In part one, Norman and Valeria, two college drop-outs were being strong-armed by Mr. Big to pay back student loans, or else.  After they see a reward poster for an adored and long-missing dog, they have an epiphany.

  Seduced by the financial counselor’s easy drone and the hypnotic pastime of autographing reams of loan documents, it seemed so easy to obtain a fortune in student loans, but nobody ever warned Norman or Valeria about contending with Mr. Big. 

Are you unhappy where you are, down-hearted, and apprehensive?  There's always an antidote: look to the future and imagine what marvels lie in store.  (If that doesn't work, try hijacking a golf cart.)

There's no dabbling with meditation.  Once you start, there's no turning back.   It's like the Mafia.   

There's a benefit to being two-faced.  If you ever lose face, you've always got an extra to spare.

We were so poor in my family when we were growing up.  The only traveling we did were guilt trips.  The fond memory of those trips was rekindled during a recent visit to church.

So few things are perfect, with the exception of a perfect stranger and there seems to be no shortage of perfect idiots.  Still, it is a disturbing phenomenon when perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be.

When your marriage breaks up or your pet vanishes (not to compare the two events in magnitude―but I have yet to see a poster with a reward for a missing wife), there's a void and an emptiness that will always be there, and yet love will find a way.  This week's Miller Time presents a new kind of love story.

Everybody is ganging up on the poor little ego, from Dr. Phil to Deepak Chopra.  The ego is something to be overcome, the primary cause of much unpleasantness.  In this week’s Miller Time, the ego gets a chance to talk back. . .

Do you have a resolution for the New Year?  Mine last year was to cut down on parking time, taking the spot and stopping the car as soon as possible.  I calculate it saved me two hours and 43 minutes and cost me three parking tickets.  This year, the resolution is no excuses when it comes to having a drink…

I’m still smarting from the recent auction in New York of Truman Capote’s effects.  I had my heart set on a scrap of paper handwritten, “I am a genuis” (sic).  Confident that my 425-dollar absentee bid would be the winner, I was sure to be able to wake up every morning and see that reminder that even a genius may have fragile spelling ability.  That little scrap of paper went for 1700 dollars!

Do you ever just toss off a 500-page novel and then realize, yikes, it was only the first installment of a trilogy?  Something akin to that happened last week when writing about modern child rearing.  I discovered there’s plenty more ink where that came from.  

Parenthood is a lot like spontaneous combustion.  It comes whether you are ready or not.  Now here in West Hollywood, all sorts of creative, immature, sushi-eating folks get to raise kids.  It?s yin meets yang, oversized egos pitted in a life-and-death struggle for the toys. 

Everybody remembers where they were when the heard about some tragedy of cataclysmic proportions.  The shooting of JFK, the day the space shuttle Challenger went down, the night the Raiders lost 27-0.  Where were you when you heard about the Farmers’ Market massacre?

There’s only one thing worse than having a messy house, and that’s being told you have a messy house.   From the times of Socrates to Yogi Berra, housecleaning has been an extremely touchy topic for the world’s greatest philosophers.  

Caught in a long, slow line at the Santa Monica Amusement Pier, Leonard felt deeply torn between a desire to see his daughter’s happy face, as she rammed other bumper cars, and the need to avoid a potential parking ticket.  It was quintessential Los Angeles malaise—the kind to push someone right over the brink.

When non-restauranteurs, previously unschooled in the ways of running an eatery, respond to the divine call to serve food to the public, the results are unpredictable at best.  At worst, fressers beware! 

Death is never easy.  In my old newspaper, for two days in a row we had sympathy cards to sign for fellow employees who’d had deaths in their families.  On the third day, another card appeared.  I automatically scribbled, “Deepest sympathies.  My prayers are with you.”  It was a birthday card for the editor.

Talk about exclusive!  We don’t have second-hand cigarette smoke in West Hollywood.  It’s all, “pre-used, factory-authorized” smoke.  This rarified atmosphere was made to order for a guy like Brett Boltcutter. . .

Everybody should have a pet, even if they don’t take very good care of it.  A pet, however small, is a good distraction from your woes, as I

have learned.  And very likely humans are good distractions from pets’ woes.

Outsourcing, what a wonderful idea!  As my comedic empire expands and the pace of my activities becomes ever more breakneck, the goal is simple: to dupe as many people as I can into doing as much as possible for me, including the unglamorous task of writing.

Are you’re nostalgic for the days before income tax?  Did you have your first face lift before the Vietnam War?  Your entourage includes a walker?  Do you often go to the La Brea tar pits to rekindle memories of old friends?  If you’ve answered yes to any of these questions, you may want to see a physician to see if you qualify as a bona fide Hollywood widow.