Der Unfall ist auf der Kreuzung Passiert! (English Version)

Today I arrived post haste via my black stallion carriage to Burning Spear's concert at the Hollywood Bowl. Burning Spear is a Grammy Award winning Jamaican roots reggae singer also known for his Rastafari movement messages and, of course, being Britney's grandfather. So it was good to see her, Small Fry and Tater Tot.

My assistant, Shoshanna, begged for an extra ticket. She, finally, confessed to being a Jewish Rastafarian. I was wondering why she hadn't washed her hair since I hired her. But, I got her a ticket anyway. Section V2. Far. An early Christmas bonus.

The night was a haze. A lot more white people than I would have liked, but, alas. I think I got what is commonly referrred to as a 'contact high'. I was so happy, free and less moody that I actually tried to speak to "the locals". I introduced myself to a German concert goer named, Digrib. She introduced me to her pals Atrebor, Hcaz, Divad, Deraj, Nais, Ttirrem, Sirhc and Mark. All wonderful people and considerate Germans. Except for Mark.

Mark is a considerate fellow, but no German.

I tested him by asking, "Wie geht es Ihnen?"
(How are you?)

He replied, "Zair goot."
(I'm good)

I questioned, "Letzten Sonntag blieb ich zu Hause."
(Last Sunday I stayed home.)

He responded, "In der Nacht wird es kalt"
(It gets cold at night.)

I retorted, "Ich bin gut in Chemie."
(I am good at Chemistry.)

He implied, "Der Unfall ist auf der Kreuzung passiert."
(The accident happened at the crossroads.)

I finalized, "Ich möchte zwei Ananas! Entschuldigung Sie bitte."
(I would like two pineapples. Excuse me.)

Then Digirb and I left Mark and searched for two pineapples. Somehow, people thought we were being racist. I was. Digirb wasn't. She was a lovely sweet pixie German girl wearing Dutch Adidas. She had red ponytails, and sold aspirin as ectasy. Quite a profit. I liked her ambition. Good person too! I'm sure if she were Oskar Schindler she would have bought many Jews.

If Digirb found the pineapples I requested I would certainly fire Shoshanna. But, Shoshanna, had me by the balls. All three. Photos of me. Audio converstaion. Private diaries. The password to my blog. She could put me in the poor house. I'm being blackmailed. Help. If you've read this far.

So, we returned to our garden boxes when Burning Spear invited me up to sing a duet of "Jah Say". I obliged much to the demand of the zealous crowd. When we got to the harmonies I bit my toungue to quell my vibrato. It may have made me sound "pitchy". But, I'll check You Tube tomorrow and see for myself. I felt like I was sitting by the pool on a Carnival Cruise line, but docked and obliterated. Everyone told me the next day I was singing with my back to the audience, and my pants were backwards and my fly was open. Perhaps, there won't be a You Tube post afterall. Note to self: Call lawyer.

I felt okay to drive, and I did. Right into a concrete barrier, and over a 50 foot bridge. It sounds cartoonish, yes, but it happened. Luckily, I'm alright ' cause I can write what happens to me. Unfortunately, Shoshanna did not make it. She died horribly smushed by a fender in the skull and a heavy bag of used moist towelettes.

[I'm alive, asshole! - $ho$hanna]

So, I have a heavy schedule flowing ahead. That's sounded menstrative. But, I'll be out of town for a time, and Audio Blogs will be arriving in late August! After I airbrush them.

Amen. Goodwill toward all of Mankind.

P.S. - All my blogs are copywrited by U.S. and International Law. I'll sue you, and insure that your families future geneology is extinct. Cheers.

Beckett Boo, esq.
Cat Entertainment Blogger Extraordinaire!


Hepburn and the Mint Julep Chalice

A Mint Julep is a summer porch cocktail traditionally made of four ingredients:

Fresh Mint, Kentucky bourbon, cane sugar and water. In the use of sugar and mint, it is not be confused with the mojito. I prefer crushed Viagra. But, I do not condone it because I'm just a fancy gay cat.

Kate Hepburn and I use to challenge each other by testing Spencer Tracy to figure out from whose garden the fresh mint came from. My forty acres and my mule, Cracker Jack, or Hepburn's luscious thousand acre compund 'Grayskull'. Spencer always guessed which one was Kate's. He knew not to cross Kate Hepburn. She had a special blowtorch that she promised to ignite his eyebrows with if he was wrong. I liked his eyebrows, so I always spat in his Mint Julep before he made his final decision.

Hepburn was a meticulous gardener. Pruning and snipping. Carefully choreographing the placement of each rose and snapdragon. The Mint had a special section. Next to the the gazebo, westward of the river's edge and 200 miles south of where she lived. There grew Katharine Hepburn's Mint leaves. She told me this was the perfect soil to grow Mint. I asked her, "Hep, why don't you grab a shovel and bring the dirt back to Grayskull with you?" "Darling", she intoned in her classic quiet wail, "we must go to the Earth. Work with the Sun. Let them guide the way." I could smell the Nag Champa breathing from her armpits, but I stood fascinated as she picked particular sprigs.

"Aaaaahhhhh-hhhhaaaa! Ttheeesseeee aaaarrreeee thhhee ooonneeesssss" She announced for forty-eight seconds. So, we got back in Kate's 1939 Hummer H2 Early Edition, and gas guzzled through the landscape smoking cloves driving to Grayskull compund. I was 'nipping Moonshine waiting for the fucking Mint Julep. I may have even popped a tab of acid. But, I'm not sure, or that day Kate looked very alienish. Either way we had a very fun ride back to wherever the hell we were.

When we arrived home. It took Kate twelve seconds to make four Mint Juleps. For Spencer, Kate, Me and a young Phil Collins. It was well worth the drive. The Mint was exquisite. The grandest Mint Julep I had, nor ever will have. Spencer guessed it was Mint from my garden after a tossle of the hair on young Phil. Katharine tilted her head to the side, and flared out the blowtorch. Spencer stood up and pulled her into his side and kissed her on the lips. Still and passionate, like those 40's movies. Katharine melted into his embrace. We all laughed and sang along to an early acoustic experiment called "Sussudio". Either way, Phil was a budding talent with that charismatic button nose and fantastic golden feathered hair. A talent I was willing to quelch with a little help from Hepburn's blowtorch.

There's nothing funny to say about Ms. Hepburn. She was one of my finest Mentors. She was as classy and unladylike as a gal should be.



"The origins of the Mint Julep are clouded and may never be definitively known. What is known for certain is that the Mint Julep originated in the south US, probably sometime during the 18th Century. The word 'Julep' is derived from the Persian 'Julab' meaning rose water. Traditionally, Mint Juleps were often served in silver or pewter cups, and held only by the bottom and top edges of the cup. This allows frost to form on the outside of the cup." Thank God for Wikipedia cut and paste. I prefer a platinum chalice.

Beckett Boo Esq. Mint Julep Chalice Cocktail:

Type: Mixed Cocktail
Served: Over crushed, or shaved ice.
Standard garnish: Mint leaves
Standard drinkware: Tall glass, or "Julep Chalice".

3 oz. Bourbon whiskey
4 to 6 sprigs fresh Mint leaves
Granulated Sugar, to taste.
(American readers, please use Splenda.)

Preparation: Put fresh Mint, sugar, and a small amount of crushed or shaved ice into the bottom of a Julep chalice or tall glass. Muddle the Mint and sugar, then let stand for a bit to allow the broken leaves to release their flavor. Add bourbon whiskey, top off with crushed or shaved ice, and stir well to mix and chill the libation.

In addition, always capitalize the "M" in Mint and the "J" in Julep.

Everywhere. Yet once more, amen.

Beckett Boo, esq. Cat Blogger Extraordinaire!


Clash of the Hilton

Today I ran into Perez Hilton at The Coffee Bean, literally, as he was jammed in the door. I wanted to help, but I figured it would give me more time to get out of the country with David Beckham before he "outs" him too. I smiled at him, and laughed - then wrote this. I'm still giggly.

The last time I saw Perez it was Mardi Gras '82 and we met at a Frontiers Magazine Party. He was a rent-a-twink, and I wouldn't pay 50 cents. He even tried to talk me down to a quarter, but I told I'd get all the diseases he had in the alley for free. So, we chit- chatted about "hooking" and I told him that based on the amount of time he was putting in the profit margin just wasn't worth it. My advice: Blogs. He scoffed, and I scoffed back. Then we looked up the word "scoff", and found that we meant "sneer". I told him "Fine. Here's a bit of advice then. Buy stock in Enron."

The next time I saw him was the bathroom at the WeHo Target being paid by a tranny. I pretended he was straight just to twist the knife a little deeper, and asked, "Who's your wife?" He pretended I wasn't there even though I asked him through my bullhorn. So, I let that one go.

Another time, I was doing a local access show as Perez was just starting his blogging "career". We were trapped in a thin hallway, and we knew there was no way I was getting through without a crobar and a vat of vasoline. So, I started some small talk:

- Well, Perez, here we are again. Looks like the camera adds ten pounds.
- I hate myself, he replied, I hate my body, my looks, the sad way I make living ruining successful people's lives.
- Boo, I whispered.
- Are you mocking me, Beckett? He huffed.
- No, that's my name Perez. Boo.
(I whispered it because that's code to my assistant, Shoshanna, reminding me to put a restraining order placed against him.)

"Well, I took your advice Beckett," he drooled, "I'm a big blogger now. I'm gonna make millions and buy the boots out from under you!"

"Perez, darling, the boots are priceless. They were a gift from the Onassis family. This is the fur of Jackie's yak, and if you want to make your legacy as a glutton, and cancer on culture, my friend, be my guest. But they'll find a cure for you, and I'm sure you'll find it on Craig's List under M4M Antelope Valley."

Perez, aka Mario Lavandiera, fell silent. He knew he was out of his league. "Well, I gotta get to jet, Beckett!" Perez said sinking into his signature slouch. "Watch yourself, and I'll get you Beckett Boo, esq. I'm powerful." He tried to step forward to no avail.

"Well, looks like I'll have to go the other way." I responded blithely. Perez insisted on sliding past, and I had already filled my "rude-meter" for the day, so I allowed passage. Our bellies barely touched. For once, I found remorse from him. It may have been the Panda Express he seemed to be digesting. I felt a heart. I mean a hard-on. I knew what it was. I saw it on the 'Manhunter' website years ago. Politely I insisted that my wife, Pegasus, would be offended. So, it was a no-go. I'm not marrried, but I had just seen "Clash of the Titans" that day, and a young Harry Hamlin was on my mind.

So, I had Shoshanna prepare me a bath - with Lavender, Ajax and Brillo Pads. I couldn't get the Perez Hilton moisture out of my pores. Shoshanna is good with a colonic, but no good at facials. So, I had my body rubbed down by Sven and Gorvac who do that radiation treatment thing Meryl Streep gets in "Silkwood."

The moral of the story is: Don't use your Arts Degree to sell your friends and fellow Artists short by "outing them" and damaging the mystique of the characters and stories they are telling. If you do you'll make a lot of money, but you'll always have rabbit teeth.

Sidenote: Watermelon is a very vaginal object. Tasty, but, remind me to tell Shoshanna never to buy watermelon again.


Beckett Boo, esq.
Cat Entertainment Blogger Extraordinaire!


How I made $7.75 In 22 Minutes

Last night I attended the opening for Robin Thicke's new men's cologne "Thickenesse". Not a catchy title, but I don't think there are gonna be buyers anyway. I sold my stock once I noticed he was white.

All the usual suspects were in attendence: Brooke Hogan, Cheyenne, Kim Stewart, Talon, Trishelle from The Real World, Jenna McCarthy and Chamillionaire. His new copper "grilles" are atrocious. I'm a Platinum guy. Chammilionaire suggests that Copper is set to make bundles in the stock market, but doesn't seem right that a man named Chammilionaire should wear pennies for teeth. At least that's what I thought until his bodyguards pulled out Coral Blue Diamond Grilles which Chammi told me "off the record" was only for use on certain female anatomallia.

Repulsed, I retreated to the VIP room, because, yes, Chamillionaire told me all this while snacking on whitefish piccata dumplings. So, there I was curtained off from all the Z-List celebrities, and Stalkkerazzi. I was finally at peace. Me, Robin, Alan Thicke, Robin's publicist Amanda Silverman, Adam Sandler, Gabriel Macht, Don Cheadle, and Suzannne Sommers. Maybe I was drunk, but I did get along pleasantly with Suzanne. I may have offended her when I said, "VIP room? This is more like the tram tour at Universal Studios." But she laughed and half of her face jiggled and we laughed again. Then again.

I spent 22 minutes total at the party pretending to listen to a duet with Robin and Chakka Khan. It was like peeing on yourself at fat camp. I was embarrased for everyone - except for me. I'm gorgeous. Luckily I was listening to an Oprah Bookclub podcast on my strategically placed Ipod Shuffle. "Light In August" F.Y.I.

So, I left because I loathe being the "biggest celeb" at the party. I need deflection.

I sold Robin Thicke's album that was so graciously inserted into my gift bag on Ebay. I made a 5 buck profit - plus shipping and handling. I'm never really gonna mail it anyway. So...$7.75. I don't know who the Purchaser of the album was, but I hope they know Robin's white.

Beckett Boo, esq.
Cat Blogger Extraordiniare!


The Truth About Penny Lohan

Today I despise Dina Lohan.

Dina and I go way back to summer camp. 1985.

I was a counselor at an unspecified government facility and Dina Lohan was my counselee. Dina told me things I could never say, by law, if they hadn't taken away my f***king Psychology license. But, I can shout them now!

She made a move on me. She used my love of Sweet & Low and told me there was an even sweeter tasting artificial sweetener except this one you snort up your nose. She was right. I lost 8 lbs. that night, and if you don't know what "lbs." is you shouldn't be reading this blog. She seduced me, and we did "it" despite the fact that I was "bi" then, and that day the coin had flipped to "heads". I dealt with it in the most appropriate fashion I could. Medevial Armor.

We dated for a few days. Dina bitched and complained all 3 days of it! I couldn't take it. She was speaking so fast that I thought it was Portugese. I am fluent in Portugese, so I misunderstood a lot of what she was saying, but I did hear her say, "I'm pregnant."

I said "Kill it. I'm too young to be wasting my time on babies. For goodness sake, Dina, we did it because of the Meth, and that's not a way to force a man into having a child!"

She threw a sucker punch at me, but my bodyguard Tonraq deflected with a elbow jab to her larynx. So, we broke up, and she met some convict, and had some more babies.

But I'm forced to know deep down, "Lindsay's" mine. I'm not saying anything publicly because I really don't care. She just taking up too much of my Press. I'm not going Larry Birkhead or anything. I don't want this on my resume. Nor my biography that's why I am settling this old score on this private blog. Plus I have 38 other children...

But the rest of this blog is for "Lindsay":

Dear "Lindsay":

It's me. Your true father, Beckett. First, lease change your first name. Your mother has a history of naming children poorly. I had no say. I am sorry. It's tough being the popular girl with such a lousy first name. These are my choices, daughter: Leighanna, Vianca, Lajita, Akeldama, Jezebel or Penny. If you had a unique name you wouldn't have to overcompensate. I'm not scolding you. Trust me, Penny, I've had my nostrils sewn together a couple times now. But, when you have this much blackmail over Hollywood I get great doctors.

[Stay with me this far "LIndsay". Almost done. No sleepy, yet.]

So, to recap, ditch the name. Keep in touch with Dina, but protect yourself from her "Peter Pan Syndrome". Don't call me, or that Michael guy. He's a patsy, and I don't really care. Go to acting school, or call my friend Hugh Hefner (323) 555-3187 at the Playboy Mansion - he'll hook you. But have a good life. Take better care of yourself. Don't blame anyone, but yourself and your publicist. Call Ken Sunshine. If he'll see you.

Also, your Mother was never a "Rockette" for Radio City Music Hall. Unless you call being a "Rockette" being the top call girl at Bling Bling's in Astoria, Queens. Your Mother has exaggerated that story for yeeeeeeeeears. Just like I brag about have four Bentley's on my episode of "Cribs". I only own two. The other's were borrowed from Ice T. There I said it. Let's all join a 12 Step-program.

You can just rest on your laurels, or you can be a woman and pull "an Angelina". Pay for Ken Sunshine. Whatever the cost. Look what he did for Leo, and Leo was a huge x-head.

There's a way to stay drunk and still make it look dignified.
Fix it, Penny.


Beckett Boo, Esq.
Cat Blogger Extraordiniare!