I live in Beverly Hills, where artifice is everything. The streets are chock-a-block with super cars. If you haven't paid $150,000 (or struggling paying it off), women won't give you their real cell phone number. Some people I know hide their cars miles away at night so they can evade the repossessors. Those same people use a pad of stock certificates they carry in their attaché cases as currency. You'd be surprised how effective they are when whipped out and signed in front of head waiters, parking valets - or mechanics. I know, I've gotten a few. My '93 Bentley, a gift some years ago from a grateful client, looks new. Because it's not, it bespeaks old money, makes me look casually affluent and it's great on a first date. I find that combination, like older wine and younger women, the key to a contented maturity.