Foreword by Stan Lerner: And yes, Betty like her older brother Downtown Oliver Brown just makes stuff up — so get over it!

“It only takes me one drink to get me drunk. The trouble is, I can’t remember if it’s the thirteenth or fourteenth.”

-George Burns

BORDELLO – “a building where prostitutes are available”… ALSO a kick ass bar/club in downtown Los Angeles at 901 E. 1^st St.

That was the meeting place for myself and one Ms. Lindsay Lohan, who in my opinion hides from her life and sits in the shadows of a jail governed by public scrutiny. If you’re a drunk, say it. There are a lot worse things you can be… has she never heard of a functional drunk… has she never heard of ME? It not only offends me as a proud alcoholic, but disgraces me as a successful professional.

Oh this was going to be a night to remember…

It was 7:15pm on Friday night. Lilo’s driver was picking me up at 10:45. I offered to take my own town car but she insisted on picking me up. I hadn’t requested this interview, Lindsay’s camp (as they call it in Hollywood) called me.  It was the first time a celebrity had requested an interview and my editor Sal was not ALLOWING me to decline, as much as I wanted to.

I called Sal.

“Hey Sal” I said, “What do you think about me trying my best to get her sh*t-faced?”, “believe me you’re not going to have to try,” he said.

That’s all I wanted to hear. So I went to the computer, found out what her poison was and went to the liquor store. She’s so-called sober, so what do I do? Find the one thing other than penis, she can’t turn down. As soon as I saw it on the shelf, I knew it was the one. It was called Diva Vodka and it was 900 dollars. The bottle contains diamonds and semi precious stones. Well f*ck me sideways, this was THE drink for Lindsay.

 

I picked up a few Red Bull’s and went back home. As I was doing a little more research, not on what she drinks but what I can probe her about, my eye kept drifting to the bottle of Diva. NINE HUNDRED dollars for a bottle of vodka… Hmm. I was more curious than a child staring at Boy George. I stood up, walked over and examined the bottle again. I was tempted to open it but I couldn’t give her a bottle already tapped, so I went back to my computer.

 

Twenty minutes later I had finished the bottle. Now, not only was I hammered, but I hadn’t showered, and I had to go down to the liquor store again to buy another bottle…   It was 9pm. I had enough time. I bought another bottle, and while walking back home I mistook the height of the curb and ate cement like Tony Danza trying to rollerblade. (See:  http://img80.exs.cx/img80/9323/danzafall2jd.jpg)

 

My cheek looked like what I imagine Pam Anderson’s “jiner” looked like after a night with Tommy Lee. All chopped up and damaged… sorry, that was gross, even for me. I have a bottle of Jack in me as I’m writing this and Jack makes me MEAN.

 

9:37 pm and three bottles of vodka later, I take a steady stance in front of my bathroom mirror… what I saw was  an even bigger train wreck than Linz and I combined.  Nothing I can do, and because of all the vodka in me it just won’t stop bleeding. I shower and get ready. It’s now 10:35. Ten minutes till the juvie’s arrival. I’ve done minimal research, but know enough to get a good conversation, and it’s not like I’m interviewing Natalie Portman.

.

At 11:15 there’s a knock at my door. A large man in a suit informs me that my transportation has arrived.

I stepped in the limo, Lindsay was on the phone, she held one finger up and smiled.  F*CK ME, she ‘s really on the phone?

I made myself comfortable, reached for two glasses and put some ice in them.

I pulled out the Diva and showed her. She got off the phone.

“What’s that?”

“Vodka,” I said.

“But Betty I don’t drink.”

“Me neither,” I told her, trying my best to shield my laughter.

“Just a little toast, it could be our little secret.”

“You’re a journalist.”

“But I don’t write what people I’m interviewing don’t want written. It’s in the contract I sent to your people… you get final cut so to speak. You read it, and if you’re not comfortable with something, it goes away.”

She smiled. I opened the bottle, and poured two glasses. She took the glass.

We cheers-ed… we drank …. and we kept on drinking until the car stopped… SHE TOOK THE BAIT!

 

I won’t tell you what we talked about because she doesn’t want me to… and please don’t tell anyone she was drinking…. OUR little secret.

I will tell you one thing about the drive to Bordello… she drank more than I imagined her little body could, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. Actually, I’ll say one more thing… she drank like Tara Reid on vacation… three shots of Petrone, two vodka- red bulls and a Bud Light… she was beginning to grow on me.

 

We pulled up to Bordello and the driver got out to talk to the bouncer. We waited,

Lindsay then said, “We have to make sure they know I’m here so they can bring us straight to the table.”  I believe she said it with a slight slur and her eyes were glossy… I’m just sayin.

 

I nodded. Wondering why I thought drinking vodka was a good idea, since I usually only drink whiskey. It was a different drunk. I felt kind of wired, and understood that if I switched to anything else, I’d be f*cked. But never doubting the fact that I was the less f*cked of the two of us… at any point of the night.

 

When we got to our table there were two security guards posted on either side.  The bar was amazing. Gold, red and brothel-ey! Black chandeliers and beautiful people everywhere…We were seated in the Parlor Room, in a private booth that had closing doors. Our waitress came to the table, introduced herself as Trish and asked if she could get us anything… I stopped myself from replying with “NO you dumb f*ck, we came to the bar to read.

Lindsay asked for a Red Bull and a water, I asked for a bottle of Belvedere. Off she went to gather our liquids.  Lindsay didn’t order it, therefore she’s not drinking it. Lindsay being comfortable with me at this point gave me an indiscrete wink while I ordered… this was going to be too easy.

 

An hour later I was in the booth, doors closed, accompanying one very drunk, and very gossipy Lindsay as well as an empty bottle of Belvedere ($150.00).

As she began to tell me about the whole Sam restraining order thing she lit a cigarette… the waitress came back to the table, and I ordered another bottle. Lindsay laughed hysterically when I ordered it… I kept thinking to myself if this waitress is smart she’ll snap a photo of her…sh*t-faced, smoking, forehead to the table in an uncontrollable belly laugh.  I took a cigarette from her pack. I lit it. The bouncer looked at me and said, “Ma’am, would you mind putting that out please.”

Are you f*cking kidding me? Can you shove your head straight up your ass?

“Me?” I asked…. “She’s smoking too.” To which he replied, “yeah, and you’re not her.”

I was so pissed off I could have taken a bottle to his forehead, but Trish had cleared the empties and I wasn’t going to waste Vodka… so I put it out. Lindsay laughed harder, and I got more and more pissed off.

One piece of advice, don’t piss off the B-ster if she’s writing about you.

Lindsay’s laughter was contagious, my anger faded, and then I went back to a vodka clear mind. She was growing on me, and I didn’t like it.

 

My internal dialogue during the next thirty seconds of Lindsay laughing and smoking went like this:

 

If she wasn’t such a slut she’d totally be the younger version of me. Wait… I was a slut when I was her age.

If she wasn’t such a bitch…?  I was also a bitch.

If she wasn’t so pretty…. Yup that’s it… that’s where we differ.

She really is like a mini me. She’s a complete lush, she f*cks up daily, sometimes hourly, and she doesn’t give a f*ck what anyone thinks of her. I hereby nominate Lilo as my little sister… Bingey Booze.

 

When her laughter subsided, I asked her to continue her story about the restraining order. She did NOT. She said it in a sweet way, how could I be mad at the cute little thing? The waitress came back and said, “its last call, would you like me to bring you a glass of vodka, so you don’t have to buy the bottle?” I knew she thought that “I” couldn’t finish it, and being the proud drunk I am, I informed her that the bottle would be fine and she can bring the check along too. I could see the uncertainty in Trish’s eyes, making me more eager to get the bottle and show this bitch why my name is Betty Booze.

 

An hour later the lights were on. I had paid the tab and Lindsay had three large men ready to escort her to the limo. They had a blanket and an umbrella… As I could not detect the looming threat of a thunderstorm inside the bar, I was royally confused. Then Bingey stood up, they draped her in the blanket, put the umbrella over her and walked her to the limo. I watched in awe, it was like she was suddenly invisible. I followed, wondering why no one was holding ME up. After all I had a total of about three liters of vodka in me. That curiosity didn’t hit me nearly as hard as the chair my face connected with while taking a nose dive into the floor.  That’s the last thing I remember, along with the persistent thought that this girl I hated four hours ago was now my new hero.

 

The next day I woke up on my front steps. They had dropped me off like I was baby Benjamin Button.

 

To sum up the night:

$26.00 on medical supplies.

$445.00 at Bordello.

$2700.00 on Diva vodka

Getting Lindsay Lohan to believe she signed a contract… PRICELESS. 

 

She didn’t once ask me what happened to my face.

 

Signed, Sealed, Delivered,

Betty Booze

 

P.S.  Joke’s on me… her believing she signed a contract was not nearly as tragic as me getting so drunk I forgot everything she told me… I really need to use a tape recorder.