Tuesday, January 24, 2017


I don't want to die.

I suspect none of us do. Though I am writing this on the morning of the inauguration and secretly thinking, "this wouldn't be a bad time to check out of the Life Hotel."

But I steady my resolve, pour some low-fat milk into my awful tasting high protein cereal and vow to fight on. After all, I'm only 44 years old.

Nevertheless, last week my wife and I made the 3.2 mile trip to Mitchell, Silberberg & Knupp, the law firm in charge of my "estate." Only in Los Angeles could a trip of that distance take 45 minutes. Whatever hell has in store, it will not hold a candle to the 405 at 8:30 in the morning.

We hadn't spoken to the lawyers  - mostly because they charge $500 an hour, including the small talk -- for quite some time. But my daughters are now adults, supposedly, and it was time to rearrange the arrangements in the event of our demise.

On the plus side, after a careful forensic examination of our financial state, the lawyer assured us we would not end up in a dirty nursing home. Readers of this blog know that is my greatest fear.

"Nurse, there's a cockroach in my soup."

"Please be quiet Mr. Siegel or soon everybody will want one."

On the not-so plus side, there's the question of what would happen if, for instance, Deb and I were to be on a plane that went down in the Andes and we met our demise because we refused to eat Raoul, the Argentinian plumber.

Because, even after the lawyer extracts his 100 lbs. of flesh, even after the bank gets their due on the mortgage, and even after St. Jude's Hospital names a toilet paper holder after us for making a sizable donation, there's the matter of turning over a not unsubstantial amount of money over to my two daughters.

I don't want to say they're irresponsible, but I shudder to think that I wrote all those TV spots, sat in all those status meetings, bit my tongue and ate all those bowls of shit, just to have my girls blow the fruits of my labor on Chipotle, Forever 21 and Boba Smoothies.

Then again, maybe I'm letting my imagination get the worst of me. As is often the case. Maybe they're more responsible than I give them credit for.

Over the winter break, Abby, my youngest daughter went to London and Paris. She called me recently and wanted me to set up a Venmo account. Why, I asked. So, she explained, she could pay me back the money I gave her for the trip.

I have no idea what the fuck a Venmo account is.

But I did tell the lawyer that I want Abby to get my Tommy Lasorda autographed baseball.

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