"And a fully lovely good afternoon to you, too, kind sir," I said, hanging up the telephone. Far from our eastern abode, my Hollywood pal, Frank, had fallen for the bait. I'm officially invited to assume two weeks of residence inside his fabulous estate's guest bungalow.

Everyone in southern California has a bungalow for deadbeats like me. Even vagrants keep a spare freezer crate out behind the park bench.

It's a law. Sort of like you have to run for governor, which I plan to do as soon as I schlep onto the same sacred soil Schwarzenegger gets chauffeured over.

Carpetbaggers always do well in politics. Just ask Hillary. I don't have her thighs, of course, but maybe Frank has a bicycle pump I could use. If I were gov, I would make it a law.

Recently, Frank had mentioned a 3-D movie extravaganza to be screened in Los Angeles. I called him up to whine myself onto his free futon (seldom waved and almost never on a toothpick). I promised if he and his wife would graciously grant me an extended visit, I would be more than happy to allow them to purchase their tickets to the 3-D shows or any other events of their choice. They bit, although I had to make a disclaimer that the tickets they bought themselves were in no way to be construed as an excuse not to feed me.

"What time's lunch?" I asked my future hosts. "Is there any more of that pudding in the refrigerator?"

As soon as I'm elected Governor of California, I can reciprocate. Frank will be staying in the mansion's bungalow entirely without cost, except for sales taxes, entertainment fees, and hospitality surcharges. May we suggest the lentil loaf? $11.95, plus beverage. Two drink minimum. Dinner roll not included. Monday night is Karaoke Night. Caddy works for tips, minus sales taxes, entertainment fees, and hospitality surcharges.

"Californee is the place you oughta be," Frank the prophet had advised. "Swimming pools, aged 'Saved by the Bell' teens."

"When's the next Nick Nolte funk? I'm on my way."

To Be Continued...