Is Netflix Washed Now?

Today’s headline poses a question you’ve probably never thought to ask, so I’ll start with my answer: yes, Netflix is washed now. The content on the platform has never been great, but it’s never been worse. I open the app these days and I’m amazed. What used to be a source of fun, buzzy, compulsively watchable, and occasionally excellent TV and movies is now an endless river of reheated IP, true crime documentaries, and filler dressed as prestige. Millions of people watch this stuff, and everyone instantly forgets it.

I offer this observation as a swirl of heightened anxiety surrounds the company, so let me clarify one thing up front: I’m not predicting imminent doom. Netflix content reaches a staggering 85% of American viewers and has 325 million subscribers globally. Growth is slowing, but that’s the law of large numbers. If practically everyone in America and much of the world is already subscribed to some version of Netflix, and churn rates are still low, then any concern is relative. Going forward: cable is still dying, and even if the biggest premium distribution platform in the world can’t make great content of its own, it can still license movies, TV and sports rights. Netflix can then spread those costs across hundreds of millions of subscribers and a steadily growing ads business, seeing more engagement in a week than Apple TV sees in a year.

So no, the company’s not doomed today or destined for collapse tomorrow. Instead, I think what’s interesting to consider is that Netflix has almost certainly peaked. As a cultural force, as a business success story, and as an entertainment death star destined to swallow Hollywood whole, the arrows are all pointing the wrong direction.

Here was Lucas Shaw at Bloomberg two weeks ago, writing about one of several problems the company has encountered over the past 12 months:

Netflix is struggling to get viewers to stick with its shows for more than a season.

One Piece, one of Netflix’s most-watched shows of 2023, lost more than 30% of its audience for the second season. Season two of Beef suffered a drop of more than 70%. The Night Agent shed 50% of its audience for the second season and another 35% for its third season. These figures are all through the first four weeks of a show’s release and come straight from Netflix.

Adding insult to injury, the latest season of Avatar: The Last Airbender, one of Netflix’s most-watched titles in 2024, suffered a drop of more than 60% over week one. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the month.

That report went viral, prompting a week of commentary on Netflix’s binge model and elongated release schedules, with lots of Twitter users observing that viewers consume eight episodes across a few days and then often have to wait as long as two or three years for the next season. By that point, memories of plot or characters are faint at best. The emotional connection to the story doesn’t exist. No one should be surprised that the audience for a show like One Piece is cut in half in 2026, three years after the first season aired.

While that explanation certainly feels true, Shaw followed up this week to note that data is mixed as to whether extended breaks between seasons do in fact correlate to audience drop-off. Severance, on Apple, gained a ton of new audience after its nearly three-year break. Stranger Things and Bridgerton have been multi-season powerhouses at Netflix despite their long breaks between seasons. Conversely, Tina Fey’s Four Seasons debuted on Netflix in May last year, was met with pretty good reviews, and returned 13 months later with half its audience.

I think the Netflix problem is more fundamental than production schedules. What if these shows just aren’t very good or differentiated? Consider the original productions Netflix has surfaced in the past few months:

• A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder
• Running Point
• Lord of the Flies
• Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen
• Unchosen
• XO, Kitty
• Big Mistakes
• Beef
• Man on Fire
• Little House on the Prairie
• His & Hers
• Nemesis
• The Boroughs

That list is culled from a post by the Entertainment Strategy Guy charting Netflix originals that have under-performed in the second quarter of 2026, and one common thread between those titles is that I haven’t heard of almost any of them. Netflix is the one streaming service everyone subscribes to and is theoretically well positioned to be setting the cultural agenda, but that hasn’t happened for quite some time. Did you know that Avatar: The Last Airbender was a thing? Apparently that show lost 60% of its season one audience when its second season aired in late June.

Content and the Year of Discontent

I mentioned the anxiety surrounding Netflix these days, so let me take a step back here. Amazingly, it’s only been eight months since Netflix won the bidding war to buy Warner Bros. Discovery and looked poised to become an entire generation’s one-stop shop for high-end entertainment. The implications of that news produced lots of anxiety, including one of my first articles on this website—Netflix and the Flattening of Everything—and a memorably ominous Variety cover that captured Hollywood’s mood at the time:

The Warner Brothers deal was abandoned at the end of February, when Netflix walked away from the table in the face of regulatory pressure from Washington and an increased bid from Paramount. Even so, the market hated the initial play, as investors wondered en masse why the world’s most (only?) successful streaming platform was suddenly ready to take on a mountain of new debt to acquire a company that had already been the subject of several expensive, failed acquisitions over the past 25 years.

Now, even as the deal is off, the questions remain. Are we sure a Netflix world takeover is a forgone conclusion? Is Netflix sure? The stock is down 18% this year and over 40% across the past 12 months. Investors who did a double take last December seem to have noticed that YouTube has twice the overall engagement that Netflix does, and more time watched on televisions, while free, ad-supported TV services like Tubi and the Roku Channel are becoming meaningful engagement competitors themselves.

Meanwhile, alongside all the original programming that’s failed to launch (or re-launch?), Netflix is adding videos from BuzzFeed, Condé Nast, Hearst and Penske Media (as Shaw notes: “Get ready for lots of Bon Appétit cooking videos on Netflix.”) Last fall the platform also added a variety of high-end podcasts in a bid for relatively cheap, recurring content that may be seeing underwhelming results. Then again, they continue to buy more, so who knows? Elsewhere, the Wall Street Journal reports that Netflix executives have “recently discussed adding live channels that would continuously stream certain programs, or shows and films from a certain genre.” Can Netflix become HBO before HBO becomes Netflix? Can Netflix become Tubi before Tubi destroys Netflix’s long-term pricing power?

All of those moves might have once been seen as the savvy power plays of a world-conquering behemoth intent on taking the next step to expand its footprint. Today, in the shadow of a Warner Brothers bid that accidentally punctured the company’s air of inevitability, this year’s moves look more like spaghetti being thrown at a wall by a company that’s searching for something—anything!—that might hold people’s attention and scale more effectively than an expensive library of content that’s consumed, discarded, and then effectively worthless.

Looking back at the deal to acquire Warner Brothers, HBO and all that IP, I think it’s clear Ben Thompson was right when he wrote that concerns over competition from YouTube specifically and the internet generally were likely key drivers of Netflix’s decision-making. Those concerns seem to be animating all the other options the company is considering, and understandably so. The same way that the rise of social media has throttled the growth of the gaming market, it stands to reason it could do the same to demand for scripted content. With respect to the specific Netflix logic for buying WBD, that context is important: the biggest companies, with the deepest, most diverse libraries, will have the best chance at defending themselves in this new environment. [...]

I like to leave all Aggregator analysis to Ben, but I don’t think investors are crazy to have some questions about where this leads and what the upside looks like. For all the advantages its massive customer base affords (leverage over costs, advertising upside), an obvious difference between Netflix and businesses like Meta, YouTube, or Google—the other demand aggregators—is that Netflix has to spend far more money to deliver on its value proposition to customers and has fewer network effects to defend its long-term centrality to people’s lives.

by Ben Thompson and Andrew Sharp, Sharp Text |  Read more:

Images: Al Bello/Getty Images for Netflix; Variety

[ed. See also: Predictions on the Future of Netflix (and Other Huge Platforms) (Honest Broker).]

A Script for Mark Zuckerberg

The setting: Meta’s earnings call in early August, 2026.

The speaker: Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg.

Good afternoon everyone, and welcome to Meta Platforms’ Second Quarter 2026 Earnings Conference Call. Our remarks today will include forward-looking statements, which are based on assumptions as of today. Actual results may differ materially as a result of various factors, including those set forth in today’s earnings press release and in our quarterly report on Form 10-Q filed with the SEC. We undertake no obligation to update any forward-looking statement.

I know it’s weird that I, Mark Zuckerberg, am doing the Director of Investor Relations job, but anything is possible when this speech is made up. What follows isn’t actually me: it’s what Ben Thompson of Stratechery thinks I should say on this call.

I know that Meta and myself are facing a lot of questions about AI, particularly the amount of money we are spending on capex. Our core business is an asset-light cash generation machine, so why are we spending tens of billions of dollars on AI? To answer this question I want to give you a quick recount of our history, what I’ve learned, and why I am so confident that we are doing the right thing for our future. So let’s get to it.

A Brief History of Facebook

Facebook was, as you know, the digital representation of Harvard’s analog Face Books. What was clear from the very first day we went live was the extent to which humans are, first and foremost, interested in other humans. People would spend hours clicking around to people’s pages. To put it another way, our first algorithm was human curiosity.

What truly super-charged Facebook usage, however — and which transformed the Internet — was the feed. Now, instead of actively surfing to friends’ pages to look for an update, we showed updates to you in a single feed on your homepage.

You might remember that we got a lot of heat for this decision, including protestors outside our office in Palo Alto. The lesson we took from that, however, is one that has guided us to this day: first, the revealed preference of users, as captured by data, was that they loved the feed: engagement skyrocketed. Second, we learned to trust our own — my own — product intuition, and that conviction has served us well over the years.

Another critical moment in our early history was the shift to mobile. We didn’t get this right in the beginning — more on that in a moment — but what was quickly apparent is that more access to Facebook meant more usage of Facebook. I can’t emphasize this point enough: when humans can connect to humans, they do, and when they can do it more conveniently and in more places, they do it more often.

Finally, I would be remiss to not mention Instagram. Obviously Instagram has been a major part of our growth over the last 15 years — and, I would add, we have been a major part of Instagram’s growth. To that end, an important thing to understand about Instagram is the extent to which it has evolved. Just because we gave our users what they wanted at one particular moment in time does not mean we can afford to sit still: more bandwidth first meant more pictures in Stories, and then video in Reels. Instagram has gone from strength-to-strength precisely because it has changed as technology has changed.

My Mistakes

We — I — haven’t done everything perfectly. We’ve taken our arrows through the years for lots of things that frankly aren’t our fault, but are rather the reality of being the primary communications platform for all of humanity, and humanity is flawed. I’m proud of the efforts we have made to ameliorate humanity’s worst impulses while enabling some of our best tendencies, including that desire to connect.

Rather, my mistake is itself a very human one: for many years I have resisted embracing what Facebook — now Meta — is, and spent too much time trying to emulate some of the tech titans who came before me. Specifically, I have been obsessed with becoming a platform.

The first manifestation of this error was the initial shift to mobile I referenced above. When Facebook was primarily a browser app I invested heavily in trying to build a platform, with things like Facebook Games, payments, etc. We had some success there — some of you on this call might have played Farmville back in the day — but when mobile came along we mistakenly tried to hold onto web technologies that supported my vision, and were years too late in investing in a truly native smartphone experience.

The reality — and this is hard for me to admit — is that Apple saved us from my mistaken obsession. Mobile Made Facebook Just an App, and that was Great News. Instead of diminishing the Facebook experience so that we could feature third-party developers, we had to cede that space to Apple and put our own content front-and-center. It turns out that was what people wanted the most; in fact, they wanted it so much that they willingly scrolled through and clicked on the most compelling ad units ever. And make no mistake, we paid back our debt: Facebook built the App Store just as much as Apple did.

My second error was Reality Labs. While in recent years I have framed our acquisition of Oculus and virtual reality as a necessary response to Apple’s attempt to handicap our business, the truth is that I invested twelve figures into this technology because I thought it was cool, and yes, because I wanted to own a platform. I do think we’ve made compelling strides in this area — and we’ve created technology that is going to matter in the long run — but I now recognize that part of the reason I am delivering this mea culpa right now is because I burned a lot of credibility with investors with all of the losses Reality Labs has endured with very little to show for it.

My third error was not in trying to make Facebook something it was not, but rather failing to appreciate what it had become. While I was thinking about platforms, I took it for granted that connection was enough for the core business; in fact, Facebook had evolved into entertainment, at least in its public-facing forms (I will take credit for the acquisition of WhatsApp and realizing that Messaging Was Mobile’s Killer App). This was an insight that TikTok figured out first, and it was a blindspot for me.

The Ad Blindspot

What I’ve come to realize is that all of these mistakes are symptoms of what has been my biggest failing as CEO: all of you on this call have appreciated our ad business more than I have. I’ve been very blessed as CEO to have excellent co-workers who have over the years developed the world’s best digital ad business, while I frankly haven’t taken as much interest as I should have.

My failure to appreciate our ad business is another lens through which to examine my mistakes:

• Building a platform is antithetical to building an ad business. A platform’s goal is to feature third-parties; an advertiser’s goal is to capture attention for itself.

• Investing in an entirely new technology, including developing hardware, fundamentally limits our addressable market; an advertiser’s goal is to maximize its market size.

• Entertainment is the best possible category for an advertiser to own: people willingly give entertainment their attention, which is exactly what an advertiser wants to sell.

This neglect as CEO left us badly exposed in our disputes with Apple. I firmly believe that Apple’s characterization of digital advertising was unfair, dishonest, and self-serving. What I failed to do, not just in that bruising battle but in the years leading up to it, was make the affirmative case for ads generally, and Meta ads in particular.

It’s easy to see how the Internet has made it possible for an entirely new category of entrepreneurs to create products that uniquely serve the tremendous capacity of humans to manufacture an infinite array of desires, growing the economy to the benefit of everyone; what’s harder to appreciate — in part because I haven’t made the case — is that the only way to connect those creators to the consumers who love them is digital advertising. We don’t serve ads like Google — or Apple in the App Store, or Amazon on Amazon.com — that in many respects function as a tax on search; we show people products they never knew existed, but that immediately generate desire and, ultimately, happiness. In short, I believe that we are a force for good in the world, not just because we connect people to each other, but because we connect entrepreneurs with customers in a way no one else does.

Why AI Matters

Forgive the long preamble, but this is necessary context for me to properly explain why AI is so important to Meta, and why I am making the right choice to invest so heavily in both talent and infrastructure.

First, when investors compliment our asset-light business, what they are complimenting is the fact that our business is purely digital. Everything digital, however, is firmly within AI’s cross-hairs. It may seem odd to begin my AI pitch by highlighting terminal value risk, but today is about honesty: every single digital company on earth faces an existential threat from AI, and we are no exception. Meta must invest in AI because a failure to do so would cost us far more in the fullness of time, particularly now that we’ve seen the very real risks entailed in depending on a third-party.

Second, AI makes our business better — and by “our business”, I mean ads. AI is more than LLMs: it is machine learning, and we have been using machine learning to improve our ads business for years. More recently, we have developed GPU-dependent algorithms that have significantly improved our ability to not just target ads but also recommend content, which keeps people entertained longer, which lets us serve them more ads. And, looking forward, LLMs themselves will transform advertising, not just by generating copy and images, but by predicting the ads and content that people want to see. Every single one of these improvements goes directly to our top line — and remember, because advertising enables us to offer our products for free, the capacity to increase our top line is unbounded by price elasticity.

Third, the single most important indicator that our business is on the verge of a step-change in growth is when we dramatically increase inventory. This is something investors regularly get wrong: back when we added Stories, investors panicked about falling prices-per-ad without realizing we were increasing inventory we could grow into. Five years later, investors made the exact same mistake with Reels. Those were the two best opportunities to buy Meta stock — or any stock, really — in history. We are facing an even larger opportunity over the next several years. AI makes every pixel monetizable, which means we are looking at the largest inventory expansion ever. Yes, it will take a few years to realize this opportunity, but the technology is there.

More importantly, what I’ve come to realize as I’ve embraced our status as an entertainment provider and ad purveyor is that — our nature as a digital business notwithstanding — we are remarkably well-placed to thrive in an AI era. Remember what we learned about humans: they are obsessed with other humans, and they want to connect with them; that obsession and desire are only going to increase as we interact more and more with AI. AI is going to make our properties more essential, not less.

Moreover — and here I must issue one more mea culpa — AI is a productivity tool, but productivity is not the end-all-be-all of the human experience. I have talked over the last year about building superintelligence that helps you get things done, but that’s a business story. What we can uniquely do is give people the experiences they want — from connection to entertainment to shopping — when they are off the clock. The fact that we are investing in AI but not selling solutions to businesses is actually one of our biggest advantages.

Oh, and by the way, AI might actually lead to new hardware paradigms. I admit I was wrong to spend so much time on virtual reality, but that did lay the groundwork for a unique opportunity to develop devices that make much more sense in a world where we want to access AI everywhere, not just on a phone in our pocket.

The Compute Hurdle

I know that many of you on this call have doubted my investment decisions before — and I understand the consternation about Reality Labs in particular. However, keep in mind that when our stock dipped in 2022, one of the big reasons was because of our aggressive capex spending, which went primarily to GPUs; ChatGPT came out a month later, and that decision to spend heavily with Nvidia looked incredibly prescient in hindsight.

That prescience, however, pales in comparison to the payoff that will accrue to anyone with the foresight to build data centers and buy compute over the last several years, and for years into the future. We don’t have the luxury of waiting until the future is invented and then investing; we need to invest now, especially when the opportunity in front of us — with ads specifically — is so apparent.

by Ben Thompson, Stratechery |  Read more:

Image: uncredited via

[ed. Less social network, more optimizing ad juggernaut. See also: Anthropic is in talks to lease computing power from Meta, potentially for $10 billion over two years, so this would be smaller than the Anthropic deal with SpaceX. Meta is considering it. They would turn a profit on the compute, but to do that they have to admit they don’t have a better use for it. via.]

Line People

It’s a Sunday afternoon late in June, and as is the case pretty much every day of the week, there is a line at Caffè Panna, an ice-cream shop in Greenpoint that sells perfectly Instagrammable scoops of artisanal scrumdiddlyumptiousness. Though the store doesn’t open for another five minutes, there are more than 50 people, two stroller babies, one Italian greyhound, and one Maltipoo waiting in an orderly line on the sidewalk outside. For every customer who eventually claims their order — “For Hannah! For Harry! For Anna!” — and walks off devouring it, another two seem to appear, creating a never-ending human centipede that stretches from the window, down the block, past an advertisement for the new Olivia Rodrigo album, and around the corner onto another block. The line is inching along slowly, and the clouds are threatening rain, but no one seems bothered. Everyone is beaming. Passersby — bicyclists, drivers, and pedestrians alike — slow down when they encounter the thing, occasionally letting out a squeal of wonder (“What is this line?”) or judgment (“What is this line?”).

Within a quick walk, there are plenty more lines in the neighborhood: for pastries (at Radio Bakery), tacos (Taqueria Ramírez), pizza (Chrissy’s), coffee (Rhythm Zero), matcha (Kettl), ceviche (Mariscos El Submarino), katsu sandwiches (Taku Sando), and more katsu (ACRE). Even during the week, in the middle of the day, it’s not a rarity to see a line of phone scrollers dawdling down India Street toward Radio Bakery. “Is that a bread line?” a visiting family member, looking perplexed, asked me completely seriously not long ago when we strolled past. In some ways, I tried to explain to him.

New York has always had lines for the sorts of experiences you can’t get anywhere else: Broadway tickets, skyscraper observation decks, Cronuts. This summer’s lines, though, can seem borderline ludicrous: three to a street, blocks long, often for the types of things you can get almost anywhere in the city, like bagels, pizza, and pastries. They emerged slowly over the past few years and then like a flood, a cumulative effect of TikTok constantly showing all of us what we are missing out on in our very own boroughs. The temptation is almost too strong — why not take the train 15 minutes to figure out if that slice of pizza is as good as everyone on your “For You” page is telling you it is? “It’s herd mentality,” one young woman, nearly rolling her eyes at herself for joining the masses, tells me at Myka, a fro-yo chain that is arguably the site of this summer’s longest lines. Now, across the city, especially along the Brooklyn waterfront and in much of downtown, people are waiting for an ever-diversifying assortment of viral snacks and “sweet treats” (to use the preferred language of Instagram influencers), all the while petting one another’s dogs, gossiping with friends, minding their toddlers, checking Slack, and scrolling away their remaining time in line. As one TikToker captioned a video taken in the West Village on the first nice day of spring in March, “The sun is out and New Yorkers are back with their favorite activity of waiting in line.” A company called Same Ole Line Dudes (tagline: We Wait for Your Wants!) will even wait in line for you, starting at a price of $55.

Naturally, some New Yorkers are getting persnickety about the situation. “I would never stand in a line. It just seems so déclassé,” the podcaster Francesca Root-Dodson tells me. When I run into a Real Housewife I know on my way to wait in line at Caffè Panna’s original location in Gramercy Park, she says, “When I was growing up here, standing in a line was not a cool thing. Now there’s a whole culture around it. The only thing worth waiting in line for is a Balenciaga sample sale.” The Caffè Panna line is monitored by a camera installed by a mysterious website called damnlines.com. (One Wednesday in July at 4:20 p.m., the website estimates a 25-minute wait; near 30 people are in line.) As such haters’ thinking usually goes, waiting in a line is the lemminglike behavior of tourists in Times Square trying to get a deal on last-minute tickets for The Lion King. Standing in a line is what you do pissily at the airport or Disney World. (Also, self-described real New Yorkers like to say you wait on line, not in one. The mere mention of this distinction can send people into long, impassioned debates about the importance of regional dialect.) “These kids today on these stupid lines,” Dorothy Wiggins, a 100-year-old influencer and West Village resident recently complained on Instagram. (Note her use of on.) “It’s crazy! Just crazy!” Her hairdresser, also featured in the video, shared that she would never stand in line because she grew up under communism.

Others have taken to championing the line people. “I don’t like when people make fun of the people who stand around in long lines,” the downtown writer known as Sotce recently wrote on her Substack. “Some people read Substack, some people wait in a line. Some people have vintage denim and read books by dead people. And really we all die.”

“I’m not somebody who would wait in line,” the owner of the Italian greyhound tries to assure me outside the Greenpoint Caffè Panna. Yet she has just done exactly that, waiting 15 minutes for her Nutella Crunch ice cream, which she doesn’t sound at all embarrassed about as she devours the ice cream in less time than it took to order it. “When you see there’s a line, it means the place is good,” her friend, the owner of the Maltipoo, tells me. Just the day before, she went to Caffè Panna’s other location, where she also waited in a line. Nearby, two sisters, tourists from Boston, snap photos of their scoops before digging in. “All the lines have felt worth it,” one tells me; for breakfast, they waited in a line at Apollo Bagels in Williamsburg. They’d seen all this hoopla on social media and couldn’t resist sussing out the hype for themselves. “I would rather stand in this line here than go figure out another place to go,” one says to me.

by Brock Colyar, Curbed |  Read more:

Image: Natan Dvir

***

Early on the first summerlike evening of the year, New York’s Greenwich Village was abuzz. Restaurant patios were packed, with waiters shuttling bottles of crisp white wine to diners. On University Place, the queue for frozen yogurt at Mimi’s stretched half a block, bending around the corner. I considered joining it. A New York University student told me the line quadruples after 7 p.m. His friend chimed in to call it “the hottest club in New York.”

Whether it’s an hourlong wait for a shawarma at TikTok favorite Miya Miya in Los Angeles or a two-hour queue for pastries from the Cedric Grolet Opéra pastry shop in Paris, long lines for viral foods and popular restaurants have become a feature of urban landscapes. And summer is peak season for them.“These long lines circulate via social media,” says Emily Contois, an associate professor of media studies at the University of Tulsa. Posts of queues “create and re-create a representation of popularity and virality,” not just for locals, but for anyone online. A recently published study of tourists waiting in food lines in Amsterdam found that 84% of them had seen videos of those lines on TikTok and 54% on Instagram. Lines have become tourist attractions and social experiences in their own right.

Over the past year, I’ve lined up for coffee in Shanghai, for croissants in Edinburgh and for bagels, pizza, cinnamon buns and, most recently, frozen yogurt at home in New York — all with hordes of others joined in the belief that good things come to those who wait.
A recent survey of more than 3,000 US consumers found that 60% of Gen Z respondents reported waiting in line for more than 30 minutes for a specific food. Among all the age groups, 74% of those said the wait was worth it. Experience enough of these lines, and you’ll see they’re more than a byproduct of imbalanced supply and demand. They’re places where complex social, psychological and economic theories play out, one slow-moving step at a time.

Social media posts have made waiting for Mimi’s part of the experience for many customersPhotographer: Yuvraj Khanna for Bloomberg Businessweek
In the queue for Mimi’s, I passed the time people-watching, scrolling on my phone and chatting with line mates. Among them was Athena Yan, from Shenzhen, who’s studying for her master’s in urban planning at NYU. She told me she’d been drawn to Mimi’s by its online cachet, but now she appraised the queue through an urban planner’s lens. Lines like this, she said, offer a social benefit: They “make the street look more energetic, more alive.” Her interest wasn’t strictly academic. After conquering the line and procuring her yogurt, she said, “I’m going to post it to my Stories.”

by Matthey Kronsberg, Bloomberg |  Read more:

Image: Yuvraj Khanna

[ed. Beats sitting on your couch at home watching tv, I guess.]

11,700 Free Photos from John Margolies’ Archive of Americana Architecture: Download, Use & Re-Mix

Your children may not be able to visit an orange juice stand shaped like an orange or the Leaning Tower of Pizza, but thanks to the Library of Congress, these locales can be pitstops on any virtual family vacation you might undertake.

In July 2017, the library selected the John Margolies Roadside America Photograph Archive as its “free to use and reuse” collection. So linger as long as you’d like and do with these 11,700+ images as you will–make postcards, t‑shirts, souvenir placemats.

Whatever you decide to do with them, the archive’s homepage has tips for how to best search the 11,710 color slides contained therein. Library staffers have supplemented Margolies’ notes on each image with subject and geographical headings.

Begin your journey through the Library of Congress’ John Margolies Roadside America Photograph Archive here.

by Ayun Halliday, Open Culture |  Read more:

Images: John Margolies/Library of Congress

More Bad Behavior in Prediction Markets

Trump teleprompter aide made $100,000 betting on what Trump would say, reports say.

Kalshi is a high-tech prediction market that allows people to “forecast the future” (their term). It is about contracts and information, the company says, making its offerings more like a soybean futures contract than a round of blackjack or a pull on the one-armed bandit.

Still, prediction markets look a lot like betting if you squint, which is why states like New York have tried to regulate them under gambling laws. To head this off, Kalshi has sought federal protection under the Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC). Yes, this means regulation for Kalshi, but it also means the CFTC will sue states like Kentucky, Minnesota, Illinois, and Rhode Island, trying to pre-empt their laws in favor of a single national standard that the CFTC controls.

While this battle plays out, government insiders continue to generate insider trading stories after using their work knowledge to place bets “forecast the future” and make huge sums of money. The classic example, of course, was Gannon Ken Van Dyke, a US soldier who participated in planning the capture of Venezuela’s Nicolas Maduro and then made $410,000 from that knowledge on the prediction site Polymarket. Van Dyke was arrested in April.

But there are also more ridiculous stories, such as disgraced former Congressman George Santos, who allegedly talked up his upcoming appearance at the State of the Union, secretly bet on whether he would attend, and then didn’t go at the last minute to score a payout.

This activity raises questions, like: How many people are gambling forecasting the future based on government secrets or insider knowledge? How many are actively manipulating results they have bet on? Even the Trump White House was concerned enough to issue a memo in March telling employees not to “use nonpublic information to buy or sell these contracts.”

But concerns have lingered, especially after major wins on contracts involving US government policy or actions. Such suspicions will not be helped by new allegations today from multiple outlets that insider trading on Kalshi has extended even to President Trump’s teleprompter operator, who allegedly made $100,000 “forecasting” specific words and phrases that might appear in Trump speeches.

The mention market

According to sources speaking to NPR, Trump aide Gabriel Perez bet on something called a “mention market.” This is a section of Kalshi where you can sink money into contracts on crucial questions such as “What will Domino’s say during their next earnings call?” (Currently, $26,000 has been invested in this question; the smart money thinks that “Parmesan” and “DomOS” are more likely to be mentioned than not.)

In the case of Perez, his “forecasting” allegedly took place over several months at the end of last year and the beginning of this year, and his contracts were sometimes adjusted in the middle of Trump speeches. According to ABC:

Sources say Perez typically has the final eyes on nearly all of the president’s prepared remarks—and is often known to take last-minute edits from Trump himself… In certain instances, investigators uncovered times when Perez would back out of certain bets mid-speech when Trump skipped over a portion of the speech that included a word he had previously bet would be mentioned, the sources said.

This conjures up an amazing mental image: The teleprompter operator for one of the world’s most powerful people tapping away at his phone during a Trump speech to ensure he made more money for himself. [...]

Whatever you want to call it, “predicting the future with money at stake” has become huge business in America. A recent (and terrific) long article by McKay Coppins in The Atlantic showed people what a year of online sports gambling looks like, and it raised serious questions about the negative issues that widespread, legal, bet-from-your-phone gambling might cause in a country where “roughly half of men ages 18 to 49 have an active account with an online sportsbook.”

by Nate Anderson, Ars Technica |  Read more:

Image: Getty

[ed. See also: Sucker (The Atlantic article) mentioned. And: Truth Social to sell trading firms 'fastest' access to Trump's posts (Reuters).]

Grocery Store Tourism

Grocery tourism is the hot trend of 2026 according to Condé Nast Traveler. This is all well and good, but also a bit late to the trolley because I have been practicing this trend since my twenties, although without the benefit of a name or a hashtag.

My two worlds met in the supermarket aisle. Before I was a travel writer and sent to places with hotel beds that appeared to have been prepared for minor royalty or a very clean corpse, I was a checkout chick at supermarket chain Coles. This was when prices were typed in by hand, making me feel like I was conducting a low-level NASA launch procedure.

A tin of pineapple rings would trundle towards me, and I would punch in its code. Behind it would come shampoo, fish fingers, instant pudding, 24 cans of Diet Coke, and a packet of aspirin. From these items, I could deduce entire family systems. Marriage trouble. School excursions. Flu. A birthday party. A woman about to murder everyone in her house unless she got a Mint Slice into herself immediately.

I loved the products. Not necessarily the customers who could turn feral over a five-cent discrepancy in canned tomatoes. The conveyor belt was a pageant of human need. It was anthropology in a polyester apron.

When people now declare that they have discovered grocery store tourism, I feel like saying, “We know. We’ve had those for years.”

My first trip to America should have been my grand supermarket awakening. I was a PR manager for Malaysia Airlines in the late ’90s, and we were launching a very long flight to New York from Sydney via KL and Dubai. I arrived bristling with ambition. I wanted to see the cereal aisle. Long had we heard rumors of American supermarkets. They were great glittering cathedrals of corn syrup with aisles devoted just to cereal and marshmallows in the shapes of everything from the moon and stars to presidents. I wanted to stand before them all in awe, like Moses, if Moses had come down from the mountain carrying Pop-Tarts.

But the group itinerary was against me. We went to Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s and Saks. We went to FAO Schwarz. We went to Woodbury Common in New Jersey. But we did not go to a grocery store. We stayed at The Mark, and while it’s a beautiful hotel, it’s a hopeless base for a woman hoping to loiter near canned soup. Five days in New York and not a single trolley. I still consider this one of the great failures of my professional life.

Japan was different because come hell or highwater, I was finding a supermarket, and I did. Japan has KitKats in flavors that sound like haiku composed during a fever. There are soft drinks made of melon and sandwiches so neat they seem to have been assembled by watchmakers.

I once stood in a Japanese aisle looking at 15 varieties of bottled tea and felt the kind of reverence other people reserve for stained glass. This is the point of grocery tourism. It’s anthropology with a basket.

Every country gives itself away eventually. This is usually somewhere between the biscuits and the cleaning products. Finland offers Moomins in places no Australian supermarket would dare put a cartoon hippo. Singapore understands the spiritual importance of salted fish skin. Sweden puts things in tubes that should never be in tubes and then offers fermented herring.

And then the Netherlands has licorice. The Dutch have built an entire moral philosophy out of licorice. Sweet, salty, double-salty, hard, soft, shaped like coins, cars, and warnings from your dentist. I’ve always admired the Dutch, but this commitment to black chewy punishment is heroic. Sweden is not to be outdone and has thus flirted with licorice-flavored chips.

Then there are the products that cause the traveler to stop dead and reconsider the whole Enlightenment. In Vietnam, I couldn’t walk past snake wine without dancing an involuntary flamenco of horror. There was a snake in a bottle suspended in alcohol. Sometimes there were scorpions.

South Korea has canned silkworm pupae. Peru has coca tea. Colombia has arequipe. America has cheese in a spray can, which I respect as both a product and a cry for help.

And now, social media has turned all of this into content. Travelers narrate the experience into their phones. A German soccer fan can wander into an American Waffle House at one in the morning and emerge as a folk hero. Erewhon in Los Angeles has become a celebrity shrine where a smoothie can cost more than a small household appliance and one strawberry comes packaged like an engagement ring and with a similar price.

Grocery stores offer the rarest thing in modern travel, the uncurated ordinary. The supermarket is the one place travel cannot fully manicure itself. Hotels can lie. Brochures can lie. Restaurants, especially the ones with menus printed on thick paper, can lie beautifully. But supermarkets are hopeless at lying. They’re too busy. ...

Museums tell you what a country wants to remember. Restaurants tell you what it wants photographed. Supermarkets tell you what it eats at 6:14 PM when everyone is tired and dinner has become a hostage negotiation. They tell you whether a nation believes in breakfast or whether its citizens require 12 flavors of mayonnaise or 87 yogurts. They disclose the private life of a destination complete with its anxieties and emergency snacks. They reveal the daily economic choices of consumers.

by Nicole James, The Freeman |  Read more:

Image: Yufei Yang/Conde Nast

Catching Up With Keanu

Keanu Reeves' First Original Action Movie Since 'John Wick' Is 'Groundhog Day' With Sharks

I'm sure that’s one of the reasons you guys are doing press today, to raise awareness. Before I run out of time, Keanu, I'm a big fan of Tim Miller. And I know you're getting ready to film something with him in the Dominican Republic.

REEVES: Yeah.

What can you tease about this project, and what made you say, “I need to do this?”

REEVES: Sharks. Time machine. Groundhog Day.

Everything you just said sounds fucking amazing.

REEVES: Yeah, man!

Does that mean you're spending a lot of time in the water? Is that something that you're looking forward to?

REEVES: Yes. And getting eaten by sharks.

by Tamera Jones & Steven Weintraub, Collider |  Read more:

Image: Lionsgate

[ed. All in. Maybe they're Russian sharks and he'll be blasting them left and right for eating his groundhog.]

Life at the End of the Metaverse

It is almost midnight at the close of 15th June 2026, and I am standing in the middle of a world that is supposed to be ending, not that anyone nearby seems all that concerned by the prospect.

In mundane reality, I am standing in my living room, trying not to bash my shins on the coffee table, with a £320 lump of plastic strapped to my head. Conceptually, though, I am in the metaverse—a virtual reality (VR) concept that, for much of the past decade, big tech promised us was the future.

Mark Zuckerberg was so convinced the metaverse was the next big thing that he renamed his company after it. Meta, as Facebook is now known, bet the farm on virtual reality, investing more than $80bn into metaverse-related ventures over the past five years alone—only to abruptly decide it wasn’t the future after all.

In March this year it was announced that Horizon Worlds, Meta’s flagship metaverse venture, would shut down its VR operations in June, continuing only as a mobile app. The announcement was quickly reversed, after a fashion, as Meta promised not to pull the plug on a service users had bought expensive headsets to access. Instead of a quick end, Horizon Worlds would die slowly—no longer maintained or updated, but still accessible to those who had already signed up.

That’s why I’m standing with a Meta Quest headset strapped to my head on 15th June. Are people going to mark the moment they staved off a virtual reality apocalypse? Is this the celebration scene at the end of the movie, when disaster is averted? Will the metaverse be full of cheering crowds?

The short answer was no: Meta has built a whole network of virtual reality worlds, almost all of them empty. The concept was glitzy: Meta itself would build a hub, which let you design and build your own VR avatar—initially, to much derision, without legs, although these were later added.

Users could then build their own themed worlds which anyone could explore, playing games, buying and selling virtual merchandise and chatting with other visitors. Meta promised it would host gigs, comedy clubs and more. Big brands—including Wendy’s, Mini, Cheetos, Fender and the NBA—were lured to build sponsored worlds. It would be a whole new way to experience the internet.

The busiest venue I can find in Horizon Worlds is Metdonald’s, a VR “parody” of the fast-food chain, with 29 people inside. I am teleported to a crude carpark with a decent facsimile of a McDonald’s restaurant inside it. The design encourages me to go through a drive thru.

When I get to the front, I hear the disembodied voices of American children trying to get a non-functional ordering screen to do something. “Five thousand hamburgers please,” one kid says repeatedly, before getting frustrated at another player standing on top of their car.

Another child tries to challenge me to play one of the games nearby, and is quickly annoyed when I can’t work out the controls well enough to do so. Meta spent tens of billions of dollars on building the future of the internet, and all it has to show for it is a handful of bored children in the parking lot of an offbrand drive-thru restaurant. Something clearly went very wrong here, but it’s not immediately clear what—or what that means for big tech’s ability to shape the future when it’s not what the rest of us want.

by James Ball, Prospect |  Read more:

Image: Benny Douet

Meta Culpa

Early last year, Meta's chief technology officer, Andrew Bosworth, had a clear message for his staff. "You should quit if you feel that way," he told one employee who said workers were being treated poorly. "You should consider working elsewhere," he told another person who questioned controversial changes at the business. He was reinforcing the company Meta had spent the last few years trying to become: a lean, fast, high-pressure organization that no longer had the patience for internal debate. "You can leave," Bosworth said, "or disagree and commit."

But this month, in a memo and a meeting with employees, Bosworth sounded like a different person. Morale is "probably one of the worst it's ever been," he said, adding that the business had done "an atrocious job" with its recent restructuring. "We've undermined the trust you have that your specific expertise and contribution will be valued."

Since 2022, Meta has remade itself around a ruthless management playbook that helped define a new era in Silicon Valley. Through relentless layoffs and many other unpopular decisions, executives charged ahead, emboldened by record profits and apparently immune to the building discontent. Bosworth's comments last week were different — an acknowledgement that Meta's leadership may finally be confronting the costs of its actions.

Meta's workforce is at a breaking point. Employees in the UK are trying to form a labor union, decrying executives' "cruel and shortsighted behaviors." More than 1,600 workers have signed a petition demanding that Meta stop tracking employees' keystrokes to improve its AI models. As Wired reported this month, things have gotten so bad that one frustrated employee hijacked a livestreamed meeting with a profanity-laced outburst directed at an executive. Another compared working in a new AI-training unit to the gulag. Others are so dejected they're actually praying to get laid off so they can leave with at least some severance.

Against this backdrop, Bosworth was one of several executives in recent weeks scrambling to do damage control. Chief Product Officer Chris Cox acknowledged the "insanity of this company" that created a "difficult" and "brutal" environment. CEO Mark Zuckerberg admitted "we've made mistakes."

"It's a classic example of chickens coming home to roost," says Sandra Sucher, a professor of management practice at Harvard Business School. "They have almost systematically destroyed trust. They are trying to figure out how to dig themselves out of the hole that they dug."

The digging started with a mass layoff of 11,000 people in late 2022, which Zuckerberg was at least apologetic about. The company then slashed another 10,000 jobs the next spring in what Zuckerberg hailed as a "year of efficiency," and then another 3,600 in 2025 that he said was to get rid of "low performers," effectively torpedoing some workers' job searches (many of them, it turned out, had received good performance reviews). In March this year, news leaked that the company was about to ax even more jobs, but it didn't confirm the cuts for weeks and didn't notify those affected until May, sending everyone into a nauseating, two-month purgatory. In April, amid the limbo, Meta announced it would start tracking employees' keystrokes, stoking fears that the company wanted to automate their work. And in May, as it laid off 8,000 employees, it reassigned another 7,000, many of them to menial jobs that involve training AI. Meta declined to comment on this story. [...]

For employees caught in the hailstorm, it must have felt validating for an executive to empathize with their situation. But surely he and the rest of Meta's leadership knew all these things would make employees unhappy, and yet they did them anyway. So why the sudden mea culpa?

Perhaps all the anger, dissatisfaction, and open rebellion was harming productivity. Or the particularly public nature of Meta's dysfunction, with the crescendo of news reports, had become a liability for its reputation with investors. Or maybe executives finally realized what had become patently obvious to everyone else — that whatever Meta was doing just wasn't working. The whole point of adopting this hard-charging management style was to get employees to innovate faster and catch up to competitors like OpenAI, Anthropic, and Google in the all-consuming battle over AI. Instead, Meta has been falling farther and farther behind.

by Aki Ito, Business Insider |  Read more:

Image: Wally Skalij/Getty; Getty Images; Tyler Le/BI
[ed. Why anyone would want Facebook/Meta on their business resume is beyond me. The money might be good, but working for a company like that would just be burning life years. See also: The Internet Has Become Too American to Trust (The Walrus).]

What If It All Came Out?

The nightmare began with an annoyance as benign and commonplace as a housefly. “Hi there Matt,” the July 11, 2024, email read. “We received a message from you earlier today through our support page related to a changed password on your account … If you didn’t make a support request,” the sender asked politely, “please let us know.”

Matthew Van Andel, 44, who goes by the nickname Dutch, had never heard of “nullbulge.se,” the domain name that sent the message. It appeared to be a classic phishing attempt, a prompt to get him to reply to the email with personal information. So he marked it as spam, swatting it away with a near-automatic series of clicks. Van Andel worked in technology at Disney corporate in Burbank. He loved his job at “the Happiest Place on Earth”; over his seven years at the company, he and his wife, Nicole, had become Disney adults, taking advantage of discounted park tickets with their two kids. Their house in La Crescenta, where Van Andel was working remotely when he got the email, was filled with Mickey and Star Wars and Marvel memorabilia.

Fifteen minutes later, another message arrived from the same sender. This one took a different tack. “Hi Matt. We regret to inform you we have gained access to certain sensitive information related to your personal life.” Van Andel would have deleted this, too, but he had received exactly the same message on Discord, a platform he used to chat about gaming. And it contained specific information that only a few people could, or should, know. “We noticed you had a conversation with Aadya and Shawn about being at Granville for ‘$veg && $keto,’” it read. That was strange. Aadya and Shawn were Van Andel’s co-workers; “$veg && $keto” was a joke about lunch that Van Andel had made while chatting to them on Slack, the internal-messaging system Disney used, a few days earlier.

Seeing his own private words on the screen, Van Andel messaged Disney’s information-security department. The emails had been sent to his personal account, which he was reading on his personal gaming PC in his home office. Info-sec told him his Slack account and work laptop appeared to be operating normally. Still disturbed, Van Andel deleted the second email. Immediately a third arrived: “You think we didn’t see you mark our first test as spam? Then our actual attempt [at] contact went right in the trash.” Van Andel felt his stomach drop. Someone had live access to his account and was watching him use it.

As an engineer, Van Andel thought he had above-average personal op-sec. He ran anti-virus software on his computer. He used Proton Mail, which encrypts messages between users. He turned on multifactor authentication for serious stuff like iCloud. For the past decade, he depended on a password manager called 1Password, which generates random, long, and complex passwords; stores them; and automatically remembers them whenever a user needs to sign in. For Van Andel, 1Password even managed his multifactor-authentication codes. But his diligent, longtime use of his password manager turned out to be Van Andel’s vulnerability. Having all that information in one handy place meant that once someone else was inside, they had a master key to every aspect of his life: his iCloud, iMessage, emails, photos, PayPal, financial information, medical records, social media, his parents’ financials. Over 1,000 accounts. The only way someone could have gotten into his email was if they had cracked his 1Password; when Van Andel realized they must have access to everything, the room began to spin.

He had no idea why the hackers had targeted him or what their plan was, whether they would drain his family’s finances or stalk his home. Eventually, after running another anti-virus program, he found a piece of malware hidden in a plug-in he had downloaded from GitHub, the open-source coding site, one day in February when he was messing around with an AI image generator. He had checked the code himself, it had looked legitimate, and others had reviewed it positively. But it seems it contained a Trojan-horse virus that gave the hackers free rein of his PC. Once inside, they just had to wait for Van Andel to log in to 1Password. From there, they were able to steal all his credentials, plus many of his multifactor-authentication codes, so every time Van Andel logged in to an app, a website, or an account, they could follow behind him. They’d had access for months.

By morning, Van Andel had received a call from Disney info-sec: The intruders had revealed themselves on a blog post celebrating the hack as NullBulge, an activist collective “protecting artists’ rights and ensuring fair compensation for their work,” according to their website. It was later reported that they were Russian furries. They had dumped the contents of Van Andel’s 1Password onto BitTorrent along with his full name — every personal log-in credential, his messages, his bank information, his medical diagnoses, his Amazon account. They’d also managed to access more of Disney’s data than just Van Andel’s Slack messages and published that too: employee Social Security numbers and Slack messages, budget spreadsheets and passport information for the company’s cruise-line workers. It was a massive breach. As people around the world tried to use the information NullBulge had posted, Van Andel’s iPhone began pinging every few seconds with attempts to get into his accounts. Someone logged in to his children’s Roblox profiles and began defacing them with Nazi screeds. Unknown callers left voice-mails. “Dude, your life is over, haha,” one said. “Just leave the country; that’s my advice. Good luck, have fun, and I hope your type 2 diabetes doesn’t get the best of you.” Van Andel raced around the house unplugging Ring cameras and Amazon Echos. Discovering every new potential violation was like learning he was bleeding from a limb he didn’t remember he had. Viscerally, painfully, he could feel the overwhelming breadth and permanence of everything he had ever recorded online, ephemeral and vital and intimate and stupid. Somehow it was only the first wave of exposure he would endure.

by Bridget Read, Intelligencer |  Read more:

Image: Tracy Ma

[ed. Privacy is dead. Edward Snowden is still exiled in Russia.]

America Has a Pangram Problem

AI-detection tools are getting better. But they still aren’t good enough.

Basically every recent, high-profile accusation of someone passing off AI-generated writing as their own has started in the same way: with a tool called Pangram. In March, when a horror novel from a major publishing house was pulled just days before its scheduled U.S. release date, it was in part because Pangram, an AI-detection program, had identified the text as AI-generated. Other people have fed text into Pangram to suggest that chatbots have been used to write articles in major newspapers including The New York Times, multiple short stories awarded a prestigious literary prize, and most recently, significant chunks of Pope Leo XIV’s encyclical warning about the dangers of AI. The tool is also used by universities to vet student work and scientific associations to scan research papers. As panic builds over AI-generated writing, Pangram is at the foundation.

Just a few years ago, it seemed like it might never be possible to instantly and reliably determine whether a piece of text was written by a bot or a person. In 2023, one detection tool, ZeroGPT, declared the U.S. Constitution to be AI-written; the same year, OpenAI abandoned its AI detector altogether owing to a “low rate of accuracy.” And that was when the quality of ChatGPT’s writing was markedly worse than it is today. But detection tools have gotten much better of late—and Pangram, in particular, has emerged as the gold standard: Paste a chunk of text into Pangram, and the model appraises what portions were “AI Generated,” “AI Assisted,” or “Human Written.”

Yet an AI detector that is mostly reliable might in some ways be more dangerous than a broken one. While Pangram is accumulating the power to end reputations and careers, the tool does make mistakes, perhaps to a greater extent than is currently understood. In turn, AI accusations could very quickly spiral into a witch hunt.

Pangram says its algorithm is so accurate that it incorrectly identifies text as an AI output only about one in every 10,000 times. “There is a great responsibility, a huge weight” in saying something is AI-generated, Max Spero, Pangram’s CEO, told me. “The only reason we do so is because we’re extremely confident.” Several independent analyses have also confirmed that it is quite good. One paper, from the University of Chicago, found that Pangram had almost no false positives on some 3,000 sample texts of roughly 500 to 1,000 words.

But Pangram’s ability to guarantee something was written by a human is shakier. Spero pointed me to a test showing that Pangram’s false-negative rate, or how frequently the model incorrectly labels text as human, is closer to one-in-70 (although some other assessments say it is more accurate than that).

Part of the problem is that Pangram is in an arms race with the major AI labs, which have an interest in making the writing of ChatGPT and Claude sound as natural and human as possible. And at the same time, Pangram has to deal with AI “humanizers”—programs designed explicitly to disguise AI text as your own. Reddit users rave about a humanizer called Walter Writes AI, which I decided to test out for myself. I had ChatGPT and Claude write brief articles, then pasted them into Walter Writes AI. The program, like other humanizer tools, does some anodyne rewording, swaps one clunky transition clause for another, and introduces grammatical oddities. For instance, ChatGPT’s “The numbers are no longer small enough to ignore” became “The sheer size of these usage figures can no longer be ignored.” When I pasted any output from Walter Writes AI into Pangram, it invariably told me that the twice-baked AI article was human-written. (It’s worth mentioning that The Atlantic forbids using AI-generated text unless labeled as such, and that I do not use AI for research.) [...]

Further complicating matters are the opaque ways in which Pangram and similar tools are designed. The model was trained by feeding it mountains of examples written by a human and by a bot—a book review in an actual magazine, then a review about the same book in the style of the same magazine, but produced by ChatGPT—until it can tell the two apart. This is akin to feeding millions of photos of cats and dogs into an image-recognition algorithm until it learns to spot the differences. Pangram cannot point to much specific evidence or patterns in diction, phrasing, or punctuation to support why it deems something AI or human. (I do not, for instance, understand why “these usage figures” was more human than “the numbers.”) Moreover, while Pangram distinguishes between “lightly” and “moderately AI-assisted,” these broad categories can mean just about anything short of copy-pasting from Claude—using AI for research, coming up with counterarguments, as a thesaurus, for a grammar check. The algorithm’s inner workings are “pretty uninterpretable,” Spero said, and although he wants to make Pangram’s “AI-assisted” label more granular, he is also “still not sure how possible it is.” Amid concerns of overreliance on AI chatbots, we risk simply layering on dependence on yet another black-box algorithm.

Spero told me that Pangram should “never be the ending arbiter” but instead a starting point for a more thorough investigation, and that the company looks into every reported error its model makes. He also noted that all sorts of detection technology we rely on—smoke detectors, TSA scanners—have base error rates too. On some level, in all these cases the biggest problems lie not in the technologies themselves but in what they’re trying to detect. It’s a problem that buildings catch on fire. It’s a problem that AI is seeping haphazardly into every facet of written communication.

by Matteo Wong, The Atlantic |  Read more:

Image: Atlantic/Getty
[ed. This seems like a transient issue to me. If AI is eventually able to write something (or create art) that's undetectable from what a human would produce, who cares? (except for writers and artists, obviously). You don't see this controversy in coding. See also: AI-Writing Scandals Are Getting Very Confusing (Atlantic). Also via DWAtV:

***

Again, we learn not that AI is a good writer, or that humans are bad writers, but that the literary prize judgment processes are worthless.

Jack: That which can be won with undisclosed AI output should be

Nabeel S. Qureshi: *Another* apparently AI-generated story wins a literary prize, this time judged by a panel including the novelist Ruth Ozeki.

Literary prizes need to start including Pangram checks in their process, or else change the rules to make AI writing ok. It’s very simple! [...]

How should we think about ‘witch hunts’ where people identify writing as AI?

Shashank Joshi: One of the worst trends of recent months: pseudoscientific witch-hunts using AI detection tools

The hunts are fully scientific. The detection tools work, at least for now. I have yet to see a case where Pangram said something was AI, and the piece was neither written using AI nor crafted intentionally to fool Pangram. There are some cases of heavy copyediting that trigger Pangram, but if it’s heavy enough to trigger Pangram then I consider that to be on you.

Bridesmaid Boxes - the Influencer-ification of the Bridal Party

Bachelorette parties and bridesmaid proposal boxes look increasingly like brand trips and PR mailers.

It had started with four words — “Will you marry me?” — which led Alaina to make a proposal of her own. About three months after her fiancé got down on one knee, a “complete surprise on an otherwise regular Sunday afternoon,” holding an elongated cushion-cut diamond, Alaina posed a question of her own. Five words this time, and six gift bags.

Each bag was tied together with a personalized silk ribbon that read each bridesmaid-to-be’s name and was filled with custom-monogrammed makeup, toiletries, travel perfumes (Kilian Paris’s Love, Don’t Be Shy), and other goodies you’d find stocked at Sephora — and some you wouldn’t, like mini-shooters and Crate & Barrel glasses. Inside, a note on beautiful cardstock made the same request, verbalized to her lifelong friends: “Will you be my bridesmaid?”

They had taken her only about three hours to complete. And about $345 — per box.

For Alaina, it was a reasonable price “given that these women have been with me for my whole life, and they’ll be spending a similar amount to attend the wedding festivities,” the 28-year-old says. Her inspiration for these ceremonial boxes, and what to include inside, was “Instagram, of course.”

The internet is awash with these so-called bridesmaid proposal boxes, a now-ceremonial way of asking the person who loved you through every season of life, through every bad ex and bad haircut, to stand beside you on your big day — wrapped in tissue paper or embossed with a custom monogram. Each bag is seeded with photogenic products like full-size Nécessaire bodywashes, expensive lip oils, and silk pillowcases. Sometimes, during a scroll, you’ll even catch a box with Maison Margiela Replica candles ($72) that match the scent, or vibe, of the wedding each of the girls is enlisted to participate in.

It stretches beyond the proposal box, too, as bachelorette parties now have welcome bags and curated itineraries. It all feels like a sliver of influencer culture unsurprisingly encroaching on the wedding universe: These moments are looking more sponsored than bridal.

Charissa, a 36-year-old New York–based bride-to-be, says that’s exactly the point: for these gift bags to feel like a brand present or mailer. Charissa gave her six bridesmaids Moët & Chandon and handwritten notes (done by an Etsy calligrapher for $30 per note, wax seal and all) during such pre-wedding events because she wanted the experience to feel elevated, like something you’d get at a luxury hotel. Like something you’d see brides doing for their girls on Instagram.

“I never felt like I had to do it — I wanted to,” she says, adding that if her friends are spending money to celebrate her, she wants to spoil them in return with a curated experience.

For some brides, the bridesmaid proposal box is simply the first installment in a fully branded wedding universe, one that begins long before invitations go out. What starts with a proposal to join the bride at the altar often extends into the destination bachelorette party, where trips come with themes (“Palms and Prosecco,” “Million-Dollar Cowgirl”) because it’s no longer enough to just go to Palm Springs or Jackson Hole. You now have to play into the larger concept, too.

That often means a chunk of the cost quietly falls to the bridesmaids. Sometimes it’s buying entirely new outfits to dress for the theme; other times it’s funding it outright. “There’s, like, a fully cohesive aesthetic rollout before a trip even begins,” says Mallory, 28, a Chicago-based attendee of four weddings this year — three of which she’s in. As a result, she’s become “deeply” familiar with personalization sites like Minted and Zazzle, where bridesmaids create custom branding for the weekend. “Custom logos are printed on everything: Champagne bottles, menus, posters, itineraries,” she says, which can sometimes total anywhere from $250 to $300 for a bride who is all in. “And the other times when the brides pay for it, we’re still expected to match the theme.”

Kate, 31, says she had “already shelled out thousands for the bride’s plane ticket to St. Pete for her bachelorette, plus meals and a chartered boat,” but what really sent her over the edge was the “$80 Venmo request from the maid of honor for matching ‘Bride Tribe’ sunglasses, T-shirts, and palm-tree earrings.” She adds that she never agreed to the Amazon and Shein orders but was charged anyway.

At least the bride is expected to reward such falling in line. At a bachelorette party’s rented Airbnb, you can expect balloons and matching PJs she’s laid on the bed for her girls; L.L.Bean totes stuffed with costly lip balm or eye masks. Mason Pearson brushes are in the bathroom — or, if the budget doesn’t stretch that far, Wet Brushes will do. An embroidered cowboy hat for their arrival in Aspen; matching Alo sets for a group workout no one particularly asked for. “That’s $397.90 per girl,” one TikTok commenter points out in a video of one of these tote bags with similar-style products. [...]

If you can’t charter a private plane to St. Barts like influencer Danielle Pheloung, better known as @acquiredstyle, for her “Acquired a Husband” bachelorette, the very least you can do, according to TikTok, is DM brands for freebies. This usually looks like brides or bridesmaids directly messaging businesses or PR contacts on Instagram with a quick pitch (“We’re planning a bachelorette trip — would love to try your product”) in hopes of getting gifted items in exchange for tags or social posts. “I reached out to 425 companies to ask for PR,” says @endo.adeno.girlie in one of many viral videos explaining how to do it, telling her followers which specific brands will send free products. Videos like hers follow a simple logic: The more products you can get for free, the less likely anyone is to get hit with a moan-inducing post-bachelorette Venmo request. Michelle, 29, calls herself a “failed maid of honor” because her group didn’t cold-email enough brands for freebies after watching TikToks that explained how to score sponsored Liquid IV packets and hangover kits in exchange for social-media exposure. [...]

Lindsay, 28, a Michigan-based bride who is getting married in August, says she “understands” how it’s easy to get carried away; when you’re freshly engaged, you want every moment to feel as big as the proposal or the wedding. “I don’t regret it, no,” she says, looking back at the Dutch chocolates and silk pillowcases that she gifted to each bridesmaid. The bridesmaid proposal is something she will remember forever, because she was able to present the boxes at a girls’ lunch, with a table reserved for the most important people in her life. “But it does add up fast. And now, with hindsight, I realize I could’ve maybe budgeted it differently.”

by Morgan Sullivan, The Cut |  Read more:

Image: The Cut/Getty

[ed. Influencer-ification. How to take a nice ceremony and turn it into a (more) stress-filled nightmare.]

Meta’s New AI Unit Is a Total Mess

Someone interrupted a livestreamed, employee-only presentation at Meta earlier this week with an expletive-filled outburst about “being the company’s bitch,” according to a recording heard by WIRED. The individual then asked the people leading the call to write to a specific Meta AI executive and "tell him that he's a piece of shit."

One of the presenters covered their face with their hands, according to a witness. (The speaker could not be reached for comment, and the meeting’s two leaders moved on with their technical talk after asking everyone to mute, though employees commented on the stream about the “spicy” start.)

The incident, which took place on a call open to thousands of employees, reflects growing frustration inside the company’s Applied AI team, which was formed in March to support the work of AI researchers at Meta Superintelligence Labs. Three current employees tell WIRED there is widespread dissatisfaction with how Meta assembled the unit of about 6,500 engineers and product managers and the drudgework they allege they have been assigned to improve AI models. Each spoke on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to speak to the media.

“It's literally the gulag,” one of the employees claims. “You have zero purpose in life all of a sudden, you barely interact with anyone, you just have these tasks every week."

Another employee describes some of the tasks—generating puzzles to test how reliably AI models from Meta and other companies can solve them—as easy compared to the software development work they had been doing previously. But the new projects feel menial, and “almost all” employees seem unhappy, they say. “Most people find the work soul-crushing,” the third employee says.

Meta declined to comment for this story.

Applied AI isn’t the only unit where tensions are boiling over and contributing to what workers describe as record-low morale. The company’s AI-focused restructuring, which included 10 percent of the company, or 8,000 employees, being let go last month has generated extra work and stress throughout several divisions, including data center engineering and Instagram, several current and former employees tell WIRED.

Across the company, more than 1,600 employees have signed a petition demanding that Meta stop a recently launched initiative to monitor US employees’ clicks and keystrokes to generate AI training data. (The company has scaled back the program slightly, allowing employees to pause data collection for up to 30 minutes and request specific exemptions).

During a meeting this week open to all employees at Instagram, Meta chief product officer Chris Cox addressed the “difficult” and “brutal” environment created by the “insanity of this company” in the past few months, according to a recording heard by WIRED. Cox applauded Instagram employees for launching features and serving around 2 billion users amid what he compared to “running a marathon in the middle of a hailstorm and then, like, your teammate gets replaced and then we’re recording you.”

“It’s like what the fuck,” he said, drawing laughs, before repeating himself. “It is like what the fuck.” [...]

In an internal memo on Friday seen by WIRED, Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg acknowledged that recent organizational changes had caused distress across Meta. “Given the complexity of these changes, we’ve made mistakes and will almost certainly make more,” he wrote. “As we navigate this period, I’m also focused on providing as much stability going forward as possible.” [...]

“Talented People”

Zuckerberg’s memo also addressed the allegedly dismal situation in Applied AI directly, referring to the unit by its acronym. He suggested the team was a waypoint, not a destination. “Work like AAI is critical to advancing our models and it lets very talented people contribute to those efforts while we create other roles they can contribute to around Meta over the coming months as well,” he wrote.

Engineers selected for the unit have no choice but to join or leave the company, an unusual requirement for highly valued technical employees in Silicon Valley. That’s led some members of Applied AI to describe themselves as “draftees.”

The organization has grown in batches since early April. “It’s crazy to watch people experience the shock of it as each wave comes in,” an early member of Applied AI says.

Some employees are being asked to finish two tasks per week. These involve generating complex software coding problems to help AI scientists better train and evaluate the performance of the latest frontier models. Some of the work is meant to help develop AI agents that generate software or other outputs.

One worker describes the assignment as “mechanical and not creative,” and certainly “not using their full skill set and knowledge.” They feel they were hired to develop social media apps for billions of people, but now find themselves assembling data for hundreds of AI scientists to feed to computer chips.

Meta released pioneering open-weight AI models three years ago, but has had mixed results with subsequent releases. Applied AI is among several expensive initiatives Zuckerberg has spun up in hopes that the company can better compete in the growing market for AI services.

Zuckerberg noted in his memo that, unlike some other AI labs, “automating work” was not Meta’s primary focus. “The products we’ll build will range from much more personalized Instagram and Facebook experiences and glasses that help you throughout the day to better tools for small businesses to thrive and create jobs, and personal superintelligence agents that understand your goals and work 24/7 on your behalf to help in the ways you want,” he wrote.

by Paresh Dave; Zoë Schiffer, Wired |  Read more:

Image: Kyle Grillot/Getty Images
[ed. Dead company walking. Seems pretty clear (to me, anyway) that they don't have a clue what the company will look like in the future, just that they need to be in the AI space somehow - this after the dismal (and expensive) failure of the company's 'Metaverse' makeover.]