I’m sitting on my fourth floor balcony smoking a Kuba Kuba cigar, listening to the seemingly never-ending sound of helicopters overhead. They go around and around every single night – looking for the nightly criminal who’s turn it is to run away from the authorities. Just another night in Palm Beach County, Florida. West Palm Beach, to be exact. And there go the police sirens. I’ve grown to expect this over the years. Something I thought I was leaving behind in New York a little over four years ago.

Florida’s not so bad, though. It’s about 60 degrees and the sky is clear. And it’s quiet, otherwise. Still, I need to get the heck out of this area. You can’t stop at a gas station at night without somebody begging you for money. It’s either some young woman with a starving baby or some old guy from the Vietnam war.

If I can rack up a few million and buy a home in the town of Palm Beach, that would be great. Wellington was nice – but my wife thought a 4500 square foot home was too big. She’s nuts. I would have refused to leave if I knew the housing market was going to crash and that I’d be stuck in this 1200 square foot condo. Heck, at least the view from my balcony is nice. And honestly, it IS a nice condo. But I need more room. Anyone out there want a condo? I paid $150,000.00 and put $30,000.00 into it. It’s yours for $115,000.00. Do you like helicopters?

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