But I had been in Los Angeles for a speaking engagement. On the way back home, I happened to be seated next to Phil from Pasadena. We had just settled down after the beverage service. I had my headset on.

"So, did you know that LA has more hot tubs than any other city in the world," he shouted, as the in-flight movie flashed on the monitors overhead?

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hot tubs, there are so many in LA that they have their own Union."

"Really." I pretended to be absorbed in the opening credits of As Good as it Gets.  But Phil was persistent. Apparently the imminent start of the movie was merely an invitation to get him revved up with idle dribble. Where was that screaming kid when I needed one?

"Keeping up with the Jones's in LA is a full-time avocation. Your intrinsic worth is measured by the size and accoutraments of your palatial estate. If you don't have a hot tub in this city, you can't even register to vote."

"What if I stick a really pissed-off beaver in my bathtub," I said, trying to silence him with sarcasm. He ignored me.

"You know, people don't really live in their homes in LA any more; they just use them occasionally for vacations. Even if you live and work in LA, you have to spend at least three months a year at the Bel Air Hotel, or else they'll take away your SAG card."

"I spent a weekend at the Mayflower in Washington last year, does that count?"

I could see Phil looking at me now. He cleared his throat loudly. I thought maybe he had choked on one of those little goldfish. "You've really made it if you have your own private entrance from your Bel Air home directly to the back of the hotel."

"Why? So they can dump their celebrity condoms and pheasant-under- glass in your yard?"

"Anyone can own a $20 million mansion; but now it has to resemble the Waldorf Astoria or else you won't get a Christmas card from Monica.

"I suppose Domino's Pizza is out of the question?"

"You're kidding, of course."

"A limo and a driver?"

"Gotta have 'em, but it only counts if the driver lives on your property."

"I see. I guess a pool is a necessity. With one of those things that swims around and sucks up leaves?"

"Converts into an ice rink on the weekends."

"And I guess you need your own post office box?

"Your own zip code."

"Gotta have your personal trainer to tighten up those pects, I guess?"

"Bally's has a club in your basement."

"How about a wine cellar?"

"Private vineyard in the back yard."

"Car?"

"Need a Beemer just to drive you from the door to the Rolls.

"I hear Volkswagen bought Rolls Royce."

Phil was not amused.

"Your walk in closet in the master suite has to have one of those revolving clothes racks like in the dry cleaners."

"Wouldn't your bedroom reek of cleaning solvents? And what if you had a power outage?"

"You know," said Phil, testily now, as visions of Helen Hunt danced on the screens overhead, "I sense you aren't taking this very seriously."

"I subscribe to the big, frozen iceball theory, Phil."

"And that would be...?"

"30,000 years from now, when the earth is a big, frozen iceball and we are all long gone, it really doesn't count a flip what kind of house you had, does it?"

On the screen overhead, Jack Nicholson laughed, like only Jack can laugh. Phil made a giant sucking noise.