It’s hard to be the guy pouring drinks with a skyline view and not think for a minute that it is my party, my terrace, my guests, and my world.

For a moment, it was.

I was a working-class playboy, living off the scraps of gentlemen and flushing toilets behind the nouveau-riche when I bumped into the President of the United States, literally.

My 2-year-old kid loved astronauts, which led me to apply for a job as a grant writer at SpaceX.

I knew I would have to kiss Elon's ass to be hired. This narrative got me the interview, and I was offered the job. But $40,000 a year to live in El Segundo?

Mars can wait.