Does Anyone Know Paco De Portillo?

Because I need to reach him about the 500 million dollars he was supposed to ship to me from Bolivia. I don't want to go into the whole back story now. You can read that here.

It's been quite a fews days now and I haven't heard anything from Paco who was going ship me the money and needed my credit card so that I could pay for the shipping. It's all in coins.

I checked this morning and my card has been charged 25,000 dollars. However, the charge isn't from Bolivia. It's from Xinxong provice in China. I tried to call China this morning, but they weren't very helpful. Plus they only spoke Chinese.

It's curious. Why would the Chinese be involved in a shipment of 500 millions dollars worth of Bolivian coins? And where's Paco De Portillo?

I have no reason to believe there's anything wrong at this point and I'm not worried about the cost. 25,000 dollars is nothing compared to 500 million. Still, this seems a little unprofessional to me. Like something they'd do in Norway.

If anyone knows the whereabouts of Paco De Portillo, please pass along the information to me. I'd gladly cut you in on some of the money.

Thanks,

Paul

WHY IS MOM CRYING?

That's the question my sister and I asked each other as we sat in a darkened movie theater one summer afternoon in the mid 1970s.

We were at the movie theater at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. That theater was super cool. It's gone now. Bummer. The theater didn't have seats, but thick, leather couches. In front of each couch was a table with a button on the side. That was nifty. You'd press the button and a cocktail waitress would take your drink order. (And bring you a Keno card.) So, if the movie was bad, you could always get hammered and play Keno. Cool.

The theater showed nothing but old MGM classics. (I really didn't care about those movies, but anything was better than being outside in the 110+ heat. Plus there were those buttons. Nifty. Did I mention they would bring you food, too? They did.)

So, my mom dragged my sister and I to the theater to see Meet Me In St. Louis. I don't really remember too much about the movie. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy eating my corn dog and fries and washing it down with a yummy A&W root beer. Halfway through the movie I turned to ask my mom if I could press the amazing button again and have the waitress bring me another beverage. My mom was sobbing uncontrollably. I leaned over to my sister.

"Why is mom crying?"

She leaned over to mom. "Why are you crying?"

My mom leaned over. "It's just such a wonderful movie.

My sister and I looked up at the screen. There were a bunch of people carrying parasols and wearing flouncy dresses and drinking Sasparilla and singing. A wonderful movie? This was mediocre at best. And long. The desert heat had surely gotten to my mother.

As the movie continued to unspool, my mother continued to sob and wail. It was almost biblical. My sister and I worried that we'd have to call security and have her committed. We were young. We had never committed anyone before. Would there be forms to fill out? Should we bother my father at work or just commit her ourselves.

After the movie was over and the lights came up, my mother shot out of the couch and happily said, "That was wonderful! Who wants ice cream?"

Ice cream was a good idea. It would give us a chance to observe her before we called security. Plus, it's ice cream. Who's gonna say no to that...even in light of the possibility that my mother was criminally insane....let alone need special pants the rest of her life.

Seems mom was fine. However, my sister and I were puzzled. Why on earth would she cry during such a boring movie? Nobody even died. Nothing exploded. Nobody had to shoot their dog because of rabies. It was a musical for heaven's sake. They sang a big, boring song about Easter bonnets.

Flash forward many decades to last week.

My daughter and I were at Target. (Of course, this is before I learned that I was to get 500 million dollars.)

I saw the DVD of the 1966 movie The Trouble With Angels on a sales rack. I remembered that movie. I had two older sisters who had dragged me to it when it came out.

Always on the lookout for a safe movie for my daughter I bought it. We watched it that night.

Near the end of the movie my daughter turned to me and said, "Daddy? Why are your crying?"

WHAT? Oh no. I was crying. The Trouble With Angels is a comedy. I'm crying! I'm going to need special pants!

If you haven't seen The Trouble With Angels, you should. It's not a great movie. But it's good. Dang good. It's a movie that shows all amazing potential of the 1960s...and not the turd sandwich it turned out to be. The score by Jerry Goldsmith is great.

The movie is sweet, warm and innocent. It's also something else. Sincere. It may be the last sincere movie ever made. Plus there are cool Nuns. These are Nuns like I remember. Cool. And Neat. And Strong and nice.

Okay, mom.

I get it.

WHAT I'M GOING TO BUY NOW THAT I'M A MILLIONAIRE Part One

As most of you know, I'm about to come into quite a large sum of money. Like...500 million! Whooooya! Like that sum of money. I know. It's incredible. I'm waiting for confirmation that Paco De Portillo, an accountant in good standing in Bolivia, received my credit card info so he can ship it to me. But it shouldn't be too long.

My mind has been going crazy thinking about what I'm going to do with all that money. I've got some good ideas and thought I'd share them with you.

1. I'm going to pay the outstanding expenses the City Of Los Angeles incurred during the Michael Jackson funeral. I think this would show that I deserve to have a street named after me. There's a street I've been eyeing and it would be the perfect Rugg Avenue. Or boulevard. Or way. I think I like that the most. Rugg Way. It sorta says that I not only have a street named for me, but I sorta know the way. Cuz I'm a millionaire and important and the "way" I do things really are better than the way you do them.

2. I'm going to purchase Roberto Benigni.

Here's my thinking on buying Roberto Benigni. See, with all that money comes a lot of stress. And I know there are going to be days when so much is going on that I'm going to need a laugh. So I'll have Roberto come into the office and do something funny and Italian. Maybe something with a silly hat. Then, I'll send him away and get on with my important millionaire stuff.

3. An Oxo Olive and Cherry Pitter

When I was poor I had the time to pit cherries and olives. But now that I'm a millionaire...good bye to that horrible chore! This Oxo Olive and Cherry pitter will do the work for me. Actually, I'll have Roberto Benigni do it. But it'll be a breeze with this amazing device!

4. Thaw Walt Disney's Brain And Get That Man Back To Work!

I miss watching his show on Sunday night. And, to be honest with you, I think the company would be better with him back in the lead instead of those creepy pencil pushers running the company right now. I'm going to hire a team of doctors to thaw his brain, slap it in his body and get him going! If his body isn't around anymore I'll have them use Roberto Benigni's. We'll put Roberto's brain in a chimp or something.

5. Donate Al Sharpton To Norway

He's done so much good here. It's time he was given a long while to help the people of Norway with all their problems.

I'M A MILLIONAIRE!

This has been an incredible morning!!! I am so much luckier than the rest of you right now...I just can't believe it. While you're all worrying about money and stuff like that...I'M NOT! Know why? Huh? Do ya? CUZ I'M A MILLIONAIRE! Ha ha!

I woke up this morning like I always do by waking up. What I do is I open my eyes and I'm up. I don't know how you guys do it, but that's how I've always done it. And now that I'm a millionaire, that's how I'm going to keep doing it. Being a millionaire means that I do things better than people who aren't.

So...there I am all waked up. I don't know if "waked up" is a proper way to say it, but I'm a millionaire so I guess it is. Cuz I'm wealthy. Ha.

Anyway, I'm all waked up and I go to check my emails. I do this in the morning a lot because someone might have emailed me something important during the night. This rarely happens, but it could. (And now that I'm a millionaire, I'm sure I'll get a lot of important emails during the middle of the night.)

So I had two emails. One from Vitamin Shoppe saying that I had a 20 dollar coupon. (Who needs that now?! Huh? Cuz I'm a millioniare! I could buy Vitamin Shoppe! Ha!) The other email was from someone named Paco De Portillo. I didn't recognize the name...but all I can say is...I'll NEVER, EVER forget it.

I copied the email. It was labeled URGENT. Here it is:

Dear You,

Forgive this email but the need to contact you has been urgent. Many phone calls have been planned, but only this way seems to work for reasons of security which you shall soon understand and appreciate. My name is Paco De Portillo. For 5 years I have been the person in charge of Jose Gustaffsen's estate. Mr. Gustaffsen is dead now for 5 years and his relatives have joined him there in that dead place. An amount of money equal to 500 million US Dollars are sitting in an account which I have access to. Because all are dead who could get the money, the money is not claimed and will be taken by the government of Bolivia before the end of day on a day like Thursday.

However, with your help, I can evacuate the money from a secret account into an account with places and other abilities to you. For serious. No hanky panky. I am a trusted business type human with many credentials to demonstrate how for serious and no hanky panky type things are up my sleeve. The urgency is made even more critical because I am dying of liver piece and want all issues resolved before my eyes close forever and permanently. Having no relatives of my own, there is no way money can be given this way.

You have come to my attention from someone whom you know but are not knowing about. Only I have known how they know you and they said you were full of trust and would do great works with such a sum.

Before my kidney piece kills my life, it would be beneficial for you so receive this money so that my eyes can close in peace without a worry that I have not done what was required by Mr. Gustaffsen.

Because the 500 million is all in coins, it is quite a heavy amount to put in an envelope. As I am near death I don't have enough to pay to ship it to you. But, if you could pay for the shipment, I could get you the money right away. Please reply to this email right away and provide me with your credit card I can begin the process.

Urgency is important and the kidney piece is not going to not be there.

Thank you for helping me.

Sincerely,

Paco De Portillo

Accountant In Good Standing In Bolivia

So,

There it is. I've already given him my credit info and I've just told some people I'm doing projects for to get lost! Who needs 'em! Ha ha ha ha!

The Trouble With Lucky

I've been surrounded by dogs most of my life. During my high school years my family had four at one time. That's a lot of poop.

Since most every dog we had was a stray, they each came to our door with their own set of...issues.

Patsy, the first dog I remember us having, was particularly fond of one of my father's shoes. She thought it was her puppy and would carry it around. She'd also try to nurse it. It was super entertaining watching her trying to get this brown shoe to nurse. Sometimes it was more entertaining than watching TV. Come to think of it...this was the mid sixties. Most things were more entertaining than watching shows like My Mother The Car. Had I been older, I'd have pitched the networks a show called, My Puppy The Shoe. I bet they would have bought it.

Patsy lived a long life and went on to move from shoes to real puppies. Lots up puppies. She was quite the girl about town. Seems like every few months we were taking boxes of puppies to the pet shop.

Then, there was April. She was another stray. She was super sweet. She had super big ears. Super big ears that were constantly getting infected. You could just look at her ears and she'd yelp and run away.

Then there was Oscar. Oscar was my first dog. All mine. As far as dogs go, Oscar was nervous. Very nervous. Every time the door bell rang he'd pee. Every time there was a loud noise...he'd pee. Every time you touched him...he'd pee. Do anything and Oscar would pee. Stand still and he'd pee. Still...he was sweet. And somewhere up in Heaven St. Peter is cleaning up after him.

Next there was Daisy. Daisy was a Vizsla/Pit Bull mix. She was probably the sweetest dog I've ever known. And the dumbest. She was big and dumb and sweet and constantly had to be touching someone. She also drooled uncontrollably when anyone ate an orange. My family didn't like oranges that much but would buy them by the bushels just to watch big, dumb, Daisy drool.

There was Emily. Emily was my parents' dog. She was snooty and obnoxious. I knew I was in trouble when my father called her my sister. During the late 70s, she got more attention than I did. Had it been allowed, I'm sure my parents would have sent her to college while giving me bus fare to attend a local trade school.

Petey. Ahhh, Petey. Petey was the first dog my wife and I got. People used to tell us he was the ugliest dog they had ever laid eyes on. We didn't see it. To us...he was our baby. I got back at my parents by telling them he was their grandson and could kick Emily's butt.

My wife and I doted on that dog for many years. Then we had a real baby and realized Petey was ugly. Not just ugly. He was gross. He had an underbite that stretched out at least three feet. When he breathed it sounded like a possessed Hoover. Not the president. The vacuum. My baby daughter loved that dog and he lived long enough to love her, too.

After he died we sorta decided to not have any more dogs. That only lasted a few months. We were at the mall and saw they were having pet adoptions. We walked by one dog and stopped. He was one of the biggest dogs I had ever seen. He was laying down. Asleep. My daughter got on the ground and laid next to him. He let out a big sigh. This was the perfect Rugg dog. A big sleepy dog. A big sleepy dog with a head the size of a Honda. We took him home. And found out he wasn't so sleepy. He started running around in the back yard and playfully barreled into me. I landed hard on the ground. Then he started running toward my three year-old daughter. I picked her up just in time for us both to be knocked to the ground.

Worried that he'd cause havoc if I wasn't there to supervise, I started taking him to my office with me. Unfortunately, these 8 hour days together caused him to overly bond with me. After a few weeks he tried to take my wife's arm off when she tried to hug me. Honda Head had to go. The Adoption folks we got him from said I should take him to a dog psychic to see what was wrong. I didn't. I'm happy to say he was adopted by a family of giants.

We decided that was it with dogs. That lasted two weeks. We got a call from the pet adoption people that they had found the perfect dog for us. He was an eight week old, stray, border collie mix. He was missing his back foot. Why they thought that was the perfect dog for us is unknown. But that's the dog we have now. His name is Murphy. He's great...three working feet and all. As with most border collies...he's kinda vocal and bossy. Actually...he's way vocal and bossy.

And there...it was to remain. One, vocal and bossy dog. And one, vocal and bossy dog only.

Until last September. We were driving back from Mass one Sunday when my wife spotted a rat in the street. As we got closer she saw it was sort of a dog. An iddy biddy dog. She told me to stop the car. She got out and tried to coax the dog out the busy street. He must have known she was Cuban because he turned and ran away from her. She made me follow the dog in the car. We followed a few block and then I got out of the car. It must have known I'm of Swedish descent...because it ran right to me. Fleas were jumping off his back. Ribs were sticking out. I brought the dog to the car. It licked my nose. It licked my daughters nose. It licked my wife's nose. Our goal was to take it to a shelter. It looked like it had been on the street for months. Somewhere along the way, the plans changed and we took it home to give it a bath and some food and water. Then we would take it to the shelter. Then the plan changed again. I called the local shelter and reported that we had found the dog. They took my name and number and nobody ever called. The dog was ours. A miniature Chihuahua. A tiny, iddy biddy, teensy, weensy dog. A tiny, psychotic, teensy, weensy dog.

We named him Lucky. And he's bi-polar. He can lick you one moment and then tear into your skin with iddy biddy teeth. He'll come over to be petted and then attack you, grinding your fingers to pulp. You never know when he's about to attack. He's so tiny that you never hear him coming. One minute your sitting on the couch reading and the next there's a dog attached to your wrist.

Somehow fate has deemed it so.

I own Foamy The Freakadog.

How We Entertain Ourselves At The Beach