It’s Thursday evening, July 31, 2025. I’m at my desk in my office in Beverly Hills. I have just passed through a difficult week. To make a long, complex story short, several immense financial entities that were holding funds for my goddess wife, Alex, and me, have just spit on us.

They had a good chunk of our remaining assets, and they were not permitting those funds to return to us. The total sum was by no means huge. I had allowed it to dwindle to almost zero in cash as I moved our assets to real estate. My years in the jungle had taught me that in inflationary epochs, real estate might be a safer asset than cash or securities.

And, indeed, so it had turned out to be. The stock market had done remarkably well. Great news. But in my neck of the woods here in Beverly Hills, real property has done really well — plus I have had the pleasure of living in this earthly paradise and swimming in my warm pool under the moon and the palms, and there is no tax on pleasure.

I am glad that I survived my financial traumas.