Need for a Press Court, Equivalent to FDA, to Keep the Media in Line

Your body may be what you eat. At least, that’s the sane interpretation of the adage, You are what you eat. Certainly it cannot mean your whole being. Otherwise, all Koreans would be alike because they eat kimchee, and so would Americans because they eat apple pie.

What feeds and determines us as individuals with personality, character, and judgment? Information provided by teachers, elders and sages, revered for their wisdom since time immemorial and currently also by the media, actually predominantly so, because they have personnel and resources dedicated to searching for news and facts far and wide, deep and dark. Inherent in this scheme of communication is trust, because just as we don’t expect our chefs to dish out junk food, let alone poison, we must have faith in the integrity of our informants.

But what if the trust is betrayed, as in the case of Jim Jones of Jonestown, Guyana, who in 1978 kills nearly a thousand of his cult followers, including 304 children, by serving up cyanide-poisoned Flavor Aid as well as gunning down several of his top lieutenants? What if the media are staffed by pathological liars who, draped with the banner of freedom of the press, feel licensed to slant or distort to suit the agendas of their billionaire publishers, all seething with jealousy for Trump’s stellar achievements in such a short time (energy abundance, border wall, trade balancing, extermination of ISIS, revitalization and mobilization of America, etc.), and to infect the nation with the Trump Impeachment Derangement Syndrome which has morphed from the Russian Collusion Delusion to the Ukrainian Hallucination, thereby turning Americans into morons, unable to distinguish black and white, and blocking America from the path to greatness?

We live in a third world country or worse if these con artists are allowed to scream with impunity “Bombshell Evidence” of quid pro quo when in fact their star witnesses say the opposite, zero evidence (see End of Impeachment: 2019 Thanksgiving Dividend, 11-26-2019, typakmusings.com). Surely the Constitution didn’t have in mind this kind of willful misuse when laying down the freedom of the press.

Just as we have FDA to forestall the marketing of harmful drugs and law enforcement and the courts to prevent perversion of our liberties, it’s high time we set up a Press Court to keep the media in line and stop their going rogue and fake.

End of Impeachment: 2019 Thanksgiving Dividend

We have a lot to be thankful for this year, near full employment, rising GDP, border security, demise of ISIS, etc., but they are topped by one remarkable spectacle: laying to rest the Trump impeachment ghost. America is coming to its senses across the board at last and getting down to business like crumbling infrastructure, trade imbalance, homelessness, lagging technology, medical care, and so on.

How do I know at 7:35 p.m., Wednesday, Nov 26, 2019, that the House won’t vote on impeachment when it reconvenes after the Thanksgiving recess?

Schiff says so on CNN, his ever sympathetic platform. To the direct question whether the House will or not, Schiff is noncommittal: he will have to talk to his constituents and fellow Dems over the recess. Scandalized, the CNN mouthpiece, hereafter referred to as Cnn, tries to steer him to the right answer, a resounding Yes. Hasn’t Cnn led the drumbeat orchestrating his fake media choir to scream “Bombshell Evidence” of treason and high crime, quid pro quo, bribery, extortion, obstruction, every hour, every day throughout the 2-week testimonies by the star witnesses, auditioned and groomed by Schiff himself, enough to convert the whole nation? But, then, to hear this lukewarm, backsliding response from what Cnn’s fraternity/sorority has regarded as their prime choir boy?

But, no, Schiff lives up to his reputation as a shape shifter. He holds his ground: he has to reconsider, which in plain language means, give up.

I give him a lot of credit for this final shifting. At least his hearing is not impaired. He hears his own witnesses flatly and unanimously deny ever hearing Trump say the Javelins are conditioned on Ukraine’s Beiden investigation. We have known this all along because they have all averred their second hand or more remote hearing, prompting one Dem Congressman ignoramus to blurt out that hearsay is more reliable than direct hearing. The so-called witnesses don’t even get to meet Trump, let alone discuss with him his Ukraine policy.

There was one exception: Sondland, who, with access to Trump, decides to settle once and for all whether all the presumptions and impressions swirling about regarding quid pro quo are true or not, and asks Trump, point blank, what he wants from Ukraine in return for the Javelins. Trump’s answer: Nothing, no quid pro quo. Then the Javelins are released without Ukraine investigating Beiden. Brilliantly Schiff points out that the release is forced, “Because he got caught.” But other evidence shows that it is upon confirmation of Zelensky as a legitimate, non-corrupt Ukranian worthy of receiving the military aid, endorsed by a bipartisan group of investigators.

To dispel this “being caught” theory transcripts of the phone calls between Zelensky and Trump, long preceding possible “being caught” moments, are released for all to see in black and white. Beiden is noted as an example of corruption incidentally and no demand is made on his investigation.

Naturally, having seen enough of the Dem impeachment derangement, the Russian collusion delusion segueing to this Ukraine hallucination, and there’s no telling what it may morph into next, the majority of Americans now demand return to sanity and serious work. Schiff has heard from his electorate and is wisely backpedaling, ready to jump off the impeachment train before it falls off the cliff. I don’t think Nadler and Pelosi are too dumb to follow suit.

Death of an Alpha Male Lion

“Why so glum?” I ask.

“I’ve just watched a video on how ends the reign of an aging alpha male lion: mauling to death by a usurping young buck from the pride, perhaps one of his sons or grandsons,” answers J, a Korean high school alum of mine, class of 1956, naturalized and a half century resident of New Jersey. “Tongue hanging out, torn and dangling, I had no idea their tongues were so long, eyes bleeding and closing, broken legs dragging, he lurches and collapses, panting. The whole body twitches, feet pawing weakly, futilely. Then the chest heaves once and all goes still. Instantly flies land on his tongue and eyes, ants crawl all over him. Vultures gather and peck at him. Hyenas arrive and chase them off, before tearing at the carcass. A leopard comes along and claims the whole thing for himself but, bayed and harassed by the hyenas, takes off with a chunk of the rump. The hyenas dig in furiously, snapping at each other, tugging, spilling enough bits and pieces for the vultures and other opportunists. In a few hours there is no sign of the lion, except for some red seepages of blood on the soil, which however gets cleaned up in no time by ants, earthworms, weevils. No trace remains of His Highness, the king of the jungle, as if he has never been.”

“But that’s life, an eternal cycle of something to nothing, then back to something and…”

“As if it ever is something!”

“Well, it makes no difference whether you notice and moan about it or not.”

“That’s the pity of it,” J sighs, eyes filling.

An Atheist’s Endorsement of Prayer

“Did you really pray?” Y asks B, when he finally opens his eyes and rises to lead Y, his guest, to the fellowship hall long after his wife’s organ postlude. Yielding to B’s arm-twisting to come to their church’s Thanksgiving Sunday luncheon, Nov 24, 2019, an extravaganza, Y wants to resolve the enigma of B, well known as an atheist among their Korean American high school alums (Gyunggi 1956), living in conjugal harmony with a devout Christian that his wife is, bar none, and driving her to church every Thursday for choir rehearsal and Sunday for the service and choir singing.

“Yeah, it’s good therapy,” B answers airily. “Wishing something and fantasizing about it releases dopamine as quickly as meth with none of the latter’s awful side effects. Hence the longevity of those in habitual prayer. “

“But don’t you have to believe in God you pray to?”

“Not necessarily. Intent contemplation of the object prayed for is by definition pleasing and therapeutic with or without a bystander like God who probably is yawning, bored, having heard them all.”

Mean and Ornery as Ever, Actually Worse

It is our semi-annual high school reunion, class of 1956. Seated at two tables are 15 octogenarian Korean American men who have worked and lived in or near New York the last 5 or 6 decades. At the third table are ten wives. Some of us have tried to integrate, thinking the segregation sexist and un-American, but old habits win out and even serve a purpose: the boys can be themselves, dropping the inhibitions they would retain otherwise, as shown in the following discourse.

“How is your wife?” asks B.

“Mean and ornery as ever,” answers J, whose wife is at home, babysitting their grandchild. “Actually worse, finding fault with me the moment she wakes up and staying cranky and cross the whole day.”

“And her health?” asks B, who knows J’s wife to be a sweet woman. But, then, who knows what goes on between a couple in their privacy?

“Good, as good as in her youth or better,” replies J with a hint of resentment. He hasn’t been well lately.

“Perhaps you are the key to her well-being, enabling her to let go,” observes S, an endocrinologist. “Cussing and swearing is known to be wonderfully liberating and restorative.”

“Doggone it! I never looked at it that way. So her meanness is actually what keeps her going, like daily medicine.”

“Sure. So heal thyself, physician, with your own medicine.”

“How?”

“Cuss her out, deploying the worst of juvenile profanities, long suppressed or forgotten.”

“Like what?”

“지**할 년 ji**al nyun (m*f*ing bitch),” B gleefully obliges, half covering his mouth, a watchful eye on the female table. “Bring out the artillery, retooled and sharpened.”

“What if she thinks I’ve gone nuts, her the cause of it, and stops being mean altogether?”

“Well, that’s her misfortune, the beginning of the end,” S philosophizes. “We must all go some time.”

“But not before me,” J shouts. “I want her, not the hospice staff, to take care of me.”

“Go light on your medication then and wait for hers to swing back in,” B counsels.

“There is a chance she might never be mean after my first deployment,” J persists.

“Then you just fade into the sunset together, quiet and courteous to each other.”

Hail Trump, Terminator of al-Baghdadi, the ISIS Head Honcho!

On Oct 27, 2019, the ghost of ISIS was finally laid to rest upon self-explosion of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, its founder, in a US military operation vividly captured on film and watched in the White House Situation Room. Cornered like a rat at the dead-end of a tunnel, crying, whimpering, cringing, he pulls the cord on his explosive vest, the detonation bringing down the tunnel over his head, crushing not only himself but also his three sons.

Yes, he had to drag his own children to their death. Is it what children expect of their father? Of course not. He was not an ordinary father. He was a monster, who prided himself on inspiring misguided youths of Europe, America, Africa, and Asia to join him in burning people alive, lopping their heads off, dunking caged prisoners in deep water to drown, and committing other unspeakable horrors that set global mores and civilization all the way back to the primitive age.

America, nay, the world, can breathe a communal sigh of relief, giving credit where credit is due: Donald Trump, who, unfazed by the impeachment derangement of the fake media, does his job to protect America and the world, setting in motion the American military intelligence and might to pull off this masterpiece. Yes, when not suborned and submerged in the Washington swamp, the American intelligence can perform wonders, unmatched anywhere.

Hopefully, the video depicting the moment to moment special forces operation from start to finish will soon be released in its entirety, its rating guaranteed to go off the charts, so the world sees once and for all the mastermind of ISIS for the paltry, despicable psychopath and coward that he was. For once the fake media will, unless suicidal, hold their tongue and watch breathless.

ROKTOK or Repatriation Of Koreans To One Korea, a Supranational Movement

Wishing to return to our ancestral land, Korea, one nation from Mount Bagdoo to Mount Halla, we, Koreans dispersed throughout the world, urge:

(1) the USA and Russia to declare the latitude of 38 degrees north, the infamous 38th Parallel drawn arbitrarily across the waist of Korea to separate the post-World War II occupants, USA and USSR, after Japan’s expulsion, to be null and void upon their evacuation more than seven decades ago;

(2) all nations, especially Japan and China, to stop egging the two Koreas on to remain divided and at each other’s throats;

(3) South and North Korea to tear down the DMZ, the relic of the 38th Parallel and painful, shameful reminder of the Korean War (1950-53) that killed countless millions of our people as pawns of the Cold War; and

(4) all good people of the world sympathetic to our cause, whether ethnically Korean or otherwise, in or outside Korea, to rise up and join the supranational movement by contacting its world headquarters and country offices soon to be announced.

The High Point of Trump’s Bilateral Talks

If asked to name the most memorable of the score of bilateral talks Trump has had with other heads of state while attending the 2019 UN General Assembly in New York, one would have to pinpoint that single remark, “safer to talk on TV than on the phone,” uttered by Ukrainian President Zelensky, his comic genius hitting the bull’s-eye: US Democrats and fake media grabbing at a straw after the debacle of their Russia witch hunt.

Actually, it is safe, too, when heard by a slew of participants and eavesdroppers, translators, staffers, advisers, intelligence agents on both sides who can attest to the veracity of its transcript, which can be declassified and released, verbatim, unredacted, as it was on Sep 26, 2019, exposing and trivializing the anti-Trump psychosis.

Except for its unexpected dividend: highlighting the Biden graft to the tune of billions, even eclipsing the Clinton pay-for-play, and compelling Attorney General Barr to prosecute the Clinton and Biden duo.

Uncannily, far from hurting Trump, the whistleblower ends up helping him, so much so that it will surprise no one if the deranged anti-Trumpers now trumpet him as a Trump plant.

A pretty girl next door with a goiter

“Why is it that, as we age, we have harrowing regrets that just keep coming back?” asks Y, 82, a high school alum (1956).

“Give me an example,” I press.

“In the spring of 1951 I shot a sparrow sitting on a persimmon tree at the boundary of my grandparents’ house,” he narrates. “I saw it shoot up, then drop like a stone into the back yard of the house next door, a dozen yards below the edge of the property, the grandest in the village in Haynam, the southwestern tip of the peninsula. Our family had just fled south during the Big One-Four [1- 4-1951] Bugout when the Red Chinese Volunteers entered the war on the side of North Korea, pushing back MacArthur’s forward deployments.

“Lest the bird should recover and fly away, I climbed down the rock retaining wall to the neighbor’s lot. A door opened from a room in the rear and a girl stepped out, pretty with bright shining eyes, but with a neck swollen bigger than her face. She smiled brightly and said Hi. Without even a glance at her, let alone a response, forgetting all about the sparrow, I skedaddled.”

“That’s natural, a reflexive reaction to disease, perhaps contagious. You weren’t mean like calling her names as you ran or did you?”

“No. Frankly I was scared as if I had seen a ghost. But what still gets me is that she had a pretty face with such bright shining eyes, very much like those of Miriam, my 9-year-old granddaughter. She must have been about that age but never let out of the house, segregated from society like a leper. My sudden appearance outside her door must have seemed like an angel descending from heaven to befriend her. But, a callous coward, I fled, crushing her little heart, dooming her to her fate, her disfigurement, incurable by primitive Korean medicine at the time, and ostracism, through no fault of hers, like race, genes, … Why couldn’t I have been more kind to the poor girl!”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” I comfort him. “We have all been little heartless monsters at some point, maybe we all still are, just older, better at pretense.”

The Capitalist-Communist Manifesto: No Tax But A Limit On Inheritance

We hold these truths to be self-evident that, though equal with unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, we are different as individuals and call for a government of the people, for the people, by the people, dedicated, on the one hand, to the realization of individuality through competition that rewards innovation and diligence but, on the other, to compassion for those falling behind to be provided with a safety net under the guiding principle that we are all one, the human family, rich or poor.

NO TAX BUT A LIMIT ON INHERITANCE

Striking a balance between the two contraries, universal desire to leave something to one’s offspring and imperative for a level playing field, a person may bequeath tax free to each of his or her heirs up to whatever is deemed a statistical optimum for a median lifestyle, say $1,000,000 in 2019 values, the balance passing to the US treasury, the conveyor’s name and amount recorded, published, and memorialized in a manner agreeable to the conveyor, such as naming after him or her a conspicuous public monument, highway, bridge, building, park, beach, etc., if appraisal is commensurate to the value of the conveyance.

Without such legislation many successful people have willed their fortunes to churches, universities, foundations, and other causes. Ilhan Yoo, a Korean American, went back to Korea, founded a pharmaceutical fortune, and left its entirety, billions in today’s values, to South Korea, leaving nothing for his children, not even a house to live in, because, he said, they were well equipped to fend for themselves thanks to their elite upbringing and education.  

The trillions of dollars reverting to the American public as a result will more than finance food, housing, and medical relief to the poor, regardless of age.

The title of this manifesto may be inverted to Communist-Capitalist, or replaced by Conservative-Progressive, Conservative-Socialist, Conservative-Liberal, Competitive-Compassionate, Free Market-Regulated, Right-Left, etc., or their inversions, so long as they highlight the purpose, reconciliation of differences and animosities, extremes, that now threaten to wreck the Union.

Gorean Ghettos in South Korea

“There are about 55,000 Korean repatriates in South Korea from their global diaspora, mostly Central Asia, China, and Russia, somewhat like the Zionist movement of the Jews back to Israel, except for one difference: they live in Gorean ghettos to avoid being taunted and jeered as traitors?” reports B, 82, a high school alum, naturalized and resident in NY for over a half century.

Gorean is another way of anglicizing Korean, the sound 고 in 고려 phonetically falling halfway between the two.

“Traitors in what way?” I ask.

“Leaving Korea during the dark days of Japanese occupation instead of sticking it out.”

“A typical case of 적반하장, the thief picking up a whip to chastise his victim!” I shout in indignation. “Like the Jews two millennia ago fleeing Judea occupied by the Romans, our people fled Korea, hating the very idea of treading the same land, breathing the same air with the Japanese. To remain in Korea attending the schools the Japanese had built and seeking employment, promotion and success in their system was collaboration, betrayal, than which anything was better, even unspeakable hardship in climes and cultures unknown that often turned out hostile, downright murderous…”

“Especially those who went to Siberia who after, getting settled, got brutally uprooted and dumped in Central Asia by Stalin in 1937, as described in your Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan, amazon.com, now being serialized bilingually in the Korean New York Ilbo Daily.”

“The descendants of these heroes and patriots should be welcomed back to their ancestral land with open arms, not ostracized as some alien species. What is the South Korean attitude toward us Korean Americans who jumped ship a generation later, after the Korean War?”

“Ambivalent, because we are still better off than most South Koreans despite their phenomenal increase in wealth. But if Trump fails and the American might wanes, we will end up just another species of Goreans in our ghettos.”

“If we go back.”

“Right. Beware of repatriation, Korean Americans, however tough the going.”

Religion as Language

“What do you want?” rasps J, 82, a high school alum, when I call at the hospice, not expecting him to come to the phone. I had been emailing him that I was praying for his speedy recovery, that God would not abandon his beloved servant.

“I had to hear your voice,” I exclaim, ecstatic. We had survived war-ravaged Seoul during the mid-1950’s, rooming together. “Hallelujah, praise be to God!”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself talking like a believer when you know you are not?”

I had to turn down his arm-twisting to make me come and live near him in Washington, D.C., where he was pastor at a Korean mega-church.

“I speak English when speaking to Americans and Korean to Koreans. Christianity is the language of Christians…”

“Infidel! So you equate religion to language.”

“Absolutely. As sacred and inviolable are the grammar and idioms of one, so are the rituals and creed of the other. I intend to learn them perfectly, lest I be spotted as a second language learner.”

“Okay, go on fooling the natives, but in whatever language you may speak a terminal condition is terminal. I won’t last more than a few days, so let’s say goodbye. Hope to see you around, up there.”

“Sure but not on the same floor. You’ll be up on the roof top but me in the basement. Say, are we allowed to bring cell phones and laptops?”

“Ha, ha, you are a native all right. Keep talking…”

“J, J,” I shout, only to be met by the dial tone.

Korea, A Nation with No Real National Holiday

“We are the accursed of the world,” laments K, a Korean high school alum of mine (class of 1956), “with no rallying national holiday that brings Koreans together like Christmas for Christians or Fourth of July for Americans.”

“What about today, Aug 15, 2019, 74th anniversary of liberation from Japan?” I ask.

“Liberation? More like a day of infamy staging a change of the guards from Japanese to Soviet and American. For once North Korea has the right idea, erasing the day from memory. Unlike the Americans throwing out the British and gaining independence, we did zilch to ouster Japan.”

“But on Mar 1, 1919, the country rose up to march and shout hooray to Korean independence, nearly 10,000 getting killed.”

“Accomplishing nothing, only consolidating Japan’s hold on Korea, which would have gone on forever, unless WW II had come along and wrenched it off. No wonder there is no enthusiasm for it among Koreans, especially overseas Koreans like us who or whose ancestors have fled the country to live elsewhere like America.”

Rodent Infested East Baltimore: A Litmus Test for Racism

When Trump deplores the rodent infestation in East Baltimore, CNN, NBC, and their ilk jump all over him as a racist, taking offense especially at the word “infestation.” The next day Ben Carson, Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, comes out swinging in defense of Trump and reaffirms the horrible conditions there. Deliberately choosing almost identical vocabulary, he adds more graphic details based on his long residence in the area as a pediatrician, how at times he ordered additional tests for his young patients to delay their return to the rodent “infested” homes. But we don’t hear a peep about his being a racist.

For calling a spade a spade, using the same words, one is crucified but the other is not. Why? Because Carson is black and Trump is white and they are going strictly by the color of the skin, not by merit. But isn’t that called racism? Damn right! So who is the real racist here?

The fake media! Moreover, why is it that in their ferocity we detect such a strident ring of authenticity? Because these media pundits, mostly white, are projecting their inner soul, what’s deep inside them, their ineradicable white supremacist racism.  

Educated humanists, they have struggled long and hard with this unholy, un-American demon, to no avail. So, like a brood of chicks that mercilessly peck away at the wound of one of their number until it dies, they vent their frustration on a scapegoat, Donald Trump, whose success they cannot abide.

Interestingly, the key word that unleashes their mania to gang up on the patsy seems to be “infestation” as its denotation easily transfers from rodents to humans, the blacks. This duality of perception is innate in the white race, as shown in the sonnet sung by the Statue of Liberty, the mighty “white” woman with the torch, the protective goddess of immigrants. As she stretches her hand out to “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” she can’t help dropping an aside, sotto voce, “the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” Teeming, yes, infested, hideous!

Would I as an Asian, a yellow man and therefore colored and not white, be accorded the same immunity as Carson if I portrayed East Baltimore as rat infested? Or does one have to be totally black, not just colored (though to date I haven’t seen a yellow Asian unless jaundiced)? Bizarre and grotesque is this latest American media binge of self-flagellation.

The Squad Serves a Purpose

“What percentage of the US population does the call to Communism by the Squad of freshmen Congresswomen resonate with?” S asks.

“About 55%, because that many are dirt poor and would like nothing better than to take from the rich,” I answer offhand.

“Then America, a democracy where head count rules, will turn Communist momentarily,” S is alarmed.

“Not anytime soon, because of upward mobility. For example, getting paid $200 grand a year in wages and a lot more in tips, living in multi-million dollar homes, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, formerly enemies of the proletariat, and birthing kids who expect them to endow a library, lab, or chair to get into top schools despite their low SAT scores, the Squad will soon sing a different tune, litanies in praise of capitalism, and urge their followers to do a one-eighty. Just as we have.”

“I remember you shouting ‘Equal share of wealth for all’ in our social studies class one day.”

“Oh that. I had just read the Communist Manifesto.”  

“No. Most of us were with you, though the old teacher, startled, had to tell you to go to North Korea. During the early 50’s in Korea, the war still raging or just ended, we were all starving and were mad at the elite, politically well-connected, with a lock on industry and finance. That’s why we came here.”

Some 5 dozen or so of us, high school alums in the class of 1956, have lived in the US upwards of 6 decades, naturalized, in their 80’s, financially established, some with a net-worth approaching 10 digits thanks to the Trump boom.

“No chance of the Squad winning us over,” S reflects. “Only if they would read what the protagonist Peter Bach says about Communism in your novel, The Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan, amazon.com:

A naïve, dangerous, and ultimately self-defeating ideology, Senator, based on a misconception of human nature. Humans will be most productive when they compete for a larger, not equal, share of wealth. A huge bureaucracy, installed to replace free market competition, will in time grind down and implode for lack of motivation and built-in indolence.

“But the Squad serves a purpose,” I surmise, “sounding a wakeup call lest we get embroiled in upheavals like the French Revolution of 1792 or the Russian Revolution of 1917 by making America anything less than a land of opportunity for lack of fluid upward mobility.”

Mueller as “Exonerator” Flies in the Face of Presumption of Innocence

Jul 24, 2019, the day of Mueller’s pathetic performance before Congress, will go down as another day of infamy that has irretrievably trashed those in the upper echelons of government, especially those with the power to investigate, indict, and imprison Americans.

The Dems and fake media are having a field day quoting Mueller’s smug reaffirmation that his report does not exonerate Trump, not aware that he thereby directly contradicts presumption of innocence, that is, exoneration, before proven guilty. By declaring that his report “does not exonerate,” Mueller turns this principle on its head. As pointed out by Ratcliffe, nowhere in American criminal law is an investigator or prosecutor authorized to exonerate or not exonerate. Yet he, one time FBI Director, the nation’s top law man, does not know it. Nevertheless, amazingly, the American system elevates a cretin like him to such eminence, as it does another specimen, Comey, who flagrantly fails to prosecute Hillary though finding her extremely negligent.

Not understanding or recognizing citations from his own report, thereby transforming the “Mueller report” into a “staff report,” Mueller does not follow Collins’s line of reasoning that having reversed his own previous distinction of “collusion” and “conspiracy,” only the latter criminally chargeable, by saying that in common parlance they are synonymous, Mueller is concluding that no charge can be brought against Trump for lack of indictable collusion or conspiracy, not because he is a sitting President.

Mueller has difficulty comprehending Jordan’s simple question why he has charged so many of Trump’s associates with perjury whereas he has let go scot free the initiators of the disinformation that has launched Mueller’s investigation and tied up the nation in knots, getting no real work done, namely, Simpson of Democrat-funded Fusion GPS who procures the infamous Steele dossier or Mifsud who first tells Papadopoulos that Russians have dirt on Hillary, both said to have lied repeatedly to the FBI in the report. When he does at last, he dodges, saying he can’t go into charging decisions, confirming the bias Jordan is highlighting, oblivious to his “good news” that such evasion on Mueller’s part only dooms his fate in the investigation of investigators being unleashed by Barr and Durham.

As well as arousing indignation the day of infamy gives pause to parents, especially naturalized citizens, who encourage their children to go to law school and seek government employment, in particular with DOJ or FBI, as it looks like a short cut to power.

Stoning the Adulteress: A Cause for Feminist Ire?

“Apart from repealing medical privacy to deter adultery would you consider stoning the guilty as set forth in the Bible?” I ask B in jest, continuing our discussion (see Down with Medical Privacy, a Shelter for Adultery, 7-19-2019, typakmusings.com).

“Not if enforced only against the woman,” explodes B, who has six granddaughters he adores. “In the single reference to its enforcement the accusers bring to Jesus only the woman for stoning (John 8:4). By daring the sinless among them to cast the first stone he causes the mob to disperse but I am disappointed with him for not demanding the production of the guy, her partner in sin, probably her seducer and more culpable, as a procedural requirement at the outset.”

“Perhaps the bias against women was too entrenched even for him to rectify,” I hazard. “The Book was written by men who controlled money and owned women like chattel.”

“My girls, educated professionals, are no men’s chattel and won’t stand for such lop-sided justice. My heart bleeds for the countless women that have perished so cruelly. Imagine a hail of stones pelting you from all directions. One hits you in the shank, breaking the tibia, but before you reach down reflexively to touch the wound, another hits you smack in the eye popping it out, and so on until you fall dead.”

“That reminds me of a picture I saw way back, a tribe of aborigines in Australia shooting poison darts, the kind used for hunting boars, at an adulterous man up in a tree, hopping from branch to branch to avoid being hit.”

“How horrible! Does that sort of thing still go on?”

“No. Now everywhere both partners in sin equally share guilt and punishment. Civil, not criminal, because divorce, division of property, alimony, child support, custody, visitation, reconfiguration of social, occupational relationships are felt to be punitive enough in a modern urban society.”

Down With Medical Privacy, A Shelter for Adultery!

“I am suing Kaiser?” seethes B, a high school alum of mine, naturalized, and 6-decade resident in this country.

“What about?” I ask, surprised.

“They wouldn’t give me my wife’s lab test results nor let me make an appointment for her, saying she should call. I explained she was at work and had asked me to take care of it but that snooty receptionist refused, invoking medical privacy. I identified myself as her husband, giving my Social Security Number, date of birth, etc., but no dice.”

“It’s not just Kaiser but all medical service providers that are bound by the same rule.”

“Even between husband and wife? I know every inch of Jungja’s body.”

“Yeah, but there can still be secrets.”

“Like what?”

“Like genetic problems running in the family that she would rather keep to herself.”

“No, we had full disclosure early on, prior to having children. My grandfather died of a stroke but otherwise no genetic disease to speak of on my side. Hers is clean, too. There is nothing we hide from each other.”

“Unlike you, other husbands or wives may have things to hide from each other, though not genetic.”

“Like what?”

“Someone contracting an STD by extramarital sex will defend medical privacy tooth and nail so he or she can get it treated without the spouse’s knowledge.”

“Disgusting! So its sole purpose is to protect and encourage adultery on a national scale. No wonder there is so much cheating and divorce going on. We should launch a national movement to abolish it and save the country from moral decay and perdition.”

“How?”

“Start at the grass roots, talk to our pastors and get it going within our churches, then expand to other churches in town, in the county, in the state, in the whole nation. The ground swell of moral indignation will compel the Congress to repeal medical privacy between husband and wife.”

“It may be tough going because privacy of whatever stripe is sacrosanct in the American psyche like a basic human right. Particularly tough will be the last hurdle, Congress, few of its members untouched by an affair, perhaps thereby accurately representing their constituencies.”

To Assimilate or Not To, That is the Question!

Episode 38 of July 17, 2019, in the serialization of The Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan, amazon.com, in the New York Ilbo Daily, attached below, is the scene where Seiji Oda, 25, a top-ranking Japanese official in the Government General, Korea, a colony of Japan (1910-45), is having lunch with Dr. Ina Yoon, 25, a brilliant ER resident at Seoul Imperial University Medical Center, who thinks Seiji a rich and influential fellow countryman with good connections to the Government General and capable of securing the release of her fiance, poet laureate of Korea, held on charges of sedition for inspiring the independence uprising of March 1, 1919, with his stirring verses.   

Epitomized is the terrible conflict Koreans must have faced over the issue of Japanese name adoption (창씨), somewhat reminiscent of what most Americans or immigrant groups worldwide must experience, at least in the first or second generation: whether to assimilate to the mainstream or preserve their distinctive identity and heritage, a matter of pride but also a cause for marginalization.

The dilemma gives us pause about the simplistic denunciation of 친일파 chinilpa, pro-Japanese toadies, by some vocal Korean patriotic groups shortly after liberation from Japan in 1945.

One laudable thing Syngman Rhee, South Korea’s first president (1948-60), does is massive employment and advancement of the chinilpa. Not because he is wise or magnanimous but because otherwise the country would have come to a screeching halt. Not only the educated and professional but the whole Korean population was chinil if they went to school, looked for good jobs, strove for success.

The predicament recurs throughout the novel, as it tracks the Korean diaspora to Siberia, Central Asia, Japan, and America.

Readers are urged to forward the series to friends and have them write to EySong0726@hotmail.com for free electronic subscription and back issues.

******************************************************

         “On the contrary we feel preordained. Our marriage will bring about their reconciliation,” she said with finality and confidence. “Enough said about me and Jongnay. It’s time you told me who you are. Why on a Sunday don’t you stay home and eat the food your wife cooks?”

         “반대로 우리는 그렇게 운명지여 졌다고 봅니다. 단 우리의 결혼은 두 집안을 화해 시킬 것입니다” 하고 그녀는 단호하게 자신 만만한 어조로 말했다. “나와 종내에 대하여는 할만큼 얘기를 많이 했습니다. 이제 선생님이 누구인지 말해줄 차례가 되였습니다. 왜 오늘같은 일요일 날 집에 계시며 부인이 차려 주는 음식을 들지 않으십니까?”

         “I have no wife,” Seiji said. “I’ve never been married.”

         “나는 처가 없습니다” 세이지가 말했다. “한번도 결혼한 적이 없습니다.”

         “I am sorry. I assumed….” Ina suddenly felt irritated. “Who are you?”

         “죄송합니다. 그런줄 모르고…” 인아는 갑자기 신경질이 났다. “도대체 누구 십니까?”

         At first Seiji considered evasion with a joke but thought better of it after one glance at her intense gaze, demanding a straight answer. 

         처음에는 농으로 넘겨보려 했으나 솔직한 답을 요구하는 그녀의 강한 응시를 보고 마음을 바꿨다.

         “I have a Japanese name.”

         “나는 일본 이름을 가졌습니다.”

         “Oh, your family has adopted a Japanese name, too,” she said, well aware that adoption of Japanese names, to be made compulsory in a few more years under the stepped-up policy of Japanization, was still only voluntary, though strongly encouraged with various incentives like employment and advancement. As a result many Korean families had taken Japanese names, either completely or alongside their Korean names.

         “아, 당신 집안에서도 일본 이름을 채택하셨군요”하고 그녀는 일본 이름 채택이 수년 후면 강화된 일본화 정책하에 강제되나 고용 승진 면에서 여러 가지 혜택으로 강력하게 권장되고 있으나 아직은 자의에 맡겨져 있음을 알면서 말했다. 결과적으로 많은 조선인 가족들이 일본 이름을 완전히 또는 조선 이름과 병행하여 쓰고 있었다.

         “Hasn’t your father considered it?”

         “댁의 아버님은 이걸 고려하지 않으셨습니까?”

         “He has but hesitates, for fear our ancestors might turn over in their graves. So what is your Japanese name?”

         “고려했지만 우리 조상들이 무덤에서 놀라 뒤틀릴까 봐 주저하십니다. 그럼 댁의 일본 이름이 뭡니까?”

         “Seiji Oda.”

         “세이지 오다.”

         “Do you still use your Korean name along with your Japanese?”

         “일본 이름에 병행해서 조선 이름도 계속 쓰십니까?”

         “I don’t have any Korean name,” Seiji said after a beat.

         “조선 이름은 없습니다” 하고 잠간 지체후 세이지가 말했다.

         “What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. “You mean you have made a clean break with your Korean heritage?”

         “무슨 뜻입니까?” 하고 그녀는 어리둥절하여 물었다. “조선의 전통과는 깨끗이 인연을 끊으셨다는 의미입니까?”

         “I have no Korean heritage,” Seiji said.

         “내게는 조선의 전통은 없습니다” 하고 세이지가 말했다.

         “You mean figuratively, of course.”

         “물론 비유적인 의미에서요.”

         “No, literally. I am Japanese.”

         “아니요. 문자 그대로 입니다. 나는 일본 사람입니다.”

         “By birth?”

         “태생이요?”

         “Yes.”

         “네.”

         “Mr. Oda, are you by any chance related to Katsuo Oda, Minister of the Treasury and leader of the Liberal Party?” She had read about the Odas of Osaka, descended from Nobunaga Oda, the first man to almost unify Japan. The family had controlling interests in the Bank of Japan, Hinomaru Shipping, Shimizu Gumi Construction, among others.

         “오다씨, 혹 대장성 장관이며 자유당 지도자 가쓰오 오다와 인척 관계가 되십니까?” 그녀는 일본을 처음으로 거의 통일한 노부나가 오다로부터 내려온 오사가의 오다 가문에 대하여 읽은 바가 있었다. 그 집안이 일본 은행, 히노마루 해운, 시미즈 구미 건축 기타 많은 업체의 지배 이권을 장악하고 있었다.

         “He is my father,” Seiji admitted.

         “그 분이 제 아버지입니다” 하고 세이지가 실토했다.

         “What are you doing in the backwater of Korea?” Ina asked with an effort at nonchalance, disguising her alarm and bewilderment. She could not figure out why he had undertaken to be Jongnay’s champion. Had it been some kind of trap?

         “조선같은 벽지에서 뭘 하고 계십니까?” 하고 그녀의 놀람과 당혹을 감추고 태연 자약을 노력하며 물었다. 왜 이자가 종내의 옹호자로 나섰는지 알 수가 없었다. 이 모든 것이 하나의 덫이였던가?

A Tribute to Park Place, the Shangri-la of Norwood, NJ

Dear Jin Lee,

         Our first plenary meeting of the new Board last night, Jul 2, 2019, turned Park Place from an array of stately but forbidding castles into a community of affable and agreeable denizens, all committed to preserving and enhancing the beauty and dignity, even grandeur, of their neighborhood, a shangri-la at the foot of the majestic forest that rises gently, irresistibly to the crest, beribboned by the Palisades Parkway and overlooking the Hudson with a panoramic view of Manhattan and its environs. 

Ownership here despite the high taxes and maintenance bespeaks financial status but I cannot suppress the urge to discover everybody’s occupation, the one thing that tells more about a person than even net worth and therefore a taboo and assiduously avoided by well-mannered Americans. Well, who cares? I am the Korean boor, too old to learn. My nosiness pays off and I know what my neighbors do, what their values and goals are, to be exhilarated by their exceptional accomplishments in their respective fields. Verily feel I live among the chosen.

Meeting Sangjo Kim for the first time and thinking him a kid just out of college, I ask pointblank how he manages to live in Park Place, hinting that he is probably born with a silver spoon. Lo and behold, he turns out to be an established anesthesiologist! Michael Laginestra, accessible, always ready and glad to share his knowledge and experience, generous with praise and encouragement, turns out to be a multimillionaire with business interests all over the country. Ben and Susan Gutmann, my closest neighbors, who host the meeting, are captains of industry with a global clientele, including Korean businesses. I know Sam Park to be independently wealthy, free to take on the nitty gritty of Park Place presidency, interviewing contractors, checking their references, inspecting their performances, a full time job, somewhat like Trump donating all his salaries. I haven’t found out what SK Kim does, a tad older than Sangjo but not by much, who has the dash and verve of an up and coming CEO. Determined, nevertheless, to buttonhole him after the meeting, I look around and find him checking the terrain and storm drains with Ben Gutmann, as responsible Board members should.

Jin, I am glad I have asked for your business card, confirming everybody’s knowledge of your unique qualification to sit on the Board, as there may be potential litigations involving delinquencies and other issues that threaten the financial health of Park Place. Like the homeowner who has put up a fence behind his house on the mountainside and reengineered the storm drains to interfere with the community system. Two notices of correction have been serenely ignored. But nobody is really worried all that much. We can hire and get the work done, then send him the bill, a deep pocket owning the biggest Korean supermarket chain in the States, the bill certified by your law offices to be more persuasive.

By the way, 11 of the 19 homeowners are Korean, immigrants ranging from one to six decades in this country but equally passionate in their attachment to real estate, second nature to them. Undaunted by the downturn in the NJ housing market because of the irrational property tax rate, they doggedly hold on for the next inevitable upswing, in the meantime making serious upgrades inside and out, with frequent reference to the Bylaws regarding the exterior.

         From their glowing emails immediately afterwards I am glad other attendees have found the meeting enjoyable and informative. I hope this letter to you will put you in our group mail list. 

         Also I write to apologize. Asked by the Board to bring as many home owners to the meeting as possible and eager to show myself as a worthy asset, I screw up my courage and go over to your front door at 5:40 p.m. to invite your father to the house next-door, presuming on my acquaintance with him, however fleeting. Apparently caught at a bad time he refuses. So I try to give him some issues of the Korean New York Ilbo Daily which is serializing my novel, The Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan, running to the 27th installment as of today. A couple of years my senior he would find the subject matter interesting, I think.  But he declines, pleading his poor eyesight. That’s no problem, though, with online magnification. Attached therefore are the first introductory article and the 16th installment, featuring the recurring motif, love at first sight, that transformative vision of the opposite sex guaranteeing our survival as a species. Perhaps you can help him write to EySong0726@hotmail.com and ask for free subscription for daily email delivery and for back issues. I hope you’ll give it a read, too. 

          Ty Pak

P.S. Trying to figure out how to insert the files.

An Epitaph to a Noble Breed of Canines and Human Ingratitude

“A poop-eating dog sees only poop everywhere (똥개 눈에는 똥 밖에 안 보인다).”

I drop the Korean adage to describe the frenzy of some Democrats who still find fresh evidence of Russian collusion in everything Trump does during and since his election, even after presentation of the Mueller report to Congress on April 18, 2019, with necessary redactions.

“Eat what?” snaps S, 62, a Korean who immigrated to the States in 1975 and puts on airs as an old timer, more American than American and ardently anti-Trump, as may be expected.

“Coprophagy,” I say, betting he hasn’t heard the term.

“From Greek phagein ‘to eat’ and copros ‘feces’.” His erudition is impressive. “But what has it got to do with a mutt, ddong-gay 똥개?”

“Because the very word means poop-eating dog,” I explain patiently.

“Begging your pardon, Professor,” he spits out the honorific, “ddong-gay has 2 syllables, the first feces, the other dog, meaning a crappy mongrel.”

“No,” I protest, “these dogs cleaned up after us. When as babies we made mess, generally diarrheal, they came in and licked up the anus, buttocks, thighs, bedding. Unable to afford cloth diapers that needed washing every time most families kept dogs for the purpose, disposable diapers unknown. Then, these dogs make the ultimate sacrifice, feeding …”

I stop, noting that my historical perspective is lost on S, now busy tapping his fingers on his i-Pad.

“Look here, Professor,” he thrusts the screen triumphantly before me. “똥개 is defined as mutt, mongrel, cur, with no mention of copraphagy, certainly not on human feces.”

Deflated, I go home and look through the Korean dictionaries and encyclopedias, including the Korean version of Wikipedia. Indeed there is no mention of the real etymology for my breed of canines. Equally untraceable is the adage, based on it. In a decade or two after I left Korea my native language metamorphoses beyond recognition, at least as far as this word is concerned, the country in the meantime becoming a mini-America: dogs are pets with animal rights, fed on dog food, toilet trained, picked after, and interred in cemeteries with tombstones, while eating dog meat, once a national staple, becomes abhorrent like cannibalism.

I can now understand S’s disdain for a fuddy-duddy like me, why he twists his mouth to get out “Professor,” as the stuffy Korean code dictates, instead of being on a first name basis. Only if he’d read my post (see Donald, Champion of Political Incorrectness, Mandate the First Name Basis Across the Board by Executive Order One!, 9-11-2015, typakmusings.com)! But that’s in English. When speaking Korean, we have no option but to stay in our lanes, registers of speech determined by seniority and rank (see American English and Radical Democracy, 9-5-3025, typakmusings.com).

In defiance I start writing an epitaph: “To the memory of the noble breed, caprophagic canine servers joyfully cleaning up after babies …”

Suddenly I am struck by the incongruity of this with the maxim, “A poop-eating dog sees only poop everywhere,” the poop eater here definitely not held in high esteem.

Then I recall watching at age 5 or 6 our beloved and faithful Goldie, so named because of his glorious golden hair, being strangled for his meat, probably the only source of animal protein in those days. I still remember his glazed eyes of rebuke fixed on me.

The epitaph now reads: To the noble breed of coprophagic canines despite human ingratitude. Strictly forbidden is citation or application of that irreverent dictum about canine obsession with excrement to Russian collusion delusion or anything else, however to the point, even among the fuddy-duddies who understand its metaphor.

Fine Dust from China

On Mar 4, 2019, a couple in their thirties, both native-born Americans of Korean descent, take their two daughters, 3 and 1, on a flight to Korea for a 2-week vacation. Upon deplaning at the destination after 12 hours of flight, however, they get immediately engulfed in a thick fog of fine dust, the worst on record, and have to put on masks, to no avail. In a day or two everyone of them comes down with one form or another of respiratory and pulmonary disorder, coughing, wheezing, scratchy throat, runny nose, the worst happening to the youngest, high fever and difficulty breathing from pneumonia. She has to be rushed to the ER by ambulance.

After two weeks of vigils night and day and a succession of pediatric and specialist clinics and labs taking hours to navigate a few blocks, congested worse than in Manhattan, they limp back home, miraculously alive, though the young one seems still to hover on the brink.

“We should make the Chinese pay for this,” mutters K, the 82-year-old grandfather, almost in tears, looking at his youngest granddaughter’s haggard face.

“But they deny responsibility, Dad,” the father points out.

“Deny responsibility when on airvisual.com and earth.nullschool.net you can track real time the dust airborne back to China, ruthlessly deforested and desertified in its quest for rich-quick industrialization?”

“Korea is too small to force China to do the right thing.”

“Don’t go to Korea,” K orders in disgust. “I left it six decades ago because, among other reasons, it couldn’t stand up for itself.”

“But it’s still my ancestral land,” the son declares. “We’ll go back maybe next year when the girls will have more immunity. Even if they don’t, its medical services are superb and cheap, too, one-tenth of the US rates. No wonder they live longer than us.”

Darkest Before Dawn?

Japanese colonial oppression of Korea peaked as World War II was ending in 1945. A 7-year-old kid growing up in Korea, I heard my elders whisper, “It’s darkest before dawn,” and saw it come true with Japan’s withdrawal soon afterwards.

Then, during the last days of the 3-month North Korean occupation of Seoul at the start of the Korean War (Jun 25, 1950 – Jul 27, 1953), I heard the adage repeated among the ordinary citizenry, not in collaboration with the conquerors and starved, in constant fear of house raids and street roundups, futilely diving into makeshift shelters against bombs and shells unleashed from the sky and the sea in support of MacArthur’s landing at Incheon to liberate the capital. Watching the US Marines march into the city, I, a 7th grader, reaffirmed the truth of the dictum, “Darkest before dawn.”

Later, my English studies led me to its equivalents: “It is always darkest just before the day dawneth,” found in Thomas Fuller’s travelogue (1650), probably putting in print what’s already around, or “The darkest hour of all is the hour before day” in Samuel Lover’s Irish Songs and Ballads (1858). Koreans could have adopted the translation from the English, Irish, and American missionaries, the westernizers of Korea, but my cultural pride inclines me to think it a universal motif popping up independently.

Lately, during a Korean high school reunion (class of 1956) of those living in the northeast of America the conversation turned to the threatened Barr probe into the Mueller investigation and, lamenting the spiraling rancor of US party politics, I happened to drop the aphorism.

“We always went out on our penetration missions across the DMZ predawn when visibility was at its shortest,” interjects B, formerly with the Korean Army Special Forces.  

“Because it’s darkest?” I ask, intrigued by this literal vista of the maxim opening up.

“Not necessarily,” offers K, a former air controller. “Thick fog, smog, or fine Chinese dust in Korea can zero out visibility even at midday.”

“Did you mount any of your missions during the day because of zero visibility?” I persist.

“No, always shortly before daybreak,” B clarifies. “Remember it was the late 50’s when there was no smog, no fine dust nor yellow rain, Chinese desertification not starting until a couple of decades later when Deng hugs Nixon.”

Determined to see how much factual validity there was to this old proverb I woke up at 4 a.m. on two successive mornings, Apr 23 and 24, 2019, two hours before the 6 a.m. sunrise in my area to give an hour’s lead to the Irish hour, and watched. At no point, especially at 5 a.m., did any dip, sudden or subtle, occur in visibility or illumination.

Another myth laid to rest (see The Myth of the Pre-Death Panoramic Epiphany, 12-26-2018, typakmusings.com)!

Instead of triumph, however, I am gripped with grief over our gullibility or need for it. To dramatize and impart a finality to the message, perseverance no matter how tough the going, our collective imagination pounces on a fact statement not likely to be challenged for veracity: acutely sleepy before getting up for the day few would bother to fact-check. I wouldn’t have, either, except for that darn B disturbing my metaphorical serenity. If asked about the success rate of those predawn missions of his, bound to be iffy as the basis is faulty science, he would have attributed it to the North Koreans wising up and getting ready.

The Scourge of Romantic Love

“A Korean high school alum of mine, class of 1956, naturalized over half a century ago and resident in NY, is devastated,” I report. “Jilted, his grandson, 16, killed himself by jumping off a 500-foot cliff. A math genius, precociously enrolled at a ranking university, he was the hope and pride of the whole family. My friend, the 82-year-old grandpa, blames himself for coming to America to start his American dynasty. Actually, I feel partly responsible because, singing America the Beautiful, I had urged him to immigrate, though he doesn’t seem to remember.”

“The boy would have killed himself in Korea, unless the culture is different there and does not blow sex out of proportion into the hallucinogen, romantic love, that kills Romeo and Juliet,” Tom reasons.

“Not to the extent of Greek and Roman deification of love as a goddess with modern romantic sublimation via Medieval courtly love, compliments of your greatest writers, artists, musicians,” I point out.

“The drug cartel,” he snorts.

“But Korea has earthy folklore and folksong galore that takes for granted obsession with one’s object of love, which perhaps argues its universality,” I conjecture wildly, “with perhaps an evolutionary design: to snare and bind a breeding pair so they stay together long enough to raise the young and ensure the survival of the species.”

“So we end up with 7 billion and counting, 8, 10, 15, …a trillion,” he shudders. “We’ve got to reconfigure this blind engine, romantic love, before it suffocates us all.”

“Do you therefore dismiss love-engendered fatalities like my friend’s grandson as some kind of natural selection?” I challenge his seeming insensitivity.

“Not at all,” he retorts. “Romantic love reconfigured or, more correctly, gutted, will kill two birds with one stone, preventing your Romeo and Juliet tragedies.”

“Except this case is a little different: unrequited love, unlike Romeo and Juliet, the love birds.” I add, “With an American twist: the girl’s white parents didn’t care for an Asian son-in-law, however smart.”

“Poor boy!” Tom laments. “Only if he had torn off the blinders and looked around at the dozens, hundreds of nubile females available and interchangeable, white, yellow, black, brown, …”

“Unfortunately, once caught in the trap of romantic love, interchangeability is anathema, simply unthinkable.”

“There is only one way to save humanity from the monomaniac fixation of romantic love: reduction of its ultimate goal, orgasm by coitus, to excretion,” Tom declares agitatedly. “The program should start early, like preschool. The toddlers will undress and pee and poop in plain view of each other to familiarize themselves with their excretory anatomy with gender differentiation, soon to be supplemented in elementary school by physical education that incorporates induced orgasm so as to reduce it to the third dimension of excretion in addition to the two they already know.”

“But how do you induce orgasm with these little kids?” I ask aghast.

“Masturbation and communal manual excitation of the penis or clitoris of the next kid in a circle, for example, a phys ed routine like basketball, gymnastics, or what have you.”

“You are kidding, right?” I shake my head. “Parents will tar and feather you for even thinking such thoughts about their darling little angels.”

“But these angels do it anyway, only in secret and in shame, with untold psychological damage that renders them more susceptible to romantic love,” Tom shouts. “This way we bring it out into the open and trivialize it, so Romeo wouldn’t kill himself because he knows there is a whole ocean of Juliets out there.”  

“Just for argument’s sake, does the inducement of orgasm include coitus?”

“Absolutely not. Penile penetration of the vagina is forbidden and allowed once or twice after marriage in estrus strictly for planned breeding purposes upon proof of the couple’s financial capability by depositing, say, $10 million per child in escrow, to see the new born through graduate or professional school.”

“You mean only 0.1% of the population can fuck their wives and that only as many times as the number of children they can have in their whole lives?” I scream. “Now you’ll have the whole world coming after you.”

“Only the primitive antediluvian males, prior to our new phys ed regimen, but not the women, not even the antediluvians, who have never really wanted it, only enduring it all these millions of years, partly because of the faint hope during estrus for this marginal means of achieving orgasm but mainly because of their economic dependence on men who thought vaginal penetration the only road to heaven. With the new educational system in place a new era of peace and creativity dawns on humanity: with fewer of us around, population under control and freed from the scourge of romantic insanity, cooperation will be the guiding principle, not competition, and prepare us for intergalactic exploration.”

To Hunt Down the Witch Hunters or Not To, That Is the Question

“It’s like pulling teeth but he gets his words out at last,” I summarize Barr’s Congressional testimony on Apr 9, 2019, and its impact. “Spying has occurred against Trump, he says, the genesis and conduct of which should be looked into to ensure that governmental agencies with investigative powers operate properly, that is, drive in their assigned lanes, his figure of speech. Understandably, the Dems and fake media are up in arms, in a conniption fit, calling him Trump’s running dog, not the Attorney General of the United States.”

“Funny they use a canine metaphor because with his jowls and growls he looks a bit like a bull dog,” grunts Tom, the misanthrope, my nonagenarian neighbor. “He’ll bite big time, though, a new traffic cop in town. They’ll get what’s coming, these Trump haters: massive and swift indictments and prison terms.”

“But wouldn’t it create a never-ending feud cycle, Dems biding their time to get back at Reps, and so on, in the meantime national security and economy kicked aside?” I give him a synopsis of the four centuries of partisan politics in Korea which enables Japan to trample it down at will in 1592 and finally colonize it in the first half of the 20th century, to be liberated only in 1945 by the US. “Wouldn’t it be presidential of Trump to lean on Barr to go easy, content with the moral victory, burying the Dems and fake media in their eternal shame?”

“Was your Korean dynasty a constitutional democracy like ours?” Tom asks.

“No. Democracy is America’s gift, barely half a century old.”

“Then the Korean analogy does not apply. We have partisan politics, too, but in the end all parties submit to the rule of law as set forth in the Constitution, aware that the alternative, crime unpunished and justice ignored, is the road to hell. The evil-doer gloats over his escape as vindication and victory and waits for an opportunity to strike back, gathering sympathizers and fellow travelers, weakening and destroying the body politic.”

“But the fake media keep spinning,” I point out. “Unrepentant and defiant, Schiff, Brennan, CNN, NBC go on characterizing the looming Barr investigation as a Spanish Inquisition.”

“Luckily, we live in the internet age and won’t be hoodwinked by them, there being countervailing sources of information like Fox News, tweets by Trump supporters, blogs like yours, showing what these Witch Hunters have done – buying the phony Steele dossier to obtain the FISA warrant and authorizing surveillance on the Trump campaign and subsequent Mueller investigation, which violates the core American value, freedom from such tyranny. Even the hard-core Dems will recoil from the implications of the Witch Hunt and acquiesce in the culprits’ fall and punishment. Sure the convicted felons will grind their teeth and plot revenge but the public at large will ignore them and the feud cycle you fear will never get off the ground.”

“How wide should Barr prosecute, CIA, FBI, Congress, fake media?” I ask, shuddering.

“Let the chips fall where they may. You are mistaken, though, to think that Trump faces some kind of dilemma, whether to be magnanimous and forgive all those awful attacks, or clean up the house, drain the swamp, once and for all, to prevent recurrence of such misuse of power that may hamstring future administrations, somewhat reminiscent of Hamlet’s soliloquy:

To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.

He opts to oppose and end the offenders. But Trump does not have to choose. Barr will do it, not as his running dog but as US AG to uphold the Republic.”

Tom, the Recluse, My Nearest Neighbor

For four years after moving into the gated community neighbors had been telling me about Tom the Recluse, piquing my curiosity. Though sharing the same driveway I had not run into him until about a couple of months ago in February, 2019, when there was the first respectable snowfall of the season, dumping close to a foot overnight.

At 4 a.m. I came out the front door holding the garbage wrapped in a shopping bag. It was too early for the snow crew to show up. Gingerly I pulled up one sinking foot after another down the walkway knee-deep in snow, hoping it would keep the deer and other scavengers away. I needed to sleep past the garbage pickup time having worked through the wee hours to post an article on my blog, typakmusings.com. Normally, upon hearing the truck around 8, I would run out with my offering to zero out the possibility of the bag being torn up and the mess scattered. I had the Borough take back its trash and recycle bins, hating to take them back in. Catching on, a few of the neighbors mimicked my practice, though I couldn’t determine whether they had the bins returned, too. With a degree of satisfaction I had noticed Tom, the Recluse, to be among the copycats.

A thud and a yell jerked me out of my trance. A figure lay prostrate at the foot of the 35-degree driveway. Throwing down my bag I ran to him, losing my footing a few times.

The ice on the pavers must have caused the poor guy to slip and fall backward, then slide straight down on his back like a toboggan, his garbage bag flung aside.

“Let me help you up,” I whispered, thrusting my hand under his shoulder. He stirred, came to, and tried to get up on his own, disoriented, arms flailing. I helped him up. Muttering, he pulled away, picked up the bundle, and placed it by his mailbox post.

“Are you okay?” I asked anxiously. Grunting, he went back into his house through the open garage door, which came clattering down behind him.

Stung by his rudeness, though forewarned, but concerned that the trauma to his head, unawares, might have serious consequences like a concussion or intracerebral hemorrhage, I went up to his front door and knocked. No response. I banged louder, shouting his name. No sound or stir inside. Panicked that he might have collapsed, possibly on the verge of death, I came back to my house and called 911. An ambulance and two squad cars arrived. The patrolmen and medics converged on the house, some going around to the deck in the back facing the woods.

“What’s all this commotion about?” Tom opened the front door, resplendent in full nightgown regalia.

“Are you all right, sir?” one medic asked.

“Until now.”

They all turned to me for an explanation.

“But, sir, you had a bad fall and lay there, passed out,” I said, pointing at the driveway.

“What do you mean? I have been soundly asleep. I am no somnambulist like some people, seeing things,” he said, staring at me askance.

“Since we are here anyway, what if we check you out?” the medic asked.

“No,” Tom shouted back and slammed the door closed.

“Please look at this trench in the snow,” I pointed out to the medics and patrolmen carefully picking their way down the slope back to their vehicles. “That’s where he lay sprawled, flailing his arms.”

“His head would have cracked had it not been for the cushion of snow,” the ambulance driver noted, believing me.

I had just gotten back into the house after waving goodbye to the responders, swearing I’d never play a good Samaritan again, even if someone dropped dead right in front of me, when the doorbell rang.

“Came to thank you for the neighborliness, though misplaced,” Tom said. “I am pretty resilient, well-nigh indestructible.”

“But you almost got me into trouble,” I protested.

“I had to send them packing and knew they would believe you, dismissing me as a crackpot geezer. This is my peace offering,” he said, pushing a bottle of cognac toward me.

“No, take it back. There is no cause for it. Besides I don’t drink.”

“All right, then. Come around any time and we’ll talk.”

“Sure but do you have an email address? We can communicate that way.”

“What is yours? I’ll write you, so you can answer back.”

I gave him my card. He wrote a few days later, saying he had enjoyed my blog, especially my take on Trump, a former student of his at Wharton where he had taught marketing. We hit it off right away, fabulously.

Fart and Burp Loud and Clear, Proudly!: Recipe for Restoration of Honesty and Morality

“Come and worship with us at our church on Easter Sunday, Apr 21, 2019,” I invite my neighbor Tom, 92, an ornery widower and recluse, few on the block ever see, let alone talk to. It is through an extraordinary circumstance to be reported in the next post that I got to be on speaking terms with him. “We expect the sanctuary to fill up with as many as 500 people.”

“How long is the service going to last?” Tom asks.

“A couple of hours because of the Easter play and music,” I answer expectantly.

“To breathe 5 gallons of fart?” he demands.

Getting over the puzzlement I rally, “It’s a big church, 50 feet wide, 100 feet deep, and 40 feet high, almost like being outdoors. Five gallons, 10, a drop in the ocean. But are you sure it would be that much?”

“One farts a pint or 16 ounces in 24 hours, which makes nearly 3 tablespoons in 2 hours. Multiply that by 500.”

“But worshippers would be on their best behavior and …”

“Bacteria don’t teach manners to the gas they generate in the gut. How do you fart in church?”

The utter frankness and directness of the question, not asked except perhaps by my doctor, stuns me at first but soon disarms me.

“Slowly in small puffs, timing with the blast of the organ, lest even the most carefully modulated squeeze of the rectal sphincter should vocalize by accident.”

“Let out loud and clear, as Benjamin Franklin bids in his 1781 essay, Fart Proudly,” he thunders.

“To be shunned forever like a leper?” I scream.

“Sneaks and cheats, these holier-than-thou Christians, strutting around and preaching honesty, decency, and decorum, only to turn viciously on the truly honest among them and eat them alive like cannibals! They are responsible for the decay of morality in America. Have you heard your pastor fart loud and clear?”

“Well, I haven’t paid attention exactly…” I mumble.

“He is the worst of the lot, not having to bother to regulate his sphincter like the sneaks out there in the pews but just as sneaky, taking advantage of his exalted position up at the altar, out of earshot, close to the organ to boot, cocksure that nobody hears his anal music. I tell you what. I’ll join your church the moment your pastor farts and burps loud into the microphone as he begins his sermon. Yes, burping is just as integral to the health of our God-given gut.”

“That would be a turning point in Christian ministry, perhaps more epochal than even the Reformation, but our pastor or any other ordained minister is no Martin Luther. I have an idea, though. Since this is such a radical, momentous departure, on the same order of magnitude as termination of political correctness, the role should fall on someone with proven leadership in such matters like Trump (see Donald, Champion of Political Incorrectness, Mandate the First Name Basis Across the Board by Executive Order One!, 9-11-2015, and Lighten Up, America, and Follow The Donald, George Washington of New America, 9-27-2015, typakmusings.com). Typically, he should open all his public speeches, say, the State of the Union message at the House, with a fart and burp duet, accompany the delivery with a medley of farts and burps, and close with a fanfare of the same. All his cabinet members will copy, lest they get fired, and so will others in time, Supreme Court justices, Senators and Representatives, then cardinals, bishops, pastors, the whole country, the moral imperative of honesty finally sinking in. I’ll compose the letter, hoping you’ll get it delivered. I understand you have a direct line of communication to Donald.”

“Yeah, but your blog will serve the purpose better.”

Has he been lying about his White House connection? No, he wouldn’t, not at his age, about such a triviality. I acquiesce, taking his refusal to be the herald as a compliment.

Import Korean Egalitarianism to Defuse Envy in America

Half of America, the younger misguided half, is rallying to the banner of communism. Yes, I say communism, calling a spade a spade, not a whitewashed euphemism. Actually, communism as originally proposed by Marx and Engels was a beautiful word, like utopia or brotherhood.

Communism derives its appeal by stirring up envy, hatred of those with more money than oneself and promise of equal distribution. However, its toxicity is spelled out by Peter Bach, the protagonist of The Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan (2018), amazon.com, pages 420-421, during his Senate hearing for confirmation as President Eisenhower’s Special Envoy to South Korea in turmoil after the Student Revolution of 1960. He calls communism

“A naive, dangerous, and ultimately self-defeating ideology, based on a misconception of human nature. Humans are most productive when they compete for a larger, not equal, share of wealth. A huge bureaucracy, installed to replace free market competition, will in time grind down and implode for lack of motivation and built-in indolence.”

The truth of this characterization has been verified beyond a shadow of doubt by the sea trials of communism, Soviet, Cuban, Venezuelan, proving it to be unfit as a practical solution. We have to work with the free market system, accepting inequality as a necessary evil or blessing. Peter goes on to warn:

“But Communism serves as a wakeup call lest a free society should lapse into complacency. It should be constantly vigilant against perpetuation of gross inequalities, leveling the playfield to forestall upheavals like the French Revolution of 1792 or the Russian Revolution of 1917?”
“How?”
“The US has in place anti-trust and welfare legislations, as well as widespread private charity by the wealthy, which will serve as vents. If the balance is maintained, there won’t be any explosive revolutions to wreck America.”

In other words, with progressive taxation, social security, supplemental security income, private charity, and other leveling devices already in place, we are managing. Granted that’s not enough but we have to be patient and do what we can, in the meantime suppressing, defusing and reining in the discontent of the young and radical. To this end suggested is cultivation of insensitivity or immunity to envy, the green-eyed monster, the root cause of discontent, by looking to the Korean model.
From time immemorial Koreans have coped with their less than dominant places in their social totem pole in reliance on a peculiar brand of egalitarianism, expressed by the phrase, “a sheet of paper difference (종이 한 장 차이).” For example, a bondservant can mentally stare down at his master, while bowing and scraping to do his bidding, because it’s just the title deed that separates them. Similarly dismissive of his billionaire employer is a day laborer living hand to mouth. In time the idiom mutates to mean “paper thin,” reducing the vast differences in the pecking order to a triviality. This mentality may make them the world’s worst hypocrites, obsequious outside but arrogant inside but sure gives them peace of mind and physical health by freeing them from envy, the mental cancer that eventually metastasizes to the body and kills.
Lately the egalitarian motto has mutated again to “a click difference,” reflecting post-Information Revolution accessibility to the cutting edge of knowledge in any field, the seriousness of which cannot be overstated.

If the previous “paper thin difference” is irreverence, rebelliousness, denial, a matter of attitude, this “click difference” is substantive. By clicking the right link on line one can instantly come to the cutting edge of knowledge in any field. If knowledge is power, this click difference is none other than universal empowerment, destined to erode and erase the invidious differences in the pecking order, rendering obsolete certifications, licenses, charters as artificial intelligence and virtual training in the professions and trades advance (see The Bounty of De-Schooling, 3-20-2019, typakmusings.com).

This ultra-egalitarianism will prevent America from tilting too far to the left and keeling over and keep it on track to becoming an earthly utopia, where differences exist enough to keep competition going but not suffocate.

Soomin Kim, Miss Korea 2018, and Donald Trump, 45th President, USA

Soomin Kim, 24, the charming, refreshing Miss Korea 2018, may hold the key to the enigma of Trump’s election and success.

Dubbed the controversial or off-beat beauty queen, the Dickinson College graduate with a degree in International Business, enters the pageant competition for fun. Not expecting to win she acts and answers freely, being herself, hugely enjoying every moment of it, and thoroughly enchanting her jury.

That is exactly Trump’s style – off script spontaneity, speaking his mind, saying what he means, baring his soul, which resonates with his audience. Liking him they trust him to lead the way to the promised land and to date their faith in him has been amply rewarded by the booming economy, excision of ISIS, termination of the Russian Witch Hunt, and respect from foreign adversaries like China and Russia.

By the way the Korean beauty is one of a kind. Above all she is a multilingual. Her Korean is witty and eloquent but she floors you with her native-grade English, as well as her ease and poise during an interview with an American journalist, explainable only by American birth and education through college before moving back to Korea, reverse immigration as Koreans call it, though not verifiable by cursory search through her videos and writeups. Or she could have gone to American school in Korea or studied with totally virtual English teaching videos before enrolling in Dickinson as a foreign student. While at Dickinson she studies a year at a Beijing university under an exchange program, again learning to speak Chinese like a native. Amazing!

She has her heart set on becoming an international journalist and has already produced fabulous informational videos, but she may serve best as the first lady of any country, except she would steal the thunder from her husband, Individual One.

That term turning up in Cohen’s testimony gives rise to an impious thought. What a fine match she would make for Donald, who alone will be able to hold his own and not be eclipsed by her brilliance. Melania may actually want to call it quits and join the growing rank of his ex-wives and mistresses, giving Soomin a chance to be America’s First Lady, that is, before 2025, in view of its multiple benefits.

1. Equal Opportunity for Women

The whole thing is of course subject to consent by Melania, who may actually want to explore. After all life is short. She knows she will be financially well provided and honored like all his former wives and mistresses, except she would have the extra prestige of having been a First Lady which, on top of her own merits as a modeling star, will make her irresistible to all types of men worldwide, even other heads of state, billionaires, athletes, especially the young bucks.

2. Global Humanism

Marriage to the Korean beauty will demonstrate once and for all that Trump is no racist, interracial marriage being the true measure of one’s freedom from racial or ethnic hang-ups (see The Polyglot: Union of Korea and Japan, amazon.com).

3. Hope for the Aged

His marriage to Soomin, half a century his junior, will be proof positive of vitality and libido even when within striking distance of the century mark and will make him a hero to all the Oncs of the world (see Immortality Club, 8-2-2018, typakmusings.com).

Russians in Deep Mourning as Their Best Weapon Against America Fizzles Out

On Monday, Mar 25, 2019, the best weapon Russians could have devised in their wildest dream against their arch enemy, America, at zero cost to boot, fizzles out beyond any hope of resurrection or re-deployment. American Democrats’ frenzy to sabotage the resurgence of America, otherwise known as MAGA, Make America Great Again, comes to an irreversible screeching end. Mueller, their own Special Counsel aided by a pack of highly motivated henchmen to take down Trump they still cannot accept as President, declares his zero collusion with Russia where, understandably, the belly laugh (see Russians Having a Belly Laugh, 7-19-2017, typakmusings.com) is turning into a heartbreak, as the country stares at a skyrocketing defense budget to match America’s growing might, something it cannot afford, the price of oil, its only export, hitting rock bottom (see Low Gas Price, Not Mild Winter: Time to Pat Ourselves on the Back for Stumbling into Picking the Right Guy for the Job, 1-16-2019, typakmusings.com), a re-enactment of the post-Reagan Soviet years.

Let Dead Dogs Lie and Don’t Beat a Dead Horse?: In Defense of Trump’s Comment on McCain

Grandstanders, haughtily shaking your heads and pouring contempt on Trump for attacking McCain, the deceased, during his stirring rally at the Abrams tank manufacturing plant in Lima, OH, on Mar 20, 2019:

You are nothing but a bunch of proverbial zombies, mindlessly chanting proverbs, well known for their ambiguity: if one tells you to go right, another is sure to tell you to go left.

In Julius Caesar (1599) Shakespeare has Brutus publicly denounce Caesar as too ambitious and therefore deserving to die, which is followed by Antony’s oration:

I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Does Antony just bury Caesar, as he promises? No, he doesn’t stop praising, until he masterfully demolishes the accusations, rehabilitates, apotheosizes Caesar, and turns the wrath of the masses on Brutus and his clique.

Note how Antony prefaces his defense of Caesar: the evil that men do lives after them. In other words, Brutus has every right to accuse and condemn Caesar, if only to be hoist with his own petard.

However, if any of you zombies want to be the modern-day Antony to praise McCain and bury Trump, the Brutus, think again!

First, it’s not unseemly to attack a decedent simply because he is dead and can’t defend himself. Unlike dogs or horses we are human precisely because our works, good and bad, survive us, as Antony points out.

To dispel any doubt on this score, consider whether the probate court is unseemly just because it delves into the decedent’s will and estate. Note its publicity, how typically a notice of the probate is published in newspapers inviting the whole world to the reckoning.

Trump is doing the probate, going through the deceased’s legacy to the nation, because he was a public figure. Topping the list is his instigation of the Russian Witch Hunt. It was McCain who, instead of tipping Trump off about the phony Steele dossier when he gets it, as a friend should, turns it over to the FBI and sets off the Mueller investigation that drags on nearly two years, wasting tens of millions of taxpayer dollars and metastasizing to a Congressional investigation, now that the Democrats are in control of the House. Meanwhile fallen by the wayside is the proper work of government, America’s security and economic wellbeing and world peace and prosperity.

Next on the probate calendar is McCain casting the deciding vote to defeat Trump’s bill to Repeal and Replace Obamacare, purely out of spite because all along, prior to the vote, he had been in favor.

The Trump detractors should note that he does not talk about McCain’s reputation as an American hero, though the heroism of his Vietcong captivity has been debunked by many, including Biden, the Democratic primary front runner. In fact, burying the hatchet Trump signs off on the military transport of McCain’s body to Washington for his funeral at the National Cathedral, though with no thanks from the family or anybody else. On the contrary, unable to resist the temptation to jump on the Trump-bashing train, the Cathedral gratuitously comes out to deny the need for his approval to host the funeral, apparently unaware that by diminishing and blocking Trump out the funeral is deprived of the presidential cachet, presumably contrary to the decedent’s wishes.

The Bounty of De-Schooling

“How many hours a day do you guys spend Googling, You-Tubing, Wikipedia-ing?” asks Paul, a retired psychologist and an Onc (see Immortality Club, 8-2-2018, typakmusings.com).

“Almost every waking hour,” admits Richard, a retired tax lawyer. “A sad commentary on my education, with which there is almost a complete disconnect.”

“Inevitable under pressure to specialize,” assents Bob, a retired ophthalmologist. “In college we have to choose a major and, in grad school, a field. Then as a professional you specialize. What was your major, Richard?”

“English. The disconnect between English and law school is total. All the poetry and prose I’ve read and analyzed is absolutely useless. But there is another disconnect between law school and tax law, because you have to forget just about everything you study in law school, to learn the tax laws, federal, state, local, levied on income, payroll, property, sales, capital gains, dividends, imports, estates, gifts, fees, to make sure the government collects a quarter of the GDP. Then they revise and redact every now and then just for the heck of it to keep you on your toes and leave no time for anything else.”

“Nobody has mentioned the 12 pre-college years of elementary and secondary schooling,” Paul notes, “meaning tacit acceptance of it as useful intellectual foundation for subsequent college and beyond for what it is, I presume.”

“Are you kidding?” Richard huffs. “What rubbish I had to memorize for finals and the SAT, geography, history, math, science, and literature! What a waste of intellectual energy! Actually, I agree with the Korean system, prior to the 2007 American style reform, that allows a high school graduate to sit for the bar exam (see Revise the 3 R’s to 4 R’s and Make America the First All-Lawyer Nation to Root Out Violence, 11-22-2018, typakmusings.com).”

“Ditto for medicine,” Bob adds. “You don’t need to fool around with 4 years of premed. A high school grad can go directly into the regular medical course.”

“Actually, in Korea before 2007 all professional schooling began at college level,” I weigh in, “College of law, engineering, medicine, dentistry, veterinary medicine, agriculture, music, fine art, liberal arts, divinity, or what have you.”

“But, Richard, didn’t you say one didn’t have to graduate from law college to take the bar?” asks Bill, a retired captain and graduate of the Merchant Marine Academy. “Why, then, bother to go to law college if it is not required to take the bar?”

“For the cachet of LL.B. or BA in Law,” I say. “Many took the bar while in law college, the passage rate naturally higher than high school graduates. On the other hand, some law graduates couldn’t pass year after year.”

“That is enlightening, Ty!” exclaims Bob. “If Korean high school graduates could pass the bar, then our American kids can do the same and pass other professional exams, too, especially given the increasing sophistication of educational and professional YouTube videos, if they are allowed to watch them instead of wasting 4 years, trudging back and forth to high school classes, jumping through hoops.”

“Granted we eliminate high school, grades 9 through 12, for independent study,” posits Paul, “do we leave alone pre-high school grades 1 – 8, elementary and middle, to provide the 3 R’s necessary for them to read and understand the subjects, law, engineering, medicine, and so forth?”

“Scrapping elementary and middle school is a cinch, given the abundance of state of the art online resources to teach the 3 R’s,” I assert. “But even the traditional 3 R’s are largely wasteful, cramming the young minds with useless names, dates, places, which should be replaced by a curriculum on rules or law (see Revise the 3 R’s to 4 R’s), so that by the time they graduate from high school they’ll all be lawyers.”

“But that means the demise of my profession?” Richard moans.

“No, not everybody can be a good advocate even for their own cause and would rather hire those with greater aptitude for it who advertise themselves as Attorney at Law, Barrister, Lawyer, Esquire,” I explain. “It’s only for law that I call for this, because law is one of the 4 R’s and the entire population beyond the 12th grade should be able to access the courts as lawyers to prevent blood feuds and vendettas. The other professions, founded on the 4 R’s, are certified by some national agency to ensure the practitioners’ qualifications.”

I stop to take a breath and resume.

“That proposal, however, was on the assumption that high school existed and enforced some form of certification like a GED test on the 4R’s. Since this is no longer the case and no school exists including high school, it’s not 4 R’s any more but are open to all the professions or fields of knowledge to explore. Spared the waste and drudgery of going to elementary and middle school day in and day out for 8 years, children, not particularly precocious, can go on to prepare not only for the bar exam but for medical board exam, engineering exam, or even merchant marine test Bill had to pass at, how old were you?”

“24, but I see your point,” Bill nods. “We now do most of our navigational training virtually and I can imagine a teenager or even a preteen getting the hang of it just as well as a 24-year-old, provided he learns all the other stuff.”

“So you make them start working that young?” Richard asks, astounded.

“Certainly,” I reassure him. “I envision the average professional working age to be 15, which, combined with the retirement age of 90 (see 90 (=85+5), the New Retirement Age, Incorporating the Mortality Constant, 11-16-2018, typakmusings.com), will multiply the working population, stanching Social Security hemorrhage.”

“I have just one concern,” Paul interjects. “What about cutting-edge scientists, writers, thinkers, typically ensconced in the ivory tower of academia?”

“They’ll find their niches in industries, the majority of them small, one-person outfits of self-employment and, unencumbered by academia, civilization will take off like a rocket.”

Stop Admission Scandals by Abolishing Elite Universities!

This is a corollary to abolition of schools across the board from elementary through graduate and professional, proposed earlier (see New Education in Response to Developments in Artificial Intelligence, 12-23-2018, typakmusings.com).

Kindergarten and even preschool children amaze us with the rapidity with which they learn intricate games and follow Sesame Street and other children’s shows online. As they grow older, they can connect online to the best video programs for different subjects, far surpassing any elementary through high school classroom presentations.

Some are concerned that clicking a laptop or iPad may deprive the child of vital classroom socialization. Baloney! The child has enough social exposure at home, in the neighborhood, at church, birthday parties, sleep overs, concerts, parades. Besides slouching at desk in rows watching or pretending to watch the teacher hardly qualifiess as socialization. But even that can be adequately supplied virtually online.

However, preteen children, especially those whose parents both work, may be sent to neighborhood daycare centers strictly to gather and have fun, not to learn. For this purpose a medium-sized home will suffice to service a city block or rural village, not a typical multistoried building with long hallways and series of classrooms, to be demolished if not converted to other productive use.

Online self-education is made to order for college and beyond, as the student is now an independent adult with tremendous mnemonic and intellectual prowess, agility, creativity. There isn’t a single discipline, liberal arts or science, that cannot be learned online, including a virtual biology or physics lab. However, virtual expertise may be confirmed and supplemented by field trips to actual facilities.

In this educational system no degree, academic or professional, will be handed out. An employer will advertise a position and video-examine a candidate’s competence. No inquiry will ever be made to the nonexistent college one went to. Professional qualifications will be similarly certified by passing a bar, medical board, or professional engineering exams, with practical demonstrations as needed.

Nor is one-time certification the end of self-education. To excel in their work professionals will be Googling diligently till the end of their lives, as will anybody who enjoys learning and does his or her share in advancing civilization.

Uproar Over the College Admission Scam: An Epitome of Myopia

America’s recent uproar over some 33 parents being indicted for bribery, laying out a total of $25 million, to get their children into elite colleges is the epitome of myopia, ignorance and hypocrisy.

Only $25 million? Peanuts and that’s where the problem is. They were cheap and also dumb, choosing the back door, bribery, a low-grade crime, to give their children a break. The real offenders achieve the same purpose by going through the front door and shaking hands with the college president to stick a big check on his palm. With the billions, trillions so collected over the years these colleges build cutting edge science complexes, libraries, auditoriums, theaters, endowed chairs, becoming elite indeed.

Instructive in this regard is Cohen’s congressional testimony on the business negotiations for the failed Trump Tower across from the Kremlin (see Cohen, a Dream Witness for Trump, 3-3-2019, typakmusings.com). Offered right off the bat is the best suite in the building for Putin, a bribe to be sure but also a cost of doing business: a distinguished patron boosts its goodwill. It’s a win-win deal benefiting both parties.

Every college in the world will welcome Trump’s children among its alums. But lack of such fame can be amended by money, a lot of money.

Much has been said about Trump being not bright enough to have gotten into Wharton on his own. If that is true, Fred Trump, a dime a dozen multimillionaire, must have made a substantial donation. Democrats, where is your diligence, not digging into his ancestors’ graves?

Is this obsession with a prestigious college diploma really good for civilization? No, because it is a travesty of real knowledge and competence, nevertheless religiously maintained so long as an employer’s first inquiry is an applicant’s alma mater.

More in the next post.

Global Grassroots Movement for Rat Extermination

This is a follow-up to An Open Letter to the Mayor of NYC (2-28-2019, typakmusings.com) and is motivated by a communication received from a friend whose son has spent over $1,000 hiring an extermination company to get rid of rats and mice gnawing and scratching in the walls and ceilings of his house, the goal still elusive.

Predictably, De Blasio has neither replied nor complied, forfeiting the historic opportunity to lead the global movement, eradication of this scourge as old as the beginning of our species. It is time for homeowners here in America and worldwide to take over and let their grassroots cause culminate in a miracle as epochal as the extinction of polio.

Recommended in the open letter are pipe bombs, that is, anticoagulant bait blocks placed in the middle of a 6-inch length of 1.25-inch diameter PVC pipe, to prevent pilfering by cats, dogs, or birds. Subsequent research has come up with an even cheaper and more copious method of deployment: the gallon milk jug, with an 1.5-inch diameter hole cut on each of its four sides halfway above the bottom, packed with double or triple layers of bait blocks, the lid off unless exposed to the weather. The jug is secured by burying into the soil up to the base of the 4 holes so the rodents can enter at ground level or, in the absence of soil, held down with brick or stone up to the holes. Set outdoors in frequent rodent traffic areas, the jug or jugs may be camouflaged or even dressed up aesthetically, if readily visible.

Concern has been voiced about the possibility of poisoned rats crawling into the house and dying, fouling the air indoors for weeks. This has never happened in my own experience. Nor have I found them dead in the open, leading me to believe they seek and die in more natural outdoor burrows. At least they have time, 4 or 5 days, to pick their own mausoleum after ingestion and awareness of their fate.

As mentioned in the letter rats have a superhighway of communication and come to feed on the bait from all over, including from inside the house.

A Discourse on Precocity

My granddaughter Naomie, 3 years and 3 months old, goes to a preschool that charges as much as an Ivy League college. Because both her parents are at work, my wife Young takes her there in the morning and picks her up in the afternoon and hears the mothers, especially Korean mothers, talk in awed whispers about their children playing the piano, reading books, drawing, or doing something phenomenal way ahead of their age.

Each such exposure depresses Young. Though she knows Naomie to be smart and articulate, with the largest functional vocabulary according to her favorite teacher Joanne, she is yet to learn to spell a word or read. Though an organist, Young hasn’t been able to teach her granddaughter to play the piano: Naomie (featured in Grandparent Spoiling, 2-14-2019, typakmusings.com) doesn’t have the patience.

“She is precocious in a way few others are, if any,” I comfort her.

“What way?” she asks.

“Social sensitivity, awareness of socio-dynamics, everybody’s place in society and interaction, that is, human existence and relationship, in stasis and in motion, microscopic and macroscopic.”

“Gobbledygook! Is she special or not?”

“Extremely so. You saw it nearly a year ago, when she hugged your Mom’s legs protectively after you chewed her out for something trivial.” See Innate Sense of Justice at 2.5 Years of Age, 1-9-2019, typakmusings.com.

“That was cute of her,” she concedes. “But something like that is not what people mean by precocity.”

“They should. In terms of its importance it should rank the highest. But few ever achieve it and so is not noticed or discussed. Not even Toddler Jesus. Only in his adolescence he amazes his elders and priests with his intelligence and wisdom.”

“Don’t use Naomie for your blasphemy,” she warns severely. She silences me for now but another occasion soon pops up to prove my point.

We take Naomie to her third pediatric dentist to have her cavities filled. The two previous ones couldn’t get her to open her mouth. A little over half an hour away from our house, Edgewater, NJ, nevertheless feels like the other side of the moon, given my aversion to driving. No, Young doesn’t drive if we are in the car together, a violation of her gender according to her code. Thankfully, Naomie doesn’t make an issue of her Grandma sitting in the front passenger seat instead of in the back next to her, aware that the driver, too old to follow GPS, needs help with the directions.

I drop them off in front of the building. Luckily another car is pulling up behind me and, hastily telling her I’ll let her know where I am parked so she can find me when done, I drive off before Young can object.

“Why aren’t you here?” she sounds distraught, when I call.

“Walk out the building by the Manhattan-facing front door and keep walking straight toward to the Hudson. I’ll stay in the car and take care of some business and do some writing.” I hang up.

They arrive, Naomie composed enough to show me a happy face drawn with white filling composite on her right index fingernail. That’s how Dr. Rose has coaxed her to sit in the mini dental chair. Rose then asks her to open her mouth so happy faces can be put on her teeth, too. After a little hesitation she does as told. Instantly the nurse holds it open, probably inserting some kind of bite block. Discovering the trickery Naomie starts balling, biting, and flailing to get out. Holding her hands down Young sings a whole repertoire of her favorite songs. Thank God, her resistance does not rise to denial. If she really makes up her mind to oppose, she can kick and writhe so violently, as it has happened with her two previous dentists when her parents took her, that there is no way to overcome except by traumatizing brute force. Perhaps she felt sorry for her Grandma, singing louder and louder to match her clamor, and decided to comply, though under protest.

Apparently exhausted by the stress she is nodding off on our drive back and by the time we reach her preschool a little past 11 we have to wake her.

“I don’t want to go,” she starts balling. Young cajoles and wheedles. I am running out of patience. Every hour is costing her parents so much tuition money that shouldn’t go to waste. Besides I have some unfinished business myself at home.

“I’ll never let you come to my house,” I shout, regretting immediately.

She stops and stares at me, then obviously deciding that I don’t mean it, goes back to her resistance mode. Young names her favorite haunts one by one, including our house, as the destination after school, to no effect. Young slips and nearly falls on the patch of ice the car is parked on, the March temperature hovering in the 20’s to make up for the mild winter. After steadying Young, I lift Naomie out of her car seat and plump her down on the ice. Sliding she almost falls and grabs my legs, the close call delighting her. I pick her up and, ignoring her protests but gingerly lest we collapse a broken heap, carry her to the class and open the door.

“Tell us about the visit to the dentist’s,” the teacher invites Naomie, leaving the large communal table where the toddlers are having snacks. Naomie is still inconsolable but some of her friends come over and the teacher and Young take turns to change Naomie’s mind. I leave, because both doors on the passenger side have been left open, the car parked in a no parking zone. After closing the doors I back up and reposition the car, leaving the engine on and wait, so Young can get into the warmth. I see her come out the door, walk all the way down the path to the car, then walk right back, open the door half an inch to peek, reclose and return.

“The teacher is shaking her head as if in disbelief, though she knows I always check back,” she anticipates my query.

“Is Naomie okay?”

“Yes, she is with her friends.”

At 3:30 p.m., Young goes to pick her up. Naomie is her cheerful self again and the first thing she says is, “Thank you, Grandma, for dropping me off at the school.”

“You are certainly welcome, my precious little princess,” Young replies.

“Also thank you, my precious little Grandma, and Grandpa for driving me to the dentist’s.”

That floors Young and also me, hearing the report. Quickly recovering I seize the opportunity. “Now do you believe her precocity? What child of her age could think of thanking her grandparents? We have a rare gift from God.”

“But I can’t tell anybody about it. A precocious pianist can be a Beethoven, a precocious reader a Shakespeare, but where does her precocity take her?”

“All places. First off, she’ll be a leader, because social sensitivity draws people like a magnet. She can be a political leader like Trump or even a religious leader like Jesus.”

“Stop blaspheming. He is the Son of God.”

“Daughter of God, then. About time you Feminists woke up to it.”

Cohen Elevates “Racist” to “All American” by Counter-Euphemism

By lifting up Cohen, the Rat, as their oracle, the Democrats have succeeded in setting off a phenomenon, best called “counter-euphemism,” that is, exaltation of what used to be offensive.

For example, “poop room” being called “rest room” is euphemism, but when the reverse happens, as it does, it’s counter-euphemism. Suppose “poop” is shouted and trumpeted by an odious Judas Iscariot as something he hates, our oppositional instinct kicks in and reappraises the object until it loses its stench and even transmogrifies into fragrant manna fallen from heaven.

Conspicuous among the many targets of counter-euphemism unleashed by the Rat to stab and gore Trump, German on his father’s side and Scottish on his mother’s (see Cohen, a Dream Witness for Trump, 3-3-2019, typakmusings.com) is the word “racist,” which undergoes a sudden lexical shift into a complimentary attribute of every American, consistent with their long-standing compulsive-obsessive search for ancestry and identity that climaxes in recent explosive genealogical DNA testing and matching, motivates and reinforces family, tribal, ethnic reunions and celebrations:

St. Patrick’s Day parades and festivals, wearing green attire and shamrocks; Scottish Tartan Day singing the Tunes of Glory and marching through the streets of New York with pipes and drums; Mexican American Cinco de Mayo fiestas; Chinese and Korean Lunar New Year festivities, etc.

America is America because of its racial, ethnic, cultural diversity, not erased in the melting pot. Red, blue, white, and many other colors, as many as there are in the different continents we come from, together we produce a spectacular kaleidoscope of endless achievements and possibilities, a grand, majestic harmony.

Long live Racism, counter-euphemized, compliments of Cohen and his groupies!

Cohen, a Dream Witness for Trump

“Trump is toast now,” cheers Steve, an avowed never-Trumper, jabbing at the New York Times front-page article on Cohen’s Congressional testimony, Feb 27, 2019.

“What makes you think so?” asks Paul.

“Read it for yourself,” Casey shouts indignantly, thrusting the paper towards his friend.

“No need,” Paul sidesteps. “I’ve watched the whole dog and pony show on TV, a coronation, an apotheosis of Citizen Trump, an American icon. The ratting jackass is a dream witness for Trump, the best ally imaginable.”

“A racist, con man, cheat, mobster, bruiser is an American icon?” Casey stares, shocked and incredulous.

“Item One. Every American is a racist, proud of their racial, ethnic heritage, Italian, Irish, Jewish, Scottish, Anglo-Saxon, French, German, Spanish, Black, Arab, Chinese, Japanese, Korean. But they are also fiercely American and fight to the death for America against any of them, their own kind included.

“Item Two. Every tax-paying American is a con artist and a cheat. Haven’t you gone to the Bergen County Tax Commission to get the assessment on your mansion reduced from $10 million to $3 million?”

“Yeah, but that’s different. It’s a down market here in New Jersey because of its insanely high property tax rate, hurting high-end properties most…”

“Exactly what Donald’s accountants have done, resonating with any home owner. This has also an unintended consequence: inflation of Trump’s net worth way over the publicly stated figure, maybe by a factor of 10, making him richer than Bezos or Gates. They like it that way, their President the richest billionaire, not just a billionaire. Moreover, his wealth is real estate, so much more tangible than something you read on paper.”

“But he lied about the Moscow Trump Tower, where Putin was promised a suite, a clear proof of collusion,” Casey retorts.

“Any American would have been proud to see an American hotel, the largest in Europe or the whole world, go up right across from the Kremlin. Cohen revealed that the offer of the suite as a gift to Putin is a calculated commercial ploy to upgrade the property, something done all the time, not a national security issue, driving the final nail in the coffin of Mueller’s witch hunt. Too bad the whole thing has come to naught because they couldn’t get the land to build the Tower on.”

“But what about his mobster tactics, threatening his enemies with retribution 500 times?”

“In the same breath the jackass brays that he has never heard him actually order anyone, including himself, to physically hurt someone, because he doesn’t have to do that, the implication being that knowing his unsaid wishes his minions, an army of them, takes care of it. Again pressed whether such a wish would include taking out someone physically, Cohen’s answer is a resounding No, the harm threatened being mostly a lawsuit, a notification, as it were, which is totally legal. Desperate to salvage something a Democrat asks whether Trump has ever told him to lie to Congress and Cohen categorically denies it, reiterating the implicit code of the cosa nostra, which Cohen, the enforcer, carries out. In other words, it is his, Cohen’s, understanding and decision. That just about insulates Trump completely, because it would be a Herculean burden of proof to raise such understanding to the level of criminal witness tampering.”

“What do you think of his cheating on Melania and fighting with her in the elevator?” asks Casey, changing tack. “I don’t understand how she could stand living with a multi-timer like him.”

“Very easily. He is the Emperor and no woman, no matter what her public or conscious protestations, refuses to be an Empress. The crowning moment of that narrative was when Cohen was asked by another Democrat, eager for confirmation, whether Donald struck Melania. Cohen shakes his head vigorously and declares he is not that kind of man. So Donald is not a wife beater, which redeems him in the eyes of most upstanding American males.”

“What about his cheating, incorrigible, pathological sex addiction?”

“Living the fantasy of every red-blooded American male, which makes him their secret hero, though publicly condemned and denounced.”

“I bet Democrats will impeach him, nevertheless,” Casey predicts defiantly.

“Spinning their wheels for nothing, because the Senate will defeat it,” Paul concludes. “Trump will have his second term by an overwhelming mandate, the country divided as ever but held together, tranquil and prosperous as never before.”

An Open Letter to the Mayor of New York: Launch a War of Extermination on Rats!

Dear Mayor de Blasio:

Dismayed and embarrassed to see big brown rats scurry across subway tracks or hear them scratch and squeak in the walls and attics, sewers and drains of your great city, the UN-headquartered capital of the world, I urge you to launch an all-out war of extermination, which will be followed not only by other municipalities of the US but also by the rest of the world, ridding humanity of this ancient pest.

The war is a moral imperative and brushed aside should be the false sensibilities of animal lovers, who should be asked whether their love extends to cockroaches, mosquitoes, bedbugs, lice, fleas, ringworms, polio, malaria, plague, syphilis, small pox, leprosy, and other scourges. Likewise twisted individuals who want to have rats as pets should be invited to sleep with a bedbug or flea. The pampered rats can escape and undo all previous efforts with their astounding reproductivity: 2 to 15,000 in a year. Only those necessary for scientific or medical research will be allowed to live strictly under guard.

The cost of the war is negligible as the warfare consists of liberal city-wide deployment of bait stations, accessible only to rats, not cats, dogs or children, which can be a simple DIY device like a 6-inch length of thin-wall 1-inch (ID) PVC pipe, into the center of which is shoved a chunk or block of long-acting anticoagulant bait, the total price tag under a dollar with room to crunch upon mass production.

Fortunately, rats haven’t figured out that it is the bait that kills them, perhaps because subsequent death from unstoppable bleeding occurs a week or two later, too far apart for their intelligence to make the causal connection. Given their huge number, however, a Newton among them might make the discovery any minute, which would soon become common knowledge among the entire species as they have an uncanny communication system. Hence the urgency of this war.

Sincerely,

Ty Pak
Feb 28, 2019

How Beautiful the Trees of New Jersey!

“Do you know much about trees?” asks Jay, a Korean Onc, during fellowship after service (see Immortality Club, 8-2-2018, typakmusings.com).

“Not much, except they enhance a property,” I say, visualizing his yard, practically an arboretum of majestic oaks and Norfolk pines, skirting which a graveled driveway leads to a spacious parking lot before an ornate garage. “Any problem?”

“I’ve trimmed the low hanging branches on the fringe of the parking lot, lest they brush and scrape the top of SUVs or other high-profile vehicles. Now I am worried. I may have overdone it. What if the unbalanced trees topple over?”

“If they didn’t when you cut off the branches, probably they wouldn’t, but let’s see what an expert has to say about it,” I suggest, waving to Charles, a retired forester, who comes over. “How does a tree manage to keep standing straight when it is off balance as a result of overzealous pruning?” I ask, explaining Jay’s problem.

“It balances by adjusting cell growth to gravity, pressure resistant on the heavy side and pull or tension resistant on the light side.”

“Even when shorn of branches entirely on one side?” Jay asks.

“Gravity adjustment affects the root system, too, as far as I know. It’s practically impossible to knock over a tree by imbalance. They’ll get over the crisis and keep standing, regaining balance, even growing back the lost branches over time.”

“Well, you are off the hook, Jay,” I reassure him.

“How do they tell apart pressure from tension?” he shakes his head unbelievingly.

“Just as you feel it when you are off balance, except you take corrective measures with whole body motions, whereas the tree does it on the cellular level.”

“But I have the brain that orders the limbs to move,” Jay persists. “Where are the equivalents of the brain, nerves, and limbs in a cell? And not one but zillions of them working in concert so the whole comes out as a unified, directed action. I just can’t understand.”

“That’s the mystery of life where God comes in, though you can choose to remain in ignorance, if you can handle the desolation, bleakness, fear.”

“Doggone it!” Jay swears. “You sound like our pastor.”

“We are all cowards, I guess,” Charles reflects.

“Okay, Reverend Doctor Charles of Arboriculture,” I interject. “What do you say about the trees around my house at the foot of a wooded hill? Beyond a grassy sloped clearing about 100 feet wide stands a line of trees even taller than that like a bulwark against the forest that rises steadily all the way to the Palisades Parkway to overlook the Hudson. Lately I noticed quite a few trees fallen over behind the rampart, scaring me with the possibility of the same fate befalling it and sending the trees crashing down on my roof.”

“When’s the last time you saw a tree fall over?”

“I haven’t seen any. It must have happened before we moved in four years ago.”

“Natural selection, again divinely ordained,” Charles concludes. “When there is over-forestation, the weaker trees lose out, unable to compete with the more robust. As far as I know there is no fungal or other epidemic nor any insect infestation afoot in the northeastern hills of New Jersey. But for your peace of mind communicate your concern to your home insurance company. They’ll send out an arborist to check out the soil as well as the health of the trees. At their expense because it’s in their interest to inspect and take preventative measures, if necessary.”