The Private Diary of Rayne Maker: "The Monk's Revenge"

Tuesday

Nasty, hot, bright Los Angeles. I wish Bonnie-Sue wouldn't book me at W hotels. She's a stellar PA, but she wrongly thinks I like pretending to be hip. I don't. This morning I banged into a trompe l'oeil wall and fell into the bathtub. Breakfast: brought by a stunning Swede, but inedible. And the gigolo who ran to fetch my rental car? Back fifteen minutes later asking, "What color was it?" As if I'd know!
On to UCLA's campus to visit Professor Wolansky, an emerging guru with a new book called Hyper-kineticism: The Old Economy's Answer to Dot-Com Disaster. Yawn. Still, the Big Prickly One wants me to "lock him up" as a pet expert for The Armadillo Group, part of Ken's determination to establish us as a thought leader. Yawn.
Prof W, dressed in black, shades (of course), wants lots of money from us, plus guaranteed speaking fees, plus first-class air. He won't coach us while he's teaching, and only if we haul ourselves out West. We disagree. He becomes rude and hostile, then walks back to his office so quickly (hyper-kinetically?) that I can't keep up. Then he won't validate me and I'm stuck for twenty bucks parking with no cash and a maxed-out credit card. Walk to ATM and back, squinting against the dazzling glare. I hate L.A.

Wednesday

From one guru to another: my day visiting former b