It's mid-recession in a depressed area of a faltering state and I've got the most expensive house on the market. The one percent are suffering too, people. I wanted it to be my Playboy mansion. A temple to wine, revelry, sex, intrigue... this was hot on the heels of Eyes Wide Shut, mind you. Then I met my wife, she moved in, made it her own. Now she's left me and forced me to sell the place. The ultimate insult? They're calling my speakeasy lounge a rumpus room. Does my turmoil amuse you, Jim?