Voxcali

Melancholic jazz samples and warm vinyl textures allowed the Japanese record producer to shape underground hip-hop and pioneer contemporary lo-fi culture.

Nujabes was the professional moniker of Jun Seba, a Japanese record producer, composer, and DJ who shaped underground hip-hop and instrumental beat culture.  His style relies on melancholic jazz and soul samples, understated drum breaks, and warm vinyl textures evoking deep introspection.  Operating outside mainstream media, his catalog became foundational to modern study music, while his soothing aesthetic pioneered contemporary lo-fi sounds that dominate background audio on social media reels.

His musical output spans several landmark projects. Metaphorical Music arrived in 2003 as his debut studio album with defining songs like "Luv(sic) Part 1". The following year, Samurai Champloo Music Record Departure was released containing “Aruarian Dance” and “Battlecry.”  In 2005, Modal Soul emerged as a solo album housing the standout tracks “Reflection Eternal” and “feather.”  Finally, Spiritual State arrived as a 2011 posthumous studio album anchored by “City Lights.”

His international reach expanded when director Shinichirō Watanabe enlisted him to co-score the 2005 anime Samurai Champloo, a project whose broadcast footprint extended to American television blocks like Adult Swim.

Born in Tokyo, Seba grew up immersed in melody because his father played amateur jazz piano, and he later attended the Nihon University College of Art.  He achieved his industry breakthrough by opening tribe, an independent record store in Shibuya, and founding Hydeout Productions. Tragically, Seba died in a Tokyo car accident at age 36 in February 2010.

Nujabes transformed instrumental hip-hop into an emotionally resonant art form bridging classical jazz and electronic production.  By proving beat-driven music carries profound intellectual depth, he laid the conceptual groundwork for independent creators, ensuring his catalog endures as a blueprint for reflective sound.

Entering his fifth season with a 43-12 record, Marcus Freeman has established Notre Dame as a perennial national contender with a defense-first identity.

In his fifth full season Notre Dame Fighting Irish head coach Marcus Freeman has continued to build the program around a defense-first identity, recruiting and player development.  Notre Dame opened the season ranked among the nation’s top teams, with Freeman returning quarterback CJ Carr for the first time during his tenure.

Freeman took over Notre Dame’s program in December 2021 after spending one season as its defensive coordinator.  Since then, he has compiled a 43-12 record entering 2026, including three consecutive seasons with at least 10 wins.  His 2024 team finished 14-2, the most wins in a single season in Notre Dame history, and reached the National Championship game in a loss to Ohio State. 

After two straight losses to top 25 teams to start last season, the Fighting Irish finished with 10 straight regular season wins, before being snubbed in the College Football Playoff and choosing to not play in a bowl game.

Before Notre Dame, Freeman developed his coaching résumé at Cincinnati, Purdue and Kent State.  His playing career began at Ohio State, where he was a four-year linebacker from 2004 through 2008 before spending time with the Chicago Bears, Buffalo Bills and Houston Texans.  His playing career ended after being diagnosed with an enlarged heart, at which point he began coaching as a grad assistant at his alma mater.

Freeman, whose mother is from South Korea, was born and raised in Ohio.

Now 40, Freeman has made clear that his future remains in South Bend.  After turning down NFL opportunities following the 2025 season, he returned for 2026 and said he is “all-in” at Notre Dame.  With the Irish entering another season of national championship expectations, Freeman remains at the center of the storied program’s next chapter.

The First Lady learns the startling beliefs espoused by her captors and deduces her location.

Megan awoke long before she opened her eyes.  She was in no hurry to face her predicament in garish living color.  When she finally opened her eyes, she saw the warm late afternoon light pouring in through the windows, warming her face.  For a long time she lay with her eyes open, enjoying the luxury of solitude.  She had been plucked from the hell of a miserable public marriage to become a pawn in some international plot.  It was hard to say which was worse.  Despite its horrendous beginnings—and the worry it was causing Bryce and her parents—this abduction might provide a long retreat in a secluded mountain cabin which had figured high on her post-divorce agenda.  For the past three years she had rarely enjoyed even the simple luxury of rising at her own pace, then strolling alone to enjoy fresh air and sunshine.  Far too high a price to have paid for the dubious advantage of postponing divorce until Bryce was too grown up to care. 

A silver lining in every cloud, she told herself.  The silver lining in this cloud might well be a chance to rediscover herself.  Dwelling on her plight, she decided, would do nothing to promote a better conclusion to her predicament.  Best to keep up her spirits while staying alert to opportunities for a safe return home.

The First Lady stepped into the closet and felt a chill down her spine on finding a pair of American-made jeans identical to a favorite pair hanging in her closet back in the White House, only this one was brand new and a little stiff.  It would be asking a little too much, she supposed, to expect them to have abducted her wardrobe as well.  Well, they’d done the next best thing, gotten someone on the White House housekeeping staff to catalogue her wardrobe, then expended a great deal of time and money to duplicate a good part of it.  Whoever was behind this had deep pockets and a scary capacity for taking pains.  What a shame all that talent and energy hadn’t been directed toward more constructive ends, she thought.  The white polo shirt and tennis shoes she picked out to wear with the jeans were identical to ones in her own wardrobe.

Trying the knob of her bedroom door, Megan was mildly surprised to find it unlocked.  In fact, there was no lock from the outside that she could detect, though there was one on the inside.  She would check that out later.  The hallway was empty, apparently unguarded.  She had the run of the house, or at least the appearance of it, and she was determined to test its limits.  As she went down the stairs she heard voices.  When she neared the first floor, she could hear they were coming from the living room bar.  One of the voices was rich and resonant, and she recognized it as belonging to Dr Park.  Two men were sitting at the bar.   Plumlips was playing bartender, maintaining a deferential silence while the men engaged in conversation.  Megan had hoped to walk out the front door and explore the grounds, but before she could turn toward the foyer, Plumlips spotted her across the living room.  She made a quick bow and smiled.  That prompted the two men to turn in their stools. 

“Ah, Mrs Taylor,” said the one she assumed to be Dr Park, nodding and raising a glass in greeting.  Perhaps sensing her intentions, he made no move toward her.  Even from a distance Megan saw he was younger, slimmer and a little taller than the other man.  Both were dressed as though they had just finished a round of golf.  “I hope you’ll join us for dinner,” Park said and returned to his conversation. 

Megan continued to the entryway.  The door was unlocked, as she had expected it to be.  There was no visible sentry outside.  She went down the polished-granite front steps and, instead of heading down the main driveway toward the barracks and the gate, turned left to follow a path of rough-hewn granite that looped around the house.  The front yard was sparsely landscaped with shrubbery and a strand of young cherry and pomegranite trees, suggesting the house had been completed recently.   The sketchy rumble of distant jets led Megan’s eyes toward a pair of high contrails streaking the deep blue sky to the west.  A moment later she heard another lower-pitched rumble and saw a Boeing 707 with the sky-blue Korean Air tailfin climbing steeply toward the northwest.  Korean Air would never risk overflying North Korea—at least not after the downing of Flight 007 back in the early 80s.  The house had to be in South Korea.  Judging by its trajectory the 707 appeared to have taken off from a point due west of the house that was blocked by a ridge.  Apparently the house was no more than ten or twenty miles from an airport.  The only Korean cities the First Lady could think of that might host commercial flights were Seoul, Pusan and Taegu.  The lack of visible development so near an airport suggested the house probably wasn’t near Seoul, which she knew was a sprawling megalopolis of 13 million.  Pusan, too, with its 5 million, would probably show more development.  That left Taegu.  But that was sheer blind speculation, she decided, probably pointless given her sparse knowledge of Korean geography.

She followed the path all the way around to the west end of the house without seeing any sign of guards.  Looking up at the third floor, she saw the two large windows to her room, the only ones with heavy purple drapery.  Eyeing the shrubbery below them, she figured a jump would cost her a sprained ankle, a fractured tibia or a blown-out knee.  Or maybe she could tie together a couple of sheets and climb down most of the way before jumping.  Then what?  The yard to the front and westside of the house was wide open and sloped gently for a good hundred-fifty feet toward an eight-foot high stone wall topped with barbed wire.  Most of the wall was within view of the house, the barracks or the guardshack.  Beyond the wall was more pine-covered mountainside. 

She continued following the path around to the back of the house where the yard narrowed, extending barely ten feet to a steep rock-strewn slope that dropped nearly vertically at least two hundred feet to a narrow gorge choked with foliage. 

“You try other side.”  A grinning young Asian man in an unmarked khaki uniform stood behind her.  His face was flushed and she smelled alcohol on his breath.  He was carrying an assault rifle with a curving clip, maybe an M-16s like the ones Megan had seen US G.I.s carrying during a visit to an Army base.  His trousers were tucked into black combat boots.  His black leather belt was holstered with a semi-automatic pistol.  “Men have fun with you.  Mountain maybe kill you.”

“Thanks,” said Megan coolly turning from him and heading back toward the house.  “I’d rather take my chances with the mountain.”

The man laughed and grabbed her wrist.  “You my girlfriend?” He pulled her to him.  “I am very very good in the bed.  Very strong.  You will like me very much.”

“Let go or you’re dead.”

The man’s face was inches from Megan’s, overwhelming her with his hot sweet alcohol breath.  “How kill me?  You bite me?”

“Like this!” Megan said, raising her knee into his groin.  It wasn’t a solid smash, but solid enough to surprise him into loosening his grip.  Megan pulled free and ran toward the front entrance. 

“Who you wait for?  Our big leader?” the man called after her.  “He is very old.  I am much better.”  His giggles followed Megan until she was inside the house. 

“Back so soon?” said Dr Park hurrying toward her from the bar.  Taking in Megan’s flushed face and hard breathing, he frowned.  “Did you have a problem with one of the soldiers?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” said Megan, doing her best to control the breathing and regain her composure.  Her rape prevention work as First Lady had taught her the importance of maintaining composure and assertiveness in dicey situations.  Making herself out to be a victim would only encourage more attacks. 

“Please sit down and have a drink,” said Park, nudging her toward an armchair.  Park seated himself on a nearby sofa.  He had the face and regal bearing of an elite scholar, urbane, genial, unhurried, clueless about the real world.  His doctorate, Megan suspected, was in some purely academic discipline.

“Tomato juice would be nice,” said Megan.  Her heart was struggling to regain its normal resting rate.  Plumlips smiled and brought over a piece of Austrian crystal filled to the brim with fresh tomato juice. 

“You’d better stay inside the house until our leader arrives,” said Park with a reassuring smile.  “Most of the men have never had contact with Americans.  They may have some, ah, inappropriate ideas.”

“When does your leader get here?”

“He has been delayed somewhat.  We expect him possibly tomorrow in the evening.”

“What happens when he gets here?”

“It’s best to wait until then to find out,” said Park.  “Our leader doesn’t always tell us everything in advance.  But I am sure you have been brought here for a very important purpose.”

“What’s your role in this?”

“I am merely an advisor,” said Dr Park modestly.  “I am considered an expert on the United States.  You see, as a young man I studied and worked in the states.  I still have affection for American people and culture.  Our leader calls on me to render opinions, sometimes to translate.”

“Who is your leader?”

Park smiled genially and sat back, nodding as if to show his understanding of Megan’s curiosity.  “He is a great man.  He is Korean by birth but we believe he truly belongs to the world.   Throughout his life, our leader has worked to represent the dignity and aspirations of all the world’s oppressed peoples.  It is our humble opinion that he is humanity’s best hope for breaking the unjust yoke that has been placed over most of the world’s peoples by those with imperialist tendencies.”

“You mean the United States and its allies?”

Park’s chest seemed to fill with rich laughter which he restrained from letting out.  “Madame First Lady, that is exactly what I most admire about your people.  You are so forthright in your expression.”  Strangely, Megan had to admit his eyes were full of genuine affection, far more affection than she had seen in the eyes of many of the Americans she had encountered as First Lady.

“Unfortunately, since the middle of the nineteenth century, the United States has been ruled by men who put personal advantage and profit ahead of the welfare of the people.  Frankly, these imperialistic militarists have been highly successful in building and maintaining the machinery of war and destruction while encouraging political tensions that justify their militarism.  The result has been tensions and political divisions that produce starvation and suffering for hundreds of millions of people around the world.  Meanwhile, your militarists enjoy immense profits.  I would estimate them to be tens of billions of dollars per year, and for each billion that goes into their pockets, perhaps ten million people starve and suffer. 

“There is ample food, medicine and industrial capacity to feed, clothe and house all the world’s peoples.  Unfortunately, the tensions that American militarists maintain for the sake of profit keep these resources from being distributed to nearly a billion suffering people in Asia, Africa and South America.  As you may know, the United States deliberately plows under or blocks the production of enough grain and dairy products to feed another four hundred million people each year.  Meanwhile people are starving in China, India, Africa, South America, Yogoslavia and North Korea.

“We don’t blame you personally, of course,” said Park, “because in a sense you are as much a victim as the other peoples.”  Park’s eyes seemed to radiate sympathy for her current plight.

“Yes, Madame First Lady, the militarists have been ruthless and relentless in demanding that all nations kowtow to their will or be crushed and humiliated by the collective military and economic might of the US and its subject nations.  Japan, Germany, South Korea, England, South America—all nations have knelt before American militarists except a small handful.  That is why our leader is a hero to the world’s suffering peoples.  By his courage and determination, he has resisted demands to bow down despite our small size and weakness.  That is why he has been a leading target of American militarists.”

The utter assurance behind Park’s rhetoric made Megan smile. 

“If what you say about our militarists is true,” she said, “wouldn’t they want to keep people like your leader in power to maintain the tensions around the world?  I would think your leader is a godsend as far as our militarists are concerned.”

“Ah, excellent point,” said Park.  This was a man whose wine was intellectual debate, and he was getting stoked.  “You’re quite right that someone like our leader is essential to the military industrial complex that churns out such handsome profits.  That is exactly why they have made no effort to assassinate him.  If they had wanted to do so, they certainly have the means. 

“That is also why your militarists decided against finishing off Saddam Hussein during the so-called Gulf War,” said a grinning Park.  “In fact, that was no war—merely an opportunity for your militarists to justify some of the profitable weaponry on which they have earned tens of billions in profits.  Saddam was never a threat to American interests.  The truth is, the militarists all but invited his invasion of Kuwait by letting him understand there would be no American military response. 

“You see, at that time, after the collapse of the Soviet Union two years earlier, your military establishment was under intense pressure to cut severely all spending on armaments.  They could only point to a few small “enemies”—Iraq, Iran, North Korea and Lybia.  They simply couldn’t afford to finish off Saddam Hussein.  That would have been like cutting their own throats!”   Chuckling at the absurdity, Park signaled Plumlips for a refill of his scotch.

“Nor can they afford to finish off our leader,” he continued on a more sober note.  “If anything, they need a few more like him!”  His laughter was so good-natured, the First Lady couldn’t keep from smiling.  The man’s assurance was both annoying and intriguing.  It proved out the lawyer’s adage that there are always three sides to every case, yours, theirs and the truth. 

“But didn’t you say your leader was a target of our militarists?”

“Yes.  But not for assassination.  For embarrassment.  Your militarists use every opportunity to try to embarrass our leader.  That is how they maintain their power over other subject nations.  Few leaders are brave enough to risk incurring the displeasure of your militarists.  Your CIA alone has a budget of nearly $30 billion a year.  Madame First Lady, that is larger than that of our entire government!  Your actual military budget is thirty times that!  With your resources, you have had no trouble in completely isolating North Korea by pressuring all our former trading partners to stop trading with us.  That is like taking food out of the mouths of hundreds of thousands of our people.

“Your militarists have gone even further,” said Park, his face turning grave with what Megan took to be controlled indignity.  “For several years they have been ruining our crops, causing hundreds of thousands more people to starve each year.”

“Now, that’s news to me, Dr Park,” said Megan, forcing herself to keep a straight face.  “How did our militarists ruin your crops?”

“Very simply,” said Park, smiling wrily to let her know he was aware of her skepticism.  “By using the same technology you use to create rain during droughts.  Your country flew countless missions involving dozens of aircraft loaded with dry ice to seed clouds over our crops to produce severe flooding.  That was the cause of our severe food shortage, not poor economic planning as your media likes to report based on disinformation spread by your CIA in its efforts to embarrass our leader.”

“You expect me to believe we sent all those planes over your country and your air-defense system didn’t detect them?”

“Of course your role as First Lady doesn’t involve so-called ‘defense’ matters, but surely you have heard of your B-2 stealth bombers and your F-117 stealth fighters.  Both are excellent examples of highly effective stealth technology.  Both are nearly invisible to our radar defenses.  If we are able to detect them, it is only when they are too near their targets for us to take any effective defensive measures.”

“Get serious, Dr Park,” said Megan.  “You expect me to believe the United States used our stealth fleet to spoil your harvests?”

Smiling, Park made a polite and deferential bow from his sitting position.  “I have no right to expect you to believe anything, Madame First Lady.  I’m merely expressing what I believe.”

Amazing, thought Megan.  The man seemed so intelligent.  His political doctrine, it seemed, had completely blinded him to practical reality.  But he was evidently totally sincere in his beliefs.

“What I’m wondering, Dr Park, is why your leader insists on spending so much of your limited resources on maintaining such a large military when you all but concede it can’t resist the might of our militarists.  Why not use the money to buy more food for your starving people?”

“Your question is based on two false premises,” said Park.  “First, our military preparations are mainly to deter aggression by South Korea which would like North Korea to join in its vassalage to the US  Second, you assume we would rather feed more of our people than uphold our dignity as a sovereign people.  Nothing is further from the truth.  The North Korean people would rather die fighting than join their South Korean brothers and sisters in slavery to American militarists.”

“If you really believe the South Koreans are so contemptible,” said Megan, “why did you bring me to this house in South Korea instead of taking me to your own land?”

“Ah, quite observant, Madame First Lady,” said Dr Park.  “We are indeed in South Korea.  The South has many sympathizers and agents of North Korea who have little difficulty moving between the two Koreas.  We also have supporters in the United States, some of whom are in a position to provide valuable assistance, as they did for this project.”

“Which brings us back to my original question.  Why did you bring me here?”

“And as I said earlier, Madame, we must await our leader’s arrival to answer that question.”  Park’s smile seemed less benign than it had earlier.  “If you insist on my humble opinion, I would suspect our leader will use you for the same purpose American militarists have used our South Korean brothers and sisters under their rule—to embarrass and humiliate us.  But our leader doesn’t fear your militarists.  To the contrary, your militarists now fear our leader because he can cause them greater embarrassment than they can cause him.”

The hint of satisfaction edging Park’s expression chilled Megan.  Inside the house she may be safe from the soldiers, but she remembered the soldier’s remark about their leader.  If their leader believed the arguments Park was spouting—and she had every reason to think he did—he would feel little qualm about making her a prop for some graphic act of defiance. 

This wasn’t the first time she was hostage to some morality play staged in the fevered brain of a man who fancied himself a custodian of humanity’s fate, thought Megan bitterly.  Along with the dread she felt a morbid curiosity.  What twists would the morality play take on this side of the Pacific?

“Madame First Lady, would you care to join us for dinner?” said Park.  The genial and benign expression with which he had started their conversation had returned to his face.  “We would be most honored.”

“I’d be most delighted,” said the First Lady.  No telling when she might need to draw on every ounce of goodwill she could rack up.

Backed by massive streaming numbers and a prominent role in HBO’s Euphoria, Dominic Fike returns with his highly anticipated third album, How to Quit Smoking.

Driven by the lead single “Wallflower,” Dominic Fike’s anticipated third studio album, How to Quit Smoking, will release on October 9th.  This musical milestone closely follows his silver-screen appearance in the recent film Rolling Loud, released the week prior.

Fike has built an eclectic catalog weaving together alternative rock, pop-rock, alternative hip-hop, and indie-pop sounds.  

The 2023 studio album Sunburn showcases his artistry through cuts like “Mama’s Boy,” preceded by his 2020 debut album What Could Possibly Go Wrong, which features standout selections such as “Why.”

Before those full-length projects, he gained early traction with his breakthrough 2018 EP Don't Forget About Me, Demos, home to his most popular songs, “Babydoll” and “3 Nights,” both of which racked up over a billion plays on Spotify.  The streaming popularity propelled “3 Nights” into the Billboard Hot 100 top 10.

In addition to a prominent music career, Fike has transitioned into acting, landing a main television role in 2022 for the second season of HBO’s critically acclaimed teen drama series Euphoria, which explores turbulent youth culture, addiction, and modern relationships.

Of Filipino descent, Fike first generated massive industry buzz by uploading music to SoundCloud as a teenager in his hometown of Naples, Florida.  His raw blend of alternative rock, hip-hop, and indie pop sparked a fierce bidding war among major labels while he was under house arrest, ultimately launching him into mainstream stardom.

With his latest collection written and produced in real time on the road, Fike continues to evolve as a defining multi-medium artist on television and in music, bridging contemporary alternative soundscapes, backed by 52 million monthly Spotify listeners.

South Asian immigrant families used community knowledge and persistence to establish a powerful presence in America’s gas-station industry.

For generations of South Asian immigrants, neighborhood gas stations offered an accessible path toward financial independence, even if it did require long hours and support from the entire family. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 expanded employment and family-based immigration, giving more people from India and neighboring countries the opportunity to establish lives in America.

Some Indian immigrants entered professional fields, while others struggled to transfer their qualifications. Many of them turned to entrepreneurship partly because they felt disadvantaged in the American labor market and that’s when gas stations and convenience stores started to be seen as possible ways forward. 

Operating one did not require an American degree and the business could be easily learned by working for another owner. Once someone felt comfortable enough to manage their own shop, they would allow their relatives and friends to work alongside them and repeat the cycle.

By 2012, one report cited an estimate claiming that Indian Americans ran and operated approximately 50% of the country’s 146,000 gas stations and convenience stores. Although that figure was never confirmed through national ownership data, more recent research states in 2026, the Immigration Research Initiative estimated that immigrants collectively account for 47% of American gas-station business owners and identified approximately 4,000 Indian immigrant owners of incorporated gas-station businesses.

South Asians did not become associated with gas stations because the industry offered quick or effortless money. They built a presence by entering a difficult business other people frequently overlooked. With family labor, community knowledge and years of persistence to make it work, gas stations and convenience stores helped fuel a foundation for entire families’ American future.

A traditional Vietnamese legend blames annual monsoon floods on the perpetual fury of the loser in a competition for the heart of the beautiful princess Mỵ Nương.

All right, my two little noodles, into bed. Yes, all the way in. Not halfway in like a turtle deciding whether to be awake or asleep. Pillows fluffed? Blankets tucked? Good.

Tonight I’ll tell you an old Vietnamese legend about mountains, rivers, a beautiful princess, two powerful spirits, and one very dramatic loser. Because, my loves, some people lose gracefully, and some people turn the whole countryside into a swimming pool.

Long ago, in the days of the Hùng Kings, Vietnam was a land of green mountains, shining rivers, rice fields that rippled in the wind, and villages where everyone knew everyone else’s business by lunchtime.

The king then was Hùng Vương, a wise ruler with one beloved daughter named Mỵ Nương. She was gentle, graceful, and so lovely that poets probably ran out of good comparisons and started saying silly things like, “Her eyes are brighter than the moon reflected in soup.” Poets, you see, can become dangerous when overexcited.

Mỵ Nương was not only beautiful. She was kind. She loved the sound of birds in the palace garden, the scent of rice after rain, and the sight of the mountains turning purple at sunset. The king loved her so much that when she came of age to marry, he did not want to give her hand to just anyone.

“No ordinary man will do,” said the king.

Which was very reasonable. If you are a king and your daughter is Mỵ Nương, you do not say, “Oh, that fellow over there with crumbs in his beard seems fine.” No, no. You look carefully.

Word spread through the land: Princess Mỵ Nương would marry a worthy suitor.

Soon, two remarkable beings came to the palace.

The first was Sơn Tinh, the Spirit of the Mountain. He came from the high peaks, where clouds rested like sleepy cats and ancient trees held the earth with deep, strong roots. Sơn Tinh could point to a hill and make it rise higher. He could command forests to grow. He could make stones leap into place and paths appear across cliffs. Wherever he stood, the land seemed steadier, as if the whole mountain said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

He was calm, strong, and handsome in the way of someone who does not need to keep mentioning it.

The second was Thủy Tinh, the Spirit of the Water. He came from the deep rivers, shining lakes, and roaring seas. Thủy Tinh could summon rain with a gesture. He could call the waves. He could make rivers swell and storms gather. His robes shimmered like blue water under the sun, and his voice rolled like thunder far away.

He was powerful, proud, and handsome too—though perhaps the kind of handsome who knew it a little too well. You know, the sort who might check his reflection in a puddle and then thank the puddle.

Both suitors stood before King Hùng Vương.

Sơn Tinh bowed.

Thủy Tinh bowed.

Mỵ Nương looked at them and probably thought, “Well, this has become a rather complicated morning.”

The king listened as each suitor spoke.

Sơn Tinh promised to protect the land and cherish the princess.

Thủy Tinh promised riches, rivers, and power beyond imagining.

The king stroked his beard and considered. Both suitors were mighty. Both were noble. Both were clearly more impressive than any palace clerk who had been hoping to marry above his station.

At last the king said, “Both of you are worthy. I cannot easily choose between you. So I will set a bride price. Whoever brings the gifts first tomorrow morning shall marry Mỵ Nương.”

Now, my little dumplings, bride prices in old legends are never simple things like “three baskets of mangoes and a polite thank-you note.” Oh no. Kings in legends enjoy making lists.

The king declared that the suitor must bring an elephant with nine tusks, a rooster with nine spurs, and a horse with nine red manes.

Yes, nine. Not eight. Not “eight and a half if we are in a hurry.” Nine.

And not ordinary animals either. An elephant with nine tusks is not something you find wandering around asking for peanuts. A rooster with nine spurs is not pecking in your backyard. And a horse with nine red manes would be difficult even for a very ambitious hairdresser.

But Sơn Tinh and Thủy Tinh were not ordinary suitors. They accepted the challenge.

That night, the palace slept uneasily. The king wondered who would arrive first. The servants whispered. Mỵ Nương looked out at the moon and wondered what the morning would bring. Even the palace chickens probably felt nervous, especially after hearing about the rooster with nine spurs.

Before dawn, Sơn Tinh went into the mountains. He called to the forests, the cliffs, and the hidden valleys. From the mist came the wondrous gifts: the elephant with nine gleaming tusks, the rooster with nine sharp spurs, and the horse with nine flowing red manes.

By sunrise, Sơn Tinh arrived at the palace.

First.

The king kept his word. Mỵ Nương was given in marriage to Sơn Tinh, and together they set out for his mountain home.

Now, Sơn Tinh was joyful, but not boastful. Mỵ Nương rode beside him, calm and brave, though leaving home is never easy, even when you are marrying a mountain spirit. The procession moved toward the highlands, with drums, banners, and the golden light of morning shining on the road.

Then Thủy Tinh arrived.

Late.

Oh, children. If you are ever late, simply say, “I am sorry.” Do not do what Thủy Tinh did.

When he saw that Sơn Tinh had already won Mỵ Nương’s hand, Thủy Tinh’s face darkened like a storm cloud that had skipped breakfast. His pride cracked. His anger rose. His heart filled with jealousy.

“She should have been mine!” he cried.

Now, this is where Mother must pause and say: no, my loves. People are not prizes you own because you wanted them. Mỵ Nương was not a toy, not a jewel, not the last dumpling on a plate. She had a life, a heart, and a future. But Thủy Tinh, being full of storm and not enough sense, forgot this.

In his fury, he summoned the waters.

Rain poured from the sky.

Rivers rose.

Streams burst their banks.

Waves rushed across the land.

The water came roaring after Sơn Tinh and Mỵ Nương as they climbed toward the mountains. Trees bent. Villagers cried out. Animals scrambled to higher ground. Thủy Tinh sent flood after flood, determined to sweep Sơn Tinh away and take back what he believed he had lost.

But Sơn Tinh stood firm.

He lifted his hand, and the mountains rose.

The water climbed higher.

Sơn Tinh raised the mountains higher still.

Thủy Tinh sent more rain.

Sơn Tinh raised more hills.

Thủy Tinh hurled waves.

Sơn Tinh called up ridges, rocks, forests, and cliffs.

Up went the water.

Up went the land.

Back and forth they struggled, the Water Spirit raging below, the Mountain Spirit standing strong above. Mỵ Nương stayed with Sơn Tinh, safe on the rising heights, watching the storm swirl beneath them.

Thủy Tinh roared. Sơn Tinh did not roar back. That is how you can tell who has the better bedtime manners. Sơn Tinh simply kept protecting the land and the people upon it.

At last, Thủy Tinh grew tired.

Even a storm cannot rage forever. Even thunder eventually runs out of things to say.

The waters began to fall. The rivers returned to their beds. The clouds loosened and drifted away. The land, though battered, remained. Sơn Tinh had won.

But Thủy Tinh never truly accepted his loss.

Every year, when the rainy season comes, the legend says Thủy Tinh remembers his anger. He sends rain, wind, and rising waters to challenge Sơn Tinh again. And every year, Sơn Tinh raises the mountains, strengthens the land, and pushes the floods back.

That, my little ones, is how the old people explained the great floods that came with the rains. It was not just weather to them. It was the old quarrel of Sơn Tinh and Thủy Tinh, mountain and water, steadiness and storm.

Now, you may be thinking, “Mother, if Thủy Tinh was so powerful, why didn’t he just learn to calm down?”

Excellent question. Truly excellent. You are both very wise for people who still sometimes put shirts on backward.

The answer is that power is not the same as wisdom. Thủy Tinh had oceans of power but only a teacup of patience. Sơn Tinh had strength too, but he used it to protect, not to punish. That is why the story remembers him as the hero.

And what of Mỵ Nương?

She lived in the mountains with Sơn Tinh, where the air was clear and the peaks watched over the valleys. Perhaps she missed the palace sometimes. Perhaps she remembered her father’s garden. But she also saw that Sơn Tinh was steady and kind, and that his strength made others safe.

That matters, doesn’t it?

A storm can be dazzling. A mountain may seem quiet. But when the wind howls and the water rises, you learn the value of someone who stands firm.

So now, my two little fireflies, when you hear heavy rain tapping at the window, you can imagine Thủy Tinh grumbling again somewhere far away, throwing his watery tantrum. And when you see hills and mountains holding their shape under the clouds, you can imagine Sơn Tinh saying, “No, thank you. Not today.”

And if you ever feel angry because you did not get what you wanted, remember Thủy Tinh. Take a breath. Use your words. Do not flood the house. We just mopped.

The world has enough storms. Be more like the mountain.

Strong. Patient. Protective.

And very, very hard to knock over.

Now close your eyes. Let the rain, if it comes, be only a lullaby. Let the mountains guard your dreams. And may you sleep as peacefully as two little children who definitely, absolutely, positively are not going to ask for another story.

Good night, my loves.

Following a stellar freshman SEC All-Freshman campaign, Asia Thigpen is driving Kentucky’s pursuit of a national title.

Outside hitter Asia Thigpen brings elite athleticism to a Kentucky program currently ranked third in the national polls.  Standing 5-foot-11, the dynamic sophomore has quickly established herself as a cornerstone for the Wildcats since arriving in Lexington.  Hailing from Suwanee, Georgia, she committed to Kentucky over prominent offers from several other major programs.

During her freshman campaign, Thigpen immediately showcased her capability on the court, appearing in 32 matches and helping anchor a squad that captured the Southeastern Conference championship.  She finished the season with 160 kills, averaging 1.48 kills per set while maintaining a reliable .210 hitting percentage.  Beyond her offensive output, she contributed defensively with 137 digs and 23 total blocks, proving her versatility in all six rotations.  Her stellar debut earned her a spot on the SEC All-Freshman Team, establishing her status as one of the conference’s rising stars.

This season as a sophomore, Thigpen has elevated her production even further, cementing her role in the starting lineup and anchoring the team's perimeter play. Her steady serve reception and court vision allow the offense to run smoothly against top-tier competition.

Playing for one of the premier collegiate volleyball programs in the country, Thigpen and her teammates are focused entirely on returning to the national stage.  With a deep roster blending veteran leadership and burgeoning young talent, the Wildcats are firmly positioned to contend for a national championship as the rigorous conference schedule unfolds.

They were kings for a summer following a boy who sold the house to buy the spotlight—only to see him buried.

We were kings of a summer that never would end,

[Bridge: guitar drops to single notes, voice softer]

Vietnamese tycoon Trương Mỹ Lan embezzled $12.5 billion, causing an estimated $27 billion in damage that forced Vietnam's government to rescue the bank at its center.

How did one woman manage to secretly control one of Vietnam’s largest banks and remove more money than the combined fortunes of multiple billionaires? 

Trương Mỹ Lan was born in Saigon in 1956 to a Chinese Vietnamese family and began her career early selling cosmetics and hair accessories with her mother at the city’s Bến Thành Market. 

Lan moved into real estate in 1992 when she and her husband, Hong Kong businessman Eric Chu Nap-kee, founded Vạn Thịnh Phát Group. The company eventually was able to accumulate luxury apartments, hotels and some of the most valuable properties in Ho Chi Minh City, but behind this growing empire was a financial operation that would transform a commercial bank into Lan’s personal source of money.

In 2011, Lan helped coordinate the merger of three struggling banks into Saigon Commercial Bank, commonly known as SCB. Vietnamese law prevented her from openly owning the bank, so investigators said she used family members, employees, shell companies and other proxies to secretly control more than 90% of its shares.

Even though Lan did not officially manage SCB, prosecutors said she would select executives and direct the bank to approve loans for companies connected to her. The scheme relied on thousands of “ghost companies” that existed only on paper. The businesses would submit loan applications backed by questionable collateral, then send the money into Lan’s network. Court records connected the operation to around 2,500 fraudulent loans. SCB reportedly issued around $44 billion in loans to Lan and her associates between 2012 and 2022, when she was arrested. 

A Vietnamese court found her guilty of embezzling approximately $12.5 billion, which was equal to nearly 3% of Vietnam’s entire economy in 2022, then later estimated the wider financial damage at approximately $27 billion. Dozens of bankers and government officials were prosecuted alongside Lan, including a former central-bank inspector who was accused of accepting a $5.2 million bribe. After Lan’s arrest became public, SCB’s customers rushed to withdraw their savings, leading Vietnam’s central bank to be forced to provide approximately $24 billion in emergency loans to stabilize the institution.

Lan’s trial began in March 2024 with 85 other defendants and the following month, she was convicted of embezzlement, bribery and violating banking regulations, receiving 20 years for bribery, another 20 years for the banking violations and a death sentence for embezzlement.

Her death sentence was upheld on appeal in December 2024 and Vietnam removed the death penalty for embezzlement beginning in July 2025, automatically making Lan eligible to have the punishment reduced to life imprisonment and returning assets to the government and fraud victims.

What began with Trương Mỹ Lan’s family cosmetics stall grew into a luxury-property empire, then collapsed into one of Asia’s biggest financial fraud cases, which was a scheme so enormous that Vietnam’s government had to spend billions just to keep the bank alive.

My hopes of becoming a good West Coast Swing dancer were cruelly dashed during my first dances, but I persevered, determined not to end my dyas as a lesson dancer.

Tom Kagy (00:01.048)

As I mentioned in the first part of this podcast, becoming a dancer is really a transformative experience that puts you in touch with aspects of yourself that you may never experience otherwise. I'm not talking about becoming a professional dancer. I'm far from that. I'm talking about becoming good enough in a particular dance form of ballroom.

or Latin or maybe two or three forms as a way to develop your mental, physical and emotional selves. One of the first and most important realities I learned from deciding to become a westy, that's what people call those who regularly dance West Coast swing, is the difference between group lesson dancing and free dancing in the wild, so to speak.

Picking group dance lessons is a good way to learn the basics of a dance without incurring the high costs of private lessons. It familiarizes you with basic steps and patterns while giving you exposure to the peculiarities of a variety of partners. I strongly recommend group lessons for at least a year or two in your chosen dance form. Without them, your development is both more expensive and slower.

But make no mistake, following along with the steps being taught in a group lesson is by no means the same as going up to a stranger and leading her through three to six minutes of steps that conform to that particular style. One is like ordering a nice chicken dinner at a restaurant. The other is like killing the chicken, gutting it, and cooking it yourself. Many people take dance lessons and

Sometimes for years, but few actually work up the nerve to lead strangers in dances in the wild of a club. Why? Because dance is hard, especially for leaders, typically men. Though I have met some women who are actually better leaders than I am. I'm not talking about the kind of dance where you go out and just shake it. Most people can do that after a drink or two.

Tom Kagy (02:31.422)

It makes demands on your mental, emotional, and physical stamina, as well as coordination and sense of balance. It's a combination that doesn't really exist in any other type of activity encountered in ordinary life.

Let me put this in context. I've never been shy about asking people to dance, at the teen club dances when I was in junior high or in high school, or at college dorm and frat dances. In discos as a young man, I had a knack for finessing my way in long before I was officially twenty one. There was absolutely no hesitation or stress in approaching women to dance.

So as soon as my first beginning borderline West Coast swing group lesson ended, I pulled the woman onto the floor. But once on the floor I quickly realized that I had put myself in a humiliating situation. I managed to take her through three basic patterns, the ones that I had just learned in that class. Then I was stuck, repeating them over and over ad nauseum.

until the song ended. I felt like the ultimate lamer, taking this poor woman through those same six count patterns over and over, my face growing hotter with each repetition. By the end of the dance I was dying on the inside, not only at having embarrassed myself, but at having inflicted so much repetition on another human being, one who had entrusted herself to me to lead her

Tom Kagy (04:46.961)

to ensure a longer loop and fewer repetitions. I became obsessed with expanding my repertoire to avoid another similar humiliation.

Unless I forced myself to put myself out there for free dancing after each group lesson, I would become just another lesson dancer, a domesticated beast who took lessons but never ventured forth into the wild. That was the case with actually about ninety percent of the men and probably about half the women. I couldn't bear to see myself that way, no matter the humiliation in store.

I learned a couple more patterns at the next class, but once out there on the dance floor with my hapless partner, I found myself unable to summon the new patterns or the old patterns I had learned by heart in the earlier lesson. I have a great memory, but this was different. Intellectual memories don't translate into actual leads on the dance floor to be summoned forth during those.

Milliseconds between beats when the next pattern has to be led. That vast gulf between intellectual memory and muscle memory was another dark moment in my dance journey. Unless I committed each pattern to muscle memory, they weren't actually available for use on the dance floor. So for some months I spent spare moments during my days practicing the steps.

Tom Kagy (06:59.064)

For my partner, who would have to repeat the entire sequence at least a half dozen times for even a short song. I was writhing with embarrassment as I led each dance, but I was determined enough to force myself to free dance to at least a half dozen songs after each lesson.

When you're that insecure, you become hypersensitive to the reactions of the women you ask to dance. Are they wincing, cringing, groaning on the inside even as they politely accept my hand? But dealing with various types of prospective partners is is another topic I will cover later. Back to this topic. To accelerate the acquisition of a wide variety of moves is

I became one of a half dozen people who took up Cliff's offer of a second evening of intermediate lessons at the Oak Park Community Center on Wednesday nights, as I recall. Over time, as I added more steps and gradually increased the number of songs, I could free dance too.

Music is actually another important factor in how well I was able to pull off a dance. West Coast Swing works with a wide variety of songs, from blues to ballads to country to hip hop. I wasn't crazy about two thirds of Cliff's playlist, but I did my best with every song. Mustang Sally was an example of an old westy standard that I really didn't care for.

Tom Kagy (09:10.977)

I was afflicted with the common disease of the ambitious beginner, who compulsively compares his dances with those of seasoned dancers who had been at it for decades or even half a century, and whose repertoire of moves made mine seem like a like toddler time. About a year into my West Coast swing foray, I finally understood the wisdom of my Arthur Murray instructor's estimate that

It would probably take me five years to become any good at the dance. After my first year of dancing, I was finally able to enjoy some peace of mind by telling myself that my suffering was buying a decent repertoire of steps and patterns, as well as improving my coordination, balance, and stamina. What's more I came to feel that on occasion I

My leads are actually providing some enjoyment for my partners, as well as myself.

But I have to admit that my own prediction had been completely wrong. I wasn't good and probably wouldn't be good for another few years to come, if ever, due to what I began to perceive as my own peculiar limitations, which will be covered in future podcasts.