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

SUMMER IS UPON US

Which makes me think about the worst Christmas gift I ever got.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking about Christmas now, but I rarely live in the moment and usually spend most of my time looking forward to what's coming instead of what's actually here. I already enjoyed summer in April. It was nice.

Now then…

The worst Christmas gift I ever got came from the wife of one of my father's business associates. Heretofore, her gifts had always been...if not fantastic...at least, passable. Books. Pens. Stuff like that.

That all changed when I was twelve years old. Little did I know that the woman coming up the driveway with a bundle of packages was about to forever alter what I thought a bad gift could be. After her visit, and for the rest of my life, I can honestly say that I will never receive a gift as bad as the bad gift I got on that bad gift-giving day. In fact, you could give me dog poo in a baggy and I would still say it was better than that bad gift I got. Of course, if you were to give me a gift of dog poo in a baggy, I would hope there would at least be some clever card or something to explain why you were giving me a baggy of dog poo. But let's leave that aside because I'm getting queasy thinking about it.

Now then, the worst Christmas gift I was about to be given by that woman on that bad gift-giving day was:

PANTEEN SHAMPOO FOR DAMAGED HAIR

As everyone in my family opened their presents from this woman, I stared blankly at the plastic container of shampoo. I looked at it and read it over and over. Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair. Panteen. Shampoo. For. Damaged. Hair. Did I have damaged hair? I didn't think so. Maybe I did. But if anyone was going to give me Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair, it should be my parents. Quietly. In another room. Preferably in the presence of a doctor or a school counselor. This was not a Christmas gift. Shampoo is not a Christmas gift. It wasn't even Avon shampoo in a cool, racecar dispenser. That I could have lived with. I wouldn’t have liked it. But I wouldn’t have remembered it to this day.

The shampoo I had been given was clinical and scientific and no fun whatsoever. For heaven's sake, it was Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair!

As everyone in my family oogled at their gifts of transistor radios and Almond Roca, I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I had a fine head of hair. I had a lot of hair. And not one strand was damaged.

I wanted to run back into the living room, thrust the plastic bottle at the woman and say, "What is the meaning of this?! Why have you given me Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair? What did I ever do to you?! This is an outrage! You don't give a 12 year-old boy Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair! You give them Robots and stuff! You give them things that need batteries! You give them footballs! You give them...anything! Anything but Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair!"

However, I was raised to be a polite child. (At least to persons who weren’t in my immediate family.) So, I went back to the living room with my bottle of shampoo and sat down. I tried to smile. Perhaps sensing that I was contemplating suicide, my mother asked to see what my gift was. I stood up, walked over and silently handed her the bottle. She looked at it and read, “Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair.” She looked over at the woman. “Isn’t that thoughtful.”

At first I was embarrassed that other members of my family had heard what I had been given, but then my mood brightened. In hearing my mother say, “Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair”, I knew this had to be a mistake. Who on earth gives Panteen Shampoo For Damaged Hair as a Christmas gift?

Any second now, the woman would say something like, “Oh my heavens! How did that get in there? That’s for my elderly mother with liver disease. Her hair is damaged. No. No. No. Paul’s gift is in the car. It’s a robot that needs batteries.”

Alas…

That’s not what she said. She said, “Yes. I thought he’d like it. I got it at Broadway. It was very expensive.”

I never opened that bottle. I re-wrapped it and took it to school for the secret Santa gift exchange. I had now made some other 12 year-old miserable. I felt bad about that. But it needed to be done.

I am sure, in the many years since then, that bottle has been rewrapped and re-gifted at least 100 times. It’s still out there, too. Somewhere.

If you happen to ever get it as a gift, would you mind sending it back to me.

I have damaged hair.

WRITING AND WHY I'VE BEEN AWAY

So...

Astute readers of this blog may have noticed I've been...busy. (As in..."unable to perform blogging duties in a manner which is consistent with the conventions of the 2007 blogging conference in Helsinki, Finland. 212.43.b1")

Truth is...I've been writing. Not fun, blogging writing. Writing for pay. Writing to keep my family insured and food on the table. Writing...because, as my agent has reminded me, evidently, that's what I do.

So, I figure, this is a good as time as any to talk about my love/hate relationship with this income producing aspect of my life.

I've been writing for quite a while now. In 1991 I was given my first paycheck for writing something. It was the script "Roll Over Beethoven" for a new show called Animaniacs.

John McCann and I had both been given assignments at the same time. His was "Draculee-Draculaa."

Anyway, after nervously working for about a week and a half, we both dropped off our scripts at Warner Brothers. We decided to celebrate this monumental...and, we thought, one-time event in our lives...by renting the worst 50's sci-fi movie we could find, go back to my house, and eat a box of powdered donuts. I don't remember the movie, but I'm sure John does.

Anyway, half way through the movie, the phone rang. It was Sherri Stoner, the story editor of Animaniacs. She was looking for John. I handed John the phone. Over the next minute and a half I listened as John said, "Oh. Yes. Yes. That's good. Really? That would be fine. Yes. Oh. Yes, I think I could do that."

I had no idea what was going on. Then John handed the phone to me and said Sherri wanted to talk to me. She basically said the same thing she said to John. They wanted to hire me full time to write for the show. I was stunned.

I hung up the phone. John and I looked at each other and did the happiest dance two men eating powered donuts could do. We had jobs. We could now afford real donuts. (However, I have to say that powdered donuts and coffee are still the best.)

Having been writing for quite a while now, I can confidently say the following things...

Writing is lonely, miserable, satisfying, annoying, enjoyable, painful, nerve-wracking, heinous, intolerable, exciting, exhausting, invigorating and virtually everything else that can possibly end in ING.

You would think that by now I would have a handle on it. But since every script is different, the only thing I know going in is this: It's gonna hurt.

I know there will be hours and hours in which the most I come up with is, "He looked sheepishly at the cabinet."

I know I will constantly use the word your when I really mean you're.

I know I will panic that agreeing to write the script was a mistake.

I know I will wander down the hall in hopes that the dogs can give me a good idea.

I know I will rewrite the 1st page at least 100 times, leaving me little more than a day to write the other 31 pages.

I know I will drink too much tea.

I know I will distract myself from the task at hand by looking for things under the bed. I never have a specific thing I'm looking for, I just want to see what's wound up there.

I will lay on the floor and look at my dogs.

I will lay on the floor and look for faces in the ceiling.

I will lay on the floor and do nothing of particular interest.

I will sit in every chair in the house for a brief moment.

I will say, "I should take a walk. It'll help clear my head." But I never do.

I will finish.

Yep, those are all the things I know.

I'M ALIVE!

Gentlepersons,

Today, I did the thing people say they want to do when they don't want to do the thing they really don't want to do.

Follow?

No.

Okay. Here.

"I'd rather have root canal!"

You with me?

That's what I did.

Root canal.

Anyway, I've been writing on a project and am now done. I shall blog tomorrow.

Forgive me, Froynlaven readers.

I need more Advil.

Paul