The Man With The Golden Gun: When The World Wasn't Enough For Billionaire Businessman

I have been chuckling over this article I ran across in the New York Times recently, not only the article, but the priceless expressions on three billionaires’ faces caught for such antics as: running a gay sex club out of his Manhattan penthouse with furnishings borrowed from the Spanish Inquisition; having underage girls come to the mansion to give special massages; and my personal favorite, building a multi-million dollar sex grotto on the same property where his unsuspecting wife probably threw fund raising teas and tended her begonias.

To quote the New York Times:

The latest in a long line of lurid Lotharios is said to be computer chip mogul Henry T. Nicholas III, who allegedly built a $30 million underground grotto, complete with hidden doors and secret levers, at his equestrian estate in Laguna Hills, California. According to court documents unearthed by the Los Angeles Times, Nicholas is said to have planned a "secret and convenient lair" where he could indulge his "manic obsession with prostitutes" and "addiction to cocaine and ecstasy."

The article goes on to explain that the 47-year-old Nicholas (a billionaire who co-founded Broadcom Corp) used his private jet to transport prostitutes from other cities like Las Vegas to his hideout, nicknamed "The Pond," where he provided his guests with drugs, according to the complaint. The Times continues:

In addition, the complaint dug up by the Times alleges that Nicholas used the lair as his “personal brothel” until his wife caught him in the act with a prostitute, according to the paper. [Pwned!] His wife Stacy Nicholas has since filed for divorce.

Nicholas’s attorney Steven A. Silverstein told the Times that “all of the allegations are denied.” In 2000, Nicholas told the paper that the underground facility was a “pump house” to handle runoff from his horse trails...”

Nobody ever suggested it wasn’t a “pump house” Mr. Nicholas.

But it is suggested you are a “horse’s ass” of mammoth proportions.

It is unclear whether these fellows fancy themselves to be James Bond, Auric Goldfinger, or a mind-bending combination of both. Meanwhile, having contemplated A View to A Kill, our girl Stacy (who will probably need years of therapy now – retail and otherwise) is singing "Diamonds Are Forever" in her best Shirley Bassey rendition.

She will need this therapy for taking a wrong turn in the garden one day, possibly stepping on a hidden lever and seeing a door open before her like some fairy mound. Stepping into the darkness, she may have followed light and murky sounds, words whispered, "This is For Your Eyes Only" … until the unthinkable horror revealed itself. It was pussy galore!

In one instant, Stacy’s reality splintered as she confronted the sight of her husband in flagrante delecto with Miss Goodthighs, having finished with Xenia Onatopp and with Bambi and Thumper waiting nearby. They were flown in from Casino Royale in Las Vegas.

“Henry!” she may have shrieked, her voice echoing through the Pond, but then we can only imagine. Who knows what thoughts went through Stacy’s mind at that moment, but I’ll wager she wanted to knock The Living Daylights out of the lot of them. In the end, she relented and decided to Live And Let Die.

"You Only Live Twice!” Henry may have blathered pathetically, his breath choking from the weight of Miss Goodthighs energetically playing horsey on top of him. “It’s not what it seems, my dear! They’re only here for the odd job!”

Stacy probably considered offing Henry on the spot, but considered he could Die Another Day.

And so the curtain closes on our lurid little drama of early 21st century extravagant peccadillo hyped up on drugs and fueled by bottomless cisterns of money. For the divorce lawyers, Tomorrow Never Dies.

Never Say Never Again.

Men Controlling Women: From the Minds of Voles

I subscribe to several men’s magazines for my husband. He usually ignores them, so I read them; largely to keep myself abreast of articles that pertain to men’s health. In addition, one of these magazines sends online material. I get a particular thrill out of reading these as if I am stepping behind a curtain, the shower curtain in the gym as it may be. The very sense of being on "other" territory is titillating. I feel rather like a spy.

So, what are they thinking? What are they plotting?

It was worse than I expected.

The lads at a certain magazine believe they have cracked the code on the brain – the female brain. Every generation of men thinks they have done this. Goddess must sit back and laugh. There were all kinds of interesting tidbits that sounded more like how to fine tune your computer’s clock speed or your Mustang’s carburetor, but this was to be applied to that ‘other thing’, a woman; maybe one just captured by sleight of hand at a bar, maybe a girlfriend or a wife.

Amused, but my curiosity piqued, I read on. There were tips on manipulating her dopamine levels. My nose wrinkled. It is not so simple to manipulate oneself in this way, let alone other people. The boy geniuses at the mag never considered that for all the millions of women on SSRIs or the new SNRIs in this country, these dopamine tricks would not work. These gals have been chemically altered.

Perhaps this explains the article on "the rise of fembots" I read recently with much awe and not a little consternation. Is this the neuro-chemical effect of a generation of teenagers put on Prozac? Still, SSRIs will make a woman’s dopamine flatline, causing emotionally flat affect, lack of sexual desire, difficulty with arousal, and difficulty with orgasm. I would say this is an evil plot to neutralize women’s sexuality, but it puts an end to the happy-hydraulics of men as well, which is not good either. Serotonin exists in opposite relationship with the neuro-transmitter dopamine. You need dopamine to experience the emotion of romantic love. Then, we came to the voles...

I believe that as long as there has been a patriarchy, generations of men have applied themselves to the task of building a better mousetrap - er - chastity belt. They of course cleverly tried to keep themselves on the outside of such bear-traps, and pocket the key as well if they could; which is where paradox, bitter irony, and unmitigated disaster reign until the next batch of lads say, “You old fogies had it all wrong! This is the way!” and it begins again.

Well, the brave new 21st century lads at this magazine are dying to tell you about the mating neuro-chemistry of voles. Now, a vole is a charming creature, vaguely related to a prairie dog or the average editor at a magazine who would promote such sociopathic advice as they gave, not to have a better sexual relationship with a woman, but how to attempt to manipulate her neuro-psychologically to be "addicted to you" while teaching you how to keep yourself far away from such an effect. Of course, you wouldn’t want that, they suggest with a wink. You’re a man, not a rodent, right? Right?

The neurotransmitter in question is oxytocin, the primary bonding chemical. It bonds women to men (and men to women, the dips) and women to their children. Kissing a woman’s breasts sends neurological signals to the brain and clitoris and releases oxytocin. Cuddling with your mate is good for your relationship, making you both feel bonded and safe and connected. But this is not what the voles writing the article had in mind.

They suggested that as a woman’s orgasm releases oxytocin in her brain, a man should craftily climb onto the back of her legs after this event and massage the muscles in her spine in little circles going up to her neck, making sure to stay clear of this himself, natch.

The cunning plan is not to relax her, give her pleasure, or show her love. The reason was to attempt to have the effect of manipulating her body into producing more bonding chemical to cause a neuro-psychological "addiction" in her brain beyond her conscious control (ah, the dream springs eternal) thereby ensuring not only her fidelity, but her slavish devotion, all the while steering clear of such deadly effects himself; the better to chase Fifi, Muffie and that hot new intern at the office.

The writers and editors assure a bloke that he can actually do this (practically and ethically), control the woman like a Stepford Wife with a control manual and then be non-monogamous himself, feeling tipsy with methanated power that he has assured the woman’s sexual servitude with only a few handy tricks and tweaks worthy of Popular Mechanics. Zombified from his manipulations and tripping from an overdose of oxytocin, she will presumably stumble past even more handsome and eligible men, and he can sleep at night.

The reality is more like this. Yes, when women orgasm, oxytocin is released. If all other systems are go, she may be bonded to you, which means she will also become protective, possessive, and madly jealous. Jealous as in "hell hath no fury." I promise. This can turn what a guy thinks he has neatly compartmentalized as a casual booty call or fuck buddy into something entirely different (in her brain) and can become major drama if he happens to find "the one". Just try telling SuzyQ she was just a booty call then. I wouldn’t want to be there.

The situation recalls The Magician’s Apprentice. Things get very out of hand. There are just so many possibilities for this to explode. It is sad that men’s magazines would suggest to men that they could control women neuro-endocrinologically, while keeping emotionally removed and immune themselves. This is not about love or giving pleasure. It is about a pathetic attempt at the usurpation of sexual relations for dominance and control, feeding into men’s lowest, most fearful base cultural conditioning of controlling women’s sexuality while having theirs uninhibited.

Even if you could do that - which as I explained, would backfire spectacularly - it’s so crassly manipulative as to be sociopathic. It’s just totally gross, with major jerk factor. I expect such from my husband’s multiply divorced friends, who still don’t get it. The paradigm, idea and application are wrong. They end up losers in the end. Detached and manipulative in the bedroom, they are endlessly paranoid as to whether their woman is glassy-eyed under their sexual control, while they hope to furtively bang someone else in the supply closet.

It is never wise for men to play women. Play at your own risk. Once a woman learns you are not faithful, there will be hell to pay. I won’t even go there if she comes across a copy of that article and puts your ‘new moves’ in context.

Ultimately, if you betray her trust and are lucky, she may punish you and keep you on a short leash. If you are not and she thinks you are not worth her emotional investment, aggravation, and assaults on her self-esteem, she may head for other pastures with less well-informed and crafty stallions, leaving you to figure out why that radical vole-trick-neuro-control panel-chastity belt tip not only did not work, but blew up in your face.

When are men going to learn that they have as much chance of controlling women as they have of controlling cats?

What Makes A Man?

The media storm about the wrestler Chris Benoit and the steroid-fueled waste of three lives, one a woman and one a seven-year-old boy, has haunted me. It begs the question, 'What makes a man?'

When a man becomes a father his testosterone levels naturally go down. Why? It is nature's way of saying, "You competed and got the woman, you have a child. You need to be a companion and help-mate now, a partner and protector - not a danger to them, not hunting for new mates, not abandoning them.

There is a cult of the testosterone-poisoned man in current culture. I see his face screwed up into an ugly mask of violent rage reflected on everything from boys' toys and games to movies, video games, body building magazines... and the mock-berserkers of wrestling, phony warriors that little boys think are as harmless as their Teddy bear while holding out the promise of phallic dominance; which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with asexual power.

If you murder your wife in a blinding supernova of hormone-intoxicated rage, you can hardly be said to be a good lover. You didn't even enjoy sex yourself unless violence is what gets you off, which gets us back to the whole phallic dominator paradigm again. Emptiness, numbness, and a creeping fear, alienation, and a paranoid disassociation are the real end result.

Note to men: I love you guys, so I want you to get things right — when you are set on dominating women (and children) you are displaying weakness, not strength. You cannot be a lover, husband, or father of any quality from this paradigm. You can't even be a philosophical friend. The mask of testosterone rage is the image of a man 'out of control', 'out of his mind', unable to create, unable to think, or to contribute to society and civilization. All he can do is destroy in an infantile narcissistic rage that ultimately destroys him as well; if all it does is leave him abandoned, unloved, and alone.

There is no weaker state than this. It is total failure, as a human being, but specifically as a man. Injecting steroids and other substances is not the answer. I suggest a different paradigm, one that is more mature and fuller in the musky poetry of virile masculinity.

I suggest the Tantric paradigm of Shiva's role, and the Celtic Green Man, or horned Cernunus who operate in harmonic dance with the female whose truth of goddess-center then becomes something that enables his masculine flowering into the hero, or the Adonis; the conscious heroic man. Google and start your own explorations. Familiarize yourself with male archetypes that exist in harmony with nature. This is inner work. Nothing you do in the gym, and certainly nothing you inject, will give you this.

The potential of man is found by honoring the Primal Feminine in his woman, not by running in fear and seeking to dominate and destroy that which reflects the cosmic void of womb and tomb; the Shakti energy of raw creative force, coming back to her armed with injections of testosterone beyond which nature designed for his health. Read up on the philosophy of Tantra. It's about more than lasting longer in bed.

Health is defined as being able to function in nature, as all creatures are designed. The bloated raging cartoon man is advertising his extreme insecurity and fear of women, women of intelligence, women who are goddess-like in their spirits and will not be intimidated or dominated. It is like he is trying to create flesh armor and weapons to better go into battle against them, or defend himself against them. In any case, the insides always betray themselves, even if one manages to look like a brontosaurus with the charming temperament of a T. rex.

Too many men, and increasingly teenaged boys, are being sucked into a gym culture whose bible is found on the magazine racks, and whose gods are somato-narcissistic oafs who hold their extreme vanity which poses as a 'sport' over health, good sense, and healthy relationships. A 'sport' that necessitates injecting steroids, and juggling insulin and Tamoxifen is hardly a 'sport'. It’s pharmacology.

I have seen my husband gape at 'documentaries' of such steroidal characters. One in particular sticks in my mind because I am too often asked how he looks in comparison, and ‘aren’t I amazed?’ by him. (Quite frankly, no.) I looked over his shoulder as this fellow mumbled nonsense and kicked food he didn’t like off his plate. “Why are they filming this?” I thought. “There are nature documentaries that are more exciting, like ‘the mating rituals of Amazonian tree frogs.'” What was interesting to me was that panning around this man’s home I noticed there were no books, no art, nothing that showed a life of the mind.

There were only pictures of himself and his bodybuilding trophies lying around. There was nothing else in his life but the endless rituals of lifting, eating, injecting, with the occasional interruption for a pedicure or massage. This film could be marketed as a sleeping aid. "Are we driving back to 'Black Eyed Pea' again for more steak?... Oh, it's different... It's chicken now... ZZzzzzzzzzzz."

He lived alone, because his wife obviously could not live like this and was probably tired of being ignored or abused (and ignoring your wife is a form of abuse). There is actually more than one of these wonders. In one such 'documentary' I observed his mother cooking for him like a servant. In another it was his daughter, beleaguered at the stove with no care for her appearance, numbly catering to the all-consuming somatic narcissism of her father who ignored her and left no space for her to shine. There was room only for him. It was sad to watch.

Like Narcissus, such men fall out of the natural order, fall into the pool, or in their case, the mirror and lose... perspective, and often much more. The physical, emotional, and relational wreckage of steroids is quietly kicked to the side, or swept under the table until a case like Chris Benoit's explodes onto the stage of public awareness, because there are literally billions of dollars to be made brainwashing boys and men into believing that they are 'less than men' unless they do this, and that these bloated men with GH gut and nothing on their minds but primping for a beauty competition are to be their idols of manhood.

Men are lured in with the promise of women and sex, but it turns into something else that will ultimately exclude them both. Women like men to be fit and they appreciate muscles, to a point. There is the question of proportion, and looking good in your clothes. A man needs more than a loincloth or thong to be a well-presented man. Then, a man has to show himself to be a whole human being who loves and adores us and has our interest in mind, not just his own. We want a partner.

When somatic narcissism becomes a disease that swallows a man's life, there could be no one left but the man in the mirror. Sadly for many of these men, that becomes enough. They are lost. Those women who stay have tales of abuse. Mrs. Benoit does not even have this anymore. Her story is done. Unfortunately, she too bought into the paradigm that ‘a real man’ is a raging dominator and not a loving partner.

Many of these fellows do not realize that when you take testosterone, your body stops producing its own. It also throws your estrogens off balance. And yes lads, you need your estrogens too. It makes a total mess. The old margarine ad cliché 'It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature' was never truer.

I am not against the use of hormones for replacement therapy, far from it. This is the difference between a 'physiological' dose though and a 'pharmacological' dose. For a man experiencing andropause, testosterone can improve mood, and help age-related muscle loss. In contrast, Mr. Benoit's 'doctor' was enabling him to take the dose equivalent of ten months of testosterone therapy every three to five weeks, thereby turning him into a monster, not a man - a monster who hogtied and strangled his wife and then used the very choke holds kids cheered him for on his seven-year-old son.

Then, being the real man he was, he went into the garage and hung himself.

What is a man?

If you are male, you will need to find the courage to look into the heart of darkness and ponder this yourself. Your future, health and happiness and that of your family will unfold upon the way you can answer this question, and the 'paradigm' of masculinity you choose to ascribe to. Philosophically speaking, the paradigm forms the scaffolding of your self-consciousness, and your choices spring naturally from that. It's the primal operating program, the root. It will affect the way you see yourself, the world, and the way you see women.

It pays to examine it, question it, and tweak it if necessary, especially if you are being led down a bad path by some glossy presentation challenging you to live at the gym and take their products 'or be a less of a man', even more so if you are considering taking steroids or already do so. You need to be able to hold your masculinity 'disembodied', or you will never hold it at all. You may even lose it. As Chris Benoit learned, it is literally a matter of life and death.

Energy Vampires

Have you ever had a run-in with an energy vampire? I'll bet you have.

I certainly have, in fact, I recently have, and I'm feeling like hell right now because of it.

As a lady I like sagely noted, "There are givers, and there are takers. The givers give, give, give, and the takers take, take, take." The givers put out their light to others and receive energy from their own efforts, and energy from the universe. Then, there are others, psychic vampires who see this light and admire and are drawn to it, but not to be inspired to light their own lights, but to drain from the energy of the one they have fixated on. These are not pale creatures in Bela Lugosi suits, but real people in 'skin suits' as a Native American woman shaman used to describe them.

They may be very engaging on the surface, very cute, very charming, endearing in their neediness and desire to hang out with you, but beware. You have been marked as a delicious source to tap, and once you are used up, injured, or otherwise become wise to them, they will go on their merry way, like a drug addict, bored, hungry, existentially empty, morally ambiguous with a wonky moral compass where the ends justify the means and lies are a way of getting what they want, looking for the next light, the next source, the next fix. They are emotional con men and women, restless and superficial. The damage they cause only bothers them to the degree that they suffer repercussions personally.

In the case of this woman, I was astonished with her cavalier attitude towards lying, and how naturally and often she lied, to me and to other people. The only thing that bothered her, was if she were to be 'caught in a lie', as it seemed she might be with a man she'd duped, lying to him about what she did, where she worked, or if she was even working at all. She was concerned that this might affect his image and trust of her, and I can assure you it would. What a terrible way to live. It is the way of false ego. Living life as art is not about being a liar. Save your creativity for other things like dreaming and doing, and respect that others need their life's chi to create their own lives. The other is the way of sociopaths.

This is very destructive behavior, both to the host, and ultimately to the energy parasite, who if he or she is stupid, greedily devours so much of the person's energy that the host is drained, exhausted, weakened, possibly injured or sick and then is cast off. If they were really smart, they would sip little and slowly, but they are not smart. They also do not give, or they give very little, without care, just enough to keep the supply coming from the target.

I think even Shakespeare said it. 'Beware of flatterers'. These people masquerade as friends, and as lovers, when you are just a source of supply to them, easily expended as you would to a carton of milk you drained dry. Also, what better victory than to take someone they admire and reduce them to a flickering gasping creature, while they go off with that source's energy persona, which they parade around in like borrowed clothes. Did I mention they like to lie?

This is not 'living life as art'. You do not find an artist host and put a feeding tube in their energy systems, clouding up their minds with your dramas and narcissistically demanding that they be sources of energy supply for your personal energy empowerment. That is not how this works. It is not honest. It is lacking in integrity. It is the depths of selfishness. There is so much energy out there in the universe, so much power for you to develop in yourself, but you have to light your candle.

And people, please do it without draining out the lamp oil of somebody else, particularly someone you admire. Envy does not make you brighter if you repay the other's kindness with sucking their energy so that they cannot shine as bright, or worse, you make it so that they cannot follow their dreams and destiny. You have no right to do that. You only make the world darker. You make things bad for everyone including yourself. Don't do it.

To live life as art, we all must be inspired. I've been inspired by many. I seek and allow myself to be inspired all the time, but live and let live, people! Bless people and let them shine. Think of others as well as yourself. Give them the space they need, and if they are generous, be gracious, give back, and that does not mean asking for more, or worse, tricking it out of them. That is called stealing. It would be like to marvel at a glorious butterfly and beat it because you hope to acquire something it has for yourself, or worst, just to put out its light. This is an empty soul for which no light can enter.

It is not enough to seek to live life as art. When you do so, as you shine, as you smile, as you spread your wings and fly, take care. Take care of who you attract with your light, who flatters you. Be aware of how you feel around this person. Is this person talking much about how spiritual and nurturing they are, yet all they seem to do is ask from you and then to take as much as they can, even when you are exhausting your resources?

Do you dread answering the phone when the energy parasite calls? Does talking to this person leave you feeling distracted, disturbed and drained. Is your throat aching and sore, your voice and energy weak after talking to this person, particularly on the phone. Are you breathless and winded like the air has been drawn out of you? If that is the case, this is a time to disengage. Hopefully, the damage will not be too great.

No matter how charmingly they apologize, or if they turn things around projecting and transferring onto you, you cannot keep such people in your life. No one can afford to have their life's energy centers drained away in this way. When enough is gone, it is very hard for it to bounce back. In some cases, it cannot. The energy vampire will go merrily on. They will thank you for your kindness, or threaten you with retribution, but having taken all they wanted or all they could, they will be on to the next source of narcissistic supply and energy. The effect for you, is the same.

It is one thing to give impersonally, or to give when there is reciprocity, but when we give of ourselves personally, we make ourselves very vulnerable to those who only think of themselves. Have courage and integrity, and demand that others you keep around you do the same. Stay safe out there, and live life as art.

Thoughts On A Christmas Tree

Imagine a Christmas tree. Not just any Christmas tree, but a fir tree rising several stories high, towering over the luxe shopping village of Beverly Hills, 'The Grove'. It seems impossible that it would be real as one rushes to the concrete rim of multilevel parking site to gaze out at it.

"No, it can't be real." one decides. "It is fake." But it was not.

We had gone out for an afternoon's jaunt, milking the last drops from Christmas vacation, the last sugary, peppermint sparkly drops from what has been a wonderful season, carefully planned and honored. We were not disappointed. Santa's sleigh flew overhead, his reindeer pawing at the air, exhilarating and precarious.

We approached the tree, still convinced it was an artificial illusion. Standing at the base, it seemed to rise into an apex one could not deduce. It seemed to go on forever, with ornaments as big as a man's head. People tentatively touched the needles. Then an old woman spoke.

"The tree is real. And it is all one tree."

Amazed, we ran around to look at a sign the management had erected. It was a 100 foot tall White Fir tree harvested from the forests of Northern California. It was 86 years old. After this time, such trees either succumb to disease or fall because of their great weight. It was harvested to this glorious end, strung with thousands of ornaments and even more thousands of densely wrapped lights. What a wonderful glorious end for its long and anonymous life.

This tree was even larger than the one at New York's Lincoln Center, a natural marvel, and a marvel of frozen time. "Eighty Six years..." I thought, looking into the dense web of branches to its improbably strong core. What was happening when this great tree was a sapling?

It was another world, unrecognizable from the fast-paced knowledge based information linked world of today. It was a smaller world, and a world so unfathomably large that peoples and cultures never mingled. When this tree was a sapling, there was no aviation, no sports cars... heck, there were barely cars. As I stood in the heart of Hollywood, I thought of the time again.

When this tree was a sapling it would have been 1921. There weren't even talkies then. It was the days of Rudolf Valentino, Theda Bara, nouveau Vamps and throwbacks to Edwardian angels. And here we were, standing in wonder at the base of this gigantic tree. How many people had lived, loved, bred and died within the span of its life's journey that brought it to this moment? The world has changed, shifted, morphed. I felt so much time, so much life, so much silence of this great plant wash over me. It gave me chills.

After the holidays, the tree will give yet more gifts to man, mulch and firewood. Fourteen new white fir trees will be planted in its place. Surely not all of them will survive, but if one lives as long and strong as this one, what kind of world will it find in 2093?