Back in 1990, I was desperate for a job. On one hand, I was indeed rich – married, with a three-year-old son waiting for me at home – but on the other hand, well, let’s just say I needed a job. The stress associated with the place I was working was making me miserable and driving me crazy. Or at least crazier than I already was. Unfortunately, instead of having pursued a career that promised a lucrative income, bank robber, let’s say, border coyote, drug smuggler, career politician, I had pursued two professions that paid little – aviation and journalism. In ...