Voxcali

Victor (00:00)

Today the topic I want to cover is the importance of community on your fitness journey. Because after reflecting on things that I've learned in my various physical pursuits such as jujitsu running and powerlifting, I found that the common thread in my success in all of them is the community and the friends that I had made.

Victor (00:38)

Making yourself better and while that is true, while you technically do have the most control over yourself and your actions, that ignores a very fundamental part of human existence, which is your relationships to other people.

Victor (01:16)

Victor (01:34)

Picture this scenario you have one friend that is constantly inviting you to eat out or try out the trendiest new restaurant that's selling something insane like orange chicken fries versus another friend that is crazy and likes to spend their time running half marathons and lifting weights and they're always trying to peer pressure you into doing things like Hyruxes. Which friend do you think is going

to lead you to be a healthier version of yourself.

Victor (02:16)

People are going to help you achieve your goals. I know a lot of content in the self-help space will talk about your own agency and how you have to be more disciplined or whatever and control your own decisions and that you can't control other people. And while that may be true to a certain degree, that you have to have discipline.

I think surrounding yourself with the right kinds of people where you don't have to constantly exercise that discipline is going to make achieving your goals all that much easier.

Victor (03:18)

They oftentimes do it without any community. They just announce to the world that they're going to say lose 10 to 15 pounds, but they don't have any real systems to help them achieve these goals. And a big cornerstone of a good system when it comes to achieving any goal is the community that you surround yourself with.

Victor (03:59)

Stories online say the same thing. Somebody is attempting to change their life for the better, say losing the 10 to 15 pounds, and then all of a sudden their family starts making judgmental comments. People start turning their backs on them. Comments like, you're Mr. Healthy now, so you can't go out drinking with us. I forgot, you're doing a thing now, so

I can't invite you to this family dinner, blah blah blah blah.

Victor (04:52)

people in your life who are supposed to support you like your family then how can you accomplish this? It would be much easier if you surround yourself with supportive people.

Victor (05:23)

Victor (05:37)

Victor (05:58)

in this journey of getting more jacked.

Victor (06:27)

Victor (06:55)

people

are going to peer pressure you into drinking and doing drugs, but honestly, throughout my young adult and adult life, I have had more peer pressure to do powerlifting meets, compete in jujitsu competitions, and run marathons more so than doing drugs. And I mean that's largely because of the people I decide to hang around.

Victor (07:40)

Victor (08:01)

Victor (08:28)

Victor (08:50)

I will if having friends to push me through a 13 mile run is conceded cheating, then I am the biggest cheater ever. I don't need everything to be fueled by spite or whatever.

Victor (09:27)

Victor (09:49)

Victor (10:19)

When I think of 24 hour fitness and I compare it to say a specialized powerlifting gym like say Mission Fitness in San Gabriel or SoCal Powerlifting or Convoy Strength or Validus Weightlifting in San Diego or California Elite Training Center, there is absolutely no comparison.

Victor (11:05)

You will have people that are going to be more dedicated, and chances are they are going to be supportive when you ask them a question about lifting. Because, like I mentioned earlier, if you hang around strong people, you will get stronger. And if you look at a 24-hour fitness, that is what I would call the definition of people that exercise rather than train. Because if you go to any 24-hour fitness, a good

Good number of those members are going to be stuck plateauing at the same weight, at the same physique, day in and day out. You'll see them coming in for years looking the exact same.

Victor (12:08)

and hang around people that are more serious and more focused.

Victor (12:43)

Victor (13:04)

Victor (13:25)

Victor (13:38)

After a freak injury cut their first meeting short, champion Joshua Van and challenger Alexandre Pantoja return to clear the air in a high-stakes Los Angeles main event.

UFC returns to Los Angeles on September 19th for the first time since 2018, headlined by a flyweight title rematch that never really got answered the first time.

In December 2025, at UFC 323, champion Joshua Van, who carried a record of 17-2 into the fight, caught an early kick from titleholder Alexandre Pantoja and dumped him to the mat – but Pantoja dislocated his elbow bracing the fall, ending the fight just 26 seconds in. Van was awarded the belt, but with an asterisk neither man wanted attached to it.  Since then, Van defended the title with a fifth-round TKO of Tatsuro Taira, running his win streak to seven.  Pantoja, meanwhile, skipped surgery and rehabbed aggressively, and his camp insists he’s returning as a sharper, more dangerous version of the fighter who once ran off five straight title defenses.

Van’s path to victory leans on his kickboxing and finishing instincts – he’s shown he can hurt people standing and close the show late.  Pantoja’s path runs through his wrestling and grappling control; the 36-year-old wants to drag Van into deep water and grind him out over five rounds, territory Van hasn’t been tested in against a killer like this.  Books opened this one essentially as a coin flip, with Van a very slight favorite around -120 and Pantoja a live underdog near even money, reflecting genuine uncertainty about who’s actually better.

The featherweight bout beneath it pairs South Korea’s Dooho Choi against Brazilian legend Patricio Pitbull, the most decorated fighter in Bellator history.  Choi has won three straight, including a Fight of the Night knockout of Daniel Santos in May, and his hands remain some of the fastest in the division.  Pitbull, who is 1-2 in the UFC after signing in 2025, is coming off a decision loss to Aaron Pico and needs a statement win to stay relevant in the 145-pound picture.  Choi’s route to victory is early aggression and power; Pitbull will look to use pressure, volume and veteran craft to drag Choi into deep rounds, where age and experience could tilt things his way.

Both fights carry real stakes and genuine uncertainty – exactly what makes UFC 331 worth circling.

Not even a bed in a major hospital is a safe place for a presidential special aide seeking clues to the First Lady's abduction and Jack Tang's murder.

Somehow he had made it to a hospital, Garrison thought.

Didn’t even have to open his eyes to know that.  A whiff of antiseptic cleaner and the IV on his left forearm were dead giveaways, even in his floating state.  He felt the tightness of bandaging around his right calf.  Some doc must have dug out the slug.  Garrison opened his eyes.  Damn, it was bright!  The antiseptic brightness of the room did little to tone down the sunlight streaming in through the thin curtain.  The clock told him it was a little before eight in the morning.  Seven hours since his body had cut out on him.  The lettering at the bottom of the sign on the wall told him he was in the care of Stanford Medical Center.  The boss’s alma mater.

Thought of the President brought back a swarm of concerns.  His shoulderbag!  It wasn’t in the room.  Now the whole world probably knew that the President’s special aide had been snooping around the Tang place, swiping evidence from a crime scene.  Then a shootout.  Shit.  He could see the headlines.  Taylor Aide Raids Tang House.  White House Coverup Suspected.  The boss would have a shitfit.  As much as he was frantic to jump out of bed and look for his shoulderbag, a wave of dizziness forced Garrison to fall back on the pillow and close his eyes.

“Maybe good morning would be a little optimistic?”  A woman’s voice, one exuding the authority of a doc.  She was blond, mid-thirties, glasses.  “How you feeling, Chester?”

“Like hell, Doc”

“You should see the other guy.”

“The other guy?”

“The gentleman you were playing cops and robbers with.”  The doc gave him a wink.  Damn, she was nice to look at.  Pretty blue peepers behind those glasses.  “He stopped some bullets, one in a way that cut out his chances of fathering more kids.”

Ouch.  It had to be Nellie.  Despite his hard feelings toward the guy, Garrison cringed with male sympathy at the thought.  Ouch, ouch, ouch!  Then a scary thought crossed his mind.  “Uh, Doc—”

“Not to worry,” the doctor reassured.  “The man is in no condition to hurt anyone just yet.”

“Where is he, Doc?” Garrison fought to push through the anesthetics flooding his brain and felt himself breaking out in cold sweat.

“About five doors down.  Now relax, Chester.  He can’t hurt anyone.”  The doctor tried to ease Garrison back down on the bed.

“How many security guards are out there?”

“There’s a couple downstairs.  But like I said, Chester, the man’s not even conscious.”

“Who knows about us being here?”

“You mean in addition to the staff?  Let me think.  I’d imagine quite a few people, by now.  There were a couple of reporters downstairs a few minutes after you were brought in—.”

“When was that?”

“Well, the ambulance got you here around one-thirty, and the reporters—”

“Oh, shit, Doc!  Hand me the phone!”

“Chester, stay calm, please—”

Garrison wasn’t in the habit of shouting at pretty women doctors, but he heard himself shouting now.  “Get me the phone!”

The doctor edged back nervously and handed him the phone.  A severe case of post-traumatic stress syndrome, said her fearful eyes.  A shellshocked nutcase.

“How do you get the operator?”

“Dial zero.”

“Yes, Mr Garrison?” said the operator’s cheery voice.

“Miss, this is an emergency,” Garrison said, wishing like hell his voice didn’t sound so damned faint and far away.  And dreamy.  “Please call the police right away and ask them to rush over as many squad cars as they’ve got.  Tell them it’s urgent, a matter of life and death!”

“But, Mr Garrison, we have security guards on premises.  I can send one up to your room if you like—”

“No!  Please, just do as I say.  I am a special agent of the FBI.  I’m asking you, please—!”

“Sir, we know what happened, it just came on the morning news.  But we have excellent security—”

“Please, call the police!”  Garrison could see he wasn’t getting anywhere and slammed down the phone.  “Where’s my gun?” he demanded of the very frightened blond doctor.

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving him.  “I didn’t see one.  Maybe the police took it at the scene.”

Garrison jerked up to a sitting position and yanked off the taped needle of the IV that had been replenishing his blood supply.  Forcing down dizziness, he lowered his feet onto the floor.  Just then, from what seemed like a great distance, he heard the screams of nurses and the panicked shouts of an orderly.  That was followed by two gunshots in quick succession, followed by more screams and the sound of running feet on linoleum tile.  It had to have been coming from somewhere on the floor, though it sounded like it was from another world.  The alarmed face of the blond doctor confirmed the conclusion that Garrison’s brain was drawing.  Damn that anesthetic!  As Garrison tried to stand, a stabbing pain in his right leg virtually paralyzed his whole body.  He was completely helpless, dead white meat!   He had never felt such despair.  Whoever had wanted him dead hadn’t wanted Nellie available for questioning, and they sure as hell weren’t going to give up on him now. 

The running footsteps came to a stop just outside the door.  Drawing on god only knew what reserves, Garrison shoved the bed toward the door, blocking it.  The knob turned and the door slammed against the bed, stopped after opening only a couple inches.  The doctor screamed.  A black gloved hand reached in through the opening.  Garrison gave the bed another shove.  The hand stiffened in pain and an angry yell came from its owner.  Garrison was pushing as hard as he could, but whoever was on the other side was strong.  The door opened enough for the unwelcome guest to shove in his head and shoulders.  He pulled his right arm through and raised a Browning 45-caliber at Garrison.  The big barrel was pointed right at him.  He had never realized just how big around the barrel of a 45 was.  There was a shot, but not from the Browning.  Then another shot.  Again not from the Browning.  In fact, the Browning dropped from the black gloved hand and clattered to the floor.  A second later, the gunman slumped to the floor. 

Garrison pulled the bed away from the door and the doctor rushed over to check the stiff.  The door swung open wide and Garrison found himself looking at a skinny Asian woman whose breathing sounded like a steam engine.  Sweat beaded her forehead, wetting the bangs of her her short black hair, and her upper lip.  For a moment she just stood there panting, her eyes scrutinizing Garrison to make sure he wasn’t leaking from bullet holes.  In her right hand was a SIG-Sauer P220, just like his.  As she stood there panting, swiping at the sweat with the back of her hand, Garrison thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.  One who shared his taste in sidearms!  Her face said mid-thirties, but hell, with Asian women, that could mean she had a dozen grandkids.  Then Garrison began recognizing the shrewd eyes, the hawk nose, the full lips.

“FBI,” the woman said, jamming her SIG back into the black leather holster under her black jacket.  The 9 mm pistol looked like a fucking cannon against her birdlike frame.  Garrison couldn’t help noticing the missing little finger on her left hand.  “Special Agent Kate—”

“I know who you are, ma’am,” Garrison said.  “Thanks, Ms Sakurai.”  The 110-pound Kate Sakurai was a Fibbie legend—the bureau’s toughest agent pound-for-pound and SAC of the San Francisco office.  A few years out of Quantico, she had gone under deep cover as part of a joint FBI-Secret Service task force to infiltrate a Yakuza counterfeiting ring based out of L.A.’s Little Tokyo.  Rather than risk blowing her cover, Sakurai let the gang boss cut off her little finger.  She spent three years cataloguing the identities of dozens of the Yakuza’s top US bosses.  A few hours before the bust was scheduled to go down, the Yakuza caught on and trapped Sakurai in a downtown fish warehouse for execution.  For two hours Sakurai and her SIG-Sauer held the Yakuza to a Mexican standoff.  When reinforcements finally showed, they found six Yakuza, three of them dead, and a half-dead Sakurai bleeding from a shoulder wound and conserving her last round.   

“Know about you, too, Garrison,” Sakurai said.  “You’re the President’s coverup artist.”  Her smile vanished so quickly without leaving a trace that Garrison wasn’t sure if she had really smiled.  She didn’t smile much, he could tell that.

Garrison sat on the bed.  “Who’s saying that?”

“Who isn’t?” Sakurai said, heaving a last deep breath.  “I was on my way to the Tang place when I heard about it on my car radio.  Looks like the vultures don’t take weekends any more than we do.”  Then, kindly, “You look a little peaked, Garrison.  Better lie down and sip a few more pints of hemoglobin.  Sounds like you had quite a party last night.”

Having confirmed that both the third hitman and Nellie were in fact dead, the doc sent them on their way to wherever they kept stiffs, and directed her efforts at getting Garrison to lie back down and enjoy his IV. 

“I had a black shoulder bag with me last night, ma’am” Garrison told Sakurai.  “It has some, uh, things that could be of help.”

“We’ll find it,” Sakurai said.  “Attempted murder on a federal agent puts the ball in our court.  You take it easy now.  There won’t be any more uninvited guests today, I promise.  We’ll talk again later.”

Sakurai hurried out of the room and Garrison let his head sink all the way into the pillow.  How the fuck did those goons know he’d be at the Tang place last night?  What was he going to tell the boss?  Was Deanne getting it on with some new stud?  Garrison needed to get up and make some calls, but the good doctor had strapped him down. 

“I asked them to hold all calls to your room,” she said.  He was no longer a nut case, said her pretty blue eyes, just a very sick man in need of bedrest.

“Still can’t get through,” said Belinda Bosch, slamming down the phone and trying to lean back in the President’s big black swivel chair.  But she was too short and light to get it to tilt and looked odd sitting bolt upright with her hands folded on her lap.  It being Saturday, she was wearing faded denim jeans and a thin white angora sweater that revealed some serious assets.  “She’s under strict doctor’s orders not to put anyone through.”   

“Why didn’t you tell her it’s the White House?” said staff chief Brock Reiner.  He was sitting on a red-striped armchair in front of the fireplace, across the coffee table from a matching sofa where the President was lying down.  His eyes were closed, which meant he was either deep in thought or had dozed off.  Reiner had taken off his hornrims and was wiping them for the third time that morning with the pocket of his checked flannel shirt—a dead giveaway that he was racking his brain for good ideas.

“Sure,” sneered Bosch.  “My dear, the President would like to speak with his aide who was shot while tampering with evidence at the Tang murder scene.  Say you’re joking, Brock, just for my own peace of mind.”

“Peace of what, Blondie?” said Reiner, peering skeptically through his newly cleaned lenses.

“Losing your hearing too?” said Belinda, smirking ferociously at Reiner’s big gleaming forehead while running her hands luxuriantly through her shiny blond hair. 

“Kids, kids,” intoned the President without opening his eyes.  “Can we exercise a little maturity and restraint?”  He was anxious to hurry up and decide on a damage-control strategy and get back upstairs where the Ambassador’s niece was probably brewing up a fresh pot of tea.  Now that he knew Chip Garrison wasn’t going to die, the President would have liked to break his neck.

“I say we just ignore all this crazy speculation about what Garrison might have been doing at the Tang house,” said Reiner.  “I mean, what could there possibly be for you to cover up about the Tang murder?”

“That’s beside the point,” said Bosch.  “If we say there was nothing to cover up, it just begs the question of what Garrison was doing there.  We need to deal with what in the world he was doing out there.”

Reiner cleared his throat and stole a glance at the President who had put a forearm over his eyes.  “Well, Sir?”

“Well what?”

“What was Garrison doing out there?”

“What do I look like, a mind reader?” snapped the President, opening an eye to cut Reiner a disapproving glance.  “Maybe Chip had some bright idea he wanted to check out.  You know how these gung-ho para-military types are, always going off on some wild ass mission in the name of god and country and apple pie.”

Reiner looked skeptical.  “I mean, Sir, didn’t you know he was going out there?”

“Of course not.  I would have stopped him if I knew.”

“It just seems odd he’d go out there on his own.”

“Think about it, Brock,” said the President with exaggerated patience.  “Would we be having a meeting like this unless one of my people went out and did an oddball thing and got caught.”   

“That settles it, then,” said Bosch, slapping the President’s desk with her open hand.  It sounded like a baby’s bottom being spanked.  “We issue a statement that Chester Garrison was acting entirely on his own, without the President’s prior knowledge or approval, for reasons known only to Mr Garrison.”

“Better make that ‘without prior White House knowledge’,” said the President, pulling himself up to a sitting position.  “We don’t want them to think anyone else here had anything to do with it.”

“So we’re just disowning Garrison?” said Reiner.

“Hey, nice suggestion,” said Bosch.  “‘In light of these events, Mr Garrison has been discharged from White House service effective immediately’.”

“I don’t like it,” said Reiner, jumping to his feet and starting to pace back and forth in front of the President.  “Garrison almost got killed out there by a couple of guys with machineguns and we just cut him loose?”

“Good point,” said Bosch.  “‘The President was deeply concerned upon learning of Mr Garrison’s injuries and joins everyone at the White House in wishing him a full and speedy recovery.’”

“Let’s see how it plays over the weekend,” said the President, getting to his feet with a warmly compassionate smile.  “Enjoy what’s left of it, kids, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  He winked and rested a reassuring hand on each of them before heading for the door.  He had spent about as much time as he felt the situation deserved.   

As the Plumberger Industries Learjet made its final approach into Miami International, Senate Majority Leader Nancy Bartlett reflected that only two men had managed to earn her unalloyed contempt, her ex-husband and her most unworthy opponent in the upcoming presidential election.  In that contest, by Bartlett’s cold-eyed reckoning, the President enjoyed two advantages.  First, he was prettier than her the way a 44-year-old peacock blessed with incredible dumb luck throughout life could be prettier than a 57-year-old woman who had had to fight every step of the way out of the dusty little Okie farm near Salinas.  Second, he was technically still safely esconced in a sacrosanct albeit loveless state of matrimony while she had shed her ex, a skirtchaser much like Taylor, fifteen years ago during her first senate term.  Balancing all that was her decisive advantage—she was twice as smart as the man who should be cleaning toilets in a bordello instead of occupying the White House.

Taylor’s most recent stroke of dumb luck had been downright dismaying for Bartlett.  To have the overbred, anorexic First Lady snatched away mere weeks, maybe days, before the woman filed for divorce was almost too much to bear.  A reliable source had reported that Megan Lachapelle Taylor was about to file for divorce, sending Bartlett into frenzied planning for a media blitz to paint Taylor as a playboy who couldn’t be trusted with a marriage, much less the state of the union.  A divorce would have amounted to open season on Taylor’s sex life for the respectable press.  Now Bartlett couldn’t breathe a word about Taylor’s escapades without making herself look like a bitter, unfeeling old witch. 

But the senior Senator from California wasn’t out of aces.  In fact, she would be adding a pair to her hand this very afternoon.  One was Jake Plumburger, the white-haired industrialist in whose personal Learjet Bartlett had made the three-hour flight from D.C.  The other was CIA Director Martin Underwood.  For appearances’ sake Underwood had arrived earlier in another, smaller, Plumburger jet and had already been limoed over to Las Ventanas, the billionaire’s legendary island estate.  Now a second white limo waited on the tarmac, a white-gloved chauffeur at its side, as the stairway was pushed up to the Learjet.  The white-jacketed steward who had been serving lunch and cocktails quickly wrestled open the hatch and bowed at Bartlett to signal the exit was available for the distinguished guest and her aide.

The swift, silent drive to Las Ventanas barely gave Bartlett time to dictate her thoughts on that evening’s speech for the Goldkey Club fundraiser.  Brian Stetson, a tall, curly-haired 37-year old, was Bartlett’s speechwriter as well as personal aide.  Bartlett found it efficient to dictate speech notes on a catch-as-catch-can basis to someone who was already hip to the myriad details that adorned the issues she needed to address.  That meant Bartlett rarely went anywhere without Stetson, fueling much off-color speculation about the nature of the relationship between the dark-haired corporate lawyer and the blond nearly old enough to be his mother.  Bartlett enjoyed the rumors, knowing it didn’t hurt a middle-aged divorcee to be suspected of bedding a handsome, intelligent younger man like Brian Stetson.  Truth was, Stetson was gay, but absolutely nothing in his manners hinted at that fact.  Becoming the nation’s first gay Chief of Staff was a goal Stetson felt was well within his grasp.

“How hard do we flog this North Korean thing?” Stetson asked, scribbling furiously to keep up.  An associate with the downtown Los Angeles megafirm of Gipsum, Nunn & Butcher had no reason to learn shorthand, of course, but since joining Bartlett’s team four years ago, Stetson wished like hell he had.  After all, weren’t lawyers simply highly trained secretaries to their clients?

“Hard enough to break skin.  Taylor’s bedroom may be off limits for now, but we can still hammer away at his weak ass response and how it’s letting down our fighting men.”

“If we push too hard though,” Stetson said, “he may escalate his military response and steal our thunder.”

“To do that he’d need balls,” Bartlett said.  “Where’s he gonna find a pair of those?”

“Lester McDavid.”

“McDavid’s been riding Taylor for three years and all he’s gotten out of him is that B-2 redeployment.  Taylor won’t be stretching any farther to the right.  If I know him, he’ll just sit tight and hope the sympathy boost from the abduction carries him through election day.  We have to take the fight to him every day until November 3rd.  We have to use every opportunity to show him to be a shamefully weak man in a dangerous world, a man not even strong enough to protect his own family.”

“Turn the abduction against him,” Stetson said, letting a smile creep onto his face.  “Make him look ineffectual.  Nice.”

“Mind you, Brian, doucement at first, then we turn up the heat by degrees.  Before he knows it, he’ll be boiled alive.”

“Maybe we can start hinting the abduction was the work of a hostile power, maybe the North Koreans?”

“Good, plant some seeds we can start harvesting if he doesn’t get her back soon.”

“The bastard may have had her abducted himself,” Stetson said.

“Nice thought, except he doesn’t have the balls for something like that.  Probably clicking his heels three times a day though.”

“Leads nicely into our call to strengthen defense,” Stetson murmured to himself, starting to compose the speech.

“Remember, half the heads at tonight’s fundraiser have stakes in defense contractors.”

“How could they not?  Defense is our number one industry.”

“Speaking of which, here’s El Grande Daddy Warbucks himself,” Bartlett murmured, putting on a huge smile.  Plumburger had stepped out to the top of the vast curve of marble steps leading from the circular driveway to the front entrance.  He raised a hand to salute the limo’s occupants, looking deeply tanned in a cream-colored suit and a pink tie a shade lighter than the rose marble columns that stood guard behind him.

“Welcome to Las Ventanas,” Plumburger said in his gravelly, deeply resonant voice.  With a barely perceptible twist of the mouth, he gave Bartlett a quick one-armed embrace and Stetson a hard grip of the hand and a whack on the back.  “Go upstairs and freshen up, Nance.  Martin and I will be out back.”

Bartlett had visited many baronial estates, especially back in her home state of California, but couldn’t help being a bit overwhelmed by Plumburger’s spread.  It was an entire tropical island, barely connected to the rest of Florida by a half mile of private bridge.  It forced her to revise upward her estimation of the profit in shaping exotic alloys into fuselages, valves, servos and other widgets for vessels of mass destruction.  As fabulous as Plumburger’s spread was, it couldn’t have cost more than a hundredth of what a single B-2 set back the American taxpayer.  For that matter, the ninety million Bartlett’s team hoped to spend to unseat Taylor was chump change for Plumburger, a man who enjoyed far better cashflow than the towheaded nerd deified in every business rag.  The United States had an eight trillion dollar economy, of which the government took nearly three trillion.  A fifth of that—or about six hundred billion—went to defense.  That was only slightly less than the gross national product of China or South Korea.  Nearly a third of the US defense budget—over two hundred billion a year—went to buy sexy weapons systems of the type Plumburger’s companies made.  Allies prodded into making their weaponry compatible poured more tens of billions annually into the big-ticket weapons market.  No one profited more handsomely than Jake Plumburger from the world’s collective fears.  Given all the billions that found their way into the personal accounts of defense barons, it was little wonder that so many joined him in making their homes in Florida, a state without state income tax.  Unlike tycoons selling low-margin consumer products, Plumburger neither wanted nor permitted his activities to become the subject of articles in the business press. 

A uniformed maid each was assigned to Bartlett and Stetson who were led to their respective second-floor guest suites.  The Cuban maid ran the bath and showed Bartlett the location of the call button when she was ready for the masseuse.  The all-marble bathroom in Bartlett’s rose-hued suite was so seductive that Bartlett found herself dawdling in the oversized tub though, of course, her visit had a more urgent purpose than enjoying a respite from the demands of campaigning.  It took willpower to pull herself out of the tub, forego the services of the staff masseuse.  A little rouge, mascara and lipstick, just enough for the expensive white cotton dress, and she was ready to go downstairs.  Plumburger and Underwood were lounging on the patio overlooking the misty dark blue waters of the Atlantic.  The dead-on view was broken only by a few tall palms swaying gently in the cooling breeze.  In keeping with protocol, Stetson wouldn’t be joining this meeting of principals.

“Looks like our esteemed President has gotten himself into a sticky mess,” observed Plumberger once Bartlett had been seated and armed with a crisp martini.  

Nancy Bartlett let out a sharp, ringing laugh.  “You mean about the Chinese girl?  He ought to be ashamed of himself!”

“I believe Jake’s referring to one of Taylor’s aides who was snooping around the Tang estate last night,” said Underwood in his ingratiating, slightly nasal voice.  He was short and wiry, with a perpetual smile that kept his eyes crescent slits behind the wirerims.  Despite the heat, he wore a white turtleneck under a tan herringbone jacket with elbow patches and white cords.  He looked like an exceptionally good-humored and youthful college professor which, in fact, he had been before being tapped six years ago to head up the CIA.  For seventeen years he had taught international relations, the last six chairing Georgetown’s poli sci department.  Underwood’s jovial manners and engaging wit had quickly made him a media darling, so different was he from his stolid, secretive predecessor.  From a PR standpoint, it was hard to imagine a better head for an agency that had come to be hated and feared for its clandestine, not to say nefarious, overseas activities.  Only the gray hair gave away Underwood’s 55 years.  

Now, as Underwood noticed Bartlett’s nonplussed expression, both of his eyebrows arched symmetrically in surprise.  “Oh, you hadn’t heard?”

“I never read the Saturday papers,” Bartlett said.  “There’s rarely anything interesting in it.”

Underwood and Plumburger looked at each other and exchanged grins.  “Oh, I think you’d have found this one quite interesting,” said Underwood, barely containing his glee.  “Apparently one of Taylor’s boys flew out to California last night and was snooping around the Tang estate.  Then a couple of fellows with machineguns showed up.  This Garrison fellow killed one of them, wounded the other and got hit in the leg.  He and the injured gunman get taken to the hospital.  A few hours later, a third gunman sneaks into the place and finishes off the injured gunman and goes down the hall gunning for Garrison.  Just before he shoots Garrison, he gets shot by an FBI agent.”

“Mighty peculiar,” breathed Bartlett, trying to digest this bit of news.  “Any theories on what was going on?”

“Absolutely,” chortled Underwood, his eyes narrowed into happy crescents.  “Seems this Garrison fellow had been there to filch various pieces of evidence from the murder scene.  So, naturally, the press thinks he’s part of a White House coverup effort.”

“What was he supposed to be trying to cover up?”  Bartlett was starting to feel hopeful but remained mystified as to precisely how this bit of intelligence might prove useful.

“At this point the press is just speculating that it has something to do with the President’s relationship with Tang who, as you know, was a classified contractor, working on some top secret Pentagon projects.”

“What kind of projects?” asked Bartlett.

“I suppose I could tell you, Nancy,” laughed Underwood, “but then I’d have to kill you.  He was a contractor for what we in the intelligence community call ‘deep black’ projects, mostly DARPA stuff.”

“Martie here is full of fascinating information,” said Plumburger.  He had been so quiet that Bartlett had forgotten he was there.  “Some of it he is free to share with close friends and members of the US Senate.”

“Information useless to almost everyone in the world,” said the CIA director.

“Almost?” Bartlett quipped, doing her part to get the conversational ball rolling in a profitable direction.  “Might I be the exception?”

“Oh, you lawyers are all alike!” Underwood chided.  “Nothing slips past those steel-trap minds.”

“What you just shared with me, Martie, Nance here may find very interesting,” Plumberger prompted.  “Especially about the Chinaman.”

“Jack Tang and the First Lady were lovers at one time,” Underwood said.  “You knew that of course.”

“I had heard rumors they had been, many years ago.”

“What people don’t know,” Underwood said, “is that Tang was also a friend of Peyton Lachapelle, the First Lady’s papa.”

“Interesting,” Bartlett murmured, her mind starting to resonate with the possibilities.

“They were collaborating on a project that apparently brought together bigshots from China, South Korea, Taiwan, Russia and we believe, North Korea.”

“Some big business deal?”

“Probably, but with a definite political component.  What I can tell you is that because of his Pentagon contracts, Tang was barred, contractually and legally, from engaging in overseas business.  He couldn’t even travel overseas.”

“So he may have been engaged in illegal activities?” said Bartlett and held her breath with anticipation.

“A case could be made.”

“And the President knew about this?”

“No,” said Underwood.  “In fact, we have reason to think he didn’t know about it until just three days ago.”

Bartlett’s deep disappointment flashed across her face.  “Oh?”

Underwood laughed out loud.  It was a good-natured laugh, without malice.  “Hear me out, Senator.  What makes this interesting is that, even after he reviewed NSA intelligence about Tang’s suspicious overseas contacts, the President sent the First Lady to Tang’s AATA fundraiser.”  Grinning broadly, Underwood raised a quizzical eyebrow and sat back to enjoy Bartlett’s reaction.

It took her some seconds to grasp the implications.  A tiny smile snuck onto her face, then quickly grew into one as broad as Underwood’s.  Out of politeness, Plumburger twisted up the right side of his mouth in a ghost of a half smile.  With each passing second, Bartlett grew more radiant until she positively glowed.  She raised her martini glass in a wordless toast which was returned in silence. 

“One might say,” said Bartlett, relishing the words, “that if the President had canceled the AATA fundraiser, as he should have after learning of Tang’s questionable activities, the First Lady would have been safe and sound at the White House.” 

“You could say that,” Underwood agreed happily.

“You could say the White House was trying to cover up evidence that might implicate Tang in those illegal dealings.”

“That’s going out on a limb,” said Underwood, “but one probably strong enough to hold you up for as long as you’d need to stay on it.”

“I can’t help wondering,” said Bartlett, “who sent those gunmen.”

“The world may never know,” said Underwood. 

“Perhaps the same people involved in those shady dealings with Tang had him killed, then sent the hitmen to cover up.”

“That’s possible,” said Underwood.  “But pursuing that bit of speculation wouldn’t gain us anything.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Bartlett happily.  She was elated, almost seeing before her eyes her next life as President of the United States.

“Martie is full of interesting information,” Plumburger repeated.  As a  dealmaker the tycoon inspired awe, as a conversationalist, yawns.  Sometimes the man seemed positively catatonic.

“Absolutely useless to almost everyone,” said Underwood, his eyes narrowing into laughing crescents.

“Almost,” Bartlett agreed, chortling now with a girlishness that surprised her companions.

“Have you thought of anyone for Defense?” Plumburger asked.  The graceful transition wasn’t a skill he had ever needed to acquire.

“A face is taking shape in my mind as we speak,” said Bartlett, smiling across the table at Underwood.  In fact, the Defense slot had come up in discussions with two other major contributors—but she’d cross that bridge when she got there.

“Martie could help you there,” Plumburger said.

“He could at that,” agreed Bartlett. 

From stand-up comedy and The Daily Show to his upcoming Netflix film Best of the Best, Hasan Minhaj continues to blend sharp cultural commentary with personal storytelling.

Hasan Minhaj is a comedian, writer, actor, and producer known for his sharp observational comedy that blends politics, culture, and the modern South Asian American experience.  He routinely tackles subjects like immigration, racism, identity, and current affairs.

His latest project is the upcoming comedy film Best of the Best, set for release on September 18th, which centers on the intense world of collegiate Bollywood dance competitions.  Minhaj co-wrote, produced, and stars in the Netflix movie alongside Maitreyi Ramakrishnan.

Minhaj’s standout career spans comedy tours like 2025’s Hasan Hates Ronny | Ronny Hates Hasan, a co-headlining debate-style tour with fellow The Daily Show alum Ronny Chieng, who also served as a correspondent alongside him.  It was there that Minhaj earned widespread recognition from 2014 to 2018, later returning as a guest host in 2023.

He gained critical acclaim hosting the 2017 White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, where he delivered memorable political satire while addressing the notable absence of President Trump, who skipped the event – the first sitting president to do so since 1981.

The Indian American’s solo stand-up specials include 2017’s Homecoming King, 2022’s The King’s Jester, and 2024’s Off With His Head.  Additionally, Minhaj co-created and hosted his political comedy show Patriot Act with Hasan Minhaj from 2018 to 2020.

The 40-year-old comedian hails from Davis, California.  He attended UC-Davis, graduating in 2007 with a bachelor of arts degree in Political Science.

Now stepping up as a writer, producer, and star in a major feature film, Best of the Best marks an exciting next step in Hasan Minhaj’s evolving career as a multi-talented entertainer and narrative storyteller.

The LA Card Show turned Dodgers Stadium into a collector's dream with hundreds of vendors, thousand-dollar cards, and interactive experiences that made the thrill of the hunt much more exciting.

If you’re into sports cards, rare collectibles or just the thrill of opening a blind box, the LA Card Show was the place to be this past weekend.

I got to experience the event being held at Dodger Stadium, and there was so much to explore. The stadium was filled with different vendors and booths selling everything from modern and vintage trading cards to signed memorabilia, collectible figures, pokemon cards, and fashion pieces.

If you were searching for a specific card, you were bound to find it at the LA Card Show. Every table offered completely different selections and some vendors even had cards worth thousands of dollars, while others had affordable options for newer collectors.

There were also giveaways every hour, interactive experiences, photo ops, and overall it was the perfect opportunity to meet other people who share the same passion for collecting. The event being hosted at Dodger Stadium made the entire experience feel even more special, especially for those who keep up with baseball.

What I loved most was seeing how large and diverse the collecting community has become. It’s no longer just for lifelong collectors. There were families, children, sports fans and people who were attending their first card show, like myself.

The LA Card Show really proved to me that there is much more to collecting than just the value of the cards. The memories attached to the cards and the excitement of never knowing what’s at the next booth is what makes the collecting experience so special.

Donald dreams of putting his name up everywhere and dares the world to stop him.

Mama never clapped at my school play,

Looked right through me, then she looked away.

Sister said, "That boy's not very bright,"

Well, look who's laughing on opening night!

I learned young what the winners know:

If love won't come, put on a show.

So I shook some hands and I twisted some arms,

Turned on the threats when I ran out of charm...

I want my name in lights! Ten stories tall!

Bolted to the marble of the grandest hall!

Every single morning I'll look up and see

Proof in giant letters that the world loves me!

Oh, the truth fades out, but the sign burns bright,

Nobody asks questions of a name in lights!

Told a little lie, then I told it twice,

Found that every principle has got a price.

Promised them the moon, delivered them a bill,

Some said no, and I've got their numbers still.

A favor here, a lawsuit there,

A whisper saying, "Friend, beware..."

They called it a scheme, I called it a dream,

And nothing's ever quite as dirty as it seems...

When your name's in lights! Ten stories tall!

Who remembers how you climbed once you've topped them all?

Every single morning I'll look up and see

Something finally gazing down adoringly at me!

Oh, the truth fades out, but the sign burns bright,

Nobody asks questions of a name in lights!

Mama, can you see it from wherever you are?

Your disappointing boy became a great big star.

Sis, you said I'd never amount to a thing,

Now tourists take my picture. Hear the cash box ring.

And if the glow can't warm me in the dead of night...

I'll just add more bulbs! I'll just add more light!

My name in lights! A hundred years!

Outlasting all the whispers and the lawyers and the jeers!

They'll forget the lying, they'll forget the fights,

They'll forget the man, but they'll remember the lights!

So raise a glass to hunger that no love could ever fill,

The plaque says I was wonderful, and plaques say what you will!

Oh, the truth fades out, but the sign burns bright...

Mama, look up.

MY NAME IN LIGHTS!

Shilpa Iyengar and Harmony Richards transformed overcrowded closets into Alterre, a sustainable footwear brand that lets shoppers create multiple looks with one interchangeable pair of shoes.

What if you could have an interchangeable shoe that could swap your whole look in seconds? 

In 2015 Shilpa Iyengar and Harmony Richards officially launched Alterre, a footwear brand that can help shoppers create more looks with less shoes. 

Iyengar grew up near West Palm Beach, Florida, in a family of entrepreneurs. She studied at Parsons’ The New School for Design in New York City and earned a BFA in fashion design, focusing on footwear specifically. Here, she met her best friend and business partner Harmony Richards who had an interest in trend research and sustainable design, perfectly complimenting Iyengar’s knowledge of womenswear and shoe construction. 

The two friends spent a lot of time traveling throughout the city and found that filling their small New York apartments with a single pair of shoes for every outfit was completely excessive, so they developed a modular design that would fix this problem. Iyengar and Richards created a small patented stud built into each shoe that allows the customer to switch between different straps, transforming a slide into a slingback or giving the same base a completely new color and style. 

A professor at Parsons encouraged the concept, and after graduation, Iyengar and Richards combined their skills to turn it into a business. After two years of searching for a manufacturer, the two were able to launch Alterre in 2015 and got the opportunity to feature their first collection at New York Fashion Week that same year. 

More recently, Alterre came across a major retail milestone, landing in Macy’s. The department store currently carries a large selection of Alterre’s designs including boots, platforms, and bridal shoes. Since the pandemic, Alterre has moved its headquarters away from New York to South Florida, bringing Iyengar back full circle and Richards stepped away from the company in 2024 to focus on motherhood.

Alterre has stuck to their sustainability mission, encouraging customers to purchase fewer shoes and allowing one pair to work with multiple occasions. Additionally, the brand donates 5% of its profits to Restore NYC, a nonprofit that supports survivors of human trafficking. 

By turning the frustration of crowded closets and overpacked suitcases into a patented fashion system, Shilpa Iyengar and Harmony Richards proved that sometimes the smartest new product is not more of something, but a better way to use what we already have.

An old folk tale from India's Mughal court shows the power of making a point cleverly without ruffling feathers.

Come here, my two sleepy little monkeys. Into bed you go. Yes, both feet under the blanket. And no, being “almost asleep” does not mean you may have another biscuit.

Tonight I’m going to tell you about a very clever man named Birbal, a very powerful emperor named Akbar, and a bowl of khichdi that took an extremely long time to cook.

Now close your eyes if you like. You can still listen with them closed. In fact, mothers strongly recommend it.

Long, long ago, Emperor Akbar ruled over a great kingdom in India. He lived in a magnificent palace with beautiful gardens, fountains, soldiers, musicians, ministers—and, fortunately for him, one especially clever adviser.

His name was Birbal.

Birbal was wise, funny, and very good at noticing when something did not make sense.

And emperors, my darlings, occasionally say things that do not make sense.

Even very good emperors.

One winter evening, Akbar and Birbal were walking beside a lake near the palace.

It was freezing.

The wind blew across the water—whoooooosh!—and Birbal pulled his shawl tightly around himself.

Akbar looked at the icy lake and said, “Birbal, do you think anyone could stand in that water all night?”

Birbal looked at the lake.

Then he looked at the emperor.

Then he probably wondered why emperors never asked questions like, “Would you like some hot tea?”

But he said, “If a man had a good enough reason, Your Majesty, perhaps he could.”

Akbar was surprised.

“All night?”

“All night.”

“In that water?”

“In that water.”

So Akbar announced a challenge.

Anyone who could stand in the cold lake from sunset until sunrise would receive a handsome reward.

Well, word traveled through the city, and before long a poor man came forward.

He desperately needed money for his family.

“I will do it,” he said.

That evening, with palace guards watching, the man stepped into the lake.

Oooooh!

Cold feet.

Cold knees.

Cold tummy.

Cold everything!

The poor man stood there shivering as the sun disappeared and the night grew darker.

Hour after hour passed.

Whenever he felt he could not bear the cold any longer, he looked into the distance.

Far away, high on the palace walls, a little lamp was burning.

Just one tiny golden light in the darkness.

The man stared at it and thought of his family.

“Just a little longer,” he told himself.

And he stayed in the water.

All.

Night.

Long.

At last the sun rose.

The man climbed out of the lake, trembling and exhausted but very proud.

He had done it!

He went to Akbar's court to collect his reward.

Akbar asked him, “How did you manage to stay in that freezing water all night?”

The man answered honestly.

“There was a lamp burning far away on the palace wall, Your Majesty. I kept looking at its light. It gave me hope.”

Now one of the courtiers spoke up.

“Aha! Then the lamp kept him warm!”

The poor man stared at him.

Warm?

The lamp had been hundreds of steps away!

But somehow the argument began that because the man had looked at the lamp, he had received heat from it.

And Akbar agreed.

“No reward,” he declared.

Ohhhh, now Birbal did not like that one bit.

But Birbal was clever enough to know that sometimes arguing with someone only makes him dig his heels deeper into the ground.

So Birbal said nothing.

The next day, Birbal did not come to court.

Akbar waited.

Still no Birbal.

Finally a messenger arrived.

“Your Majesty, Birbal says he will come as soon as his khichdi is cooked.”

Very well.

Akbar waited some more.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Still no Birbal.

Akbar became impatient.

“What is taking so long? How difficult can it be to cook khichdi?”

Ah, children. Even emperors know that when you're hungry, waiting for khichdi is a serious matter.

So Akbar went to Birbal's house himself.

And there he found Birbal sitting peacefully beneath a tree.

High above Birbal's head hung a cooking pot.

And waaaaay down on the ground beneath it was a tiny little fire.

Akbar stared.

He looked at the fire.

He looked at the pot.

He looked at Birbal.

“Birbal! What are you doing?”

“Cooking khichdi, Your Majesty.”

“Cooking? The pot is far too high above the fire! That tiny flame could never heat it!”

Birbal widened his eyes innocently.

“Really, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, really!”

“But yesterday, a tiny lamp hundreds of steps away was warm enough to heat a man standing in an icy lake.”

Akbar stopped.

Ah.

There are moments when even an emperor realizes that Birbal has caught him with his royal trousers around his royal ankles.

Akbar looked at the pot again.

Then at the tiny fire.

Then at Birbal's little smile.

And suddenly he understood.

The distant lamp could no more have warmed the poor man than Birbal's tiny fire could cook that pot of khichdi.

Akbar laughed.

“You've made your point, Birbal.”

The poor man was called back to the palace.

This time Akbar gave him the reward he had earned—and, in some versions of the story, gave him even more for having been treated unfairly.

And Birbal?

Well, I hope someone finally lowered his pot and cooked the khichdi properly, because after all that waiting, everyone must have been starving.

And that, my little ones, is why this story has been told for generations.

Because being powerful does not mean you are always right.

Being clever does not mean showing everyone how clever you are.

And when somebody has been treated unfairly, sometimes the best way to help is not to shout louder.

Sometimes you simply hang a pot of khichdi very, very, very far above the fire.

Now snuggle down.

Eyes closed.

And tomorrow morning, if either of you tells me you could not possibly get out of bed because the sunlight coming through the window was keeping you warm...

remember something.

Your mother knows the story of Birbal's khichdi too.

Good night, my loves.

Serial entrepreneur and Twitch co-founder Justin Kan continues to shape the tech and gaming ecosystems through strategic venture investments and new developer platforms.

Justin Kan is a serial internet entrepreneur, investor, and co-founder of Twitch, an online live-streaming service known mostly for its gaming content.

In 2007, Kan and partners Emmett Shear, Michael Seibel, and Kyle Vogt founded Justin.tv, an early live-streaming platform that began as a 24-hour webcam broadcast of Kan’s own daily life before opening into a general-purpose site where anyone could stream video to viewers.  As Justin.tv grew, its gaming content became so popular that the founders spun it off into its own brand in 2011 as Twitch, a site dedicated to live streaming video games and esports.  Amazon acquired Twitch for $970 million in 2014.

During this ascent, Kan also launched Socialcam in 2011, a mobile app that let users record and instantly share short videos, functioning as an early precursor to today’s social video platforms.  Autodesk acquired it in 2012 for $60 million.  That same year, he co-founded Exec with his brother Daniel, a service that let users outsource everyday errands and tasks to on-demand workers; it was sold to Handybook in 2014.

Kan then became a partner at Y Combinator in 2014, advising new startups before launching the tech-enabled law firm Atrium in 2017, which raised more than $75 million before closing in 2020.

The 43-year-old Seattle native graduated from Yale University in 2005 as a double major in physics and philosophy.  The same year he entered the startup world as part of Y Combinator’s first funded batch with his calendar app Kiko.

Today, Kan serves as a general partner at Goat Capital, where he backs early-stage founders across enterprise software, consumer technology, and AI.  He also leads Stash, a platform that helps game developers sell directly to players, which grew out of the NFT marketplace Fractal that he launched in December 2021.

Most recently, on August 4th, Kan took part in Convex’s $57 million Series B funding round.  The investment in the developer-tools startup, which builds a cloud database backend for AI-assisted software, was joined by lead investor Insight Partners alongside Etna Labs, Spark Capital, and Andreessen Horowitz.

Attractions to human beings aren't fetishes, but attractions to Asian men distorted by America's heavily negative social overlay are distorted projections born of repression rather than real attractions.

Tom Kagy (00:01)

Today I'd like to discuss a topic that is wrapped in a lot of negative emotions, and that's the subject of fetishes. Typically, this subject comes up in the context of white men fetishizing Asian women. typically labeled yellow fever,

it's important to separate legitimate sexual attraction from what people commonly call a fetish. A fetish, strictly speaking, refers to association of some

Object like furs or sequins or feet with sexual desire. it never applies to attraction toward a a human being. that is simply called an attraction. Now there are different types of attractions, and some may be

negative in that they may be based strictly on stereotypes. For example, if someone is attracted to Asian women strictly because of the stereotype that they're quiet or submissive or some such thing, then that would probably be a negative and it would not be complimentary to the woman. she would probably take it in a very negative way, because it's not a genuine attraction.

It's turning her into a stereotypical object. On the other hand, if a woman happens to embody certain traits that a person finds attractive, possibly petite, possibly higher cheekbones, certain

Cultural or family-oriented values. if an Asian woman happens to embody that and someone finds that attractive, is that really a fetish or is that just legitimate attraction like any other attraction? Now, when it comes to Asian men, we don't really hear talk about fetish, and yet it is a real thing that has been documented.

but the problem is that with Asian men, American society overlays so much negative and hostile baggage, some terrible stereotypes, negative emotions possibly associated with wars, economic competition, so that any kind of attraction toward an Asian man faces

a degree of social resistance not found with attractions toward Asian women. And for this reason, it seems that a lot of attractions for Asian men, what some might call an Asian male fetish,

I understand this doesn't seem as common as the attraction for Asian women, but it definitely exists. I have personally experienced that in my life. So the problem is if the woman doesn't have the strength of mind to resist social pressures, that attraction often becomes repressed.

and becomes distorted. And whatever their fantasy is they project that onto the Asian man. If it's a fantasy of, let's say, some Mongol warrior, taking what he wants, then the woman project that onto.

the Asian male object of her fascination, of her obsession. I've personally been at the receiving end of that kind of distorted fascination. and it's not a positive thing. it's not really a product of the attraction itself,

Tom Kagy (03:51)

Rather than being acknowledged, it's pushed below conscious awareness. The problem is the repressed impulse doesn't disappear. It gets mutated from I desire this man to this man threatens me by seeking to impose his desire on me. The object of the original desire becomes recast as a threat.

This lets a repressed woman express the socially acceptable emotions of fear and vigilance instead of her taboo attraction. The man becomes a feared aggressor, an inverted mirror image of the woman's object of desire.

This mechanism has been studied mostly in the context of white women's professed fear of black men, but is also applied to Asian men, even though more recent Western stereotypes of Asian men have simply sought to desexualize him as a way to insulate white womanhood from potential sexual attraction and threat.

But deeper levels of the Western consciousness harbor images of the predatory Asian man from the pre mass media period. The yellow peril hysteria from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century explicitly casts Chinese and Japanese men as threats to white women's virtue.

triggering a spate of anti misogynation laws, the Page Act, and spawning pulp villains like Fu Man Chu, all promoting the image of Asian man as a sexual menace to white femininity. Of course this sexual predator image also excites female fantasies which come into play, at least subconsciously.

When a white woman happens to fixate on an Asian man. If the woman has a healthy self understanding and command of the cultural landscape, she is able to accept the attraction for what it is. If she doesn't have that mental equipment and struggles with the heavy overlay of social repression, she can only deal with the attraction as a threat.

And she often acts on that perception with hysterical reports of the threat to family, friends, colleagues, neighbors. I've been on the receiving end of this kind of inversion, both in the context of the workplace, which I've alluded to in an article on office politics, and elsewhere. Not reciprocating interest from such women.

led to being targeted for an endless stream of malicious gossip, fabricated from details of my work and personal habits, or entirely from whole cloth. I've also experienced this unpleasant kind of attention in the neighborhood context. In the most extreme case, which occurred a couple of decades ago, I found myself being

Served out of the blue with an application for a restraining order. It took a lot of digging around for me to learn that the woman seeking the restraining order lived across a leg of a golf course. Until then, I hadn't been aware of her existence. I struggled to understand how she could have come to see me as a threat to her safety. I speculated that.

She may have seen me running in the neighborhood each morning as I was training for the LA Marathon, or maybe she looked out her window across the golf course and saw me stretching in my backyard after my runs, or doing some yard chores.

Being a married father of three children, the thought of being the subject of a restraining order was totally unacceptable. And I took the time to file an opposition, despite the fact that in practical terms, the proposed order would have had no impact on me, as I had absolutely no reason to go near her home. At the hearing I saw that the applicant was an elderly woman.

About twenty years older than me, and someone I had never seen before. Yet she claimed that I had come to her house at night, telling her to come out to meet me. She called as witnesses two neighbors who claimed to have seen someone who looked like me on the golf course. On my cross-examination, the applicant was revealed to be a woman whose husband was often away for work.

And that in fact she had never actually met or spoken with me in person. It was clear from her demeanor that she was deeply anxious, incapable of maintaining a calm demeanor, even while sitting in the witness chair. I also got her witnesses to admit they had never actually seen me near the woman's home.

The judge could see that I was in fact the target of the woman's delusion as well as of the hostility of her neighbors, whose testimony was based entirely on her hysterical assertions. He denied her application, of course. That triggered nightly harassment against our home by a click of her neighbors who were also members of the golf club. Among them was a captain of the local sheriff's department.

To stop the harassment by the neighbors aided by a couple of rogue law enforcement personnel, I had to take the time to file two lawsuits against them.

Anyways, getting back to the topic at hand, being attractive is only a good thing when the women have the insight and awareness to be free from repression by social pressures that invert and project their attraction toward Asian men.

Sadly no such assurance exists for Asian men in an America still struggling with its deep ambivalence toward Asian men.