Will the real Kevin Booth please stand up

For better or worse, I was born a Booth. My dad’s side of the family came over from the UK around 1910, and for most of my early life I assumed Kevin Booth was just uncommon enough to feel like a private club.

When I was 13, living in Houston, a man working for my father was Jack Oswald, who later moved to Dallas. The Booths and the Oswalds would vacation together. They had a ski boat, and they taught us how to make chalupas. And yes, I don’t think I was paranoid when I kept thinking we were always being followed.

I recently learned that actress Shirley Booth (Hazel) chose her stage name because Junius Brutus Booth was considered one of the great American actors of his time. Unfortunately, the Booth family name also comes with obvious baggage from his far more famous son, John Wilkes—who, by today’s standards, would probably be considered normal.

As a Libra, born October 2nd on my mother’s birthday, I’ve always been easygoing—someone who can see all sides of things. Back when I launched KevinBooth.com in 1999, I was the only Kevin Booth who appeared in search results. I was the only Kevin Booth showing up on Yahoo. For one brief shining moment, I was the undisputed Kevin Booth. No competition—no need to advertise.

My fifteen minutes ran out—

The first crack in my “one and only” theory came when I discovered Kevin Booth, the NFL offensive lineman for the Cowboys and Raiders. Honestly, I was OK with it. He seemed about as opposite from me as humanly possible, and maybe it even took some of the whiteness out of my name.

Then came more Kevin Booths. A young Bill Hicks fan from England. Fine. A professor. A finance guy. A doctor. I think maybe even an Elvis impersonator. At a certain point, I realized I might as well be named John Smith.

Now I realize it could get way worse.

Kevin Booth Receives Historic Global Travel Ban After Torturing Women in Remote Scottish Lodge

About a year ago, my Global Entry renewal got denied for no reason, and since Trump fired the government, the only thing left is hold music purposely chosen to make you commit suicide. I haven’t been able to get a clear answer from anyone. Around the same time, I came across horrifying headlines about another Kevin Booth in Scotland connected to truly monstrous criminal allegations—torturing women he held hostage in a castle with an underground chamber accessed via a trapdoor, a 60-meter-long tunnel with a coffin and life-sized Egyptian figures.

Suddenly I’m sitting here thinking: great, now I know how all the Jeffrey Epsteins of the world must feel.

The Booth name took a hit 160-plus years ago at Ford’s Theatre, and now here we are again. Before, us decent, hardworking, God-fearing Kevin Booths only had to say, “No, I’m not related to John Wilkes”—I can do that in my sleep—but now, thanks to Kevin Booth, all of us other Kevin Booths have to say, “No, I don’t torture women in my Egyptian dungeon”—although I have known some women over the years that actually might like that. That’s another story.

So maybe this is my new philosophy: every time I encounter another Kevin Booth online, I should simply be grateful if he turns out not to be a homicidal psychopath.

That alone feels like progress.

Maybe what we really need is a Kevin Booth registry—not for legal reasons, just for clarity. A page tracking the good KBs, the harmless KBs, the odd KBs, and the evil KBs. A public service, really.

Until then, let the record show: I am the original Kevin Booth online—I’m talking AOL baby!