I’m taking the Acela local from L.A. to Vegas once again. I’m sitting alone in the dining car, reading my tablet and preparing for a new round of resort clients in Sin City the next morning.
I doll myself up including wearing a new fragrance in order to see if a lonely man will drop by to chat and stare and sniff. I get a stiff commission from Lacy Place for such saps. Free money, I say.