No one has more black matriarchy fatigue than me. Seeing Caitlin Clark stick it to the black matriarchy basketball league was fun until I fully realized she was the baby of Steph Curry and Draymond Green with no intention of improving her behavior.

A man that goes by ‘The Spider-Man of Yemen’ falls to his d*ath into a volcano! Anything for clicks. Nobody said these people were the smartest people in the world. I wonder what his IQ is.

Out here, my neighbor's doorbell has an EYE, and the eye speaks with his voice. I went to return his ladder. I rang. And the doorbell said: "Hey, I see you — just lean it against the rail, man. I'm at work." I looked into the small eye. He was at work AND at his door. The American doorman is a ghost that lives in a button. In Japan, when returning a borrowed thing, you present it formally, report its condition, and thank the lender's household. There was no household. There was a BUTTON. So I did what any correct man would do. I bowed to the doorbell. I held the ladder up to the eye so its condition could be inspected. I gave my report: the ladder had served honorably, no rungs were harmed, and his house's generosity would be remembered. The doorbell said: "Ha. Anytime, man." I learned later that these doorbells RECORD. Which means there exists, somewhere in this country's clouds, an archive of me — bowing to doorframes, announcing my business to empty porches, presenting tools to a button for inspection. My neighbor played one such recording at a barbecue. The guests watched it four times. A woman cried laughing. I stood there holding my burger while my own bow was reviewed like game footage. I prepared to be ashamed. And then my neighbor raised his beer and announced: "Most polite delivery this porch has EVER had." THE PORCH KEEPS RANKINGS. There is a leaderboard. And I am first on it. Hear me, America: a man should behave as though the eye is always watching, because the eye IS always watching, and the eye has a memory, and the eye's owner has a barbecue. A man does not ask the eye to blink first. He bows deeper, and enters the record. I bow lower now. At every door. To every eye. Somewhere your porches are ranking all of us, and I did not cross an ocean to place second at a door.

USA. A checkout lane. I have found where this nation hides its ambush troops. They wait at the registers, at the exact height of a child's eyes. Candy. Wall to wall. Bright as banners. You cannot leave the store without passing it, and the store knows, and the candy knows, and every child in America knows. In Japan we also tempt children at registers, but gently, apologetically. This is not gentle. This is doctrine. I watched a battle unfold. A boy, perhaps five, seized a chocolate bar with the speed of a practiced raider. "Mom. MOM. Can I get this?" "Put it back. We have candy at home." "But THIS candy—" "We. Have. Candy. At home." The boy looked at the bar. The bar looked back. He returned it to the shelf with the slow grief of a soldier surrendering his sword. Then he took it again the moment she turned. The woman, without looking, said "Tyler." One word. The bar went back. Veterans, both of them. I turned to the man behind me, shaken. "The store placed them deliberately. At that height. A final toll gate." "It's the checkout aisle, dude." It is a gauntlet, and I will tell you how I know. I am a grown man of a warrior house, trained against hunger, cold, and fear. The peanut butter cups were at MY eye level too. I bought them. I was not planning to. I had a list. The list did not survive. The ambush does not check your age. It checks your heart, and mine is apparently five. The last battle of every campaign is fought at the height of a child's eyes. To the mothers of America, holding that line at every register, every day: my respect. You defend a wall that attacks from inside the castle. The cups were excellent. I will be ambushed again on Friday.