the world to come to his Caribou ranch for a week of booze, food, broads and bullshit and screening his film.

Now in those days, you couldn't buy reviews the way you can today. And those people, while they were being romanced by Guercio, were laughing up their sleeve at him. Film is released with James William Guercio being the star. an American film by a new American director. No actor's names appear no place. I surreptitiously go to Westwood to see the opening night where I was not invited. And there is an eight-foot high cardboard cutout, as God is my judge, of Guercio in his Jodhpurs and boots and under it it says, an American film by a new American director (and along with your ticket, you will receive a tiny morsel of Mr. Guercio's soft, warm, sweet, tender, juicy ass with a little teryaki sauce, or if you prefer, a thimble full of his poo poo).

He takes his film and his entourage and his bullshit to the Cannes film festival, throws his money and his dick around in every direction. Cannes disliked him so much, it spilled over onto the film. Who is this big-time, bullshit asshole showing off like he's John Huston, trying to wow everybody with his money and his bullshit? Film didn't work. Didn't make any money, didn't get any nominations for anything anyplace. Me, Connie, Tommy, the actors, we go on with our professional and personal lives.

And Guercio for the next couple of years is still living off the Electra Glide bullshit.

Finally, his big agent and his big manager convince McQueen. Guercio goes to work on Tom Horn. And thank God Guercio wasn't in that motor home sitting on one of those fucking couches or he wouldn't have to live that lie anymore.

To this day, not that anybody in the universe gives a shit, he's still giving mini seminars on Electra Glide. An American film by a new American director still gets a laugh anyplace in show business where I say it.

Now one day this old cowboy is going to take that film and go to a college or a high school or someplace and show them between the lines the real film Chopper Copper the real score and the real chase. Might not be very entertaining to them, but it's going to make my dick feel good.

Like I said, my life has been the highest that no one could ever conceive and lowest that would kill any human being except me. And the reasons those lows don't kill me because I've experienced the highs. All the way back from 1942, the highest I've ever been in my life, on that little film called Mokey. So my broken heart and my broken ass and my broken dick has healed from all the bullshit. I can't imagine what it's like to be Guercio and wake up every morning with a lie the size of an elephant and have to strap it on your back and carry it through this world. You know I actually pity him. I can only tell you, good readers, nobody would ever believe the ride that I've had.

I think all those times when my heart was broken, when it healed, I think it healed bigger and more open. You can reach further into your heart and further out toward people. The price of a broken heart is unbearable pain, but the reward is you see through different eyes more beauty, more of the exquisite things in God's universe.

And so, big John Wintergreen, I love you and goodbye. And so long, sweet little film, I'll see you on the other side.

from Robert Blake, from his autobiography "Tales of a Rascal: What I Did for Love"

• this is after the events described here: "The heart-throb who hated women: Wife-beater, drug-taker and relentless philanderer, the brutal truth about Steve McQueen":

McQueen started going for all-night benders at the Whisky a Go Go club on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, where he met one of his chief partners in crime: a womanising hairdresser called Jay Sebring.

The two men, fuelled by alcohol and cocaine, shared the sexual favours of a Bambi-eyed starlet called Sharon Tate, often in the same bed at the same time. And their friendship continued even after she married the director Roman Polanski.

On the afternoon of August 7, 1969, Sebring went to McQueen’s house to give him a trim and suggested they attend a party that evening at Sharon’s house. McQueen said he’d be there. Before setting out, however, he was called by a young and beautiful blonde he was seeing at the time. Come along to the party, he said — but she told him she had a better idea for just the two of them.

Thus, by a whisker, Steve McQueen avoided being massacred by the Manson ‘family’, the hippie followers of the manipulative psychopath Charles Manson, who butchered Tate and three guests — including Sebring, who was shot and stabbed. Ironically, McQueen’s adultery had saved his life.

Two months later, when the killers were arrested, police discovered McQueen’s name on a hit-list of people whom Manson had decided to kill. It turned out that someone at McQueen’s production company had once rejected a screenplay by Manson. From then on, the actor carried a loaded Magnum at all times.