everyone is watching, everyone is waiting, and only one takes the title. Nov 14. Trade on Phantom Use PHANTOM code for 10% off @solana @phantom #phantom# #solana# #frontiertraders# #trading# #crypto# NFA · DYOR

everyone’s reacting like it’s the end of the world, meanwhile bro hasn’t even blinked 😭💀 London Grand Final goes down November 14th. the pressure is REAL. Trade on Phantom 👉 Use code PHANTOM for 10% off fees. @solana @phantom #phantom# #solana# #frontiertraders# #trading# #crypto# NFA · DYOR

Even a lucky plushie couldn't save that trade. Down 70K, but the Grand Final is still coming on November 14. Who’s making the comeback? Trade on Phantom. Use code PHANTOM for 10% off. @solana @phantom #phantom# #solana# #frontiertraders# #trading# #crypto# NFA · DYOR

Every summer, our town borrows twelve American teenagers. We have had a sister city in Michigan since 2001. For 26 years, my aunt Fumie has run the exchange. Every July, twelve kids from Michigan spend three weeks living with Japanese families who have never had an American in the house. Americans keep telling me they're worried about their kids. The phones. The manners. "Kids these days." So I asked my aunt to ask our host families one question. "What do you remember about your American kid?" Forty-one families answered. "He thanked me for every meal. Then he thanked me for the thank-you. In three weeks, I was thanked more than in thirty years of marriage. My husband has been informed." (Host mother, 52) "She hugged my mother-in-law on the first day. My mother-in-law is 88. Nobody had hugged her since the 1960s. Every spring she asks if 'the hugging one' is coming back." (Host mother, 47) "He washed my car. No one told him to. He said his dad always told him, 'Leave it better than you found it.' The car is fourteen years old. It has never been this clean. Neither have I, emotionally." (Host father, 58) "Our son is very shy. He has never brought a friend home. Day one, the American boy decided our son was his best friend. Our son did not get a vote. Five years later, they still play video games every Saturday. Six thousand miles apart." (Host mother, 44) "She asked my father about the war. In our family, nobody asks. He talked for two hours. She cried. He cried. Then she asked if he wanted to see her basketball highlights. He did. He watched all of them." (Host mother, 50) "She called me 'Mom' on the third day. I told her I'm not her mother. She said, 'I know. I've got one of those too. She says hi.'" (Host mother, 49) "At the farewell party, he gave a speech in Japanese. Every word was correct. Every word was in the wrong order. Our whole town cried." (Host father, 55) Then my aunt sent one more thing. Not an answer. A count. Twenty-six summers. 312 American teenagers. "Every year," she wrote, "somebody tells me American kids today are rude. Spoiled. Glued to their phones. I have had 312 of them in this town. Not one was rude. Not one. All 312 left their rooms cleaner than they found them. All 312 said thank you more times than we could count. And every single summer, at the airport, it is the Japanese who cannot let go." This July, one of the twelve was a girl named Paige. Sixteen. Her father came in the very first group, in 2001. He stayed with the Kawabata family. Paige asked to stay with the Kawabatas. Mrs. Kawabata is 77 now. She put Paige in the same room. She made the same curry. On the last night, Paige stood at that same table and said, in careful Japanese, the sentence her father had taught her on the plane. "Osewa ni narimashita." Thank you for taking care of me. The exact words he had said, in that exact spot, in 2001. Mrs. Kawabata says she had to leave the room. So, America. You can stop worrying so much. We've been borrowing your kids for twenty-six years. We kept count. You did good. (The 88-year-old mother-in-law has already put in her request for next July. Two huggers.)

"Even if they made changes in leadership, Democrats aren't going to change policy." @IngrahamAngle questions what new leadership would actually change for Democrats as Axios reports party leaders are standing behind Hakeem Jeffries despite calls for a shake-up. Download the Fox News app or go to for more.

Every kid in Japan grows up catching crawfish from Louisiana. Almost none of us has ever eaten one. In 1927, a frog farm near Kamakura ordered 100 crawfish from New Orleans, as frog food. Only 27 survived the trip. The farm closed. The 27 escaped. Today they live in nearly every ditch and pond in Japan. We catch them with dried squid on a string, keep them in a bucket by the front door, and give them names. To us, they are not food. They are summer vacation. Last May, our company's biggest customer flew to Tokyo. Mr. Landry. 66. Hands like two catcher's mitts. From Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, which, he informed us before he sat down, is the Crawfish Capital of the World. My boss, Mr. Ogata, took him for a walk after lunch. Mr. Ogata has been with our company for 31 years. He eats rice balls with chopsticks. I have worked under him for nine years and never once seen his fingers touch food. At a little pond, a boy was lying on his stomach, pulling up a string. His bucket held about thirty crawfish. Mr. Landry stopped walking. He crouched down. "Hey, little man. Where's your mama boilin' these?" I translated. The boy looked at me like I had asked where his mother boils his hamster. Mr. Ogata explained, very politely, that in Japan, these are for children. Nobody eats them. Mr. Landry stood up slowly. He looked at the pond. Then past it, at the whole city. "How long y'all had 'em?" "Since 1927," I said. "Only 27 survived the boat." "Twenty-seven," he said. "And they took the whole country." He nodded. "Sounds like Louisiana." Then he took off his cap and held it over his heart, like the anthem had started. "Ninety-nine years," he said. "Y'all been sittin' on the biggest crawfish boil in the history of the world. And you been feedin' it squid." Mr. Ogata emailed me at 3:14 the next morning. The subject line was one word: "Zarigani." He had found out that since 2023, Japan's government has listed them as an invasive species. Releasing them is banned. Removing them is encouraged. Mr. Landry read it twice. "Cher," he said, "that ain't a problem. That's a menu." Three weeks later, a 60-quart pot, a propane burner, and ten pounds of seasoning arrived at our office from Louisiana. Mr. Ogata reserved a riverside barbecue spot. The form had a box for "Purpose." He wrote: "To correct a misunderstanding from 1927." That Saturday, eight of us lay on our stomachs at the edge of a river, in collared shirts, with dried squid on strings. When Mr. Ogata pulled up the first one, he made a sound I have never heard come out of a man in a necktie. We caught 214. At six, Mr. Landry joined on video. It was 4 a.m. in Breaux Bridge. He had set an alarm. Mr. Ogata was timing the boil with a stopwatch. "Put the watch away, cher. Taste one. You'll know." Mr. Ogata does not do anything without a number. He looked at the stopwatch for a long time. Then he put it in his pocket. Next came the soak. Fire off. You let them sit in the spice. "How long?" "Till they're right." Our department has a 40-page manual for ordering paper clips. Mr. Ogata gathered us into a small circle, and we held a short meeting about what "right" means. Then he spread newspaper over two folding tables and poured the whole pot out. Crawfish, corn, potatoes, sausage, steam. A red mountain. In Japan, dinner comes in small separate dishes, arranged like a painting. Somebody asked where the plates were. "Table's the plate," said Mr. Landry. Pinch the tail. Suck the head. Mr. Landry showed us twice on the screen. Nobody moved. Then Mr. Ogata picked one up with his bare hands. He pinched the tail. He sucked the head. He closed his eyes. He set the empty shell down on the newspaper, carefully, the way you put down a letter you plan to keep. Then he stood, faced the phone, and bowed. All the way down. "Landry-san. We are sorry it took ninety-nine years." On the screen, Mr. Landry wiped his eye with his thumb. "Naw, cher," he said. "Best part of a boil is the soak. Y'all just did a long one." The boy from the pond came too, with his bucket and his mother. He ate one. Then he stared into his bucket like it had been lying to him his whole life. On Monday at noon, Mr. Ogata ate the leftovers at his desk. With his hands. Tie tucked into his shirt. The president of our company walked by and asked what on earth that was. Mr. Ogata held one out and said, very calmly: "Pinch the tail, sir."

Every man in a small town in Oklahoma has one crooked sideburn. The left one. On purpose. Let me explain. My wife's uncle Kenichi is a barber. In 1989, in Osaka, he cut the hair of an American woman who was teaching English there. He did it badly. She came back four times to complain. They got married in 1990. She took him home to her town in Oklahoma. Population: about 4,000. He opened a barbershop on Main Street. Within a month, the whole town was calling him Kenny. Here is what Oklahoma did not know about Japanese barbers. In Japan, a man's haircut takes an hour. The cut. The shampoo. A hot towel. A shave. Your face, your forehead, and your ears. Yes, the ears. Then a shoulder massage. Then a small bow. Kenny's first customer was a cattleman named Dub. He asked for "just a trim." Fifty-eight minutes later, Dub sat up, touched his own ear, and said: "Son. Nobody has ever touched my ears. Not even my wife." He tipped twenty dollars and drove straight to the feed store to tell everybody. By Friday, men were driving in from Tulsa for the ears. Thirty-five years later, here is what Kenny says Oklahoma taught him about running a barbershop. The TV stays on the Weather Channel. Nobody watches it. Everybody needs it on. The three chairs by the window are not for customers. They are for men who are not getting a haircut. One of them has been not getting a haircut since 1997. Never cut a boy's hair the week of homecoming without written permission from his mother. Never say a word about the Sooners in front of a Cowboys man. Or the other way around. If you're not sure who you're cutting, talk about the weather. It's on. When a little boy gets his first haircut, save a lock of it in an envelope for his mother. Kenny has filled over a thousand envelopes. Some of those boys are grandfathers now. Then, four years ago, Kenny's hands started to shake. Parkinson's. He was seventy. The haircuts started coming out wrong. Mostly the left sideburn. Crooked, every time. Kenny did what a Japanese man does. He taped a sign in the window. "I am very sorry. My hands are not good anymore. I will close at the end of the month. Thank you for 31 years." Nobody let him close. That Saturday, there was a line out the door. Dub was first. He sat down and said, "Ears, too." Kenny's wife stood behind him and held his wrist for the ears. She still does. The left sideburn came out crooked. Dub looked in the mirror for a long time. "Perfect," he said. It kept happening. The pastor. The bank manager. The sheriff. Every one of them walked out with one crooked sideburn. Not one of them fixed it. Last fall, a young guy from the city opened a fancy barbershop out on the highway. He offered a free "cleanup" to anybody from Kenny's shop. Nobody went. A teenager at the gas station explained it to him. "Nah, man. That's a Kenny." Homecoming week, the high school football team came in. All 44 boys. With 44 signed permission slips from 44 mothers. In the team photo, every single boy has one crooked sideburn. The left one. In Japan, a crooked haircut is a mistake. In that town, it's a membership card. Kenny is 74. He still cuts hair three days a week. His wife still holds his wrist for the ears. Dub is 88. He says the ears are still perfect. He would know. Nobody else has ever touched them.