Tackling a ribeye at a DC steakhouse the other evening, I couldn’t help catching a bit of conversation from the adjacent booth. A quick glance verified that it was a table of well-dressed business bigshots, expense-account daredevils who know how to sling a Gold Card, and probably have enough frequent flyer miles to make it to the moon and back.

Bigshot 1: Where’d they put you?

Bigshot 2: At the Hilton, but I moved to the Marriott.

Bigshot 1: You moved?

Bigshot 2: I’m tired of seeing that [disreputable female]. Everywhere I turn. Magazines. TV. Enough. That place won’t get another dime from me.

Bigshot 3: Got that right. I hear “Hilton” and now I think sleaze.

Bigshot 1: So how’s the Marriott?

Bigshot 2: Whatever. I’m not paying for it.

[Chorus of laughter and clinking cocktail glasses.]

Conrad’s spinning in his grave.