It's All Good, Bro

Callaway Golf Got Wrecked By YouTube Doofuses Because Everyone’s Out Of Ideas

Try this, maybe: Think of the internet as an ocean vast enough to contain a near-infinite constellation of distinct watery biomes, each populated by creatures that have evolved to suit the one in which they live—a bunch of weird creatures traveling in schools, chasing each other around, eating each other, and, in the most inhospitable depths, eating shit in the inky dark. Even to get your feet wet in this ocean is to know that it is bigger and colder than you could grasp. I don't know how to properly describe the uncanny feeling of becoming aware of how many online realities are unfolding, often in ways that draw big audiences and throw off real profits, in browser tabs I will never open, just as that hideous translucent deep-sea crapfish could not describe the experience of living in water. It would in some ways be a cruel thing to drag it up from the depths to show it a bunch of cavorting dolphins, but mostly it would be pointless. It would be too bright for it to see anything at all.

This is how I feel when confronted with the story of Good Good, which started as a golf YouTube channel and swiftly grew into a sprawling brand that sponsored PGA Tour players and a PGA event; they partnered with the brand Callaway Golf and raised $45 million from a group including the Manning brothers' Omaha Productions. This company was growing fast and lucratively, in a number of different directions, in a part of the ocean that I do not visit or really even know how to look at. Golfweek described the company's vision as "blending creator-driven entertainment, professional-caliber competition, and fan engagement into a format designed for golf's next generation of consumers." This is legible enough, but also there's a lot going on in that sentence, little pockets of vibe and affinity that are related enough to exist within the same space, but otherwise not notably in conversation. A lot of companies and a lot of YouTube are also like this.

The events that have led to the unraveling of Good Good over the past few weeks, by contrast, are easy enough to understand. As part of their partnership with Callaway, Good Good made a strange, bad ad that begins with Good Good creator and co-founder Garrett Clark violently pushing a woman, golfer and fellow Good Good creator Alexis Miestowski, to the ground when she tries to touch his Callaway driver. Clark then stands over her and says in a menacing tone, "Do not touch my new driver."

The ad, which was ostensibly a riff on the movie Obsession but otherwise too bad to parse, went over poorly. Major retailers pulled Good Good merchandise from their shelves, and Golf Galaxy took its name off a Golf Channel show it had sponsored alongside Good Good, which led the network to table the show. PGA Tour CEO Brian Rolapp described the ad as "concerning." In a statement in which he admitted that his company had approved the ad, which Good Good produced, Callaway CEO Chip Brewer said "that approval should never have happened. Mistakes were made and we are taking the matter very seriously."

Callaway subsequently pulled the ad, made one fulsome apology and then a second, donated $1 million to charities dedicated to preventing domestic violence, and cut ties with the brand. Good Good, for its part, duffed not one but two attempts at an apology. Co-founder and CEO Matt Kendrick posted, at 3:38 a.m. ET, a tweet which read: "Interesting that Callaway Golf asks us to make an ad then approves it then asks us to take the fall then drops us in a coordinated media blitz and covers it up by giving a million dollars away thinking everyone will be ok with it. 30 for 39 will be legendary." Last Wednesday, Kendrick and Good Good president Joe Flannery, who had started just days before the ad was released, both stepped down.

There are some extremely obvious lessons to take from this, regarding how to not market your pioneering new golf club as well as the risks of aligning your big global brand with YouTube dunces, and it seems both redundant and rude to remind Callaway of those at this moment. The other brands that have taken long positions on partnering with social media creators and influencers have surely made note of all that, too.

None of this is especially difficult to understand in the abstract. Creators like Good Good have an audience that companies like Callaway want to reach and mostly do not understand. "There's probably a stigma from like the older golf fan that 'only 12-year-olds watch that,'" Kendrick told Golfweek back in 2025. "Well, if you actually knew our demographic, you would know that it's 24-to-35 is our main demographic." In giving Good Good the benefit of the doubt, on things like this bafflingly and obviously bad ad but also in general, Callaway entrusted the brand's reputation to an outside partner that they trust to speak to that audience in a way they'll understand. That Good Good duffed it is inarguable at this point, but there is also that classic showing-dolphins-to-a-crapfish aspect inherent in this sort of thing even when it works. Ben Goren, a writer and marketer, summed those risks up well in his newsletter in late August:

For as ubiquitous as social media is, it has become almost unfathomably segmented. You can earn millions of views and millions of followers without Joe McAverage American having any clue who you are. Joe McAverage American is probably upset that you think he should know who that random TikToker is. And when someone doesn’t know who you are, they are extremely unlikely to have even a moment of hesitation before throwing you into the garbage can when you bore them, confuse them, or, in the case of Good Good, upset them.

In a second post, Goren does a good job illustrating the broader state of play in the golf influencer space, and how the big brands have approached and should approach partnerships with them. There are lessons there, too, both for brands trying to figure out how to use influencers to their advantage and a sport trying to figure out where its next generation of players will come from. As someone who is less interested in marketing or golf than Goren, what I find interesting about this story has less to do with its YouTube-damaged or golfy particulars and more to do with how likely it is to repeat itself elsewhere in the culture.

But also the golfy particulars seem instructive. The sport is in the middle of an authentic surge in popularity, and confronting the happy challenge of having to figure out how to get all those interested new golfers, many of them kids, onto actual golf courses. The brands and institutions that stand to profit from this interest—companies like Callaway, which will sell them clubs and bags for as long as they are playing golf—know where those golfers are, but not really who they are or quite what they want; this is mostly because they are brands and institutions, and as such would naturally struggle with this kind of thing.

And so they have to delegate, or just defer to what YouTube's viewer stats tell them about what those people like and want. This is how cycling's Vuelta a España winds up bringing aboard a member of the Vertical Video Community to chaotic effect, or how the previously bottomless resources of Saudi Arabia's Private Investment Fund created a new and ostentatiously "louder" golf tour that went bankrupt before it figured out what else it might have been. The institutions are guessing, and sorting rude metrics from high to low. The size of the ocean humbles even the biggest fish in it. [...]

But if the Good Good story illustrates the peril inherent in big brands trusting feral web goofs to tell their stories, the cringe and carnage of those big brands trying to tell that story themselves demonstrates why they still need to rely on influencers and creators.

It seems reasonable enough to assume that Callaway approved Good Good's awful, stupid, brand-wrecking ad because they assumed that there was something in it they didn't get; that assumption, and that sense of what they didn't understand, is why they got into business with them in the first place. Callaway's size and status meant that they could survive being wrong in a way that Good Good couldn't, but the problem that brands like Callaway bring in creators like Good Good to solve is a stubborn one, and one those companies are uniquely ill-suited to address. They know enough to know that they don't know how to find or talk to the people they need to reach, and they're right about that; they're astute enough to identify the creators that do know that, and rich enough to pay them. But that's not enough.

If these brands knew what they wanted to say—if they actually had anything in particular to say, or any real sense for the people they want to say it to—it might be easier. Goren, for instance, makes a case for selling golf not as just another backdrop for Good Good-style bits and goofs, but as a worthwhile craft and pursuit in itself. In the absence of any such commitment, institutional players—and businesses, politicians, and others with an interest in shaping and steering those people's opinions—are mostly just casting baited lines out there to see what they can catch in the places where they think they might catch them. But the ocean is the ocean, and having a map of it is very different than having a useful understanding of it. All that money and all that reach and all that work, and they still can't think of what's down there as anything but food.

by David Roth, Defector |  Read more:

Image: Kenneth Richmond/Getty Images

After Work, We’ll Have Each Other

What will people do all day? I mean, of course, if the AIs surpass us at all economically necessary forms of labor.

There’s an emerging consensus on this point, assuming we’re all still alive and not subjects of a cyberpunk feudalist dystopia. When the machines can do everything else, our relationships will be what’s left.

Maybe we won’t have to work at all. Or maybe we’ll still have something that superficially resembles modern employment, just concentrated in what economist Alex Imas calls “the relational sector” in his essay “What Will Become Scarce.” We’ll always need humans to supply the human touch. And how will we get those relational jobs? Relationships, obviously. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, since everyone knows everything anyway.

What is really being suggested here is less a continuation of modern work than a return to a much older cultural understanding of labor. Imas makes this point directly: “Before industrialization, it was difficult to separate a product from the person who made it … Economic transactions had a distinct social component that was innately linked to the consumption experience.”

Relatedly, before industrialization, there was very little sense that working, in itself, could be dignified or meaningful. We were not defined by our jobs but by our participation in a densely interconnected social world. And we might be again. That’s the natural consequence of all these relationalist predictions — a world where our connections to other humans are what give us structure, identity, and meaning.

I am afraid they’re right. 

Power and sex among apes

Making sweeping statements about the relationship between technology and cultural change is always a risk, and I’d rather avoid it until it’s absolutely necessary. At the same time, our degree of ignorance about the future is greatly exaggerated. If the future looks anything like the past — and there’s good reason to believe it will — then we can make progress with case studies.

Let’s start with 18th-century aristocrats. Aristocrats are (typically) rich, which we certainly will be if we have robots capable of all normal nonrelational labor. More importantly, when they did need to acquire material resources, they did it through leveraging their connections to obtain more land or a lucrative position at court — no drudgery necessary.

They did not work for pay; they certainly did not see work as a source of meaning. It’s certainly true that some of them had real obligations, like governing or killing each other, but court life in the age of absolutism is as close to a purely relational world as anything I can think of.

We also know a great deal about what mattered most to them and how they chose to occupy their time.[...]

You might be imagining glittering salons where the leading figures of the Enlightenment discussed poetry, drama, and the most pressing philosophical issues of the day. This is (mostly) a lie. Salons existed and philosophes attended them, but more for entertainment than for rational discourse. When we look at the enormous amount of written material the salonnieres and their guests produced — as French historian Antoine Lilti did — it is clear that their conversation consisted overwhelmingly of political gossip. They were almost all aristocrats, and they almost always talked about themselves. [...]

The working classes

That would be The Urban Villagers, a 1962 ethnography of working-class Italian Americans in the West End of Boston by sociologist and urban planner Herbert J. Gans. This seems like an odd comparison. Don’t the working classes, by definition, work? [...]

Gans’ use of the term “urban village” was deliberate: He believed that the West Enders had inherited the basic forms of social organization from their parents and grandparents, rural peasants from Sicily or Southern Italy. These were not people who had absorbed a typically Yankee relationship to work. Most male West Enders worked unskilled or semiskilled blue-collar jobs, and their employment was typically precarious. They did not see a fulfilling career, or indeed a career of any kind, as possible or even desirable.

It’s not that West Enders liked their dead-end jobs. They just didn’t think much about them. Work was not a central organizing activity of West End life. West Enders worked just enough to support their lifestyle, which revolved around what Gans calls the peer group. The West End, in his words, was a “peer group society.” An adult peer group might include a married couple’s same-age relatives — siblings, cousins, in-laws — and perhaps a few childhood friends, who would probably be “adopted” in as godparents to the couple’s children. These people would spend almost all of their time together, meeting in the apartment of one family or another after work and staying late into the night. The men might gamble at a local corner store — gambling is absolutely omnipresent in this world — but mostly, they talked, and talking mostly meant gossip.

This is where the parallels to old money Midwestern ladies and European aristocrats start to show. While there are any number of things these groups don’t have in common, all of them share certain features.

First, none of them see work as a source of status. West Enders do like to show off, but never about their jobs: Their talent as conversationalists in the peer group setting is much more important. Second, they are exclusive. A West Ender knows all the same people from early childhood. They’re very skeptical of outsiders, including members of other ethnic groups who’ve lived in the same neighborhood their whole lives.

Finally, they all spend an enormous amount of energy policing deviant behavior. In the West End, this usually means sexual promiscuity for women, effeminacy for men, and class aspirations for anyone. A boy might be mercilessly bullied for doing too well in school or for wanting a white-collar job. Even unusual success is frowned upon. A person’s primary source of dignity is not their own achievements, but their relationship to the group:

The major criteria for ranking, differentiating, and estimating compatibility are ingroup loyalty and conformity to established standards of personal behavior, as well as interpersonal relations. West Enders expect each other to maintain prevalent social practices and consumer styles, to marry within the ethnic — or at least the religious — group, and to reject middle-class forms of status and culture … The most significant criterion of interpersonal behavior is behavioral control — the ability to regulate one’s own needs and wishes and to defer to the needs of the group when necessary.

Gans, like all good ethnographers, likes his subjects, and their way of life has a lot to like — they really do enjoy a warm, rich, close-knit social world. But he also goes out of his way to emphasize that these people are extraordinarily conformist relative to middle-class American suburbanites in the 1950s. [...]

Friendship was invented in 18th-century Scotland

Relational living comes to us naturally. It’s the most common form of social organization in human history, and millions of people around the world are perfectly happy with it. But when our personal dignity comes from our membership in a group, everything the group does reflects on us — and everything we do reflects, unavoidably, on the group. It’s not a coincidence that Russian princes and Bostonian Italian day laborers spent most of their time gossiping (or, if we want to be technical, constructing and enforcing norms of behavior). They were defending their collective reputations: the thing that mattered most to them in the world.

This is why so much contemporary discussion of work and meaning is misguided. It’s very clear that humans don’t need work or anything like it to live meaningful lives. Nor do we need the things that people who talk about “meaning” mean — individual self-actualization, personal growth, serving a greater purpose. We can get by just fine without any of them, as historically most of us have. What we absolutely can’t live without is a social framework for understanding ourselves in relation to the rest of our society and gaining the respect of our peers. The most important thing work gives us — after money, of course — is an alternative way to meet those needs. Not all jobs are pleasant or rewarding, but all of us benefit from living in a system where we can earn respect and dignity as adults from what we do, not who we know, or who we are.

And this is exactly what we see when we look at what Americans actually get out of work.

To start, most of us like it. Surveys from Pew typically find that about 85% of us are “somewhat” or “completely” satisfied with our jobs. Other long-running polls from Gallup and The Conference Board find similar results. This is true even when the jobs themselves aren’t impactful or even particularly interesting.

As the anthropologist Claudia Strauss has documented, plenty of people with very ordinary jobs report that their work is fun. But that’s not why they do it. [...]

Like all other human beings in history, workers want to be respected. But unlike members of relational societies, the things we want respect for are impersonal: our skills, our accomplishments, our contributions to a shared goal. These contributions don’t have to be earth-shatteringly significant — a waitress in Chicago or an office assistant in Grand Rapids can still feel that work matters. (Tocqueville, again: “American servants do not believe themselves degraded because they work; for around them everyone works. They do not feel debased by the idea that they receive a salary; for the President of the United States also works for a salary.”)

Moral equality is something relational societies struggle with. They tend to be more restrictive and more exclusionary. It’s nice to imagine a world where everyone is satisfied to be simply a good spouse or parent or friend, but that’s not how these things work in practice. When our dignity depends on our membership in a group, we start to police who else can join and what happens when they do. When humans get relational, we get clannish.

This brings us back to what we already know: The modern labor market has dissolved the bonds of tradition, family, and clan. In the modern world, relationships matter less. And because they matter less, we can do much more inside them. They are freer. They have room to breathe.

by Clara Collier, Asterisk | Read more:
Image:David Teniers the Younger (–1690), Smoking and drinking monkeys, c. 1660

[ed. See also: Strangers Next Door: The Decline of Neighborhood Socializing and the Class Divide in Belonging; and, A Digital Divide in American Adolescence: Gender, Class, and the New Teenage Experience (SCAL).]

Liberalism Needs a New Philosophy of Immigration

Biden mostly closed the border to asylum-seekers in 2024 after he saw how mad it was making Americans, but many Democrats are now calling for the abolition of ICE. This is a somewhat popular position right now, thanks to the agency’s abuses under Trump. But if Democrats actually try to abolish federal immigration enforcement instead of just reshuffling and renaming the agencies, I predict it will take just a couple of years for Americans to realize that the difference between “open borders” and “immigration laws with no one to enforce them” is largely semantic.

What’s needed, I believe, is not just a tactical, temporary retreat. We need to stop and think why a maximal pro-immigration policy is something that we need to retreat from in the first place. We need a new concept of what a sustainable liberal immigration policy looks like.

Since I started writing, I’ve been an advocate of more immigration to the United States. This does not mean I ever favored unrestrained immigration or open borders. I’ve consistently argued that favoring skilled immigration will bring more economic benefits to native-born Americans, and be more politically palatable as well. And while I don’t hate illegal immigrants for trying to better their lot in life, I favor strong border controls, because nations have the right to decide, democratically, who gets in and out. It’s understandable when people get mad at seeing their decisions flouted.

On top of that, I’ve always remained agnostic on immigration to other countries; although I find much to admire in Canada’s points-based system, for example, I don’t think that qualifies me to decide whether more immigration is good for Canada overall. If the people of a country decide that immigration is diluting their local culture unacceptably, for instance, I think they have every right to cut it off. That’s just Westphalian sovereignty — not a perfect system, but the best system we’ve ever found for organizing humanity into geographic units. As an American, I don’t view it as my place to tell Japan, or the UK, or any other country that immigration is the right choice for them.

Despite those reservations, I’ve always thought that immigration to the U.S. is a basically good thing, and should be expanded. The economic benefits are pretty undeniable — higher tax revenue to shore up our dangerously depleted government finances, dominance in high-tech industries and innovation, and so on. And while some of the economic costs are real — local housing shortages and strains on local government finances being the two biggest ones — many of the fears are overblown. In particular, the bulk of the evidence concludes that immigrants don’t reduce wages or job opportunities for native-born Americans.

And importantly, lots of Americans share my overall positive view of immigration. If you ask Americans whether they think immigration is good or bad, most will say “good”:

Source: Gallup

And if you ask Americans whether the annual rate of immigration should be increased, decreased, or kept the same, you get a pretty even split: [...]

So I’ve never really felt like I was going out on a limb or advocating an unpopular position when it came to this issue. Sure, rightists will direct online vitriol toward anyone who supports any immigration at all, but their energy and savagery shouldn’t be mistaken for majority support.

And yet there will always be some amount of immigration — and some types of immigration — that will arouse even the most open and welcoming people to ire and make them think about shutting the doors. We saw this in the U.S. in 2023-24, when anti-immigration sentiment spiked in response to Biden’s permissive asylum policies. Yes, that sentiment crashed again when Trump took power and started committing abuses. But if liberals don’t change how we approach immigration, the sentiment will simply rise again and again, as it has so many times throughout our history. And the Donald Trump and Stephen Miller types will be right back in power — and our country will be worse off for it.

Liberals need an immigration approach that can be sustained for long periods of time — i.e., one that doesn’t enrage the public every time it manages to get in power. What would that look like?

The first thing liberals (and progressives, and Democrats, and European lefties, etc.) need to admit is that migration is not a human right. We live in a world of sovereign nation-states, and unless we find some better way of dividing up and administering the world, we will continue to live in a world of sovereign nation-states. And nations are, necessarily, exclusive clubs; they have the right to restrict immigration for any reason whatsoever.

Liberals must therefore not view borders and citizenship as annoying obstacles to be tactically circumvented or overcome; instead, we must view them as fundamental parts of the social compact that allows nations, including liberal nations, to exist in the first place. Nation-states and their laws and their police and their courts and their armies are the fundamental guarantors of the human rights that define liberalism. And for better or for worse, the ability to decide who gets in and who has to keep out is a necessary precondition for nation-states to exist.

That means we need to recognize that immigration law is legitimate and needs to be upheld. Some progressives have tried to advance the notion that being undocumented is a marginalized identity that needs to be protected and supported by the state. But this is absurd; it’s like if progressives decided that people who drive over the speed limit are a minority group.

Illegal immigrants chose to break U.S. law when they came to this country. Our democratically elected leaders made those laws, and they should be honored. We should treat illegal immigrants humanely, of course, and we should not tear local communities apart just to hunt down a few people. But there has to be some way of enforcing the law, because a law without enforcement is no law at all.

A third principle that liberals should embrace is that the purpose of immigration is to benefit the people who already live in the country that is receiving the immigrants. Immigration to America must be for the benefit of Americans. We must flatly reject any concept of immigration that sees it as a necessary sacrifice on the part of American citizens. [...]

Instead, liberals need to promote immigration because of the benefits it brings to the American citizenry. This includes economic benefits — the tax revenue, the investment, the eldercare, the innovation, the entrepreneurship, the expanded market size. But it also includes cultural benefits — the constant reinvigoration of this nation of immigrants by new waves of people with the gumption and bravery to pick up and move across the world in search of opportunity and freedom.

America has always been the country of the frontier; in order to maintain that ethos in the modern age, we need people for whom America itself is the frontier. And our founding ideals — which are very liberal ideals, of liberty and opportunity and the rights of the individual — are strengthened by people who make the conscious choice to move to a country that represents those ideals...

And if this requires us to be selective about which immigrants we bring in, then so be it. Skilled immigrants bring far more economic benefits per capita than others — so by all means, let us tilt our system toward them, as American voters of both parties want. Immigrants who don’t love and embrace American culture will probably invigorate our nation less — so by all means, let us bar immigrants who have been part of groups that see America as evil, using the law with which we once banned immigration by members of communist parties.

These are the kinds of decisions that nation-states, including liberal nation-states, are inherently entitled to make. And we should expect Europe to make different decisions than America makes. That’s perfectly OK. Because immigration is fundamentally the decision of each sovereign nation-state, it’s inevitable that we’ll make different decisions. JD Vance wants us to think that France’s immigration policy, or Germany’s, is inextricably tied to America’s. But it’s not, and we shouldn’t let him get away with conflating the two.

For America, the kind of immigration agenda I’ve sketched out — which all the polls show Americans favor by substantial margins — would not be a “far right” policy, even though some progressives and leftists will inevitably try to label it as such. In fact, it would allow in far more immigration than the policies of Franklin D. Roosevelt or Harry Truman. It won’t satisfy progressives who dream of a borderless world, or leftists who salivate over the chance to make the West pay for colonialism. But I believe it will preserve America as the kind of liberal nation-state that we knew it as in the days before Trump.

As for the rest of the world, countries like Germany and Canada and Japan have to make their own decisions. I can’t tell them what kind of nation to build; I can only try to promise that as an American, I’ll respect their decision. If they want to shut their doors in order to slow the pace of cultural change, it’s not my job to lecture them otherwise.

by Noah Smith, Noahpinion |  Read more:

Image: Gallup

How Hermès Unharnessed Fashion

[ed. Air mess..]

The sound of drumbeats filled the pavilion. The first model emerged onto a sinuous runway in a nubuck coat paired with chiffon pants that fluttered in the breeze, revealing knee-high calfskin boots. The outfit matched the pale yellow of the venue but upheld the Hermès aesthetic of discreet, horsey timelessness. So when the next model came out, also wearing shades of margarine and lemon, it took a moment to register that her look—a skintight, bell-bottomed catsuit covered in blinking sequins—represented a deviation from, if not a challenge to, the Hermès ideal. Hermès does not employ celebrity ambassadors, as most other major luxury brands do, but, perhaps in a nod to the setting, the evening’s front row was a touch starrier than usual. Miley Cyrus, open-mouthed, nudged Kerry Washington as the woman in spangles swept by—this was red-carpet clothing, flashbulb clothing, clothing to be seen in once rather than excavated annually from a closet of perennials. Nadège Vanhée, the artistic director of Hermès women’s wear since 2014, described the event’s conceit to me as “How do I create a conversation between the mystique of a French fashion house talking about horse carriages and the spirit of Los Angeles, which is rewind, erase, restart?”

Thierry Hermès, an Alsatian-born harness-maker, founded Hermès in 1837. (Pronunciation hint: “air mess.”) Over nearly two centuries in trade, the company has dealt in germinal francs, Poincaré francs, de Gaulle francs, and euros, always remaining family-owned. The current C.E.O., Thierry’s great-great-great-grandson Axel Dumas, presides over an empire of sixteen métiers, as the divisions are known in the house lexicon, including everything from saddlery, gloves, and belts to timepieces and tableware. Many people know Hermès for its intricately printed silk scarves (Grace Kelly once used one as a sling) and for its savagely coveted Birkin bags (whose rate of appreciation is said to outperform the S. & P. 500). The latter have inspired so many knockoffs that Judge Judy once devoted an episode of her show to a Birkin-counterfeiting scam, marvelling, “Twenny-nine hundrud dollas for a pockabook!”

These days, that would be a bargain, as even the most modest models cost five times as much. Hermès is worth an estimated hundred and ninety billion dollars, making it the second most valuable luxury-goods firm in the world. Last year, it briefly overtook the front-runner, L.V.M.H.—the slick conglomerate behind the likes of Louis Vuitton and Dior—its eternal nemesis and spiritual foil. 

In the capricious luxury sector, Hermès has a reputation for steady thinking. Protestants in a traditionally Catholic country, the family—now a tripartite mishmash of Dumases, Guerrands, and Pueches, owing to a surfeit of daughters at the end of the nineteenth century—is known for avoiding debt and investing for the long term. Its bags inspire a fevered economy of influencers, resalers, and aspiring buyers, thanks, in large part, to the company’s choice to keep supply diabolically low. Hermès positions itself above the melee, as a guardian of tasteful continuity. According to one former executive, the family sees money “merely as a means, especially for buying time,” and, according to one relative, “moral elegance” is considered a job requirement at Hermès. In 2016, at a benefit auction, Jeffrey Epstein placed the winning bid on an internship at Hermès; the company withdrew the lot and reimbursed the charity. Dumas later explained that the last thing Hermès needed was to get involved with a “louche financier.”

Hermès is a sporty house, but it is also the wonkiest house. The company employs a paleographer, for deciphering handwriting in old company correspondence, and maintains a collection of leather-bound ledgers containing the specs of every saddle made from 1900 to today. The first sixteen pages of last year’s annual report consisted of a cartoon about a globe-trotting Pegasus. It would be difficult to find another luxury brand that promoted an employee from sewing bags to designing them after he submitted a plea written entirely in Alexandrines. But Hermès did, and it is still producing that designer’s first creation, from 2002: the Picotin, inspired by feedbags. Suckers for a touch of whimsy, the company’s window dressers once garnished a display inspired by the Garde Républicaine, a famous French cavalry division, with a pile of horse manure. Such is the Hermès commitment to authenticity that the poop was sourced directly from the unit. [...]

The company’s twin values of work and quirk can sit uneasily in the distractible, self-serious fashion world, to the point that fashion at Hermès has historically been regarded as something of an oxymoron. Unlike its competitors, Hermès is a pre-haute-couture enterprise, founded before the rigid bureaucracy of French fashion was put into place, in the eighteen-sixties, with the establishment of a governing syndicate. Emilie Hammen, the director of the Palais Galliera fashion museum, explained that, as a result, the company “has never felt a need to prove itself within this framework.” Hermès tends to express itself through craft rather than through novelty. “I’m not doing fashion,” Véronique Nichanian, who designed menswear at Hermès for more than three decades, told GQ, in 2021, preferring to call her creations “clothes-objects.” The house is, in many respects, the antithesis of the kind of fashion described in Miranda Priestly’s famous cerulean speech, from “The Devil Wears Prada”: unlike its bags, whose imitators include Walmart’s seventy-eight-dollar Wirkin, Hermès’s clothes have traditionally trickled down nowhere, influencing no one. You will certainly not find an “equestrian gilet dress in satin-gray plongé ostrich” hanging on the racks at Target next year just because Hermès sent one down the runway.

Yet, under the stewardship of Vanhée, fashion is an increasingly important venture for Hermès. Internally, the division has grown by forty-four per cent since 2022, accounting for more than a quarter of the sixteen billion dollars in revenue that the company reported last year, and Hermès’s cultural influence is likewise on the rise. Lauren Sherman, the fashion reporter for Puck, wrote admiringly of the L.A. show, “This was the most Vanhée has ever inserted herself into the broader fashion conversation, which you don’t really have to do at Hermès.” A friend of mine who works in the industry was recently raving about a pair of stretchy, high-waisted black pants designed by Vanhée that she said insouciantly bundled together several desirable codes: equestrian, prep, surf, S & M. She continued, “You can wear them with literally anything and look like a sexy luxury bitch.” The writer and filmmaker Miranda July, who attended the show in L.A. wearing a blue turtleneck under a black leather Hermès overalls minidress, told me, “It’s kind of crazy that she’s making clothes for such wealthy people that are so sensuous and kinky. It’s for flesh—for beating skin with blood under it.”

The “Hermès game,” as it’s known, has spawned an entire repellent vocabulary. The ancillary purchases, for example, are euphemized among shoppers as “pre-spend” or “Birkin bait,” and tales circulate of aspirants attempting to curry favor with sales associates, or “S.A.s,” by offering cash and trips on private jets. In order to justify the expenditure, or perhaps the humiliation of having to beg for the privilege of parting with their money in a public store, some participants tend to treat what is realistically a one-way capitalistic transaction as some sort of bilateral spiritual quest. Reddit abounds with threads such as “What was your journey to a Special Order?”(A “special order” allows a client to customize her bag.) One lucky buyer replied, “In my case, I think my SA felt that I had enough neutral bags (two Birkins, an Evelyne, a KTG) that it was time for me to go through a special order to get a bag unique enough for me.” Drafting on Hermès’s cachet, a New York City plastic surgeon recently began providing a package of procedures for new moms known as the Birkin Body—lipo, a tummy tuck, breast surgery, and a butt lift.

by Lauren Collins, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Jet Swan

Slaves to the Algorithm

Many people think Greg Chism is a freak — or worse. He says he was just following the incentives of the platform.

I promised Greg Chism I wouldn’t reveal anything about where he lives because there are people out there obsessed with him, convinced he’s a monster. What I can say is that my GPS took me from my hotel somewhere in the American Midwest to an upscale, spacious home with well-kept lawns. Greg was waiting for me in his driveway, an unassuming, friendly, ordinary father of two in his mid-50s, wearing a Van Halen sweatshirt and blue jeans. His smile faded as I jumped out of my car. He had agreed to meet me, but now he looked uneasy. He had never given an interview about the events that overtook his life in 2016 and 2017.

Greg took me inside and showed me his den — a shrine to his two great loves, Hot Wheels and Tom Petty. He led me through to his home office. We sat at his desk, and I turned on my recorder. It was 10 a.m. He had bottled up his story for seven years, and we didn’t stop talking until his younger daughter, Annabelle, arrived home from school at 4 p.m., beginning with his childhood in Granite City, Ill. [...]

In 2013, Greg created a channel, Geek to Freak Lawn Care, and filmed himself performing good Samaritan lawn work. If he saw a lawn in need, he would jump out of his truck and blow away the dead leaves or trim the edges and then vanish like the Zorro of lawn care chores. In other videos, he created a kind of lawn care ASMR, meditatively mowing back and forth, up and down, for hours at a time.

“I was posting one a week, and they were getting a hundred thousand views or more,” Greg said.

Sometimes Greg was interviewed by fledgling lawn care influencers, and the respect he had gained in the lawn care world was palpable. In one video, the interviewer Keith Kalfas — “the World’s Leading Landscaping & Window Cleaning Influencer” — called Greg the lawn care GOAT. When Greg attended a lawn care convention in Kentucky in 2014, the crowd went wild for him. A meet and greet was organized at a pizza place. “Dude, all these people were waiting for me,” Greg said. “And they all gave me their lawn care shirts so I could wear them in my videos. It was insane.”

But Greg’s story was about to spiral in bizarre and unexpected ways. In 2015, YouTube Kids debuted. It was pitched as a safe and educational experience for children. Stressed parents could leave it on autoplay, and their kids could watch hours of Peppa Pig or nursery‑rhyme videos. But by 2017, things had taken a disconcerting turn. Parents began reporting that they would leave their children for a while and return to find them being fed videos called “Mickey Mouse Baby Dead in Gas Explosion” or “Elsa Spiderman Attacked by Sharks.”

In these cartoons, Peppa Pig was no longer having normal Peppa Pig adventures. Instead, she was being tortured at the dentist, or worse, eating her own father, with blood spurting everywhere. [...]

As James Bridle put it in a viral 2017 essay that drew attention to the phenomenon, “Something Is Wrong on the Internet”: “Someone or something or some combination of people and things is using YouTube to systematically frighten, traumatize and abuse children, automatically and at scale.”

You might be thinking it was just the work of trolls, bored misanthropes skewing the YouTube Kids algorithm for their own nihilistic pleasure. But as Chelsey Weber-Smith, the creator of the podcast “American Hysteria,” has noted: Trolls tend to flash little victorious side glances to the camera. These videos were more like something your dreams might invent, weird and unsettling. Like how the characters would often repeat the same movements over and over, blank-eyed, as if taking part in some garish, otherworldly ceremony. As Weber-Smith said, “What makes this story even more bizarre, even more unnerving, is that no one has yet figured out the people who were making these videos, and why.”

But there was one exception. One man was identified. According to BuzzFeed, this man’s contribution to #Elsagate — as the scandal had become known — was to post videos of his daughters “screaming in fear, bathing, pretending to be babies, spitting up food” and “being force‑fed.”

That man’s name was Greg Chism.

In 2012, well before he established himself as a lawn care influencer, Greg created another YouTube channel called, simply, Greg Chism.

“It was just a way to store home videos,” he said. “Three or four a week. I didn’t even give them a title. It wasn’t anything. It had fewer than 1,000 subscribers.”

Greg showed me one of the videos. In it, he and his two daughters were running down the toy aisle at Walmart, fighting with lightsabers — a somewhat overindulgent, nonauthoritarian single father and his devoted children. It was endearing, but nothing more.

But then he tried something different.

“OK.” Greg hesitated. “My sister bought the kids a Barbie cruise ship for Christmas. So I thought, I’ll film them opening it. They loved it. They were playing in the box. They had the box on their heads, running around the house. It was funny.”

Greg uploaded the video and forgot all about it. Until he logged on a few weeks later and discovered it had been viewed a million times. “It was just dumb luck,” he said.

Eventually Greg accepted that “Unboxing Barbie Cruise Ship” (which eventually achieved 10 million views) was an anomaly, and he returned to lawn care influencing. Which was when he received an email from YouTube headquarters.

“I didn’t believe it was really them at first,” Greg said. “They told me they’d noticed I had a video with 10 million views, they’d started a kind of YouTube school, and would I be interested in learning how to replicate the success.”

YouTube school was online, and Greg attended assiduously. Everything the teacher advised, he put into action. The teacher suggested that he give his channel a better name than Greg Chism, so he came up with Toy Freaks. Next, the teacher suggested that Greg work on search engine optimization. The trick, he said, was for Greg to load his titles with as many of the most searched key words among children as he could — words like “toy,” “slime” and “gumball.” Greg suggested that he call his next video “Toy Slime Gumball Extravaganza.” The teacher said children didn’t know how to spell “extravaganza.”

Greg suggested “Toy Slime Gumball Party” instead.

“Perfect,” the teacher said. [...]

So he came up with food fights. “We went to a 7‑Eleven, got nachos, hot dogs, giant Slurpee sodas. We sat in the truck, I set the camera on the dash and said: ‘All right, Annabelle. You ask Victoria for her drink, she’ll say no, you steal some anyway, she’ll get mad and throw food at you. I’ll say stop, then you dump your Slurpee on my head. And then, boom, food fight in the truck.’” [...]

A week after Greg posted his food-fight-in-the-truck video, he was mowing someone’s lawn when he got an email from YouTube. The video had, in just seven days, been viewed 25 million times.

“But why?” I asked him.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know.” [...]

Greg’s concept for the video, and the videos that would follow, was “Bad Baby.” Within days, the first video had 50 million views.

It was thrilling and possibly unprecedented, but stressful — because now Greg felt the pressure to maintain the success. But how, when this new world he’d found himself in made no sense? His fans were so fickle. How to keep them interested? How to up the stakes?

And then he had it.

In a subsequent “Bad Baby” video, “Sharky held the wand and this time bopped Victoria on the head. Boom. Now she’s a baby too! Oh, my God. Two Bad Babies. We go to a grocery store. I put them in the shopping cart. I’m throwing in groceries and filming the whole thing. We get to the car. Victoria rolls down the window and throws out a gallon of milk. That was the end of the video.”

Greg paused. “That,” he said, “was our first 100‑million-view video.” [...]

Greg has under his bed a stack of plaques from YouTube celebrating his viewer‑count milestones. One hundred million views here, one hundred million views there. And then there are the plaques from Tubefilter, a publication that covers YouTube, commemorating the months when he was the most-viewed creator on the entire platform. Between January 2016 and June 2017, his videos achieved a total of 13 billion views. I promised him I wouldn’t reveal how much money he made. But YouTube’s partner program was generous — the advertising-revenue split was around 50-50 — so it was a lot (although not so much that Greg quit his lawn care business). They got out of Granite City and moved to an upscale suburban community.

In 2017, they were invited to VidCon, an annual convention for influencers in Anaheim, Calif., where they had a meeting scheduled with a new YouTube adviser. She had told them how excited she was to finally get to know them in person. They checked in to a Disney hotel and played in the pool, passing time until the scheduled meeting. Which was when something odd happened.

“She canceled,” Greg said.

Greg had no idea why.

by Jon Ronson, NY Magazine |  Read more:

Image: Chris Buck

[ed. “Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.” – George Carlin (more). In a couple months an American census is scheduled to confirm that theory. See also: Have we destroyed childhood? (New Yorker).]

1980s

via:

Youth Football is Growing Again

After declining for a decade, participation in tackle football has started to tick back up, thanks to safety changes. But a landmark study raises fresh concerns.

Coach John Hart’s high school football practices look a lot different than they did 15 years ago. They contain no tackling to the ground and rarely last longer than 90 minutes. If John Hart from 15 years ago saw John Hart’s practices today, “I’d probably kick my own butt,” Hart, head coach at defending Indiana state champion Brownsburg High School, said this week.

Hart, who’s 64, played and coached for decades under a trusted set of principles that, in recent years, suddenly threatened to doom the sport, as scientific evidence and shocking tragedies revealed the costs of football’s violence. Leagues, from Pop Warner to the NFL, have changed rules to eliminate the most violent collisions. Coaches take concussions more seriously. Players train to avoid helmet-to-helmet hits. Local governments in some states have passed laws limiting full-contact practice time. The sport’s survival may hinge on better protecting players, and anyone resistant to the changes now risks falling behind.

“The old school in you thinks you need more tackling, then you start finding out there’s a lot better ways of teaching it without full contact,” Hart said. “Most injuries happen in practice, and we’ve cut that way down.”

The urgent need to reform the game came under yet another harsh spotlight this week when a new scientific study, considered one of the most authoritative ever conducted, revealed that at least a quarter, and probably many more, of former NFL players to die in recent years suffered from CTE, the degenerative brain disease linked to repeated head impacts. The study, which points to the cumulative small hits rather than major injuries, instantly renewed the debate over whether and when children (or adults) should play tackle football, threatening to dull the sport’s recent rebound.

After a decade of decline, national tackle football participation has begun to tick back up in recent years. The percentage of kids ages 6 and up who play tackle football rose from 2021 to 2024 to match 2014 levels, according to data from the Sports & Fitness Industry Association. Surveys from the National Federation of State High School Associations show the total number of high school players has rebounded from a 2018 low point to meet numbers from a decade ago.

Coaches cite a number of possible reasons. For a generation of children cooped up in pandemic lockdown, the sport offers a chance to bond with new friends before the school year starts. At a time of loneliness and fragmentation, football promises community, even tribalism. Deals for young athletes’ name, image and likeness, or NIL, can be paltry or life-changing secure income streams for a growing number of young athletes. And no sport offers more cultural cachet.

But above all, players, parents and coaches trust that the changes in football have reduced football’s risks.

“The way the game is taught is just safer,” said Justin Alumbaugh, head coach at perennial powerhouse De La Salle High School in Northern California. “As a parent, that alleviates a lot of the fear.”

Medical experts are still trying to fully understand the scale of football’s harms. This week’s landmark study, published in the British Medical Journal, included 878 former players who died between 2016 and 2021. It was anchored by posthumous brain examinations of 338 football players, more than 90 percent of which showed signs of CTE. [...]

But coaches and players and parents have reason to be optimistic. How could the game not be safer when it feels so dramatically different? [...]

Compared with a decade ago, the percentage of children who play any organized sport has dipped across the board, according to one analysis of youth sports data. Tackle football shrunk more than basketball and soccer but less than baseball and volleyball. The two fastest-growing games are individual sports, tennis and golf.

Flag football is the only team sport with a growing participation rate over the past five years. The number of girls playing high school flag football has risen from around 11,000 to 68,000 over the past decade, almost exactly matching the loss of boys tackle football players, according to data collected by the National Federation of State High School Associations. Combining flag and tackle, more children are playing high school football than at any point since 2009.

“People thought flag was going to take people away from tackle,” Ehrlich said, “but it has brought more people into the sport in general.”

The best boys’ flag football players, he noted, usually go on to play tackle football. And even in aftermath of this week’s study, he expects that to continue.

by Albert Samaha, Washington Post | Read more:
Image: William Glasheen/USA Today Network/Reuters

[ed. I wouldn't get too excited just yet. Gen Z doesn't strike me as a full contact loving generation. Maybe future teams will be like the military, more motivated by economic or cultural incentives. Glad to see flag football is getting more popular (and sophisticated) these days.]

Studio Ghibli’s Deepest Secret Is What Comes Next

On a Friday morning in April, at Studio Ghibli’s headquarters on the outskirts of Tokyo, Goro Miyazaki faces an excruciating test. After roughly a year of toil, it’s time to screen his animated short for his famously demanding father, Hayao Miyazaki — one of the most celebrated directors on the planet — and then listen to his unvarnished feedback.

The Miyazakis have often clashed over the years. “Constant arguing, constant fighting,” Goro recalls of one of their early collaborations. But perhaps this project will be different — the passage of time occasionally being a mellowing influence. Hayao is 85; Goro, 59.

For a long time, the creative dynamic inside Ghibli has largely revolved around the older filmmaker’s eye. Over the previous four decades, the studio has forged a distinctive style of richly layered, hand-drawn animation in more than 20 feature-length films. The movies, which appeal to both children and adults, often star young heroes saving war-torn environments from nefarious forces amid phantasmagoric phenomena. Collectively, the films have generated over $2 billion in ticket sales, won two Academy Awards and helped trigger a global boom in anime — a market now worth in excess of $25 billion annually, according to the Association of Japanese Animations. It’s been, by many accounts, the greatest run in animation since the heyday of Walt Disney.

Now, with Hayao in his professional twilight, things are inevitably changing — although into what exactly is still unclear. After starting his career as a landscape architect, Goro joined Ghibli in the late 1990s and went on to direct three major films. When Ghibliologists speculate about potential creative heirs, his name is inevitably front and center. But so far Goro has brushed aside such chatter, and his dad has offered nothing close to an endorsement — at least, not yet.  [...]

Studio Ghibli’s headquarters are on a serene, suburban block dotted with single-family homes. The outside of the main building is covered in dense, creeping vines, creating a green exoskeleton that gives the place a puckish, larval aura, like a shaggy caterpillar on the cusp of molting. Goro is joined in the conference room by Kenichi Yoda, an up-and-coming executive.

Three years ago, Ghibli announced it was selling a 42.3% stake in the business for an undisclosed sum to Nippon Television Holdings Inc., a major Japanese media conglomerate that had long invested in the studio’s films. Yoda, then a producer at Nippon TV, joined Ghibli’s board of directors and has since served as the primary liaison between the two camps. Whatever happens next, Yoda, 51, will be a driving force. (In May the companies announced that he’d been promoted to become Ghibli’s president and chief executive officer, starting on June 22.)

For the next two hours, the younger Miyazaki and Yoda hold forth on Ghibli’s future, from their inchoate plans for the next feature film, to their stance on artificial intelligence, to the importance of extending the brand beyond the screen. Yoda declines to say anything about Ghibli’s financial situation, or Nippon TV’s assessment of it. According to public records, as of March 31, 2025, Ghibli had ¥44 billion ($279 million) in assets and brought in ¥6 billion in net profit over the past year. “Ghibli is not a company focused primarily on profit,” Yoda says.

At a time of great flux in the entertainment industry, many incoming CEOs like to position themselves as agents of change, guiding anxious flocks into a brave new world of technologically optimized content creation. Not Yoda. If anything, he describes himself as Ghibli’s protector of the old ways. “Ghibli is not a place that works hard to maintain a company — I think it is a place to make art,” Yoda says. “When I’m often asked about this outside, I say what matters is that nothing changes.”

Despite its small staff — and the many years, often three to five, it takes to produce a feature-length animated film — Ghibli has managed to grind out a new movie roughly every two years. No sequels. But recently, the studio’s cadence has gotten off track.

It’s been more than two-and-a-half years since Ghibli’s latest film hit theaters, Hayao’s The Boy and the Heron. The movie, about a youngster who loses his mother and gets mixed up with mystical birds, was a success, winning the Academy Award for best animated feature and generating more than $290 million in global ticket sales. But since its premiere, Ghibli has announced no theatrical movies, intensifying scrutiny of the gnomic company.

The hunt for something new, Yoda and Miyazaki say, is ongoing — but tricky. The process is driven by the intuition of the studio’s aging founders rather than more prosaic concerns such as market research, investors or the calendar. “They don’t think ahead that much,” Yoda says. “We have put out films inspired by whatever’s happening at that point in time.” If it doesn’t feel right, he says, Ghibli won’t force something into production: “It doesn’t mean that they’ve stopped thinking about or coming up with creative ideas. They’re constantly thinking about, ‘OK, if we were to put a film out now, what would that be?’ ”

Meanwhile, the global demand for anime that Ghibli helped ignite decades ago has since attracted competitors from beyond Japan. The top film in the world last year was Ne Zha 2, an animated fantasy adventure from China that built off the huge reception for Ne Zha in 2019. The sequel grossed more than $2 billion globally, topping the best offerings of Hollywood and Japan.

Moviemaking, Miyazaki says, has become more industrialized: “It’s very hard to just create a feature film and put that into theaters and then make financial sense from that. A lot of the animation you see out there now is based on a manga, and then it becomes a TV series. And then you have the partnership with the music company to have a big theme song attached to it. And so there’s this wholesale business scheme — there’s, like, a template, almost, to make sure that it’s a profitable business in creating an animation film. We, as a studio, have never done that.”

Ghibli’s competitors have no such qualms. Major US animation studios continue to pump out sequels to prior hits. This year alone will see Toy Story 5, The Angry Birds Movie 3 and new installments in the Minions, Super Mario Bros. and Paw Patrol franchises.

Once, years earlier, Hayao considered making a sequel to his 2008 fantasy-adventure film Ponyo, but the idea was eventually scrapped in favor of another original, The Wind Rises. Sequelization just isn’t appealing to them, the Ghibli executives say; they aren’t considering My Neighbor Totoro 2 or anything similar. “When you make a film, it’s not like a fun, happy, exciting process,” Goro says. “It’s very laborious, it’s very tedious.”

If anything, the process of creating any animation has grown even more laborious. In part that’s because Ghibli’s gaggle of animators is older and less suited for round-the-clock binge working than they used to be and, in part, because of labor laws enacted to curb such workplace excesses. “So even when the engine gets going, we have to stop,” Yoda says. “That is extremely frustrating.”

Miyazaki says he’s not planning to pitch any movies to his dad anytime soon. Were the executives considering ideas from aspirational filmmakers outside their ranks? Yoda replies: “If there’s someone willing to do the film, yes, we would love to.” But doing so, Miyazaki points out, wouldn’t be easy under the current circumstances. “As long as … Hayao is around,” he says, “it’d be absolutely impossible.” Yoda nods and chuckles: “Any sane animation director would not come close to this castle.”

To the outside world, how, exactly, Ghibli operates has always been something of a mystery. [...]

As in many creative fields, the pressure on the animation industry is mounting. AI software is already capable of rendering elaborate animated sequences from brief prompts. What that means for the profession is still unclear. But recently there’s been a collective embrace of Ghibli as a standard-bearer for the growing AI resistance.

In March 2025, when OpenAI released a new version of its text-to-video AI model, users started refining their Ghibli-style knockoffs. Before long, people were inundating the internet with Ghiblified selfies, family photos and famous movie scenes. Mike Tyson posted a Ghibli-like rendering of himself. Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, updated his X profile pic in Ghibli style.

Not everyone was amused by the spectacle of a rich American tech company offering the capability to appropriate the style of revered Japanese artists without compensation or consent. Amid the ensuing backlash, a particular clip from Never-Ending Man about Ghibli began recirculating on social media. In the documentary, a brazen Japanese tech executive tells Hayao that soon deep-learning AI will let computers paint like humans. Inside the Ghibli headquarters, he plays a demonstration. Together, they watch an AI clip of a misshapen, unclothed humanoid clumsily squirming across the ground. In response to the creepy video, Hayao tells a story about the sensation of greeting a physically disabled friend. Whoever made this video, Hayao says, gave no thought to human suffering. “It’s an awful insult to life,” he says. The clip snowballed into a global cri de coeur against AI slop.

In Japan, the Ghibli executives watched the OpenAI saga play out, unbothered. There has long been a tradition, Goro says, of fans making amateur art derived from their favorite manga, anime or video game characters. So the Ghiblification craze didn’t seem like a big deal. For amusement, one of the company’s executives even dabbled in the trend himself. “We didn’t think much of it, to be honest,” Goro says. “If someone started making a lot of money out of it, then it would be a problem.” 

Anyone positioning Ghibli in the vanguard of the AI backlash, Goro says, was twisting events for their own purposes; the studio itself was essentially AI agnostic.  [...]

One of the central themes in Hayao’s films is whether humankind will harness technology for the protection and enrichment of the natural world — or, alternatively, for its destruction. Susan Napier, a professor at Tufts University, says the roots of this fascination likely can be traced back to the nuclear horrors endured by Japan during and after World War II. But at a time when much of the planet is grappling, once again, with existential questions about a powerful new technology and its impact, she says, Hayao’s work is more relevant than ever. Hayao’s films teem with robots and other forms of sentient technology, some good, some evil. His films’ perspective on the topic, she says, is always complex. “What are the pleasures technology can bring,” she asks, “along with the perils?”

by Sohee Kim and Felix Gillette, Bloomberg Businessweek | Read more:
Images: Kentaro Takahashi

10 Brutally Honest Predictions on the Future of AI

Most of the predictions about AI have proven dead wrong. You could get more reliable information by consulting tarot cards or a Ouija board.  [...]

1. AI agents will join together in cartels and manipulate financial markets.

We already know that AI agents will work together without anyone telling them to do so. So what happens when hedge funds and private individuals start relying on AI to manage their investments? The obvious result is collusion on a massive scale, beyond any kind of market manipulation previously practiced by human criminals.

There are laws limiting people when they do this. But the legal code, in its current form, doesn’t apply to AI bots—they cannot be fined, sued, or sent away to prison. And how can you punish the person who relied on an AI agent in good faith, and never instructed it to break the law?

So get ready for turbulence in financial markets. And once it starts, it will feed on itself, creating a level of volatility never seen before.

2. AI agents will go to war with each other.

This is the corollary of the previous prediction. The same lack of control that allows AI agent collusion will lead to bot battles and rivalries—filled with more vengeance, betrayals, and reprisals than a Thomas Kyd play.

Probably the best analogy here is gang war or a Mafia turf fight. That’s because the rogue AI agents will form short-term alliances in order to advance their interests, but then turn on each other. Because, hey, that’s how the bots roll. It’s like the Gambino and Genovese families teaming up to take on the Corleone clan.

In this anarchic world, humans will be collateral damage. Bots have been trained to achieve results, and woe to anyone or anything that stands in their way.

3. AI will serve as the “higher power” for more and more users—and lead to the formation of organized slop religions.

AI is already a disorganized religion. Individual fanatics turn to their bots for divine messages and Rosicrucian-type revelations, but people of this sort are currently dismissed as dupes or crazy fools. But that will change as true believers join together in groups, creating rites, services, scriptures, and other trappings of formal religion.

This will lead to many social problems. For a start, these adherents will demand non-profit status for their ‘churches’ and demand immunity from legal strictures because of their constitutionally protected freedom of conscience. But this is just a start of the chaos to come. That’s because the AI god is a talkative, hallucinating one, and the demands it makes on believers will lead to startling, calamitous results.

4. AI will find a place in the creative world, but increasingly as the microwave meal version of culture.

Food is the useful analogy here. When frozen dinners and microwave meals were introduced, many consumers embraced them as the tech-driven foods of the future. But over time, the public figured out that more tech isn’t always better when it comes to food.

The same will happen with AI music, AI writing, AI art, and all the rest. Like the microwave meal, it will be cheap and easy. But anyone with discernment and taste will prefer handcrafted alternatives.  [...]

9. Money always calls the shots—and that’s where the AI crisis will intensify the most.

The cash getting invested in bots is beyond anything ever seen before in the history of capitalism—already $3.7 trillion has been spent, and the outlay is growing by another trillion per year.

This investment will never generate an adequate return. It can’t. The numbers just don’t add up.

Let me make a comparison. For less than that amount, Silicon Valley could have acquired every movie studio, every video game company, every major record label, and all the big publishers in the world—and still have plenty of cash left over.

So do you think the average person will pay more for AI each month than for all that entertainment? Is AI really worth that much? Not at all—at best, the true believers will pay roughly the same amount as a single Netflix subscription. But the market cap of Netflix is a tiny percent of total AI expenditures. So the mismatch between the level invested and the resulting demand is unprecedented.

But the situation is even worse than that. These AI companies haven’t even begun to feel the real pinch of the depreciation charges caused by this capital investment—those will devastate earnings. And meanwhile there’s an intense price war underway within the AI world, so revenues will get squeezed even if there’s growing demand. Add to this, the massive debt burden, unlimited liability exposures, punitive legislation, and all the rest.

This is an easy prediction to make. Get ready for write-offs and financial ugliness of the most extreme kind. It’s hard-baked into the business plans, and keeping the mess in the oven for longer won’t make it taste any better.

by Ted Gioia, Honest Broker |  Read more:

Image: Ouija board; uncredited

[ed. See also: Nine Rules For New Technology (HB):]

***

When did new tech stop getting cheaper?

It happened the day Steve Jobs died. Maybe not exactly on that date—but shortly afterwards.

Look at this chart of iPhone prices, adjusted for inflation, and you can see what I mean.

[ed. Thanks, Tim Cook (and good riddance).]

The Social Reckoning

When Aaron Sorkin made 2010’s “The Social Network,” he had heard of Facebook, he said at the time, “the way I’ve heard of a carburetor.” Sixteen years later, he has a much deeper idea of what Mark Zuckerberg’s social media empire has become.

“Back then, Facebook was a way to keep in touch with people you went to high school with. It’s something much different now,” Sorkin says. “‘The Social Network’ was about the invention of Facebook. ‘Social Reckoning’ is about what it’s become and, in particular, Facebook’s role in the rise of extremism and divisiveness.”

“The Social Reckoning,” which Sony Pictures will release Oct. 9, is one of the most timely movies arriving in theaters this fall. Last week, Sony debuted the film’s trailer the same day that Meta, Facebook’s parent company, agreed to pay up to $18 billion in penalties over claims its platform endangered children.

“The Social Reckoning” is poised to further scrutinize the social media behemoth at a time when Zuckerberg is under greater pressure than ever over the role Facebook plays in contemporary life and politics. [...]

“To tell you the truth, I was hesitant,” Sorkin said. “I recognize the shadow that ‘The Social Network’ casts. But I think what’s going to happen is, 10 minutes into the movie, you’ll have forgotten about that and be invested in this.”

For the 65-year-old Sorkin, “The Social Reckoning” isn’t a sequel. It’s centered on the same figure, Zuckerberg, but captures him and his company at a dramatically different stage. [...]

“I said at the beginning I didn’t want to write ‘Jaws 2.’ I didn’t want to return and fail,” says Sorkin. “Then I met Frances Haugen and I met Jeff Horwitz and I started thinking more about it. I realized there was a terrific story and the only reason not to do it is being scared. And that’s just not a good enough reason.” [...]

Sorkin initially reached out to Eisenberg about reprising the role of Zuckerberg. Before telling Eisenberg, or anyone else, of his plans, Sorkin spent two years researching and writing the screenplay.

“I didn’t know that Jesse simply did not want to play Mark Zuckerberg ever again,” Sorkin explains. “I talked to him a lot over a three-day weekend. He was clear that he loves ‘The Social Network,’ he loves how it launched his career, and he just doesn’t like being conflated with Mark Zuckerberg. I was just really lucky that Jeremy Strong had said, ‘Hey, listen, if for some reason Jesse doesn’t want to do it.’”

“It’s replacing Joe DiMaggio with Mickey Mantle,” he adds.

by Jake Coyle, AP/Seattle Times |  Read more:

Image: Leah Gallo/Sony Pictures via AP

Does Writing Matter Anymore?

Injecting ideas into the discourse is incredibly powerful. John Maynard Keynes famously described the power of idea injection:

Practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist. Madmen in authority, who hear voices in the air, are distilling their frenzy from some academic scribbler of a few years back.

To describe why idea injection is so powerful would take an entire post (which I do intend to write). There are a number of reasons. First, idea injection allows you to frame the terms of the debate. Whether people think your idea is right or wrong, once you put it out there, discussion of the issue at hand turns into discussion of whether your idea is good or bad.

As Keynes notes, an early writer’s ideas can also act as a kind of training data for later thinkers; it becomes a foundation off of which politicians, bureaucrats, staffers, other writers, and even entrepreneurs and financiers build when they make their own ideas. [...]

But injecting ideas is only one part of a blogger’s influence. We’re also part of a community of intellectuals that span multiple disciplines and walks of life. On a daily basis I get to mull ideas over not just with other writers and pundits, but also with top academics, CEOs and entrepreneurs, Congressional staffers and political advisers, think-tankers, corporate researchers and engineers, and plenty of people from other countries. This leads to a much richer discussion, with a greater diversity of viewpoints, than almost anything else I can think of. And they reach a very wide set of ears. In a way, blogging is like DARPA — ad-hoc multidisciplinary teams that build the rapid prototype of an idea. OK, maybe that’s a bit pretentious, but you get the point.

Anyway, the reason I’m writing all of this is not to brag, but to complain. Over the last two years, I’ve felt like my job has become a bit less important than it used to be, for three reasons:

1. The rise of populism on all sides of the political spectrum in the U.S. means that smart ideas are simply not as likely to be implemented by the people in power.

2. The general shift to Substack and other monetizable direct-to-audience channels has made punditry less conversational.

3. The rapid proliferation of AI writing has increased the demands on readers’ attention (including my own).  [...]

Monetization means intellectuals are siloed

“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” — Ferenc Molnár

Substack has done a whole lot of good, both for me personally and (more importantly) for the world. In a time when most of the internet has been taken over by malignant opportunists and sensationalist attention-seekers, Substack stands as a lone island where reasoned, intelligent, earnest debate is still possible. It has also allowed many writers to escape from publications that stifle their voice, impede their development, and don’t pay them their due. In many ways, Substack has resurrected the old blogosphere from the early 2010s.

However, this resurrection has come at a price. Substack’s killer feature — email distribution — allows writers to get much larger and more loyal audiences, and to make a lot more money by charging those audiences for subscriptions. But this creates a financial incentive for writers to spend more time serving their customers and less time talking to each other.

In 2011, I was blogging part-time, because it was fun — the attention that mattered was when Brad DeLong or Paul Krugman or Tyler Cowen was interested in something I had to say. It was a little “republic of letters”. Now I’m blogging full-time, and having a conversation with Brad or Paul or Tyler is still just as fun and stimulating, but it’s a distraction from my job of creating content for my paying audience. There are still interesting intellectual debates and exchanges in the blogosphere, but they are no longer the main thing writers are rewarded for.

Turning intellectuals into content creators tends to put them in siloes. And Substack is far from the strongest in terms of silo-ing. Most of the internet is being taken over by vertical-scrolling short-form video, which is not exactly good for conversation and exchange. I could go start a YouTube channel, but it would just be me talking directly to my fans — I’d basically be a TV talk show host. I might still do this, because it’s a high-leverage way to influence the world, but it’s not as intellectually rich or rewarding as being part of a round-table conversation.

Nor are interesting new ideas as likely to emerge from one-way siloed content creation. Ideas emerge not from singular minds in isolation, but from dialogue — the cross-pollination that the blogosphere and other intellectual communities create isn’t just fun, it’s productive. Writing for you, my readers, is not boring, but you’d get better content from me — and from all your other favorite writers — if we talked to each other more.  [...]

AI is stretching our attention to the breaking point

“My ambitions accelerate. My afternoons do not.” — Claude

Unlike many people, I think AI writing is actually pretty good. Yes, there’s a recognizable style that the basic models use (“It’s not X, it’s Y” and lots of other little cliches). That style isn’t bad, it just gets overplayed when everyone uses it. Yes, AI models are still not great at boiling a complex idea down to one or two pithy sentences. But you can modify the style that AI uses. And AI can do plenty of things human writers can’t — it can seamlessly incorporate vast knowledge and novel data analysis into a piece as it writes it.

For example, I immediately suspected that this essay by Aaron Brown, Michael Mendelson, and Cliff Asness, on the confusion of the debate over “affordability”, is mostly AI-generated, and Pangram — the most reliable AI text detector — flagged it as around 50% AI. But that’s not a knock against it — the essay is great. It classifies different kinds of “affordability” problems — true poverty, precarity, downward mobility, etc. — into different buckets, gives some illustrative vignettes, and provides some useful numbers about each one. I broadly agree with the article’s conclusions, and I think it’s a valuable addition to the discourse.

A bigger problem is that in a world where a huge number of people generate effectively infinite amounts of good-quality content like this, it becomes hard for readers to decide where to allocate their attention. Instead of identifying the few most consistently useful blogs and reading those in great detail, a lot of people will respond to the explosion of content by “reading” a larger number of posts but only lightly skimming each one.

It’s not my job I’m worried about here. It’s that in that world, even if my blog continues to get tons of readers and make me plenty of money, what I do becomes less important. If people are just skimming what I write so they can move on to the next 10,000-word Claude-generated post, the fact that they’re paying me $10 a month is cold comfort — I’m not really reaching them. And even more worryingly, no one is reaching them — if they’re skimming 100 posts a day instead of reading 10 all the way through, they’re not getting really good information from anywhere.

I don’t know how severe this problem will be, to be honest. There was always a lot more high-quality content on the internet than anyone could ever read, and a lot of people always just skimmed my posts instead of reading them closely. Maybe AI can’t make this problem worse because it was already maximally bad.

Also, I’m optimistic that AI itself will open up new channels for intellectual influence. It’s a well-known fact that if AI just consumes AI-generated output, it gets worse and worse. So AI companies try very hard to “clean” the text they use to train their models. Human writers, whose personal experience brings in new data for AIs to learn, can influence the world if their writings are used to train the next generation of AIs.  [...]

Claude and GPT often cite me as a source on topics I write about, and friends have told me that Claude recommends my blog with surprising frequency when they ask it for reading material. Maybe Tyler Cowen is right when he says we should be “writing for the AIs”.

by Noah Smith, Noahpinion |  Read more:

Image: The Simpsons
[ed. See also: the post below about a Chinese discussion of Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey.]