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It’s important to appreciate the world as it is—and maybe leave the abstract interpretations for another day

No, it’s not.

I’ve always believed that a civilization is like a human being, with stages of infancy, childhood, adolescence, youth, maturity, old age, and death—a cycle like that.

MacArthur, though I’m not particularly fond of him, said something more precise than the hundreds of thousands of words in The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Japan is a 12-year-old civilization.

Chinese civilization, on the other hand, is a very ancient, elderly one.

The Xia and Shang dynasties were China’s infancy.

I feel ashamed, but I must admit that in those times, China practiced large-scale human sacrifice.

For example, in the city of “Shenmu” (around 2300 BCE), archaeology has confirmed that 27 young girls were killed as a sacrifice to some unknown god, just to pray for the city’s strength and stability.

Of course, I don’t want to admit that my ancestors were so cruel and inhumane.

But there’s no way around it.

Later archaeological discoveries have confirmed even more, and even crueler, facts.

I don’t really want to go into it—you can imagine.

But it’s all true.

Since it’s true, I can only acknowledge it.

However, based on this understanding, compared to Beijing, Moscow is still a young man.

Beijing knows it will grow old and die, while Moscow (and Washington) does not.

That’s the biggest difference between our civilizations.

I mocked him for being ugly and that he pays for everything, i didn’t know he’d get revenge

https://youtu.be/r_ht-y1WGC0

Definitely how respectful people are to each other. The most amazing thing is when you visit a communal bath , for economic and historical reasons, for many years, in Japan, people of modest means could not afford private baths in their homes and had to go to a communal bath. I still think it is the most amazing aspect of Japanese culture.

You go in and pay. You are given a locker key and usually a small towel and soap. You go into a changing room where you undress, put your clothes in the locker, the key is on your wrist. Then you go naked into the next room. You can use the small towel to cover your genitals, but it is too small to wrap yourself in. In this room there are low rows of walls with faucets, hand showers and low stools. You can squat or sit on one of these stools, but then you have to rinse them off with the hand shower and after soaping them up, you rinse them off again. All this while at the same time many other women are around you and right next to you. Many go with friends or just chat with the person next door. Some bathrooms have hot and cold pools where you can go for a soak once you are washed. Then you go back to rinse yourself off again, finally you go into the changing room to get dressed.

Men have separate structures, of course.

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake recipe comes from Rozanek’s Bakery, St. Louis, Missouri. This bakery has been in business for over 60 years.

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake

Ingredients

  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 3 tablespoons granulated sugar
  • 1/3 cup butter
  • 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
  • 3/4 cup butter
  • 1/4 cup light corn syrup
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 2/3 cup evaporated milk
  • Confectioners’ sugar

Instructions

Cake

  1. In a mixing bowl, combine 1 cup flour and 3 tablespoons sugar.
  2. Cut in 1/3 cup butter until mixture resembles fine crumbs and starts to cling.
  3. Use a flat bottom measuring cup to pat into the bottom of a 9 inch square baking pan.

Filling

  1. In the mixing bowl, beat the 1 1/4 cups sugar and 3/4 cup butter or butter until combined.
  2. Beat in the corn syrup and egg until just combined.
  3. Add the 1 cup flour and evaporated milk alternately to the mixing bowl, beating until just combined (batter will appear slightly curdled).
  4. Pour into the crust-lined baking pan.
  5. Bake at 350 degrees F for about 35 minutes or until cake is nearly firm when you shake it. It should jiggle slightly in the center
  6. Let cool in pan on wire rack.
  7. Remove to serving plate.
  8. Sprinkle with confectioners’ sugar.

In 1956, while preparing breakfast, American physicist and electrical engineer John Bardeen heard on the radio the news that he had received the Nobel Prize in Physics, together with Walter Brattain and William Shockley, “for research on semiconductors and the discovery of the transistor effect”.

Surprised, he dropped the eggs he was cooking for his family on the floor!

The Stockholm ceremony was a disaster: Bardeen showed up in an embarrassing shirt and vest

stained green due to a mistake in washing the clothes, and the King of Sweden, Gustav VI, was not pleased that the physicist had left his family late for such an important occasion, gently reprimanding him for not bringing his three children with him (Bardeen did not want to disturb the studies of his two sons, who were busy with university exams at Harvard, and so he took only his third and youngest son with him to Stockholm).

“I will bring them when I win the next Nobel,” Bardeen replied, reassuring the king.

And it wasn’t a joke.

He kept his promise, winning again in 1972, this time with John Schrieffer and Leon Cooper, “for their theory of superconductivity.”

On this occasion, as he had promised, he brought his three children to the gala ceremony!

La Fin…

Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Write a story about someone confronting their worst nightmare. view prompt

Ken Cartisano

Apprentice Technician Broog Titus scanned the layout of the control room, then took a seat at his assigned station. The only other seat in the room was occupied.The apprentice glanced at his counterpart’s uniform, noting his insignia, and extended an appendage in greeting. “The name’s Broog, Broog Titus.”They bumped appendages. “Jeegan Throll. Nice to meet you, Broog.”They were two mid-level techs, it would seem, in a remote corner of a utilitarian universe, with one hell of a view. They both leaned back in their seats and gazed at a spectral section of the multiverse for a few moments, taking it all in. The new recruit sighed, expelling noxious gases. Though they could see several layers of mutli-verse, (that’s why they were recruited), their job pertained to one very small part of the grand cosmic splendor spread out before them.They both took another minute to look out the window, rather than at their various monitors and control panels, until Broog cleared his throat and grunted. “They throw you into eighteen days of bootcamp, twelve weeks of VR scenarios, a slew of serious simulacrums and, and—in no way does it compare to the real thing.”“I should hope not,” Jeegan replied. “We’re literally sitting in a dark-matter blind, on a galactic rim, with a ringside view of twelve or 16 universes, depending on your perspective.”Broog, clearly the younger man, already looked bored. “But we’re only supposed to monitor this one right here, correct?”Jeegan smiled. “Of course.” He’d been a QMP, for just over two years now, but this kid made him feel more like a fossil than a seasoned veteran. He sat up a little straighter and said, “We’re focused on a very small portion of space, sure, but events can sometimes affect immense areas of the continuum.”Broog looked dubious, which prompted surprise from Jeegan, “You doubt me? I discovered a wormhole once, that was eating itself, then burping its guts out, over and over; a wormhole between two universes. What a mess. I came across a system a few months back that contained perverted gravity. I had to take three months of mandatory therapy. Although, in truth, I didn’t really need it. What do I care what gravity does when nobody’s looking. Three weeks later, in the same cluster, another event superseded time in the tenth dimension.”Broog could only wonder if Jeegan’s claims were true, or if he was pulling his lower appendage. These were terms he didn’t remember hearing in his training. How does creation ‘supersede time’? And why would it matter? Space was mostly empty, it’s just that—there was so much of it. His instructor once intoned, ‘Even an infinite amount of nothing can get unwieldy at times.’He’d been told that this tour was a short but boring assignment given to all new recruits, a terminally dull form of hazing. Could he have been misinformed?When he mentally arrived at that last question, he glanced up to find Jeegan studying him with something more than idle interest.****

 

 

This is funny because, in the arm of a spiral galaxy, in universe 72151-BAH, an entire planetary population of humans began to suspect that they were losing their minds. Small objects seemed to be disappearing, books; keys; pens; pocket knives. Insignificant things. By the time the phenomenon began to include paperweights and bowling balls, people like me began to suspect something more sinister was afoot.

 

And then larger objects started to disappear: Lamps; tires; bicycles and garden gnomes. (So it wasn’t all bad.) Half the people swore it was a hoax, until tables disappeared from beneath their plates. Chairs vanished while people were sitting in them. The phenomenon was widespread and growing exponentially.

 

 

 

****

 

 

A mere three hours into his new assignment, Broog pointed at Jeegan’s monitor. “What is that doing there?”

 

Jeegan squinted, as if his eyes needed adjustment. “What? Oh. Hmm. I don’t know.” He tapped a few keys on his control panel, then sat back, looking perplexed.

 

Broog demanded an explanation from the more experienced technician.

 

“It’s an OIS. An Oscillating Interspatial Spline,” came the reply.

 

“Yeah? Is that bad?” Broog had never heard of such a thing.

 

“Well, it’s very rare, and it’s worse than it sounds. Splines should never oscillate. Under any…”

 

“Why not?” Broog interjected.

 

“It’s—to put it simply: a spline is the crest of a quantum wave, when the wave oscillates, it takes up more space, much more space. Instead of reticulating reality, the quantum world competes with it.”

 

“Competes with what?”

 

“With reality.”

 

“The quantum layer competes with reality?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“So what?”

 

“So—then,” Jeegan squinted at his monitor, “so then you have uncertainty on a massive scale.”

 

“There’s so much empty space…” This was the snag that Broog had caught his britches on. A hurdle he didn’t even know he had to clear. “Who cares and why does it matter?”

 

Jeegan suppressed a wave of exasperation before replying “It’s unpleasant for the life-forms within that space. Extremely unpleasant.”

 

After initial hesitation, Broog said, “And—why does that matter?”

 

Jeegan would love to explain, but he was already treading on thin ice with this trainee. Jeegan knew things that he shouldn’t know, and Broog was staring at him, wide-eyed, waiting for an answer.

 

“Most matter, Broog, is organic. Like us. You know? Thinking? Feeling?”

 

“No.” Broog shook his head. “Organic, yes. Thinking? Feeling? I hardly think…”

 

“Broog. Even some rocks are found to be sentient. You know that.”

 

“Yeah, they think, but they don’t feel anything. It’s hard to work up much empathy for a rock.”

 

“You mean empathy ‘with’ a rock, don’t you?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The point I’m trying to make, Broog, is that most organic matter, no matter what universe you find it in, it knows what’s happening to it, and quantum oscillation is something it doesn’t understand, and nothing you or I ever want to experience. You don’t even want to imagine it.”

 

“Why not?” Broog asked. “And how would you know?”

 

Jeegan fixed his attention on his control panel.

 

There was a prolonged silence until Broog said, “You’ve been body surfing.” After an even longer silence he added, “That’s illegal, you know.”

 

“Are you going to report me? Because if you are, then I’ll say no more. You’ll never hear another word about it.”

 

Broog thought, ‘Finally, someone interesting.’ He leaned toward Jeegan and whispered, “You’ve actually body surfed? For real?”

 

Jeegan nodded. “It’s not that hard to do. In fact, it happens by accident quite often. That’s why it isn’t illegal.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Broog countered, “I was taught that it was illegal, and it causes spatial anomalies.”

 

“Under certain circumstances, yes, that’s true.” Jeegan admitted. “It has its risks, I know—but I’ve been excruciatingly careful in my research and I’m certain, Broog, that I didn’t cause this.”

 

“Okay,” was Broog’s terse reply, “then we look for this planets twin.”

 

Somewhere else in the cosmos.

 

 

***

 

 

Meanwhile, at this end of this universe, automobiles began to disappear. At first, they blinked out of existence, leaving the occupants behind, tumbling down the roadway at fifty miles an hour. Injuries were horrific. Then buses disappeared, but their passengers went with them. Commercial airline flights were suspended until further notice, but private planes continued to fly, and vanish.

 

At some point, various small objects began to return from oblivion. And then the first occupied vehicle returned, with a dead driver. Surely there would have been rioting in the streets if people weren’t petrified of being outside. Even though a few fact-minded miscreants pointed out that the chances of vanishing indoors was the same as if you were outdoors. The pervasively ignorant retorted that, ‘at least if you were indoors, a plane couldn’t fall on your head, or a bus appear in your living room.’ Both claims were soon proved incorrect, but people stayed indoors anyway. I know I did. Then, a few drivers, and buses full of passengers returned with most of the people unharmed. The first few became overnight celebrities.

 

Meanwhile, the press was having a field day skewering the scientific community. Popular and respected science advisors were roundly booed off-stage or out of the studio when they admitted they had no clue what was going on. In truth, this state-of-affairs fell under the purview of the physicists, those mysterious manipulators of quantum mechanics. They held a press conference and issued a preliminary statement. Their first statement? ‘We will not take any questions at this time, but we…’

 

After the riot was quelled and the fires put out, they continued. “…but, we’re assembling a team of the world’s finest physicists—and it is a dead-on certainty, that they will get to the bottom of this chaos in short order.’ That’s all they had to say.

 

The next day, France disappeared. Now, again, I must caution you, this may at first seem funny, but I assure you, it was not considered funny by people who were there at the time.

 

 

****

 

 

Within a few days, Broog had located the aberrant twin, a planet fluctuating between the fields of two magnetars. A soft, mucky, world, loaded with enormous worms. It may have sounded unpleasant, but it was perfect for the worms. They were quite happy.

 

Broog fell back in his seat, disgusted, “How do you explain this, Jeeg?”

 

Jeegan feigned despondence. It should be obvious to anyone that a world of worms was not the source of spatial oscillations. Certainly not happy worms.

 

There could be no further doubt, in Broog’s mind, that the oscillation had to be from ‘Jeeg’s’ little experiment, foray, or whatever it was. Jeegan caused the spatial anomalies, inadvertent or not. He had already admitted as much. So his explanations sounded very much like a confession to Broog.

 

When Jeegan finished, the first words uttered by Broog were, “So it is from body surfing then, isn’t it?” When he got no answer he said, “Why? Why would you do that?”

 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Jeegan said, ignoring the look of disgust on Broog’s face. “You get a much better understanding of the creatures in your sector, their fears, concerns, struggles—their triumphs.”

 

“But that’s none of our business Jeegan, and way, way above our pay-grades. I think you’ve got a very fuzzy understanding of what our job is, I’m sorry to say.”

 

Jeegan ignored the insult and said, in a deadpan tone of voice, “What would you say if I told you that there’s a planet down there, with thousands of species, on one world, and every species on it has only two sexes. That, is a fact.”

 

It dealt a smothering blow to Broog’s self-rightous indignation. “You’re kidding. A bisexual planet? How cosmically weird. I’d say it sounds boring. How the hell do they survive?”

 

“That’s what I’d like to know. They’re very creative, tool-builders, like us, but burdened with serious flaws.”

 

“Tool-builders? Flaws? What kind of flaws?”

 

“Taboos, superstitions, a kind of ‘built-in hair trigger’ that gets a lot of them killed.”

 

Broog was out of his seat, pacing around the cramped room, wracked with indecision. He stopped, put two of his extremities on his hips, and looked out the panoramic window. Finally he said, “Well, the oscillating can’t be helping much, can it? Why don’t we try fixing that, for starters. See what happens next.”

 

Jeegan nodded. “Good decision, Broog. I’ll start the process.”

 

Unfortunately, due to Broog’s reluctance, Jeegan had already called for assistance. Within minutes his immediate supervisor would arrive. The notorious Colonel Caldera.

 

 

***

 

 

The entire planet, people everywhere went into shock when France disappeared. It left an opaque gray fog, impenetrable by any optical device. You could put a camera on a stick, put it in the fog, let it take some pictures, pull it out of the fog and you’d have either a.) a camera with no pictures; b.) an inside out camera, with pictures, of itself; c.) a highly annoyed pigmy rattler, with no camera or pictures; or d.) All of the above.

 

Knowing that, or not knowing that, some people put their hands or arms into the fog, and moments later, pulled out a stump, or a chicken wing, or worse yet, a camera or a foot. Dutch and German doctors were on call around the clock. Within hours, a group of daredevil hikers decided to simply walk into the fog, those few that managed to find their way back out, appeared to be deranged, the cause of their derangement, unknown. In a matter of days, the fog that used to be France became a kind of Mecca, to the chronically truculent. In the span of five days, a lot of angry people went into that fog, and never came out.

 

In the same five days, the people of the world came to realize they were living in a lenient, but organized police state. Very ‘Nazi-esq’, lots of guns and soldiers, shortages of everything else: wine, cheese, tasty recipes, three-somes, certain words were ‘verboten’, like ‘sabotage’ and ‘resistawnce’.

 

I didn’t have time to figure out if there was a Hitler, or if there had ever been a Hitler, because the current universe, the one I lived in, seemed to be stabilizing. But I soon found out that I was the only one who was aware of the changes in history.

 

Someone had led Germany to victory in WWII without France’s presence, and now controlled the entire world. Hard to understand how France, which fell under German occupation so quickly in one world, aided Germany’s cause by not existing in another.

 

Things stopped jumping in and out of existence. It was possible to drink a cup of coffee without the cup disappearing, then the coffee, and then the chair you were sitting in. Compared to that kind of existence, a police state didn’t seem so bad. It seemed just as obvious to the physicists, that their world was shifting through a series of realities, like a ball on a roulette wheel, it just happened to stop on this one.

 

Einstein was right, God doesn’t play with dice, he plays roulette. (With tiny, sub-atomic balls.)

 

 

***

 

 

Broog hesitated. “It should be noted that I was not involved with any of your previous shenanigans.”

 

“Understood,” Jeegan replied.

 

“But I think the boss would want us to rectify this error as soon as possible.”

 

“I agree.”

 

The process cannot be sufficiently described to three-dimensional beings. Let’s just say it was like two people, with three left hands, working underwater, to thread a needle, tie the thread, sew the buttons on a shirt that was really a dress that kept matching colors with the snake that was wearing it. But they did it. As Broog’s instructor was fond of telling his class of recruits. ‘You don’t need to teach a fish to swim, you just need to put him in some water, the right water, and he’ll do the rest. You,’ he would then say, ‘are the fish.’

 

When Colonel Caldera arrived in his usual explosive fashion, his demeanor was stoic, almost icy, a pleasant deviation from his normal interactions. It was rare for him to present himself to new recruits, due to his nature, and his ability to read minds. He said to Jeegan, “If you flag me down here one more time, I’ll erupt on your front porch.”

 

“Yes sir, I’ll try to re…”

 

The Colonel cut him off and turned to Broog. “Nice job suturing that tear, Intern.”

 

“Yes sir. Is that what I did? I wasn’t su…”

 

The Colonel ignored Broog’s response and addressed Jeegan again. “Does he know this is his entrance exam?”

 

“He? No sir. We never, well, I guess he does now.”

 

“Good, the Colonel fumed. Keep up the good work.” Then he departed in a shower of sparks and flaming what-not.

 

“Jesus, he’s hot, isn’t he?” Broog commented, and continued before Jeeg could respond. “So this was a test? You’re just a proctor?”

 

Jeegan nodded. “I’m just a proctor.”

 

“So I’m in? I made it?”

 

“You made it. You’re in. There’s no ceremony or anything, but you’ll be well paid. Any questions?”

 

“Body surfing. Is that a real thing, or did you just make that up?”

 

 

***

 

 

It was a day of great relief, and jubilation, when France and all her people reappeared, fully intact, hardly aware of their own brush with oblivion. The entire world celebrated. When their ambassador, a man who spoke seven languages, fluently, finally met with the press, they peppered him with questions. “What did you see?”

 

“Mm, no much. No-sing relly. Just, um fug.”

 

“Fog? Were you distraught at the disappearance of the rest of the world?”

 

“Ah, non. Eet were, was, a very theeck fug. Most people, um, stay home, some continue work—um…”

 

One reporter jokingly asked: “Did you even notice the rest of the world was missing?” Which prompted a round of laughter.

 

In truth, the French government decided to call it a meso-coronal storm, issued a curfew to its citizens, grounded all land and air traffic; and when the quantum fluctuations tapered off and stopped, a thick fog seemed harmless by comparison, and one that they felt would lift in due time. So, to be honest, the French people barely noticed the absence of the rest of the world, and many still didn’t know about the whole affair, but the ambassador didn’t want to spoil the newfound international esprit de’ corps.

 

He looked with grave concern into the camera, knowing the rest of the world was watching. “We do not worry. We know, that the world could not leave… Leave? Live. The world could not live without us, and would demand our instant return. And so, here we are, grateful to the world, for their appreciation. Viva la France.”

 

****

 

How do I know all of these things? Our ‘Universe Identification Number’ for instance? Beats me. Hell, I certainly didn’t want to know, and everyone I confided in treated me like I was nuts. So… I can pretend, to be as ignorant as everyone else.

You are quite behind time, maybe in the last decade of the last century. Even then it had to strongarm Japan to surrender its leadership of semiconductors in mid-1980s, and imposed on it the Plaza Accord to correct its trade deficit.

Today, the US is not in the position of superiority.

US has still the largest economy in nominal terms. But in terms of PPP, it fell behind China since a decade ago. Economists generally make international comparisons using the PPP-GDP, although US economists may avoid doing so.

In technology, US and China are equal. US’s strengths are in the legacy technologies from which it collects huge sums of royalties, license fees, and so on. It has spent the last decade imposing sanctions after sanctions to try to frustrate China’s technology growth.

China has largely overcome them and is self-reliant on US tech. It is the biggest player in legacy chips on both the supply and demand side, with about 35% of global capacity and 60% of global market. Huawei has broken through to high-end chips of 7nm and 5nm, and working towards 3nm chips. In AI chips, it is in direct competition with Nvidia, the gap is about one generation. DeepSeek has used algorithm efficiency and innovations to compromise the significance of computation power.

China is far ahead in green tech, indeed the entire field of green economy. How advance it is in new tech may be gauged from the frequent announcements of innovations, new products, new discoveries, and new inventions.

China is also far ahead in the engineering and production of new tech products that extend through the supply-chain. This is unassailable, notwithstanding Biden’s attempt with Chips Act and Inflation Reduction Act.

US may still lead in certain machinery technology, such as Applied Materials and Lam Research. Otherwise the bulk of the manufacture of machinery lies in China.

In warfare, US and China are equal. Each is not able to defeat the other in their respective geographies. US and China both have weapons to reach each other’s mainland. In a nuclear scenario, it will be MAD. US may have more nukes, but China’s could be more powerful. It has enough confident of its power of reprisals to denounce the use of first strike, which the US had not done.

China has the industrial and construction capacities to withstand any long-drawn conflict and to recover quickly never mind how much the destructions.

I’ve found that the best way to understand and predict people’s actions is to know their key motivations.

Money does motivate most people, but the question then becomes “Do normal people and STEM professors share the same motivations?”, and my answer is a resounding “No!”. It is almost a tautology to say this, but professors are the most intellectually inclined people among our educated workforce, so why should we assume that they care about and want the same things in life as your average Joe?

Also, the second sentence in the question makes an incorrect assertion. In fact, getting an academic tenure-track job at a research university is harder than getting a research position in industry.

I think I have an interesting perspective on this topic, because during my PhD, I was close to 3 professors and learned a lot about life and research from them, and I have been working in corporate R&D as a research engineer since the past 2 years, where I work with other PhDs, collaborate with professors from universities etc, and I plan on making to jump to academia in the next 3–5 years.

I currently work as a laser designer in industry, and yes, it pays very well compared to academia. You also have more resources, better tools, and better support for research in industry than in academia. Industry is also very collaborative, and I don’t think it is a coincidence that the best STEM professors I knew all had a 5–10 year stint in industry before they joined academia. Industry is an eye-opening experience after academia (PhD, post-doc), and you learn how the primary concerns are so different in the two realms. For example, in academia, you care about making the newest/best/most novel laser, but industry also cares about making it last for 10,000 hours. Some people in industry know an entire field of laser reliability physics that academia is relatively clueless about.

That was all the good stuff, so why then, do I want to join academia about 5 years out? Because some things matter more than money and the other abovementioned perks.

Academia gives you freedom—to pick your own questions, work at your timelines (funding agencies are far more relaxed than industry on schedules), and to be far more selective with your projects and collaborations. Furthermore, for me, just being in a university environment is stimulating and invigorating. No amount of money can buy this feeling. Being able to teach and pass on one’s knowledge and to be able guide the smartest students of the next generation also becomes a compelling draw as one gets older and has more experience in cutting-edge research.

Another big draw, for me, to academia is the ease of being able to publish. It is really hard to be able to publish our research work (research is frightfully expensive, so we don’t want to give away hard-learned secrets), and I have to prove that it is fundamental science and has no IP concerns etc. But I kind of found a workaround to this by focusing on patents in my work in corporate, and on papers in my collaborations with the company’s fundamental research division. But the point is, academia is great for people like me who love writing and publishing our research. Industry starts to feel stifling in this regard after a while.

Also, professors may make less money than researchers in industry, but professors are also free to do contracting and consulting gigs if they so desire, so the real income is often a different story. In industry, on the other hand, your brain belongs to your employer. You cannot have any consulting or contracting work in any field that is even close to your job role. And this makes complete sense for the company, and they are open about it, so I don’t mind.

In my opinion, it’s best for the individual to get experience in both worlds before deciding on one. They both have very different lessons to teach you about both your field and about life, and you’ll be better off for having seen both worlds.

Springfield Cashew Chicken

Springfield, Missouri is the Cashew Chicken Capitol of the World. Chef David Leong moved to the U.S. from China in 1940 and created this recipe.

Springfield Cashew Chicken

Chef Leong’s famous deep-fried cashew chicken recipe was so popular that he opened Leong’s Tea House in Springfield. Leong’s Tea House closed its doors in 1997, but his cashew chicken is still being served at over 70 Chinese restaurants in the Springfield area, and elsewhere in Missouri and other states.

Ingredients

  • 1 cup milk
  • 2 tablespoons water
  • 2 eggs, well beaten
  • Salt
  • 2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite size pieces
  • 2 tablespoons cornstarch
  • 1 cup chicken broth
  • 2 tablespoons oyster sauce
  • 2 tablespoons soy sauce
  • 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
  • Pepper to taste
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • Peanut oil for frying
  • 1 cup cashew nuts
  • 1/2 cup chopped green onions
  • Soy sauce
  • Hot fried rice

Instructions

  1. Mix milk, water, eggs and salt; marinate chicken in this mixture for at least 20 minutes.
  2. In a saucepan, dissolve cornstarch in a small amount of broth; add remaining broth gradually to make a paste.
  3. Whisk together oyster sauce, soy sauce, sugar and pepper. Add more chicken broth if needed so it will have the consistency of gravy. Whisk over medium-high heat until sauce boils and begins to thicken. Set aside.
  4. Roll chicken in the flour. Fry in oil in a heavy pan until crisp and golden. Drop chicken in one piece at a time to prevent sticking together. Drain on paper towels.
  5. Arrange chicken on a serving platter.
  6. Reheat sauce, adding chicken broth if needed to thin it down, and pour over chicken.
  7. Serve with rice. Sprinkle with cashews and chopped green onions and serve immediately.

Here are a few of my favourites:

Hungkar begendi. Lamb on a eggplant and cheese purée. It comes from Turkyie and it means the Sultan’s favourite.

Another from Turkyie. I love Turkish cuisine and the Turks love eggplant. Introducing Imam Bayeldi, meaning “ it choked the imam “, as in he liked it so much he stuffed his face with it.

Stuffed eggplant with tomatoes, onion, olive oil. Can be served with crumbled Turkish feta like cheese or yoghurt on the side.

Salata de vinete. From Romania. Smoked eggplant purée with onion, lemon and oil. Amazing on bread.

Zacuska. Romania again. An eggplant and pepper preserve. Sweet and tangy.

Baba ganoush. Lebanese eggplant purée with tahini, garlic, lemon and yoghurt. Addictive. Pomegranate can be added.

Chinese eggplant with minced pork and garlic sauce.

Melitzanokeftedes. Greek eggplant meatballs. Preferably dipped in tzatziki.

Eggplant is one of my favourite vegetables.

Why are TikTok users in the US flocking to the Chinese app RedNote?

I asked the Zen master, “What do you think of Chinese women who marry foreigners?”

The Zen master smiled slightly and pointed to a flying bird in the sky and said, “Look at it and you will understand.”

I looked up for a long time and said thoughtfully, “Does the Zen master mean: to love someone you have to be free to fly without being bound?”

The Zen master closed his eyes and said, “I mean: it’s none of my business! None of your business!”

It’s a little funnier in Chinese, because of the puns.

Sir Whiskerton and Artist Agnes’s Abstract Animals: A Tale of Paint, Confusion, and a Very Abstract Pig

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of artistic absurdity, colorful chaos, and one particularly perplexed cat who just wants to know why he’s been painted as a teapot. Today’s story is one of creativity, confusion, and the occasional existential crisis, all wrapped up in a whirlwind of abstract art and animal antics. So, grab your sense of humor and a beret (for artistic flair), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and Artist Agnes’s Abstract Animals: A Tale of Paint, Confusion, and a Very Abstract Pig.


The Arrival of Agnes

It all began on a sunny morning when a peculiar van rattled down the dirt road leading to the farm. The van was painted in a kaleidoscope of colors, with splashes of paint covering every surface. Out stepped Agnes, an eccentric artist with a beret tilted at a jaunty angle and a paintbrush tucked behind her ear.

“Greetings, farm animals!” she declared, spreading her arms wide. “I am Agnes, the artiste extraordinaire, and I have come to capture your essence on canvas!”

The animals, who had been going about their usual routines, stopped to listen. “Capture our essence?” Doris the Hen asked, tilting her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Agnes said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “that I will paint your portraits in a way that reflects your inner beauty, your soul, your… abstract truth!”

Sir Whiskerton, who had been enjoying a particularly luxurious nap in a sunbeam, opened one eye. “This is either going to be brilliant or a complete disaster,” he muttered. “And I’m leaning heavily toward disaster.”


The Abstract Art Begins

True to her word, Agnes set up her easel and began painting. Her first subject was Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, who was more than happy to pose. “Just stand there and be yourself,” Agnes said, dipping her brush into a pot of neon green paint.

As Agnes painted, the animals gathered around to watch. At first, they were intrigued. But as the painting took shape, their confusion grew. “Is that… me?” Bessie asked, squinting at the canvas.

The painting was a swirl of colors and shapes, with no recognizable features. “Of course it’s you!” Agnes said, stepping back to admire her work. “I’ve captured your essence—your inner hippie, your tie-dye soul!”

Bessie tilted her head. “I look like a melted popsicle.”


The Animals React

Next, Agnes painted Porkchop the Pig. The result was a series of geometric shapes that vaguely resembled a pig, if you squinted and tilted your head. “I look like a… a… a Picasso pig!” Porkchop said, his voice tinged with both confusion and pride.

Then came Ferdinand the Duck, whose portrait was a splash of blue and yellow with a single, exaggerated feather in the center. “I look like a banana wearing a tutu,” Ferdinand said, flapping his wings in dismay.

But the real shock came when Agnes painted Sir Whiskerton. The portrait was a teapot with a monocle and a tail. “What in the name of order is this?” Sir Whiskerton asked, his tail twitching in annoyance.

“It’s you!” Agnes said, beaming. “I’ve captured your essence—your sophistication, your mystery, your… teapot-ness.”

Sir Whiskerton sighed, adjusting his monocle. “I am not a teapot.”


The Turmoil Escalates

As the day wore on, the animals grew increasingly frustrated with their abstract portraits. “I look like a squiggle!” Doris the Hen squawked, flapping her wings. “A squiggle!”

“I look like a… a… a blob with ears!” Rufus the Dog said, wagging his tail in confusion.

Even the yodeling fish, who had been painted as a series of wavy lines, seemed offended. “YODEL-AY-HEE-HOO!” they sang, their voices tinged with indignation.

The final straw came when Agnes painted Edgar the Crow. The portrait was a black smudge with a single, glowing eye. “I look like a… a… a burnt pancake!” Edgar squawked, his beady eyes narrowing in anger. “This is an outrage!”


The Feline Intervention

Determined to restore order, Sir Whiskerton called an emergency meeting. “Clearly, Agnes’s abstract interpretations are… less than accurate,” he said, shooting a pointed look at the teapot portrait. “But fear not! I have a plan.”

With the help of Chef Remy LeRaccoon and the Divine Llama, Sir Whiskerton devised a solution: they would convince Agnes to try painting the animals in a more realistic style. The only problem? Agnes was firmly committed to her abstract vision.

“Realism is so… limiting,” Agnes said, waving her paintbrush dismissively. “I want to capture the soul of the animal, not just its physical form.”

Sir Whiskerton sighed, flicking his tail. “Sometimes, the soul is best captured through accuracy.”


The Turning Point

The turning point came when Agnes attempted to paint the Divine Llama. As she worked, the Llama stood perfectly still, his serene presence filling the barnyard. But when Agnes stepped back to admire her work, she gasped.

The painting was a chaotic mess of colors and shapes, with no resemblance to the Llama whatsoever. “This… this isn’t right,” Agnes said, her voice trembling. “I’ve failed to capture his essence.”

The Divine Llama stepped forward, his calm demeanor soothing the tension. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice resonating with wisdom, “the essence of a being is best understood through observation, not abstraction.”

Agnes paused, her paintbrush hovering in mid-air. “Observation?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Yes,” Sir Whiskerton said, stepping forward. “Sometimes, the beauty of a subject lies in its reality. Try painting what you see, not what you imagine.”


The Moral of the Story

As Agnes began to paint the animals in a more realistic style, the farm returned to its peaceful routine. The animals, now pleased with their portraits, gathered around to admire Agnes’s new work.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: While creativity and imagination are important, there is also beauty in reality. Whether you’re an artist, a detective, or just a cat trying to avoid being painted as a teapot, it’s important to appreciate the world as it is—and maybe leave the abstract interpretations for another day.


A Happy Ending

With her newfound appreciation for realism, Agnes continued to paint, capturing the animals in all their natural glory. The farm was calm, the animals were happy, and Sir Whiskerton… well, Sir Whiskerton finally got a portrait that actually looked like him.

As for Agnes, she packed up her van, her beret tilted at a jaunty angle and her paintbrush tucked behind her ear. “Thank you, farm animals,” she said, her eyes sparkling with gratitude. “You’ve taught me the true meaning of beauty.”

And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new portraits, and hopefully, no more teapots. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, creativity, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

A fella that I know from a gun club. Very nice guy.

He had several blue collar jobs over time. A security guard for a big company. Teaching driver’s education.

His father had come to this country and started a small grocery store. It’s a business he knew from the homeland, but that was taken from him by the government. Dad was always very conservative, and learned that over time buying the land and buildings would help his family in the future. These assets are decades old and now in great neighborhoods.

My shooting buddy always drover a used car. Generally a pickup truck. He never bought new. And I learned over time he had two kids including a special needs daughter. Turns out my daughter was working at a facility that might be able to help, but was difficult to get into. So she pulled a few strings.

Shortly thereafter my friend dropped off some tickets to a very expensive event. He knew my son was really interested and somehow obtained them.

I learned later that he helped Dad grow the business and still owned all the real estate, measured in the mid 8 figures. The only time I really saw an evidence of wealth was his complete willingness to pay for very expensive treatments for his daughter, and an occasional rare or expensive firearm.

To this day I think I’m the only one he’s shared this with. Most folks think he’s a happy go lucky guy. Everything he has and does is for the family.

Savannah Hoover

In the suffocating stillness of the night, beneath a sky so dark it seemed to swallow the stars, Ethan awoke with a jolt. Cold sweat dripped down his face, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drum. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale sharp and strained, as if the very air had become a prison. The room around him was pitch-black, yet somehow, it felt alive—the darkness felt thick, oppressive, almost as if it had a mind of its own. The air reeked of something metallic, damp, and choking, like blood left too long to fester.The nightmare still clung to him like a suffocating shroud, but Ethan knew, deep in his bones, that it hadn’t been just a dream. No, something was wrong. Something was here. It was waiting. The feeling crept in, a slow, crawling dread that made every nerve in his body scream in terror. The silence around him was wrong—unnatural—and even the shadows seemed to move, shifting just out of sight, twisting with a subtle malevolence.He dragged himself from the bed, his limbs feeling impossibly heavy, as though the weight of the darkness itself had wrapped around him, holding him down. His mind screamed for him to run, to get out, but his body wouldn’t obey. With every step, the floorboards beneath his feet groaned in a twisted symphony, but these sounds were wrong. They echoed from some distant place, hollow and forlorn, as if the house itself were empty, abandoned, a mere imitation of what it once was.And then, from the depths of the shadows, came a whisper.“Ethan…”The voice, impossibly familiar, slithered into his ears like an oily serpent, each syllable curling around his mind, squeezing tighter and tighter. But it wasn’t his voice. Not anymore. It was deeper, rasping, dripping with a kind of malignant hunger that twisted his stomach. The words hung in the air, lingering like a heavy fog, impossible to ignore.Ethan froze, his breath caught in his throat. The whisper was so close now, as if something was breathing right behind him. His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to move, stumbling toward the hallway, the weight of his dread pulling at his every step. The house stretched out before him like a labyrinth, unfamiliar and wrong, each hallway darker than the last.Then, his eyes caught it.The basement door—ajar.A sickly green light flickered beneath it, casting unnatural, jagged shadows that seemed to reach for him, to tug at his very soul. The light… it wasn’t right. It pulsed, flickering like the heartbeat of something ancient, something alive. The shadows moved with purpose, creeping and twisting in ways that defied nature, like long fingers curling in anticipation.Ethan’s legs moved without his consent, dragging him toward the door as if something invisible had latched onto him, pulling him toward his doom. His fingers shook violently as they grasped the cold, rusted doorknob. It sent a jolt of ice straight to his core, numbing his hand, before he twisted it open.The basement greeted him with a thick, suffocating air that tasted like decay. The smell was overwhelming—musty, damp, and rancid, clinging to his lungs as he descended the stairs. He felt the weight of the shadows pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating, as though the darkness itself was a living, breathing thing. His eyes scanned the room, barely able to make out the vague, ominous shapes that lined the space—old furniture draped in dusty tarps, boxes filled with forgotten memories.But it wasn’t the furniture that caught his attention. No, it was the shadows. The way they moved on their own, undulating like serpents, swaying and writhing in the dim, flickering light.And then, in the farthest corner of the room, he saw it.The figure.It was tall—unnaturally tall, its limbs elongated and twisted, contorting in ways no human body should be able to. Its face was hidden in the deepest shadows, but Ethan could feel its eyes. Cold, hollow pits of darkness that seemed to reach out and grasp him, sinking into his very soul. The temperature in the room plummeted, the air turning ice-cold as the figure exhaled—a sound like the scraping of metal against stone.“Ethan…”The voice was no longer his own. It was a guttural mockery of it—twisted, wrong, and dripping with venom. “You killed them.”The words hit him like a physical blow, a sledgehammer to his chest. The memories came rushing back with brutal force—the crash, the blood, the screams—the accident. His parents, gone in an instant. His world shattered in a moment of recklessness, forever scarred by his guilt.But now… now the figure was here. It had come for him.The thing moved toward him, its limbs snapping and twisting at impossible angles, like a marionette controlled by a twisted hand. Each step was a grotesque distortion, and with every movement, the shadows seemed to swell, pulling closer, curling around Ethan’s ankles, gripping him like iron chains.“You are the reason they’re gone,” the figure hissed, its voice layered with a hundred different versions of his own, all accusing, condemning. “You killed them. You’re the monster.”Ethan’s heart raced, his chest tightening, every breath a struggle as the figure came closer, its presence suffocating him. The walls of the basement seemed to close in, pressing in on him from all sides, distorting and shifting like a maze that was alive, alive with malice.In his panic, Ethan turned to run, but the basement had become a nightmare, a labyrinth that twisted and stretched with each desperate step. The door had vanished, replaced by endless, oppressive dark. The shadows surged around him, crawling up his legs, dragging him down. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, black void that pressed against him from all sides.The figure was there—always there. A chorus of voices now—his voices—screaming at him, accusing him, tearing at him from every angle.

“You killed them.”

“You deserve this.”

“You will never escape.”

Each voice was a dagger in his mind, each whisper a shard of glass cutting into his soul. And no matter how fast he ran, no matter how much he screamed, the darkness would not release him. It was everywhere. It had always been there.

Ethan knew, in that final moment, as the darkness closed in—he had never truly been alone. The nightmare wasn’t something that could be escaped. It was inside him. It had always been inside him.

And now, it would never let him go.

Trump is backing off on the tariffs already, a few days after they began.

For all the fashionable animosity piled onto Wall Street — sometimes for good reasons — I think the stock market is probably your friend here. Trump doesn’t want to roil the market too much. Wall Street hedge funds and ordinary investors absolutely hate these tariffs. Most industries hate these tariffs. Few politicians, even Republicans, defend them. The Wall Street Journal, that socialist rag, called them “dumb.” (Strangely, the United Auto Workers, a union, seems to like them, but the auto corporations who make the real calls aren’t interested in tariffs.)

Trump is obsessed with optics and the value of stocks, so I think that’s probably the biggest reason why he’s backing off so soon. He’ll call it a “pause” while he spins a way to get out of admitting how dumb these tariffs are.

He’ll dangle these things out there for further brinksmanship, but Ebenezer Scrooge McDuck Trump ultimately cares a lot about Wall Street. In the words of Alan Dillman, “Canadian Man of the Rocky Mountains,” Ebenezer “will ebb before he’ll nezer.”

Tides go back and forth, though. Hang tight. Don’t wander too far out from shore.

Energy wars, tariff wars w/ Alex at Reporterfy (Live)

No

He won’t go to war with China

The US couldn’t win comprehensively against Afghanistan, Iraq or Russia

You think they have a chance against China, especially in their back yard?

Every US Base in South China Sea will be taken out in the first 72 hours

They have 3,000 Dedicated missiles for that including 160 Hypersonics

That takes care of any and all Aerial offense

Can’t bomb if you can’t take off from a proper air base

And how will they move troops?

Those ships would be a sitting duck given the long distances

Not a chance

He likely just got boozed or doped up as usual and is talking nonsense

I lived in Alexandria Virginia on 9/11 . My horrid CEO on the west coast sent out a terse all-hands email that “bad things happened “ but we needed to buckle down and close those deals.

Quite a few people resigned right away. He tried to backtrack and put up a gigantic American flag that resulted in complaints from airline pilots at SFO it was blocking their view of the runway. This didn’t go well.

So he tried extra hard and said he would personally match all donations to the Red Cross and the company would also match donations.

A few weeks later, we learned he hadn’t given the money to the Red Cross but sat on it because “the Red Cross had plenty of money”.

That’s when I quit, along with dozens of co workers.

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