I always plan ahead when it comes to a new millennium. Since buying a new shepherd dog that can sniff out terrorists and stockpiling a dozen flashlight batteries, I believe I am in pretty good shape. What I vowed to do for the next 1,000 years is not pay attention to things that are none of my business.

For example I've decided not to worry about Al Gore's image. He is what he is, and his staff can't change him. Losing sleep about Gore is going to make me very tired.

I am also not going to spend time wondering if George W. Bush smoked marijuana more than seven years ago or even since then. I just found out that seven years is the statute of limitations on presidential candidates smoking pot.

I know this comes as a surprise, but I am not going to concern myself with whether Diane Sawyer dated Bill Bradley when he was a great basketball player. Barbara Walters has dated John Warner, and he once told her he might be a presidential candidate.

The year 2000 is the one where I am going to ignore fund-raising dinners for Pat Buchanan, governor-wrestler Jesse Ventura, Steve Forbes and Donald Trump because I believe they should win on their own.

I couldn't care less this year how Hillary Rodham Clinton furnishes her house in Chappaqua, as long as it's done in good taste and looks neat on Martha Stewart's show.

The only thing that worries me is if, after the house is furnished, Bill Clinton sells it to pay his legal fees.

These are some of the people I will not pay attention to in the next 100 years: Puffy Combs, Mike Tyson, Ron Perelman, Michael Jackson and Dick Clark.

I have also made up my mind that I will not lend Charlton Heston my BB gun at an NRA show.

Mark my words, I will not attend if New York gives Atlanta Braves pitcher John Rocker a ticker-tape parade on Broadway.

I will not be too upset if, during his senatorial campaign, New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani tells a joke and no one laughs.

Even if Bill Gates loses several billion dollars in his antitrust suit, I am not going to care.

If I try to get my daughter on her cell phone and her line is busy, it is not going to bother me.

I also made a decision not to pay any attention to Jack Valenti when he tells me how he shot a 71 at Burning Tree Golf Club when the wind was blowing 30 miles an hour and he birdied on the eighth hole.

Most of all, I'm not going to get all excited in 2000 about a Y3K crisis, since in 1999 I handled the Y2K one so well.

(C) 2000, Los Angeles Times Syndicate