The last time I was in L.A. I got an impromptu tour of L.A.’s trendiest tanning salon, an expansive, pseudo-industrial spot in the heart of Beverly Hills, where Posh and Becks and Jennifer Aniston and lots of names I don’t recognize, all pile in to get sprayed and get baked. (Not good baked. Baked baked — as in laying around inside light pods cultivating unnatural bronze sheens.)

Needless to say, I was rapt. I also stole a pile of packages filled with disposable tanning underwear. Which I’m wearing right now.