It was 1994, and I had read an article in Premiere magazine saying that the Celebrity Center, the Scientology epicenter in Los Angeles, was a great place to meet women. Willy [Shapiro's pet name for his schlong] convinced me to go check it out. Touring the building, I didn't find any eligible women at first, but I did meet Karen Hollander, president of the center, who said she was a fan of "Robin Hood: Men in Tights." We ended up talking for over two hours. She told me why Scientology is so great. I told her that, when it comes to organized religion, anything a person does to reward, threaten and try to control people by using an unknown like the afterlife is dangerous. Nonetheless, Karen called me a few days later asking if I'd be interested in turning any of L. Ron Hubbard's books into movies. Eventually, I had dinner with John Travolta, his wife Kelly Preston, Karen -- about 10 Scientologists in all. John asked me, "So, J.D., what brought you to Scientology?" I told him. John smiled and replied, "We have tech that can help you handle that." I don't know if he meant they had technology that would help me get laid or technology that would stop Willy from doing the majority of my thinking.To Shapiro's credit, he doesn't turn this into a Scientology bash piece. Mostly, it's the story of a pussyhound who tried to fuck his way through the Church without officially joining. Shapiro does try to partially absolve himself of writing a shitty script by shifting the blame to Corey Mandell, the guy Travolta brought on to incorporate his notes when Shapiro refused, but he's tough enough on himself that you don't mind. Also, it's entirely possible that a writer with no major credits other than one of the worst films of the 2000s might've dragged his work down a notch or twelve. Then again, both men were adapting BATTLEFIELD EARTH.