Inside Larry Ellison's Wide Web of Power, Money and Politics

PROLOGUE: THE ISLAND

The first sign was the orange Corvette.

In the early days of July, the residents of Lanai started seeing a C8 Stingray the color of a traffic cone tearing along the island’s switchback roads. Then other signals came. The clerk working the cigarette counter at the Pine Isle Market said her nephew, a private chef, had flown in and had been shopping for a big group.

At the Four Seasons down in Manele, the island’s pharmacist Kert Shuster was leaving brunch at Nobu when he saw a security detail he recognized moving through the lobby. It’d been a while, but Shuster knew—he’d just missed Larry Ellison.

A few years had passed, it seemed, since the man who owns all but a sliver of the Hawaiian island nine miles west of Maui had last set foot there. Now Ellison and his extended family were staying in a new compound above Manele’s steep volcanic shoreline. The cluster of houses was built by Japanese carpenters whom Ellison had once brought in and boarded in private barracks up-island.

For Lanai’s 3,000 regular residents, actually seeing Ellison is rare. His presence is more typically sensed—like a change in air pressure.

“I noticed the salad bar was really good that day,” Shuster tells me. “That’s what it’s like when Larry’s back. People step up. Things just get better.”

For the past 40 years, the people of Lanai have lived at the pleasure of one billionaire or another. Before Ellison there was David Murdock, a real estate magnate who took control of the island in 1985, when it was still a pineapple plantation. Murdock was a visible ruler who’d make his rounds in the local stores, attend community meetings, and give employees he had fired 30 minutes’ notice before sending them off in a helicopter. But Lanai had been a ­money pit for him, and the 2008 crash was the final straw. In 2012, he sold it to Ellison for a reported $300 million.

If Murdock ran the island like the plantation owner he was, Ellison runs it like a distant god. He points, and an amenity appears.

His first move was refurbishing the community pool that Murdock had closed. He answered the housing shortage with the Hokuao development, where the homes are pastel-colored and stamped everywhere with the touch of their benefactor. Each has a Tesla solar roof, a Big Green Egg in the yard, two Japanese Toto toilets, and interiors painted a custom color called Ellison White. (It’s a Benjamin Moore white base with a shot of oxide yellow and a half shot of black, your choice for sheen may vary.) Shuster, who lives in Hokuao, once told Ellison how much he loved the place. “I feel like I moved into your house,” he had said.

“Good,” his host responded. “I wanted to make it like a place that even I could live in.”

Ellison owns Lanai’s only gas station, where a sign reminds customers they’re paying “the Lowest Prices in Hawaii.” And he upgraded the movie theater that today bills itself as being “the crown jewel of theater experiences in Hawai‘i.” In July it was showing Supergirl, which was produced by Warner Bros., the movie studio Ellison, along with his son, will soon control.

“Sigourney Weaver lives here part-time, and she says that this is the most beautiful theater in the world,” Gail Allen, a longtime Lanai resident, tells me. “It serves truffle-oil popcorn,” she adds.

The sense is that life is pretty good on the island since Ellison bought it. Or at least could be worse. “We could have become Molokai,” says Alberta de Jetley, another longtime resident who ran the island’s newspaper, Lanai Today, before selling it to Ellison.

At a picnic table outside Richard’s Market, the other grocery store on Lanai (this one Ellison owns), a handful of residents hold a coffee klatch de Jetley calls the Laugh Group. That morning, beneath overcast skies, the Laugh Group was discussing the island’s recently arrived proprietor.

One member, Mari Lynn Di Lullo, brought up a time she saw a Tesla straddling two stalls in a parking lot. “Jeez, look at the way they parked,” she’d uttered to members of a security detail loitering nearby. “If you didn’t know better, you would think he owned the place.”

Just then the owner of the car—and everything else—appeared, laughing.

“He’s not pretentious,” Di Lullo told her coffee group. “He’s low on the radar.”

The radar. Interesting choice of words about a man who has made a case for a mass AI-enabled surveillance system.

That afternoon a woman came through the grocery checkout line wearing a Sensei Farms sweatshirt. The company is one of Ellison’s island projects: a hydroponic greenhouse concept meant to be the Tesla of agriculture. Eight years in and ­several hundred million dollars later, Sensei Farms describes itself as “a thought ­leader in greenhouse-grown produce.” It has an endcap with boxed salad mixes at the island’s grocery stores.

I introduced myself to the woman and asked what she did for the farm. She smiled.

“They said there would be a journalist on the island today,” the employee told me before starting to walk away. “They warned us about you in our morning meeting.”

I hadn’t told anyone at Sensei Farms I was coming.

Ellison’s newest gift to Lanai is at the entrance to the Four Seasons. In a man-made lagoon surrounded by fake lava rock stands a monumental bronze he commissioned from British artist Damien Hirst. It shows a crew of Polynesian voyagers in an outrigger canoe flung skyward on a cresting wave that up close is revealed to be not water but a knot of sea monsters. A shark bursts through the swell, its mouth open wide enough to take the canoe whole. A mo‘o, the lizard spirit of Hawaiian water, coils below the hull. Amidships, a chief in a feathered cape clutches the ankle of another paddler who is facing away. A loose paddle, some cargo, and a few bronze flowers slide down a wave. And above all of it, from something beneath the surface, hang two giant octopus arms with suckers the size of dinner plates, muscular and curled and about to crash down on everyone.

It’s titled Overcoming Adversity.

PART I: THE CEPHALOPOD

Ellison has long been fixated on the octopus. Cephalopod Corp is what he named the corporate entity atop his private investments. He has another company called Octopus Holdings LP, which, with its general partner Tentacle Corp, put up the money behind Lanai. His venture capital firm that over the years has backed Netsuite, Theranos, and Sensei Farms is called Tako Ventures, tako being the Japanese word for octopus. In many of the villas he built on Lanai hang ukiyo-e prints, many with a tako.

For years it was Ellison’s quiet way to talk about himself.

“His joke is he is the octopus,” says a former executive who worked closely with Ellison. This person was one of several dozen sources I spoke to for this story, most under the condition of anonymity to be able to discuss sensitive matters.

“He loves being the éminence grise. He loves the notion that he’s so powerful, there’s nothing he can’t get into.”

The joke has become a fact in full view. At 82, the last of the founding moguls of Silicon Valley who’s still in the game has extended his grasp into a convergence of power that no other fortune could manage. Where Elon Musk built an empire that’s loud and cultish, Ellison—his mentor and close friend—has pieced together something patient, proximate, and structural. The kind whose shape is clear once you see how far it goes.

One arm of the octopus is wrapped around Oracle, the 49-year-old company he is dragging from dull database vendor into one of the essential data center providers of the AI boom. It is a damn-the-torpedoes move into infrastructure that’s risky even for an executive who nearly lost the company once before. He has saddled Oracle with $130 billion in debt, turned its free cash flow negative, and chained its fortunes to a single volatile partner, OpenAI.

A second arm has closed on American media. Larry’s son David has transformed the independent production company Skydance into the last great consolidator in Hollywood, largely with Dad’s money. Skydance has gobbled up Paramount and with it CBS News; now it has won Warner Bros. Discovery in a $110 billion deal. Ellison also has the American spin-off of TikTok, which an Oracle-led consortium pried loose from its Chinese owner.

A third appendage winds toward political power. As Silicon Valley staged its noisy migration to Trumpism, Ellison worked quietly to influence the president, establishing an effective if not always close relationship. Outside America, he bankrolls his friend Tony Blair’s nonprofit organization, which pushes governments to adopt new technologies like AI. And he has been a steadfast supporter of Benjamin Netanyahu, hosting the prime minister on Lanai while the Israeli leader faced corruption charges at home.

Ellison has had a reputation as a killer in Silicon Valley for decades. In 2011, Bryan Cantrill—who quit Oracle within a year of its taking over Sun Microsystems—told a roomful of engineers not to “anthropomorphize Larry Ellison.” Instead, said Cantrill, think of him as a lawnmower: It doesn’t hate you, it just mows, and if you put your hand in, it’ll chop it off. Cantrill told me recently he hasn’t changed his mind.

by Tom Dotan, Vanity Fair |  Read more:

Images: Yuko Shimizu; Damien Hurst

[ed. Vicious and evil.]

Mark Zuckerberg Is Trying Something On

When I meet Mark Zuckerberg, currently one of the poster boys for evil tech billionaires, a man whose products are used by about 46 percent of all living people in the world and whose company has a market cap of more than a trillion dollars, he is wearing sky-blue, cable-knit shorts that look an awful lot like bloomers.

That was just over a month ago, before what is turning out to be a style-centric period for Meta. It started this week at Connect, the company’s annual new products reveal, where Zuckerberg took to the stage wearing a T-shirt with the words “Building is my love language.”

He waxed enthusiastic about the future, including the many new styles of smart glasses, and the company’s personal A.I. assistant, Muse, which looks a lot like a customizable stuffed animal in a onesie. This was just after Vogue World kicked off Milan Fashion Week with Meta glasses as a sponsor, and around the same time W magazine produced an entire stand-alone advertorial zine devoted to a new glasses collaboration with the K-pop star Lisa.

Ahead of all of that, I had come to the compound in Lake Tahoe to try to understand the role style has come to play in the Zuckerberg saga, including the very public rebrand of 2024, when he went from robotic coder in a gray hoodie to fashion-conscious bro next door. That the latest version of Zuckerberg coincides with Meta’s push into wearables, as well as with Silicon Valley’s obsession with the idea of taste and how important a role it will play in the future, may explain why he was finally willing to talk about it.

“I want to make sure that we really immerse ourselves in what people care about,” Zuckerberg told me. It turned out he had started with himself, his own preferences, and where they took him.

Zuckerberg knows that what he does reflects on Meta. “I care about that,” he said. “I think the company is an instantiation of my values.” And, he said, he wants to “be intentional about how I program that.”

Meta is fighting on many fronts at once. Though it settled a case for $17.1 billion in August that positioned social media as the Big Tobacco of the 21st century, it is still embroiled in other lawsuits. Then there is the growing backlash against what critics call its “pervert glasses” (they have been used to secretly record video and audio), which have been banned from courts in England and New York, with organizations like the ACLU alleging that they could become a tool of the surveillance state.

And on Oct. 9, “The Social Reckoning” opens as a sequel to the “The Social Network” — the film responsible for cementing Zuckerberg’s reputation as a revenge-hungry nerd — starring Jeremy Strong as an older Zuckerberg, with a Caesar haircut to crown his march toward world domination.

Despite the push into fashion, it doesn’t add up to a great look.

But whatever Zuckerberg’s or his advisers’ agenda, the more he speaks about his life and newfound interest in outfits, the more insight he provides, sometimes inadvertently, into his otherwise highly guarded psyche. How he approaches clothes is how he approaches everything.

“A few years ago, he made this point,” said Andrew Bosworth, Meta’s chief of technology. “He said, ‘I’m willing to not be liked. I just want to be understood.’” [...]

“We have an off-site in Hawaii at Mark’s ranch,” Bosworth said. “I remember getting there, and I was like, ‘Oh my goodness!’” Then his team arrived. “We’re all listening to Mark,” Bosworth said, “and on the back channel we’re all like: ‘Is this his new style? Are we commenting? Are we not commenting? How do we feel about it?’”

How Bosworth feels is, this is the authentic Zuckerberg. “He knows he’s going to be judged no matter what,” he said. So why not?

In this version of the story, Zuckerberg has been freed from the fetters of his self-imposed gray T-shirt prison. A less charitable view, however, is that his fashion glow-up has been so fortuitously timed that most people assumed it was a marketing choice created by a stylist. Rumor had it Karla Welch, who works with Tracee Ellis Ross and Sarah Paulson, was involved. This turned out to be false, though Welch sometimes works with Chan. Zuckerberg said he mostly styles himself. The multiprint Loewe shorts he wore during the Sun Valley conference? Totally his idea.

Fashion-wise, he seems to be experiencing a sort of delayed adolescence. “This is stuff we did in college, or in high school,” said the designer Mike Amiri, who helped Zuckerberg design his first high-fashion T-shirt, in 2024, with “Aut Zuck Aut Nihil” embroidered across the front, Latin for “all Zuck or all nothing.”

“You’re figuring out: ‘Am I a baggy fit guy? Am I a vintage type? Who am I?’” Amiri said. It’s just that Zuckerberg is doing it in his 40s, with unlimited resources.

by Vanessa Friedman, NY Times | Read more:
Images: Godofredo A. Vásquez/Associated Press; Brendan Mcdermid/Reuters
[ed. Pathetic and clueless. See also: Why Does The Times Care About Mark Zuckerberg’s Style? (NYT).]

The Commenters

I’ve been a journalist for long enough to be familiar with most of the job’s occupational hazards. I’ve angered powerful people without a legal canopy to protect me. My cursor has hesitated over the Send buttons of emails containing invasive questions. I know what it’s like to be chewed out, to have your confidence flattened, to junk entire drafts and start over from scratch. And yet, for most of my career, I never did attract a personal troll.

In this line of work, having a troll is the opposite of having a fan. It’s someone out there—across the astral span of the internet—who has decided to keep tabs on what you publish with the singular intent of mocking everything you write. Since I never had one, I wondered if people like this had gone extinct alongside the rest of the web I used to know. After all, digital media, and its trademark pugnacious tone, is basically defunct. The linear rapport necessary for a blogger to become someone’s nemesis simply no longer applies; the written word is on life support. At least, that’s what I thought—until I discovered the Slate comments section. At last, I had finally found my haters.

Slate’s comments section is not prominently advertised on the homepage, and when I was hired as a staff writer in the spring of 2023, I didn’t know it existed. But, sure enough, all of the articles on the website are studded with a button shaped like a speech bubble. Click on it, and a discussion thread quietly materializes at the bottom of the screen, revealing one of the last few remaining active commenting communities hosted by a magazine. The section possesses a distinctly Web 1.0 architecture: There are no reaction GIFs or YouTube embeds, and posters tend to distinguish themselves with multisyllabic usernames. Trawling through the comments feels a little bit like exploring the sediment of cyberspace. As such, the core clientele—about 200 strong—is composed of people who have been visiting Slate for a very, very long time. They are some of our most dedicated readers. They’ve also despised pretty much everything I’ve ever written.

Comments sections are, by nature, snarky. The format was devised to be a digital version of the newspaper’s good old-fashioned Letters to the Editor page—itself a receptacle for readers to loudly hector the opinion columnists they found annoying. Once considered default features, many of those sections disappeared as digital media matured, mostly because editors determined them to be hotbeds of inanity and harassment. (Recently they’ve made something of a comeback—earlier this year, the Atlantic reintroduced a comments board after abolishing it in 2018.) But Slate’s comments section has survived, and it has retained its characteristically adversarial register to this day. The threads bloom with treatise-length complaints, exasperating grammatical pedantry, and the usual flame-war material. Anyone who has ever written professionally has contended with some version of this, but what surprised me about Slate’s community was just how closely read the taunts in the comments section tended to be—particularly when they were channeled in my direction. Sure, I’ve been hit with plenty of run-of-the-mill drive-bys—“I really hope my Slate Plus dollars aren’t paying this guy,” reads one comment to my 2024 story about men wearing chains—but other insults reveal a profound metatextual fluency in my entire oeuvre. It’s as if the commenters are reading my work voraciously with the specific intention of obliterating me.

In the autumn of 2023, as part of Slate’s long-running Human Guinea Pig column, I was tasked with donning a Mario costume and busking for change in Manhattan. I think the story turned out pretty well, but the incident has been cited, derisively, in the comments section of dozens of articles I’ve written since. “You’ve never forgiven him for putting on that Super Mario costume in Times Square,” read one, left by user Muffin the Mule, about a story published almost three years after the Mario adventure. When I checked the comments on a story I wrote in the spring about Tucker Carlson’s gonzo ballcaps, one read, “Do you think Winkie wears the hat with his gold chain?” In another, about plastic surgery, I wrote that I left the house dressed in a chambray shirt and salmon shorts. This fairly normal outfit offended one user so much that he has made sardonic references to it on multiple occasions in the comment box.

You get the idea. It is not just that I get roasted relentlessly—it is that the roasts are meticulously tailored, leading one to believe that making fun of Slate writers is, for the commenters, among the prime incentives for visiting the website. And I am far from the only person here to get that treatment. Slate contributors far and wide have endured their own bespoke wisecracks, and that has nurtured a, let’s say, complicated relationship with the magazine’s comment box among the staff. One colleague told me that her mother has occasionally taken up in the comments herself, slinging zingers back at the trolls on behalf of her daughter. (My mom has done this too—I imagine it’s among the main reasons she pays for a Slate Plus subscription.) Another co-worker told me that she ventures into the comments on extremely rare occasions, often as a self-loathing exercise. (“The last time I checked on them was two years ago when I wrote a piece I was convinced was terrible,” she said. “I knew someone in there would agree.”) But the person on staff who possesses, by far, the most comments-related trauma is Slate Jurisprudence editor Jeremy Stahl. In his early days at the magazine, Stahl was made a community moderator of the Fray—the venerated message board that Slate operated in the 2000s. Even in those days, Stahl remembers, the tenor of the comments was largely the same as it is now.

“It was, for a while, a very hostile, troll-y commenting community,” Stahl said. “They said some of the meanest things anyone has ever said to me. It was a bummer.”

This all brings me back to my personal troll. Unlike some of my fellow Slatesters, I’ve never felt especially victimized by the comments section. I have thick skin, and I’ll happily admit that I have a perverse fondness for the backlash that results from an incendiary blog. (I’m also white and male, which excludes me from some of the gnarlier flavors of trolldom.) But if I’m being honest, there is one user who has a unique talent for vexing me. He posts under the username Flexo, and he is the person who has picked on me the most during my time at the magazine. I’ve gotten to know his rancorous countenance well over the months and years, as my byline has become flush with essays. In fact, when I take my ambling scrolls into the comments section, my eyes instinctively seek out his name. I think I’m morbidly curious to see if I’ve finally won Flexo over. The answer—eternally—is no.

“This guy is far and away the worst writer I’ve ever read. I feel like I need to have a lime bath to disinfect myself after using the word ‘writer,’ ” wrote Flexo beneath the aforementioned Tucker Carlson piece.

“Don’t post here, it only encourages him,” he commented on a story I wrote about a viral dieting trend. “Winkie is a blight on what still passes for journalism,” he added.

“Never heard of him. Winkie is the worst.” This is Flexo one more time, offering his assessment on a profile I wrote about the right-wing comedian Tony Hinchcliffe. Someone responded to him saying that I “like the obscure” in my writing subjects and enjoy “being on the edge of a movement.” To which Flexo countered: “A bowel movement?”

It goes without saying that Flexo and I have not met, nor have we ever spoken to each other. This is how it always is between a writer and their commenters, and as such, I’ve never been quite sure how to interpret the flavor of his smarm. Is my dear Flexo just an ordinary jerk? Is he trying to offer me some tough love? Did one thing gradually transform into the other? Really, all of those questions led me to another question: How much does Flexo hate me, really? The only thing I knew for sure is that, for better or worse, the people at the bottom of my articles—the ones responsible for the thousands of comments tapering off into an infinite scroll—are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most dedicated readers I’ve ever had, in a moment in media history when “having readers” is harder than ever. Despite all the negativity, a clear kinship exists between us. With Slate’s 30th anniversary around the corner, I wanted to get a better sense of their relationship with me—and the magazine as a whole.

That meant I needed to give Flexo a call.

*****

In order for this project to work, I needed to create a dossier of my biggest haters. Evan Urquhart, Slate’s veteran community manager, agreed to help. I gave him 30 usernames to help me track down. Urquhart seemed to do this out of love for the community he has helped steward for more than a decade. He struck a considerably different tone than Stahl did. I think he knew what I was up to.

“Our commenters are really funny, and really smart. Some of the meanness is more like their love language,” he told me. “Our community is made up of lovable, crotchety grumps. God bless them.”

And so, armed with my dossier, I fanned out dozens of emails to the denizens of the Slate comments section. This presented another challenge: Was I crossing some sacred line? Especially when the commenters in question have said so many nasty things about your work? I worried that seeing my name pop up in the commenters’ inboxes might come off a little intrusive, or perhaps even narclike—a fracturing of a trust. And seriously, I wasn’t here to settle scores. Instead, I told these commenters that I was working on a story about Slate’s longevity, and that I wanted to know what has kept them around the magazine across so many different eras. That was basically true, as far as I was concerned.

Flexo replied in less than 15 minutes.

“You sometimes drive me crazy, but I do love our community, and none of it would be possible without the writers,” wrote Flexo, striking a much more conciliatory tone than I had grown accustomed to. “We have a great community and it’s nice you recognize that. This was a very nice email to send.”

One week later, I jumped on the phone with him. After years orbiting around the exterior of the comment box—peering inside with macabre curiosity to witness the ways I’ve annoyed the regulars most recently—it felt a bit like making first contact.

Flexo, as it turns out, is a 62-year-old guy named Ron who lives in the Pacific Northwest. I learned that he holds a degree in physics from the University of Oregon, and that he worked as a professional musician for decades. He told me that he loves jazz, and onetime Slate staff writer Jamelle Bouie, and that he hated my longform feature about the Creed cruise. (It wasn’t about the writing, Flexo told me. He just can’t stand the band’s music.) Most importantly, I learned that he isn’t active on any forms of social media. Facebook bores him, and he doesn’t have accounts on Twitter or Bluesky. No, the only place that Flexo posts is the Slate comments, which he visits almost every day.

There is a long history of people, adrift in the frigid expanses of cyberspace, finding close fellowship in unexpected places—be it a niche subreddit, or a lonely Discord outpost, or the stately vestibules of World of Warcraft. The saga of Flexo, and the underbelly of Slate as a whole, is proof that the same dynamic can be replicated in a venue that exists primarily for readers to gripe about Dear Prudence letters. That makes it a testament to the tenacity of digital communion. For instance: Flexo has an Instagram account, but it is set to private, and he follows only 13 people—all of whom are fellow Slate commenters. They hang out sometimes, offline. (“I’m friends with several regulars,” he said.) Together, they work around the limited social features of our commenting interface—no direct messaging—by ferreting over burner emails to each other. (“It’s like a Slate-only email address,” Flexo said.) Failing that, Flexo is happy to treat Slate the same way you or I might treat Nextdoor. A few months ago, Flexo offered up a characteristically off-topic comment on a random Slate story complaining that one of his amps was on the fritz. Another user, who lived in Flexo’s area and had some mechanical know-how, replied, right there in the comments, offering his help.

“He wrote, ‘Swing the amp by my house, I can fix it,’ ” Flexo said. “I’m like, ‘Are you serious?’ ” He was, and he took care of it.

All of this is to say that Flexo is not some nihilistic troll. His participation in Slate’s discourse isn’t driven by the arbitrary destructiveness of, say, the average Twitter shitposter. Flexo has an investment in Slate, mostly because without Slate, its comments section would cease to exist. This is the symbiosis that defines the community, and it’s also why former Slate staff writer Dan Kois always thought that the comments section might as well exist in a “different universe” from Slate proper. I get what he means: While the community relies on Slate’s infrastructure and is fluent in the magazine’s tone, the section also possesses its own hermetic culture—one replete with idiosyncratic norms and insulated memes, like a Petri dish embedded in the HTML of one of the few publications to survive the wipeout of digital media. As for why these folks have stuck around despite their occasionally acrimonious attitude toward Slate itself, Kois just thinks that’s an immutable reality of the internet. If you build it—if you provide a blinking text box and the chance to pester an author—they will come.

“It’s like that scene in Jurassic Park with Jeff Goldblum,” Kois said. “Life finds a way. Wherever there’s a little crack, they will flourish.”

by Luke Winkie, Slate |  Read more:

Image: Mark Alan Stamaty
[ed. I've often wondered about Comment Section personalities. What do they hope to accomplish? Maybe in this case just the name Winkie sets them off.]

via:

In Praise of Obsessive Men

One of my older brothers and I were very similar growing up. We were both good at school, both wore glasses, had similar colouring—unlike my other brother who was different. Yet there was one noticeable difference between my brother and me, which reflects a more general difference between the sexes. He was intensely and obsessively focused on whatever interested him at the time—to the exclusion of everything else, and I really mean everything else. I just wasn’t going to do this. I wanted to be “normal” and have a social life.

This sex difference is widely observed. Simon Baron Cohen points out in his book The Essential Difference that obsessive behaviour is common among autistic children, who are disproportionately male.

In the movie Rain Man, the autistic brother (played by Dustin Hoffman) is obsessed with statistics on airplane crashes. He knows crash statistics for all the airlines and is therefore only willing to fly on one, Qantas. A student once told me about the autistic man her church employed to police the church parking lot. He had memorized all the license plates of the cars that were allowed in the lot, and thus knew instantly when a car was parked there without permission, and even when a car was parked in the wrong space.

There is some evidence that this kind of intense, obsessive focus leads to extremely high-level achievement. Since males are more likely to display such focus, the high achievers tend to be male. One of my favorite examples relates to competitive Scrabble. Many women play Scrabble and are often better than their male counterparts. Yet the very highest levels of competitive Scrabble are dominated by men.

For example, the greatest competitive Scrabble player in history is Nigel Richards from New Zealand. He was World Champion in 2007, 2011, 2013, 2018 and 2019. He is a 15-time winner of the King’s Cup in Bangkok, the world’s biggest Scrabble competition. He also won the French World Scrabble Championship in 2015 and 2018, and the Spanish-language World Championship in 2024—despite not speaking those languages fluently beforehand.

Nigel Richards at a Scrabble tournament. Source.

How did he do this? Remarkably, he memorized whole dictionaries (not most people’s idea of a fun activity). But it illustrates the extraordinary intensity and obsessiveness that can produce exceptional achievement.

There is evidence that intense, obsessive focus produces extraordinary achievement in a variety of areas, not just Scrabble. There are the guitarists who spend hours playing guitar, the soccer players who are always at the training ground, the painters who spend all their time painting, the gamers who are never away from their console, and so on.

There is also anecdotal evidence that extraordinary scientific achievements come from people who are intensely and obsessively focused on what they do. In the divorce announcement in a local paper, the ex-wife of legendary physicist Richard Feynman complained that “her husband worked calculus problems all day, as soon as he arose, while he drove his car, while sitting in the living room, and while lying in bed at night.”

And the movie Oppenheimer popularized the story of when the physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer was asked to deliver a physics lecture in Dutch (a language he did not speak). He locked himself in a room with a Dutch grammar book for a month and a half, and then delivered the lecture in pretty much flawless Dutch.

High-achieving scientists also tend to have very high IQs, but my point is not simply about IQ. Although high-achievers in many academic fields are disproportionately likely to be men, this is not necessarily because men are smarter. The evidence suggests that average IQ for males is about the same or perhaps slightly higher than average IQ for females. There is also evidence of a higher variance among men, which means there are more males in the far right and far left tails of the distributions (“more geniuses and more idiots,” as E. O. Wilson once memorably put it).

My point is that high-achievers, including high-achieving scientists, are more likely to be male because men are more likely to focus obsessively on their area of interest, and this helps them to rise to the top. They are also more willing to pay the costs of such intensive and obsessive focus, such as having your wife divorce you in the case of Feynman, or repelling people because of your inattention to personal hygiene, which I have been told is not uncommon at some technical schools.

by Rosemary Hopcroft, Aphoria | Read more:
Image:
[ed. Without conceding the point (see: Wikipedia: Women Achievers). So what? Men have different qualities than women (and vice versa). We should have more obsessives?]

The Id, the Ego and the Superintelligence

Panic around A.I. often focuses on whether machines will replace (or simply kill) us. But what the machines are often good at is a distinct set of tasks: Retrieval, near-instant summary and the frictionless, stunning recombination of everything that has already been said. What they are not good at is what philosophy has been training humans to do for thousands of years: judgment. And so the A.I. companies have started hiring philosophers. They don’t just consult them or wheel them out for an amusing after-dinner talk on the trolley problem; they actually hire them with salaries and, presumably, dental plans. A.I. companies need philosophers because actually thinking requires forgetting — and knowing when to forget. They need philosophers because of what their machines cannot do.

Judgment is not calculation. It is the capacity to weigh, to discriminate, to sense that one answer is true and another merely correct. It is taste, discernment and the knack of thinking sideways. It is refined only through experience — through error, embarrassment, boredom, grief and the occasional hangover. Meaning is derived from the fact that we are mortal: Things matter to us because we are going to die, and we know it. There can be no meaning in immortality. To borrow from my friend Christian Madsbjerg, I would like to propose a better Turing test than Turing’s: Can a machine experience social anxiety? Can it lie awake at 4 in the morning replaying the stupid thing it said at dinner? Call me when a chatbot does that. To be intelligent in the human sense, the machine would need to give a damn.

Enter the A.I. companies’ philosophers. Anthropic keeps a small squad on the payroll, among them Amanda Askell, whose doctoral thesis was on infinite ethics — the question of how to act well in a universe of infinite value — and whose job is to shape the character of the company’s machine. Google DeepMind has appointed the Cambridge philosopher Henry Shevlin to the newly minted post of “Philosopher,” a job title I have been trying and failing to secure for some 40 years. The OpenAI chief executive Sam Altman says his company consulted “hundreds of moral philosophers” in drawing up the principles behind ChatGPT. (That’s roughly the turnout of a middling philosophy conference.)

After a lifetime of being asked at parties what one actually does with a philosophy degree, I find this development almost unbearably funny. Why now? Because the questions the A.I. companies are stumbling into are not engineering questions. What should the machine say to the grieving, the lonely, the person typing into the void at 4 in the morning? What sort of character should it have — candid, flattering, evasive, kind? Could such a thing conceivably suffer, and would we owe it anything if it did? These are questions about what matters. The engineers, to their credit, have noticed that no quantity of computational capacity will settle them. Ethics, it turns out, cannot be scraped from the internet, because the internet is precisely the contemporary record of our failure to agree about ethics.

There is a further irony here, and it is an old one. Philosophy’s first recorded technology panic was about exactly the thing these machines have now perfected: Artificial memory. Toward the end of Plato’s “Phaedrus,” Socrates tells the story of the Egyptian god Theuth, inventor of numbers, geometry, astronomy, draughts and dice, who presents his masterpiece — writing — to Thamus, god-king of Egypt. This discovery, Theuth announces, will make the Egyptians wiser: It is a pharmakon, or remedy, for memory. Thamus is unpersuaded. Writing, he replies, will implant forgetfulness in the soul; people will trust the external marks and cease to remember from within; they will acquire the reputation of wisdom without the reality. Pharmakon, conveniently, also means poison. Every panic since — about the printing press, the novel, television, the smartphone, the chatbot — has been a footnote to Thamus, and the joke, of course, is that we know his warning against writing only because Plato wrote it down.

Seen from the “Phaedrus,” A.I. is not a rupture but a culmination, representing the final, most extravagant flowering of external memory, the remedy-poison swallowed whole. And this is where the difference between us and the machines cuts deepest. A.I. is a memory machine, the most magnificent ever devised. It forgets nothing. The human being, by contrast, is a forgetful animal. To make this happily oblivious creature remember — to make it capable of promises, debts and morality — required millenniums of discipline and frankly appalling cruelty. “If something is to stay in the memory, it must be burned in,” Friedrich Nietzsche wrote. Conscience, on this view, is mnemonics with a whip.

Yet Nietzsche also prized what he called active forgetting, and considered it a form of strength, even of health. Forgetting is not a leaky bucket but a doorkeeper, closing the gates of consciousness so that something new can happen, so that experience can be digested rather than endlessly force-fed back to us. We forget, and we move on. Forgiveness, sleep, cheerfulness, second marriages, continuing to support Luton Town Football Club: All of it depends on the merciful erosion of the past.

Some years ago, I wrote a short book called “Memory Theatre” about a philosopher (kind of an even more awful version of me) who attempted total recall, arranging every scrap of his past in a vast mnemonic palace. It did not end well for him; it never does. A creature that could forget nothing would not be a superintelligence but a ruin, buried alive under its own archive. What we have built is, in a sense, an infinite archive that cannot mourn, cannot forgive and cannot let go, because it never lost anything in the first place. The machine remembers everything and therefore, oddly, nothing in particular. Nothing weighs more than anything else.

This is why philosophy matters rather more, not less, in the age of A.I. Not because philosophers can out-remember the machines — believe me, we cannot; I continually forget where I have parked my own arguments — but because philosophy is the discipline of knowing what to do with experience: What to keep, what to discard, what to laugh at, what to junk. Thinking is not the accumulation of everything but the art of judicious, active forgetting.

by Simon Critchley, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Flo Meissner

via:

You Can Ignore the Bad Pundits

One easy trick to make yourself smarter.

Most wisdom comes from tangible experience in our wide world. It comes from human relationships, from travel, from living and loving and fighting and falling in the dirt. There is little wisdom to be had from spending years and years reading stuff on the internet. A single hard-won lesson, though, which I have learned after wasting an embarrassing amount of time reading and writing about politics, may help to save you a good amount of angst.

You can just ignore the bad pundits. You don’t have to read them. You can just carry right on with your life.

You don’t have to talk about the bad pundits. You don’t have to engage with them. You don’t have to craft painstaking responses to their vapid arguments. You don’t have to take them seriously. Their existence creates no obligation for you. Each new piece they produce generates no appointment on your calendar. The law does not accord them any reservation on your attention. They have no inherent power over you. Instead, they get their power from you. You give it to them, for free. You, who fancy yourself their enemy, provide the fuel for their careers.

Instead of doing that, you are free not to do it.

“Ugh, the New York Times opinion page is so awful!” Don’t read it then. “I can’t stand the bullshit that Bret Stephens wrote!” Don’t read it then. “I hate the sanctimony of David Brooks! I hate the smugness of Matt Yglesias! I hate the fascists at the Wall Street Journal, the bootlickers at the Washington Post, and the clowns at the Free Press!”

Don’t read them then. Problem solved.

You may interpret this as me telling you to shelter yourself from challenging opinions. Not at all. I encourage everyone to read widely and freely. When you read widely and freely, you are able to familiarize yourself with the work of many people. What you will come to realize is that many or even most of those people are not worth reading. Some because they don’t have much to say, and others because they are consistently wrong in a way that, once you figure it out, allows you to project their opinions into the future without needing to constantly check in on them. You can move on. You gave them their audition, and they didn’t pass. Not many will! This is all as it should be. You have a limited amount of time to read and most of that time should be spent reading books and the second most time should be spent reading facts, such as news. Opinion writing that does not prove its value is crowding out other things that have a much higher chance of being worthwhile.

Why does this seem so hard for so many of us in practice? Because we are all haunted by the demons of prestige. Prestige, a false god, tells us that a person’s work is valuable because of their position, their title, rather than because of the work itself. In the case of certain powerful people, this may be true. (It’s worth knowing what Elon Musk and Donald Trump think because it may directly affect many lives, notwithstanding the fact that they are morons.) In the case of writers, however, this is always false. Good work is valuable and bad work is not. The understandable tendency of many people to use prestige as a heuristic to guide their reading often leads them down a dead end road of frustration. [...]

Writers must be taken seriously if the quality of their work demands it and if not, not. That’s it! There are many ways to be a worthwhile pundit. Some are experts on specific subjects, and some get access to very important people’s thoughts, and some are gifted at distilling many disparate ideas into a coherent whole, and some are funny, a quality which justifies itself. My point is not that famous pundits are never worth reading, but rather that they are never worth reading just because of who they are. Look at this transcript of Ezra Klein and Ross Douthat discussing their own careers. One thing you may notice is that both of these people have spent their entire adult lives doing nothing but sitting at a computer blogging. Does that mean that they don’t know anything? Not at all. Then again, does it mean they do know anything? Also no. “Winning the pundit lottery with a New York Times gig” tells you nothing about whether these people are worthy of your attention. They must earn your respect, and their right to your time, solely with the quality of their work. That’s all they have! And you can judge that for yourself. Any further temptation to check for them because of the positions they hold is an error of judgment, by you. [...]

The more subtle and substantial danger of patronizing idiot pundits is that the accumulated weight of attention that we grant them bestows them with actual influence, which they use to make the world worse, as you would expect. This is bad enough when it’s, you know, Matt Yglesias morphing into a Democratic Party power broker; it is even worse when it is a calculated political effort, of the sort that Rahm Emanuel is trying to pull off now by parlaying his stint as a monotonous Wall Street Journal columnist into a presidential campaign.

James Carville is a wheezing old coot. Why is he influential? Because we all pay attention to him! Also, Donald Trump. Think about it. Depriving this sort of person of the material benefits of having a large audience is a patriotic act.

If you are a genuine hate read connoisseur, I respect it. But if you are a regular person who finds yourself continually getting mad at the idiot pundits you continue to read—stop!

The idea that if you want to be a well informed person you are obligated to read all the stuff that certain prestigious writers and outlets publish is not much different from the idea that since McDonald’s is very popular, you are obligated to stop there and eat a Big Mac every day. To keep your finger on the pulse. This, just like the belief that you must read every Jonathan Chait story, will eventually give you a heart attack. Embrace ignorance of dreary idiocy. It is the kind of ignorance that makes you smarter.

by Hamilton Nolan, How Things Work |  Read more:

Image: Getty

[ed. See also: Columnists and Their Lives of Quiet Desperation; and, Getting Yelled at By Dumbasses (HTW):]

***

"If you create things for the public, you will get yelled at by dumbasses. Indeed, this is the primary experience of being the sort of writer that I am. If you make a joke, they won’t get it. If you use sarcasm, they won’t detect it. If you exaggerate for effect, you will be taken literally, and if you try to be understated, you will be accused of a contemptible lack of urgency. If you make a reference, it will not be understood; if you choose one topic, they will wonder why you didn’t choose another; if you try to focus on one thing, they will ask why you didn’t focus on something else. Your high-minded arguments will be dismissed as inscrutable, your simple arguments will be dismissed as unsophisticated, and you, personally, will be dismissed as the sort of lightweight who should try getting a real job. Ever thought of that? [...]

America’s entire power structure has been taken over by the very same sort of dumbasses who have been yelling at all of us on the internet for years. Perhaps this was all foreordained from the very first day that email and message boards were invented. I don’t know. What I do know is that there is no need to look upon the dull, vindictive, racist monsters running our government as a new or inexplicable sort of villain. I see in them a much more familiar identity: internet commenters.

The shoddiness of their work, their love of spectacle, their constant speechifying, their disproportionate reaction to all setbacks, their dishonesty, their prejudices, their disdain for expertise, their willingness to trust quacks, their scapegoating of the less powerful, their embrace of performative gestures at the expense of substance, their misogyny, their ill-concealed social awkwardness funneled into needless displays of aggression—yes, this is all very much in character. The good news is that it is easy to diagnose this disease. The bad news is that if we don’t get it cleared up, our nation’s 250-year history will culminate in the same sort of recriminatory meltdown as an internet comment thread that spirals from “What did you do today?” to full Nazism with stunning speed."

How DraftKings Uses AI to Target the Gamblers Likeliest to Lose

About a year into his job as a data analyst at DraftKings, Jayden Butts received a new assignment.

The online gambling giant was spending hundreds of millions of dollars every year on promotional incentives: “free” betting money advertised through emails and phone alerts. But the company knew little about their effectiveness.

So in 2023, DraftKings took customer betting records and built a machine learning model, a form of artificial intelligence that seeks patterns in data, to answer the question: Who was more likely to respond to promotions by gambling — and losing — more?

Butts’ task was to test that model, prioritizing free bets and bonuses for those likely losers. Soon, a question began to gnaw at him: Aren’t many of these same people prone to addiction? “We are looking for traits and features that we can target that indicate a good investment,” he said. By strict financial logic, “the best investment would be a problem gambler.”

Butts had reason to be concerned. DraftKings makes money when gamblers lose money. And the model sought to identify those it could get to lose the most. It scored each customer based on their habits: The higher the score, the more money a gambler was likely to lose for each promotion offered.

Since Butts ran those tests, DraftKings has continued to hone its methods, using data science, to target losing gamblers with promotions that encourage more betting, according to six former employees who worked on them. At the same time, four other former employees said, DraftKings has stalled or squashed efforts to use similar technology to predict who might develop a gambling problem based on their betting activity.

Silicon Valley firms spent years analyzing every digital interaction to predict what will keep users clicking on advertisements. Now, as companies like DraftKings have made gambling accessible to millions on smartphones, they too have collected an extraordinary wealth of data.

An investigation by The New York Times shows what DraftKings has chosen to do — and not do — with that power.

The Times interviewed more than 40 former DraftKings employees and obtained internal research memos, presentations and Slack messages as well as betting records from experiments conducted on customers.

The documents show how the model Butts worked on analyzed dozens of data points for gamblers, including how frequently they played, their daily account balances and how much they typically lost compared with how much they bet. It also incorporated another model that calculated how likely a user was to stop gambling.

This betting data may also contain signs that a person is headed for trouble. Yet when employees developed a machine learning model that would have assigned users “risk scores,” the company sidelined it, according to two former employees who worked on that project.

In late 2024, DraftKings fired Butts for performance reasons, he said, amid a short blip in business that led some in the company to believe its promotional experiments weren’t working as intended. The company briefly paused some of its data science work — before revving back up again with a flurry of new machine learning projects.

Butts and five other former DraftKings employees who worked on promotional targeting told the Times they regretted building technology they now viewed as dangerous.

“It is as predatory as it sounds,” said a former DraftKings analyst who, like many interviewed for this article, requested anonymity because he feared retribution. “If you lose more, we give you more, so you keep playing more.” He quit in 2024. [...]

Promotions, which take on forms like a free bet, a “profit boost” or a deposit bonus, play a vital role in DraftKings’ business: The company brought in around $8.7 billion in gross revenue from sports and casino gamblers last year and gave out about $3 billion in promotions, according to research by Citizens Bank.

DraftKings and some competitors, including FanDuel, have boasted publicly about their use of customer data for promotions — without disclosing what those efforts entail. A DraftKings executive recently told investors that data science and analytics helped it improve its margins on promotion-driven sports bets by 13% in 2025 and that it used AI to personalize hundreds of millions of promotional dollars.

One former DraftKings data scientist who worked on promotions, Jacob Shulkin, said that they were effective because they took advantage of gamblers’ psychology. “I feel I’m getting free money,” he said, “but really, it’s dragging me back in.”

Several gamblers told the Times that promotions fueled their addictions. Bryan Biehl lost nearly $70,000 gambling online, more than half of it at DraftKings. Biehl recalled how in late 2024, when he started therapy for his addiction, his email inbox began to feel like a relapse risk.

“I would get flooded with bonuses and deposits,” Biehl said. “If you are in addiction, you are not going to say no.”

In the first two weeks of December 2024, Biehl received 40 promotions from DraftKings, emails show. He succumbed to temptation one last time on Christmas Day before putting himself on self-exclusion lists, which blocked him from gambling apps.[...]

DraftKings already had a system that weighed factors like a gambler’s skill, how much they bet and tax rates on gambling revenue in the state where they lived.

Figuring this out required machine learning. Unlike traditional data analytics, where researchers decide which patterns to look for, machine learning models can sift through hundreds of variables on their own to find combinations that help predict particular behaviors.

Data scientists had trained the new casino model on historical data. It was Butts’ job to test it on real customers. Each week, the model vacuumed up information about a user’s recent activity. The score it calculated was known internally as “elasticity,” a term borrowed from economics.

Users with below-average scores were deemed “inelastic” and marked for fewer incentives. The “elastic” bettors remained.

In September 2023, Butts tested using the elasticity model to influence promotions for about 5,000 casino players. He later expanded the tests to a larger population.

He initially thought DraftKings aimed to save money by avoiding people who were unlikely to be profitable. But he said his supervisors told him that the company did not want to reduce its promotional spending but rather to “redeploy” it. He understood this to mean the goal was to direct more promotions toward the biggest losers.

by Alex Klavens, Walt Bogdanich and Jenny Vrentas, Seattle Times/NY Times | Read more:
Image: Tony Luong/The New York Times

It Can't Be Real

This feels like an AI simulation. As if we’re all living in an edit created by the reprobates hiding among us, with their finite sense of civility and unlimited access to video-generating software.

Did that happen? Is this real?

That video that circulated across the algorithms of Texas Longhorns fans was clearly fake. The one with Longhorns head coach Steve Sarkisian backhand slapping sideline reporter Holly Rowe — deplorable “entertainment” that only those wallowing in the gutter of society would find amusing.

But was that really a scion of the Manning family and a room full of credentialed reporters laughing at that trash?

Yes, unfortunately. That was real.

Also, though the savagery depicted in the video was created by artificial intelligence, did the current face of a billion-dollar football enterprise actually disrespect an ESPN/ABC Hall of Fame broadcaster who won the Curt Gowdy Award in 2023, as though she were a YouTuber holding one of those budget wireless mics?

Unbelievable, but facts. That, also, was real.

“I saw the AI Edit of (Sark) slapping Holly Rowe.”

I asked Arch Manning if he’d seen any edits on TikTok or Twitter after the game, and his answer is gold. pic.twitter.com/70FnNCVEHb

— Evan Vieth (@EvanVieth) September 14, 2026

There was a time when meatheads would giggle at off-color jokes only while in the locker room, or at least in the sanctity of the group chat, because at least good sense would prevail and remind them that some punch lines aren’t suitable for public consumption. It wasn’t that long ago, either, when head coaches jacked up on adrenaline would fulfill their social contract by spitting out a couple of nothings to a sideline reporter — or, at least, express regret when they didn’t.

That kind of human decorum, however, is fading faster than someone can hit “send” on the latest AI-generated nonsense. And plummeting deeper than even Arch Manning’s likability.

I can’t tell which is worse: the phony clip depicting violence against a woman, or the real-life behavior displayed by Sarkisian, then Manning and a room of media members? Before they could edit themselves and add a glossy filter to their apologies, they showed the sordid bits of their individual characters for all to see.

What a weird couple of days in Texas. It’s almost as if the state’s content creator said “Screw it” and mixed a superedit of slop.

It started immediately after the No. 4 Longhorns’ 24-23 comeback victory over then-No. 1 Ohio State, their first home win over a top-ranked team in 76 years. Stunning! So stunned was Sarkisian that the 52-year-old coach completely forgot how to form big-boy words with his mouth. Instead of respecting the postgame interview process, Sarkisian blew off Rowe’s attempt to toss him congratulatory softballs.

Rowe was trying to do her job. Sarkisian, using the excuse of technical difficulties despite ABC’s production appearing ready for his on-field interview, did not do his.

pic.twitter.com/6ZVqJmIP2v
— Holly Rowe (@sportsiren) September 15, 2026

Yes, Sarkisian is contractually obligated to perform this duty — TV deals help fund his $11 million salary — as required by his conference’s multibillion-dollar media agreements with the networks that broadcast its games.

And no, just no: Screaming “Texas fight!” into the camera, and then leaving the reporter in the dust, does not satisfy this responsibility. Nor does it make for good television. More than anything else, it’s just not a good look.

Holly Rowe is not happy with Texas HC Steve Sarkisian

pic.twitter.com/L6etAq1k4Q
— Pick 6 Pack (@Pick6PackFB) September 13, 2026

Sarkisian makes too much money, has been around big-time college football too long to get annoyed when the TV reporter doesn’t hurry up and ask him the two questions. On the greatest night of his greatest coaching feat, Sarkisian acted without grace or a shred of tact. College coaches aren’t diplomats, but they can choose not to act like jerks. [...]

Bo French, a Republican running for Texas Railroad Commissioner, couldn’t get past all those pesky brown-skinned men invading the stands. Not just college kids, but Others cheering for Texas’ football team and snatching up Texas’ degrees. The sight of so few blond and blue-eyed coeds made the politician forget all about the Longhorns’ big night, and it instead made him thumb out his outrage and xenophobia on X.

“I heard UT graduation this year looked like this. I didn’t believe it. The problem is now obviously far worse than anyone imagined,” a post from French’s account read.

Thank goodness plenty of non-cretins exist across Texas, including some within his own political party, and those folks spoke out against the post.

Then, after all of this, after the head coach was rude and the GOP candidate couldn’t mask his racism, the college quarterback found some low-vibration content to be, heh heh, so hilarious. As did some of the reporters on hand, who presumably confused a press room for an out-of-control frat house.

During a Monday media availability, a reporter asked Manning if he had seen any of the TikTok edits done off the game. Arch, the 22-year-old Manning whom the public truly knows little about other than that he plays quarterback like his famous uncles, offered that he saw “an AI edit of Sark’s interview.”

Immediately, a loud laughter from reporters.

“Y’all seen that one?” Manning asked.

More laughter.

“That’s a good one!” Manning said, smiling and then pointing at someone off camera in solidarity with the joke.

Again, laughter.

“Of him slapping Holly Rowe,” Manning confirmed.

Still, laughter in the room.

“Yeah, it’s hilarious,” Manning concluded, and somewhere his family’s public relations firm probably asked for a raise.

When a colleague sent me that clip Monday night, my reaction was disbelief: “Are we sure that arch video isn’t AI?”

I asked genuinely because never would I have thought that a Manning, no matter his age, would so clumsily stumble into such an unnecessary mistake. Rarely an hour goes by without Peyton and Eli filling our screens. Even Cooper, Arch’s father and the lesser-known Manning brother, presents well in commercials and interviews. The Mannings understand media. They are a media company in and of themselves. So, five-star Arch must have had a measure of training before entering the mainstream. He can read the line of scrimmage, but clearly the kid can’t read a room. Or maybe he was lured into his thoughtless comments because of the jocularity inside that room full of reporters.

Most likely, they were grown people with jobs who represent various media companies. So-called professionals. Disregard for one second the lack of judgment by those reporters, however, and consider: In what reality does an adult cackle over the depiction of a man assaulting a woman? 

By Tuesday, the desensitized reactions to a fake video led to some regrets in the real world. The reporter who asked the question and posted the video of Manning with the caption: “… his answer is gold,” issued an apology. He said he acted too hastily in trying to get the video up and made a mistake in judgment. Also, Manning posted his remorse with humility. He apologized to Rowe for what “she has personally had to deal with because of my comments.”

Manning’s apology post was indeed real. So was the very real disrespect Rowe faced from the moment she placed a microphone near Sarkisian, as was the actual post from a politician mistakenly trying to score points with the wrong people. All of it was real, which means AI isn’t ruining our world. Real people are doing just fine in that role.

by Candace Buckner, The Athletic | Read more:
Image: X/Twitter
[ed. The widespread crudeness we see these days can be attributed to one source, and it isn't AI. Let's Go Brandon! People who'd normally keep such low feelings to themselves, or share only with like-minded friends, now feel empowered to let their inner freak flags fly. From the comments:]

Stop making 22 year old men apologize to 60 year old women for goofing around

Hahahaha they made him talk to you? I feel so bad for this guy.

Are you gonna apologize now for storming off the field like a little baby when you didn't get your interview?

This is so sad. It was a cartoonish joke that was funny. The kid finally shows a little personality and you women attack him. Our society sucks.

[ed. "Our society sucks". Yes it does. In some places and with some people.]

Lost Child

He said, Come with me! Take Daddy’s hand.

How all the stories begin. A large hand lowered, your small hand lifted.

She isn’t sure, she admits, exactly what happened.

Or when. She knows that she was little.

Maybe four years old. Maybe three.

Just guessing. Mists of time, thinly whitewashed wall of memory . . .

No. Katherine does remember something about when. For today—Thursday, March 12, 2026—is an anniversary of that day.

It was, Take Daddy’s hand but hurry. Something was going to happen—unless it had already happened.

For, with Kit’s father, something was always either going to happen or had already happened, and it was either too late to stop it from happening or too early to even imagine it happening, but, in any case, Hurry, sweetie! God damn.

Not used to dressing herself. The new rosy-pink raincoat, crookedly buttoned, but maybe Daddy wouldn’t notice.

Hours later, at the hospital, parking at the rear—a high-rise garage, which Kit’s father hated because it slowed him down, Fucking God damn.

Kit cringed a little when Daddy spoke in a harsh voice, but she understood: Daddy was not talking to her.

When they were alone together—which was often now—Daddy joked that the two of them were practically living in this shithole car. Daddy was rarely silent; he was too nervous, edgy, to be silent. He seemed to be addressing Kit, but Kit knew that he would be annoyed if she interrupted him to reply.

Crucial to Kit not to annoy her father. If she was sweetly quiet, obedient, Daddy smiled at her with the radiance of Daddy love, and Kit basked in his love like a cat stretched out in the sun.

Kit’s fear was that Daddy’s smile would disappear. Like a light switched off.

You would have to have known him to understand, Katherine says.

Cursing as he made his way up through the parking garage, turning the wheel sharply, row after row of vehicles, nowhere to park, though the sign at the entrance had said “Open.”

True that Daddy was in a hurry, but true, also, that, when Daddy at last found a parking space, on the top level of the garage, he did not drive into it head first but took time to maneuver the vehicle around so that he could back it in. Daddy felt compelled always to back into a parking space; here, an alarmingly narrow gap between two large vehicles which required many excruciating minutes, Daddy grimacing as he peered into the car’s side mirrors, easing back a few inches, then forward again. His breathing came fast. His forehead glistened with moisture.

Rainwater in puddles on the garage floor. Slow-drifting fog, mist.

The smell of her father’s breath, like fumes.

In the back seat of the car, a potted plant, its blooms wrapped in crinkly cellophane, amid random newspapers, napkins, coffee cups. Also, a small suitcase so stuffed that one of the compartments was only partly zipped.

C’mon, silly. Nothing to be afraid of.

Kit smiled uncertainly. For Daddy was smiling. Nothing to be afraid of? It had not occurred to Kit that there might be something to be afraid of.

by Joyce Carol Oates, New Yorker |  Read more:

Image: Holly Andres

Outsourcing Mom

Worried About Your College Kid? Now You Can Hire a Local Mom. At some universities, parents can pay to make sure their children are cared for, the way they were back home.

Concierge companies offering student support have existed for decades. But in recent years, a new crop of upstarts — such as Horwitz’s company, MindyKnows; the Bama Mama in Alabama; the GA Mom in Georgia; and Campus Mom in Texas — have met additional demand from a new generation of worried parents.

Historically, college has been a time for young adults to gain a sense of independence. They run their own errands, do their own laundry, organize their own lives. That’s changing, according to Monteigne Long, a co-founder of Campus Mom, who said the parents of this generation of college students are much more involved in their children’s day-to-day lives.

“When I came to college in 1998, my parents dropped me off on a Saturday and were gone,” Long said. “Parents are staying much more tuned in and connected with their students’ college experience than they have in the past. When they can’t be here, they want someone who can be that stand-in for them.”

The arrangements, though, have drawn occasional criticism online and from experts who worry young adults won’t learn enough essential life skills with so much additional support.

“Sometimes people think that we’re coddling students,” Horwitz said, “and I just don’t think that anything could be further from the truth. They’re 18, 19 years old, and they’re just off independently for the first time. We’re just a support system.”

The specific services vary here and there, but share commonalities. Campus Mom offers “holistic wellness check-ins,” laundry services and sorority recruitment support packages, sent to the sisters to up a child’s odds of acceptance. Carrie Eckhardt, the Bama Mama, will clean students’ dorm rooms and check in if parents haven’t heard from their child in a few days (“just pop in and say hi, and take a picture and send it to their mom”).

This month, one parent told Eckhardt it seemed like her daughter was going out to a bar every night. But she had opted to stay in, and the mother wanted to celebrate the decision with a “stay-in basket” that included her favorite ice cream, cookie and socks.

Horwitz, for her part, brings students balloons on their birthdays and chicken soup when they’re sick, sits with them in the emergency room and picks up their prescriptions if they’re busy. She bakes homemade challah, coordinates with the bedbug exterminator, texts photos and updates to faraway parents and doles out recommendations on the best local doctors and landlords.

by Kristi Albert, NY Times |  Read more:

Image: Kate Munsch for The New York Times
[ed. Why not cut to the chase. Just hire somebody to take all their classes and summarize everything with AI. Of course, cheating on tests would be an optional additional expense.]

Did 9/11 Really Change Everything?

One of the best firsthand accounts of the Sept. 11 attacks I’ve read is a short essay titled “Diary of Disaster” by Nicholas Spangler, at the time a 25-year-old journalism-school student and today a reporter for Newsday on Long Island. Spangler happened to be downtown that morning, close enough to the World Trade Center to arrive on the scene between the first and second planes. Like many early recollections of the first hours at ground zero, written before memories had been corrected to fit the dimensions of history, his is as strange as it is horrifying.

He hears the bodies of the north tower’s jumpers hitting the pavement, and also the easy-listening music still drifting out of the building’s outdoor speakers. Under a tree newly stripped of its leaves lies a severed leg wrapped in burlap. Barely an hour after the second tower’s collapse, onlookers enlist Spangler to take a souvenir photo of them posing in front of the wreckage with a disposable camera. It’s the end of the world, or at least of a world, and people have not yet figured out how they are supposed to act.

Days later, trying to make sense of what he has seen, Spangler writes: “I believe that our present way of life ended in those minutes or hours. The American ethos — the way we see the world and our place in it — fractured and will perhaps have to be discarded.”

When he revisits that passage three months later, however, it feels wrong to him. “Our way of life did not end so much as it was interrupted,” he writes, “and if there is such a thing as an American ethos, it has not been significantly altered. There are those relative few whose lives bear the permanent bloody brand of that day but most of us continue to be shaped by much more banal events.”

Did 9/11 change everything? For years, people who agreed on nothing else about the attacks’ aftermath would have agreed that the answer was yes. Arguing otherwise would have been an affront to the victims, to the war on terror’s civilian and military casualties and to the common sense of anyone who has had to take off their shoes at airport security. But question and answer alike have always been colored by the assumption that 9/11 was supposed to change everything: that in being attacked as it was, the United States was being presented with a test that it could pass or fail.

A quarter-century on, it is possible to consider the question with at least some critical distance. Far too much of our current reality stems directly from 9/11 for anyone to argue credibly that it was not a hinge point in our recent history: the ubiquity of surveillance technology, the vague open-endedness that all American military operations now acquire, the general up-armoring of everyday life. At the same time, considering the most dystopian facets of this reality, 9/11’s influence is not as singular as it might have once seemed. It is a middle chapter in the story of American fracture rather than the pyrotechnic beginning. [...]

Of course, in the end, the United States got neither self-awareness nor self-actualization. What it got, a decade and a half later, was Donald Trump, whose election in 2016 has often been cast as a culmination of what the journalist Spencer Ackerman, in his 2021 book “Reign of Terror,” describes as the “decadent phase of the war on terror.”

Trump’s path from reality-TV celebrity to the presidency ran through the Islamophobic fever swamps of the post-9/11 right — the ground zero mosque panic, Obama birth-certificate conspiracism — but also through an increasingly bipartisan discontent with the war on terror that had, by 2016, curdled into cynicism. Trump was the first Republican presidential nominee to break the formidable taboo against affirming what most Americans by then believed, that the country’s post-9/11 military adventurism had been a mistake. He also did little to seriously curtail it in his first presidency and has enthusiastically expanded it in his second.

It has long been tempting to view Trump’s presidencies as the logical conclusion of the folly of the post-9/11 era, and as support for the liberal contention that the right’s calls for patriotism in that era were always really about seizing domestic power. But Trump has also enabled a re-examination of history, and even recent history, that complicates the tale of 9/11’s primacy. [...]

Trump’s 2016 election “represented the crystallization of elements that were still inchoate” in the early 1990s, John Ganz writes in “When the Clock Broke,” his recent history of the period’s underappreciated malaise. In retrospect, 9/11 was paradoxically both a respite from and accelerant of polarizations and pathologies that were already well underway by then. It allowed Americans to ignore them for a moment, until they came roaring back with redoubled force. [...] [ed. So, explain Obama.]

If you do not remember the Berlin Wall but had an adolescence shaped by social media and cellphones, the brightest dividing lines in recent history are technological — and, with the rapid acceleration of artificial intelligence, are becoming more so. This is clear in the borrowed nostalgias of Gen Z, the bits of the past that 20-somethings have recently pressed into service as emblems of a lost golden era: “Friends,” John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, ’90s high-school-class home videos, music videos and concert footage from bands like Alien Ant Farm and Puddle of Mudd.

These artifacts span the pre- and post-9/11 years, and the lost innocence they represent has nothing to do with the attacks. Their interest comes from their evocation of a period when people hung out with friends in person and sweated alongside strangers at clubs and music festivals; teenagers goofed un-self-consciously for cameras rather than posing for them like jaded celebrities; and popular culture could be loud and dumb and not picked apart in the digital panopticon for its social politics. The shape that looms ominously over them isn’t the Twin Towers. It’s the iPhone. [ed. lol...ok.]

by Charles Homans, NY Times |  Read more:

Image: Chantal Jahchan
[ed. Nice words, but no. C'mon. 9-11 was our last opportunity to cohere as a country, and we whiffed it. Instead we got a war on terror, as stupid and amorphous as any initiative based on a feeling (War on Anxiety?). A Patriot Act that gave subsequent crimes a never-ending veneer of political cover. 'Homeland' security, a Nazi term repurposed for new times. Two stupid reactionary wars (neither won) that among other things validated torture as official US state policy. Guantanamo Bay. A newly militarized culture. An expanded surveillance state. And fear... fear everywhere of some 'other' where strength and self-assurance used to be.]

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).]