Torcularis Septentrionalis

I'm going out to Weho tonight!

I'm trying to avoid Meredith Baxter-Birney's annual "End of '05 Bash" at her lavish pastel color spread in Rancho Cucamonga. It's too far a drive, and I'm not in the mood to run into Swoozie Kurtz nor eat her noodle coogle. We've all been friends since the 1995 made for television movie Betrayed: A Story of Three Women. I played a scorned cop, a la Ray Liotta withthout the bad acne and pockmarks. HDTV and I are best friends. My skin is flawless. Thank you to Dr. Brinstein at the Cosmetic and Neurological Center for Debutantes. I highly recommend him. In fact, if you use my name as a referral I'll receive a free eye lift - and I can donate the savings to some poor orphan charity. That's why I think I was, also, the only one with the Emmy nomination and Swoozie and Mer-Mer got nothing. I can flare a cheekbone better than Thomas Mapother Cruise.

Speaking of Tom Cruise, I haven't been to "Boy's Town" in a long while. I'm just going to let loose and dance. It will be interesting to hear how the hot new "gay gospel" gyrates my hips on the discoteque dance floor. My wife, Marilyn, has forbidden me to fornicate with men during the holy month of Ramadaan. Especially, during war time. It's a vow I'll keep, but that's doesn't stop the fingering. Which makes me remember the time...

[Flash to Bright White. Flashback.]

It was 1944. I was a strapping young dance captain for the Navy. I was paid to teach all the boys to fox-trot before we took them to all the USO dances. We fox-trotted all right, and all night. I may actually be the reason behind the "No Homosexuals in the Military" thing. But , what can I say, it was distracting them, and the limping made the marches look sideways. One day, I was in the middle of a Lambada session with a very young William Holden, and Gary Cooper walks in. Instantly, my gaydar went off, and I called him over to explain the initiation fee. He said, "I'll do anything for my country." I said, "Amen."

We jazzed, tapped, salsa'd, waltzed and square danced the night away. Soon, the sun was rising in the west and scorpio was travelling into virgo crossing. We woke from our "seperate cots" exhausted from a night of drunken revelery. He turned to me and asked "Do you think a gay man can make it as an actor?" I said, "Actors can only be gay men. For gay men are the ones who really know how to act. It all comes from your prostrata - your prostate."

Chatanooga Choo-Choo swelled over the Stromberg Carlson 1101-H and we laughed like fat chums in catholic school. Soon we riffed on some harmonies and (ten minutes later) I was taking his headshots. The composites looked splendid. He had such charisma, a natural smile and small ankles. I knew he was going to be - a Star. So, I somersaulted over to the window and reached my silver arm into the firmament. I pulled down Torcularis Septentrionalis and bequeathed it upon him. I said, "Have this Star. Be a Star. Go and bid do the Lord's work." He smiled at me with some soot in the corner of his mouth. I leaned in and wiped it with my paw. He said, "I love you." I replied, "Never love. Only be loved. It's safer that way." He said, "No, I do. I love you." I said, "When you say it, don't spray it. I want the news not the weather, asshole." I wiped his accidental spit wad off my face, and asked him to leave - I already had what I wanted. He said "I'll call you after I shoot Pillow Talk. I don't think it'll do well at the box office. I'l have some spare time." I never saw him again. I heard he got the Clap from some floozy boom operator. Wrapping it all up, I'd say he was one of the "loves" my life. My Sean Penn, my Kevin Federline. The closest thing I've ever come to true, absolute love.

Anyway, I'm sneaking off to DiCaprio's place later tonight. Leo, Giselle and I have a hot date with Yahtzee! and somehow I'm going to have to bring up the awkward moment telling Leo to quit the acting business, or take an acting class. I think he's losing it. Did you see him in The Aviator? Oscar nominated for a two-dimensional performance. He had so much potential. Then squandered it on Ego, and ruthless Hollywood mafiosa type killings, and such. I can't go into details of the investigation, but with my incriminating evidence and wire taps - Leo DiCaprio is going down - on me, or tonight's game of Yahtzee! The Feds are just one call away.

Well, off to WeHo. Please pray that I don't run into any drunk queer fans with no hair, but a beard. If so, my Martini's are going waterfall down several faces, and burn out the retinas in their eyeballs. I feel sorry for them. They just want my autograph, but the more I sign the lower they sell on Ebay.

Cheers, friends. Amen.

Beckett Boo, esq.
Cat Blogger Extraordinaire!


Oscar Herpes

Today Oscar season begins.

I am so mirthful. The National Board of Review releases it's list of winner's for the Best Films of 2005, thus, beginning what we in the Americas have come to know as the "Oscar Race" or "For Your Consideration" season. Personally, I am endorsing Steven Spielberg's Munich. Not just because I'm in it, but because it's brilliant! I play Eric Bana's lover. They cut some of that out because I was "stealing to much focus", but I definitely steal some scenes and "some heart's" from what I've read from the reviews. Plus I own three discotheque's in downtown Munich. It would be dynamite for business, no pun intended.

I'm not sure about this new "Donkey" Kong movie. I'm not an ape man -plus Naomi Watts gave me Herpes. Branded for life. I call it "The Ring". Don't laugh - one in four people have it. Which means I would have got it anyway, right? So, all the cool people have it, or at least I thought so until my testicle fell off.

But this cold winter's hotly anticipated Broke(Bare)back Mountain is going to be a surprise hit! Mostly, because it seems that everyone wants to see these two fuck! Men and woman! Even my Dakota Fanning wants to see it - but I don't think she should. She needs more time to develop, or she'll become one of those "Jodie Foster's". I think Brokeback Mountain it's going to make a splash in the red states! This fucker's on fire, baby. It's My Own Private Idaho meets RamJet Amateur's: Big Boys 3. I was at at a screening in Toronto last week, and I swear to god, you needed rain boots to get out of that theatre - and it wasn't tears soaking the concrete, ladies and gentlemen. Heath and Jake do it all. Full frontal. Backwards, forwards. Top to bottom. You'll LOVE it! It's like watching Bambi without the Mother dying at the end. You leave the theatre weeping, singing all the songs and want a time share in Billings. Which reminds me...

Before I sold my Montana cattle range to Harrison and Calista Ford (ooops, did I disclose that they are married?). Anyway, Harrison was checking out the property and doing his "jew" thing and trying to talk me down. I said, "Take it or leave it. If you don't buy it I'll just keep it. You'll still have "Random Hearts" on your resume." Incidentally, he threw a sucker punch at me. I ducked (having mastered Ninja skills by age 2) and side-kicked him his his abdomen. Then the funniest thing happened. He started bleeding from his mouth. I told him I knew a great dentist, and walked away. Calista vociferated at me, but her voice was so tiny all I heard was "watermelon". He said, "I need a phone! I have to call an ambulance!" Calista then began singing "Somewhere" from West Side Story (out of pitch, I might add) and Harrison wet his knickers. I felt cool 'cause I had a match hangin' from my lips like Sylvester Stallone in Cobra. Just then a gas tanker drove by. I pulled out my 9mm Beretta 92F and shot three holes in the side of the gas tank. It passed the Hollywood has-beens and sprayed two gallons of V-Power Shell gas all over their well- manicured coifs. I scratched the match against a statute of Lewis and Clark and flicked it at the powerless couple who than lit up - like Snoop Dogg at a High Times Magazine Xmas Party. I got a marvelous tan from that fire. Suffice to say, my attorney Johnny Cochran (r.i.p.) "worked" things out - props to Irv Gotti and the Murder Inc. crew. Needless to say, Harrrison is working on Indiana Jones 4, and Calista is still getting weekly skin-grafting. Looking better each day. We still send seasonal cards to each other, and I walk the red carpet at his charity events. There's no hard feelings between us anymore. But back to Oscar Season!

There's talk that I'm the Jaime Foxx of this season, but we'll see. I can't tell whether that is admiring my talent or some racist smug remark. There's racism, sexism and nepotism everywhere in this business. Do you know how many producers I had to sleep with to get my first guest spot on Who's the Boss? It was also the moment of my most embarrasing regret: camping alone with Danny Pintauro. Let's just say we only had one sleeping bag, oversized black Sharpies pens and three copies of Bop Magazine. This business is so ass backwards, literally, you have to have your ass backwards to get anywhere.

I have my Oscar, Golden Globe, Independent Spirit, Grammy, Nobel Peace Prize, Olivier, Clio, Blockbuster. Ultimately, one doesn't need such excess - but theres' nothing like doing "a line" on an Oscar. The important things is that great storytelling is being told, and the work continues. But let's all pray I get a nomination.

Well, I must stop droning out gossip and inspiration via my Sony VAIO 550-TV PC in Cyprus basking in the hot Greek sun while my "companion" James Franco and I get pedicures.

Stay Warm Amerika. Golden Globes Nominations are next Tuesday! God bless.


Beckett Boo, esquire.

Cat Blogger Extraordinaire!


Aereola Triangles

I hate starting trends, but this bi-sexual thing is out of control.

I made it hip waaaaay before the cotton gin was even invented. I remember it clearly. I was out to pasture whipping the 'hinds of the oxen collecting snapdragons and plowing the field. Under the brazen beams of the sun I perspired some inspiration. If I put a Bi in front of the Sexual and fastened it together with a hyphen I knew it would make Bi-Sexual. I thought it would aid the community. Help bring us together. Help define the confines that inhibit us. But no, not in Salem, Massachusettes in 18th century. It was "Devil This! Burn That! Sever his balls with this!" So, I moved.

Running for my life, I later forgot the brilliant word I had coined. That is until I moved into a condo in the East Village with Allen Ginsberg. He said, "Oh, bi-sexual! We've been saying that for years!" I hissed under my breath, and calmed my seventh chakra. As long as it was out. That's all I cared about because all I want is for the people to know. To know what I know.

Now that I have my own blog, and people write to me it comforts me to see that so many of you are "bi-sexuals". It comforts me to know you feel comfortable with your sexuality. Kudos to you! However, I've given it up. It's too trite. It's too obtuse. It's too trendy.

So, I'm coming out as a Tri-Sexual! No, it doesn't mean I have sex with animals (you dirty perverted minds). It's such a "mysterious" sexuality. Straight involves too much emotional conditioning and blood. Gay is too much of a hot button topic. I'm not one of those radicals - like Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen. I like hiding in the limelight just as much as I do standing center stage awash in it. But, Tri-Sexual opens the possibility for something...else. It keeps the options - wide open.

While snapping towels in the locker room with Antonio Banderas we laughed at how little our "members" looked after a cold shower. He kept pointing and laughing. I was pointing, laughing and secretly taking pictures with my camera phone. I joked, "Gosh, Anton, you better never have a nude scene with a prick that small." He laughed in that way he does as Zorro then replied, "Well, let me show you how big it can get..." Just then Katie Couric and Angela Bassett walked in - thinking, of course, that this was the Ladies locker room. (damn cockblockers!) Immediately, they were aroused by our provocative towel fight and soon joined in the fray.

In a quick flash, I had fashioned Angela's hair extensions into a splendid positioning harness. Couric approached me with her usual zeal and gummy smile. She reclined in the synthetic hair harness and popped out a microphone from where I'd really rather not say. Then we all formed a perfect triangle, slipped off Antonio's class ring with our "special places" and somewhere in between that and a pair of sweaty leg warmers Tri-sexuality was born. (weighing 8 lbs. 2 oz.) You'll have to re-read this paragraph 437 times to really get the gist of it all.

Needless to say, the ring was a perfect fit for Couric's Aereola. I mean we've all seen those 'nips before. We'll never forget Bora Bora, 1962. The martinis, the quaaludes and the midget's arm.

Well, I'm off to Antarctica. North Pole, south pole. I don't know which pole Antarctica holds, but I know, my pilot, Manuel will be holding one of them. I'm off to save those cute baby seals. But not before I skin one and mutilate it into a savvy three quarter inch waist blazer for fall fashion.

Let the haute couture race begin!!

Eat my dust, Gwyneth Paltrow, I'm going to "Bounce" you from this "Duet", and I have the box that's fits your severed head perfectly.


Beckett Boo, esq.


Life Styles of the Rich $$$ and Infamous

Now that the year is winding down. I just wanted to share some of my favorite paparazzi pictures from the recent year. Here, enjoy my fans. You have made me what I am. Cheers to you. Amen.





OSCAR WIN NUMBER 2 (Watch out Meryl)

The Cocoa Butter Avalanche

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Today an avalanche hit my cabin in Zurich.

I received the news via wire from my Houseboy, Manuel in Florida.

He heard it from my butler, Javis, at my chateau in Oxford.

Javis heard it from Tasago, my guardsman, at my estate in Nagano.

The news was verified by my PowerShot 360 laptop computer camera surviellance. I logged-on, pressed the appropriate keys and viewed the devastation.

It was heart-wrenching. Gutless, coward Mother Nature. All the while my back was turned, literally, during my cocoa butter massage.

At least Wilheim is okay. Resting in a hospital. There will be no more cleaning for him today. His femur must heal.

Subsequently, my Winter Formal next friday is cancelled. Please do not send gifts, BUT donations can be made is Wilheim's name via the Deustche Swiss Account # 536782-987-25366. He's very hungry, and obviously out of a job. I'll do my best to make sure he gets the best medical care possible. Anyway, I'm off to film an "Untitled" suspense / thriller co-starring Bruce Willis and Rebecca DeMornay in Portland, Maine tomorrow. It's going to be steamy. I think Willis going full frontal again in this one. I hope Rumer comes to the set.

So, that's that. I'll update you after my chopper lands at the heli-port.


Beckett Boo, esq.

From Behind The Fendi Sunglasses

From Behind The Fendi Sunglasses

Twice today I ran into Sarah Michelle Gellar.

We haven't spoken for years. We rode on opposing escalators at the Beverly Center. She had big sunglasses on and pretending to read an In Touch magazine. I was canoodling with a brunette gentleman caller and eating a cinnabon when Sarah and I caught eyes. Actually I caught my eyes in her Fendi glasses, and I remembered how my reflection glimmered against them - and I remembered us. We were both silent. The brunette boy was pulling at me begging for more poppers. I said, "Hush fool! It's Sarah Michelle!" But the escalator had passed at that moment, and were like two ships that passed in the night.

The second time was in the parking lot and I crashed my 2005 Bentley Arnage into her CLK-350 Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet. We politely exchanged insurance information, and laughed over the fact that she shops at Express. I placated telling her that I love Express Men (even though I detest any kind of mall fashions). We hugged awkwardly, and she zoomed off to the pay booth.

We started dating when I was a PA on the set of that 80's Chevy Chase vehicle "Funny Farm". She had a uncredited role in it. Don't blink, or you'll miss it. I think she did it for some SAG vouchers or something. She was a bit desperate then, but weren't we all. But no one was as cunning or manipulative as Sarah Michelle.

Before I was who I am, and before she was whatever you want to call what she became - I knew her as Sarah Gellar. She added the Michelle at summer camp because all the kids would mistake her for a Jew. But she was, and will always be. So will I. Inside. Forever.
Plighted to the Torah.

When she started filming "Swan's Crossing" that was when I had it with her. We had been dating off and on for almost two years. She had just signed with the William Morris Agency, but I was pressing her to work with Rick Yorn back when he was with Industry Entertainment so there was already that tension. I was moving up to producing at that point. So, at times I had to (sometimes) be a bit of a taskmaster, and Sarah was under contract. I told her that I would like to keep our affair private while we are working. She agreed.

But one day, the director was struggling with her performance, and had me talk to her. I waited outside her trailer for five minutes. I knocked thrice. On the third knock she yanks the door open and I fell inside. I said, "I love you Sarah! But I'm your boss!" She replied, "I'm going to have your baby. Now that's off my chest I can get back to working." Then she held me against my will and performed the most disgusting sexual acrobatics that I have ever witnessed - grape jelly still comes out of the strangest places at the strangest of times. Which reminds me to have my Valtrex prescription refilled. I left her trailer - satisfied. Knowing that as a producer I could handle obstacles with as much panache as I handle the pan flute, for instance, quid pro. I assured the director (a young Brett Ratner) that all would be well. Needless to say, the show was cancelled.

I had my fame and fortune, and she made a ton of money off that vampire slaying show. I'm happy to know she has insurance and a pension.

I wish our baby well. Whatever his name was going to be. We will always remember him, and the day she told the doctor to put the kid to rest. Bitch.


Beckett Boo, esq.

11:40 and 1:00 Sharp

Today I had lunch with Ryan Seacrest and Donatella Versace.

Not at the same time, of course, but at separate tables. Ryan and I met at 11:40 for a sesame tofu salad at Koo Koo Roo. We discussed his sensational radio career vs. his lackluster televised hosting venture. Ryan says that the "ladies" prefer vocal resonation as opposed to the new hi-tech on-camera HDTV eyebrow lift look. So, he tore up his plastic surgeon's business card and vows to hang upside down and go on a juice fast for 72 hours. I don't know what that will do for him, but I'm curious to see what the turnout will be. I encouraged him to write a book, but he hastily turned away as the sun glistened against his royal blue contact lenses.

I met Donatella 1:00 sharp at Dolce. I had a wardrobe change in my trailer pre-positioned outside the cafe. This time I wore maroon. I was glad I had because she showed up in black and we complemented each other well. We drank a crisp, aromatic South African Chenin Blanc. We shared tuna tartare appetizers, and laughed over our college years at Eaton in Westcherfield. She reminded me that next year will be our ---th year anniversary as best friends. So we began planning our excursion. Let's just say it will involve a giant beige yacht, 300 bisexuals and 40 kegs of Mountain Dew.

Just then, we laughed because Christine Lahti tripped on a ramekin and tried to recover like it never happened. But we saw it. Then Donatella called over the manager, and got him to give her a copy of the surveillance video. So we could show it to all our closest friends. Leslie Ann Warren is going to shit her pants when she sees the replay.

So, now I'm home. Resting on my laurels. Downloading an early industry copy of the upcoming Mary J. Blige album to my itunes.

Your love and support mean all the world to me.

You are all gems. Simply gems.


b.b., esq.

Fishing For Barracuda

Today I returned from Bolivia.

On Thanksgiving Day (of all days) I adopted a 17 year old Bolivian boy from Anguilla. We returned to the States via tugboat as Absalom's "papers" were destroyed in a plane crash near Trinidad. My assitant Marisol manned the sails, my wife Marilyn made a delicious pot roast and my new son, Absalom, and I fished for Barracuda.

I am honored to have this opportunity to shape a youth into a man. Develop the boy with my keen sense of discipline, wit, parental wisdom and sass. In various social and political circles circles I am known to be a well bred leader, well esteemed and virtuous - a veritable father figure. I am curious to see what kind of man he becomes and what he brings to his nitty-gritty Bolivian lifestyle.

The specific guidelines were underwritten as one full year of "adult-contemparary cosmopolitan year of guidance." I joked to his parents in Spanish, "Well, we won't be going to any Dionne Warwick concerts or anything." The room was silent, but I thought it was funny. Spanish has a different rhythm.
I have much to teach young Absalom.

Of course, you'll be able to see it. It will be airing on CBS this spring on the reality show tentatively titled "Beckett Boo's Bolivian Kid Swap Project". I'm still in disputes over the title, but what can I do? Les Moonves and I have been chums for years. I am being paid handsomely [as you can see ; )] but the great reward is the Gift of Fatherhood.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Beckett Boo esq.

Guess the Celebrity

- Hello, (Celebrity Name Insert), it so grand to see you. I love that purple chenille scarf. It works magic with your dark features.

- Beckett Boo, you hot, cool cat. Oh my G-d, I read your bi weekly blog all the time. I haven't seen you since the premiere of (Major Motion Picture Title Insert). That was, like decades, ago. You look great. Do you wanna do some blow?

- No, but thank you. Last night I was hold up in a snowstorm with MK and Ashley Olsen, if you catch my drift. Let's just say, "I'm good." But yes, that bitchin', 80's rock 'n roll movie you were in back in the mid 80's. I had the movie poster as a young teen.

- Well, I don't know where my brother is, but I'm not gonna wait. But keep an eye out for me.

- No, pleeeeeease, go ahead. I'll keep a keen eye.

[Celebrity snorts cocaine.]

- Well, that was quick (Celebrity Name Insert). I haven't see snorting that fast since I was at Michael Eisner's White Party a Go-Go VIP Room with JC Chasez and Alan Cumming cramed in a bathroom. Boy was Alan pissed drunk. In fact, I think he pissed on JC. I left the room at that point. The door locked, and that's all I'm saying. SO, tell me about you new movie.

- Yes, yes, uhm, yes. The TV Movie. Well, it a TV movie about a TV show, uhm. (She laughs uncomfortably). I play an executive and, well, it's about how a network televison show is made. Sigourney Weaver is in it, Judy Greer, David Duchovny.

- But, (Witty Celebrity's TV Show Famous Character's Name Joke Insert) that's all small potatoes to what you've accomplished beside your two emmy nominations for [TV Series name Insert].

- Yes, I actually have very busy career as a fashion designer. You can visit my web site at

- Oh, no, no, no (Celebrity Name Insert). We must save the suspense. We can't gve to much

- Anyway, good luck to you. Thank you for the casual celebrity interview. By the way, is the purple chenille scarf one of your design creations?

- No, I bought this at Bloomingdales. I gotta find Jason. It was so good to see you again. I need some water.

- Jason's pitching Darren Star a new show in the gazebo. Oh, girl, so good to see you.

[We embrace warmly.]

- Thanks, thanks. Uhm, okay, bye. See ya. (She stumbles off.)

Then she vanishes into the sea of d-list celebrities. She finds her brother who just found out about his television show cancellation. I walk past and hear them pitching each other ideas for a project together. She dangling a martini in one hand, and he's passing a joint to Eliza Dushku. Her chenille scarf falls behind her. I look up to the sky, and at that exact moment a star beams and meets the glimmer in mine eye. I reach over to the chenille scarf and pull it toward me. I tuck it into my lap.

I call the valet poolside, and tip him to have my lamborghini by the pool door exit immediately. I exit into the dark alley, swoop into the car driven my my housekeeper, Marisol, and began texting this blog into my blackberry with the comfort of my new chenille scarf.

See ID


I lost my black Amex charge card. Pin # 4932. If anyone finds it please contact me via this e-mail address or you can contact my agent, Patrick Whitesell, in care of the Endeavor Agency. The card really has no limit. It's a VIP card, black, with the name Beckett Boo, Esq. emblazoned in blue Gold. I forgot to write "See ID" on the back so anyone who has it could, quite frankly, purchase anything they even wanted. I trust you all, so if any of you are in or around the West Hollywood area I may have lost it inside the TomKat while paying for my bon bons. I asked the house manager and he said if I wanted to search through buckets of - Anyway, if you see it. Let me know.


Beckett Boo, esq.
Cat Blogger Extraordinaire!

The Bio-Chemical Glucose Nightmare

Friday, November 11, 2005

The first thing that happened was I found out corn syrup was an ingredient in my V8 shake. It's in just about everything nowadays - my chapstick, my lemonade, even my baklava. But it erks me plenty when it touches the inner sanctum of my can of V8.

My day always starts the same way. I have grown accustomed to its daily ritual. Marisol, punctutally, awakes me at 6:30 a.m. playing Dvorak: Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op. 104; Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95 on her viola. I rise from the bed and walk into the garden, bare, with all my tidbits aglow. There I meet up with my Tai Chi instructor, "Lemon Tree", for 20 minutes more of rigorous exercise. Then Marisol has my egg whites and mung beans rolled into the gazebo. I read the Washington Post, NY Post, The Guardian, Al-Jazirah and Daily Variety while I catch up on follow-up calls. When I am DONE I like to relax with a cold can of V8. TWO servings of vegetables in just one little can™!! But today my world has been shattered. Corn syrup in my V8? This stuff is destined to kill me after all! I realized there was no fool proof plan for life. I had to keep a careful watch on the things that supposedly helped me - like vitamins and mackeral. I still had 6 lives left for godsake, and I wasn't gonna let corn syrup in a can of V8 murther me!

So, I called C. Everett Koop, to learn more information. He suggested we meet at The Friar's Club for dinner. I had to bump Jay-Z off my calender, but I had to know what the doctor knew.

Marisol couldn't find the keys to the lamborgini, so we had to take her Ford Taurus. Of course she popped a tire on the way (the dirty cunt!) forcing me late for my dinner with Dr. Koop. I waited patiently for 15 minutes while Marisol changed the tire. I squeezed back inside her jalopy and we rode on. I was another five minutes late because I had Marisol drop me off three blocks away just in case Woody and the rest of the paparazzi were waiting.

I saw C. and he saw me. We shook hands, hugged, I tugged on his beard and made some witty remark about he looked like a lighthouse keeper - then we sat. After polite, small talk he finally spoke:

"High-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) is produced by processing corn starch to yield glucose, and then processing the glucose to produce a high percentage of fructose. It all sounds rather simple—white cornstarch is turned into crystal clear syrup. However, the process is actually very complicated. Three different enzymes are needed to break down cornstarch, which is composed of chains of glucose molecules of almost infinite length, into the simple sugars glucose and fructose."

I excused myself and jaunted to the restroom meditating on the words. "Glucose?" I thought to myself as I shook my penis thrice at the urinal. "That can't be good for my diabetes." I Q-tipped my ears, tipped the bathroom valet seventy-seven cents and returned to the table. "Koop, I implore you! Can it exacerbate my diabetes!?"

He continued droning, yet informing. "Consumption of glucose kicks off a cascade of biochemical reactions. It increases production of insulin by the pancreas, which enables sugar in the blood to be transported into cells, where it can be used for energy. It increases production of leptin, a hormone that helps regulate appetite and fat storage, and it suppresses production of another hormone made by the stomach, ghrelin, that helps regulate food intake. It has been theorized that when ghrelin levels drop, as they do after eating carbohydrates composed of glucose, hunger declines."

By this time I had payed the check, got the waitresses phone number and sold my Intel stock via blackberry. I implored him. "Please speak to me in layman terms. I don't know what what my ghrelin level is supposed to be. I don't know if my physique holds ghrelin. Layman's terms, Koop!"

At that exact moment Billy Baldwin walked in. I hadn't seen him since the premiere of "To Wong Foo. Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar." I excused myself from Dr. Koop and sashayed over to Billy's booth. He was surrounded by three gorgeous Cambodian triplets.
"Billy it's been years since we spoke. What a delight to see you! I was just passing through the neighborhood when I decided to stop in and get a Cafe con Leche. What kismet it is to run into you! - and I have no other previous engagement. May I join you?"

"Dr. Boodle-anda Jones", he mocked. "Meet my three lady friends. Heather, Chestnut and Tammy. Please join us for some high end champagne."

"My pleasure, Billy." I purred into Tammy's ear. "Looks like we're going to need a case full of strawberries."

The waiter arrived, and Billy ordered Mumm Brut. I cancelled the order and requested that if we were going to have Mumm it had to be Cordon Rouge, demi-sec, Cramant, Grand Cru et Rosé. Billy winked, "Touche!"

We exchanged pleasantries. Billy ate the sourdough bread (and didn't even share with Heather), Tammy forced a handjob on me, and no one was talking to Chestnut. I took a step outside for a fag, and remembered that I had long forgotten C. Everett Koop. I wondered if he was still there, who paid the bill, what he would say about my smoking.

I returned to the banquette in which we discussed glucose and C. Everett was gone. C. Thomas Howell was there, but no Dr. Koop. I felt entirely sickeningly dissapointed in myself, then returned to the table as jolly as a peanut. I felt like my Bi-Polar was acting up. I asked Billy to refill my champagne glass. He obliged. I took one sip, and immediately spit it out. Billy huffed, "You don't like Sparkling Wine?"

I felt my throat tense up. "Sparkling Wine, you talentless Baldwin!? You're going to give me Ketoacidosis! I could be dead by Ramadan. Imbecile!" Suddenly, I felt dizzy. The room began to spin. I KNEW there was too much corn syrup in the sparkling wine. That's why I had spit it out, but it was too late.

The coma was taking over.

Incidentally, I am okay. Saved by a twelve year old boy's liver. I was in the hospital for nearly two weeks. Billy sent Hollyhocks, Shelly Duvall surprised me with Peach Snapps. Michael Musto brought Christine Baranski by for a game of cribbage. Marisol read to me "Cannery Row" in her broken English. Moscow held a vigil. I feel loved and adored - all over again, like I was a twelve year old boy -
who gave a cat his liver.

A Word From The Wise

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Today I have entered the blogosphere.

I shall lay out my goals and work towards them everyday, and you will witness all my dreams and ambitions come true. I am half cat / half god. I speak for all man - except, of course, Al Reynolds.

After I awoke from a dream that had me levitating over pools of vanilla soy I heard some scuffling outside. I drew the drapes, and saw two african-american youths arguing over a copy of Kazuo Ishiguro's "The Remains Of The Day." I whispered a "namaste" and began journaling about defying stereotypes. It was beautiful, let me tell you, to see two colored youths arguing over a timeless, compelling psychological study and a portrait of a vanished social order.

I, too, am a colored youth. I'm a Russian Blue with a blog - blessed with rare sense of humour, pathos and wit. No one would believe me if it were not for this site than I am as articulate as the Homosapiens. That is why I have agreed to use this platform and digress my brilliant mind on today's topics.

My goals are as followed: (1) To win a Nobel Peace Prize. (2) Re-new my subscription to Harper's Bazzar. (3) Dine with the Olsen Twins (again) (4) Leave behind the spotlight and direct music videos. (5) Finish my autobiography "I Laugh And I Love - That's How I Stay So Fit!" (6) Visit Vietnam (7) Out Tony Danza (oops, done.) (8) Find the green-est contact lenses in the world. (9) Have a 30-way (10) Write one of those "Idiot's guides to..." (11) to become an Ambassador for the United Nations, and have Nic Kidman be my Interpreter...for all time. (12) To eat a Jolly Rancher.

Every step I take will be toward these goals that I have Outlined above. Don't be afraid to call me out if I stray - an empty silence lights the way.

Thank you for reading, thus far. Please DO NOT bombard me with CAPS when writing to me. They give me *astigmatism (see link below for details).

Anway, I appreciate all your friendships in my short start on the Myspace. Please be open to my thoughts and open minded about my philosophies. I really think I have found The Way.

Perhaps, you can take with you the lessons of a wise Cat-Sage and import them into your soul. I am not a God. I am just a Cat-Sage who can help you ask the right questions so you can teach YOURSELF how to be a God.

God Bless Amerika.


Beckett Boo, esquire
Cat Blogger Extraordinaire