Thursday, October 16, 2025
The Lost Art Of Thinking Historically
On a sun-drenched November day in Dallas, 1963, as President John F. Kennedy’s motorcade rounded the corner onto Elm Street, a single, baffling figure stood out against the cheerful crowd: a man holding a black umbrella aloft against the cloudless sky. Seconds later, shots rang out, and the world changed forever.
In the chaotic aftermath, as a nation grappled with an incomprehensible act of violence, the image of the “Umbrella Man” became a fetish, as novelist John Updike would later write, dangling around history’s neck. The man was an anomaly, a detail that didn’t fit. In a world desperate for causal links, his presence seemed anything but benign. Was the umbrella a secret signaling device? A disguised flechette gun that fired the first, mysterious throat wound? For years, investigators and conspiracy theorists alike saw him as a key to a sinister underpinning, a puzzle piece in a grand, nefarious design.
The truth, when it finally emerged, was nearly absurd in its banality. Testifying before a House committee in 1978, a Dallas warehouse worker named Louie Steven Witt admitted he was the man. His motive was not assassination, but heckling. The umbrella was a symbolic protest against the Kennedy family, referencing the Nazi-appeasing policies of former British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain — whose signature accessory was an umbrella — and his association with JFK’s father, Joseph P. Kennedy, who had been an ambassador to the U.K. It was, as the investigator Josiah Thompson noted, an explanation “just wacky enough to be true.”
The story of the Umbrella Man reveals our deep-seated human desire to make sense of a complex universe through tidy, airtight explanations. We crave certainty, especially in the face of tragedy, and are quick to weave disparate facts into a coherent, and often sinister, narrative. We see a man with an umbrella on a sunny day and assume conspiracy, because the alternative — that the world is a stage for random, idiosyncratic and often meaningless acts — is far more unsettling. (...)
Making consequential choices about an unknowable future is a profoundly challenging task. The world is not a laboratory. It is a vortex of ambiguity, contingency and competing perspectives, where motives are unclear, evidence is contradictory and the significance of events changes with the passage of time. No economic model or regression analysis can fully explain the Umbrella Man, nor can it provide the clarity we need to navigate the intricate challenges of our time.
What we have lost, and what we desperately need to reclaim, is a different mode of cognition, a historical sensibility. This is not about memorizing dates and facts. It is, as the historian Gordon S. Wood describes it, a “different consciousness,” a way of understanding that profoundly influences how we see the world. It is a temperament that is comfortable with uncertainty, sensitive to context and aware of the powerful, often unpredictable rhythms of the past. To cultivate this sensibility is to acquire the intellectual virtues of modesty, curiosity and empathy — an antidote to the hubris of rigid, monocausal thinking.
The Historian’s Audacious Act
The stereotypical image of a historian is a collector of dusty facts, obsessed with the archives, who then weaves them into a story. But this portrait misses the audacious intellectual act at the heart of the discipline. (...)
[ed. Unfortunately, I'm not seeing a Renaissance in critical thinking anytime soon. See also: Believing misinformation is a “win” for some people, even when proven false (Ars Technica - below); and, Rescuing Democracy From The Quiet Rule Of AI (Noema).]
"Why do some people endorse claims that can easily be disproved? It’s one thing to believe false information, but another to actively stick with something that’s obviously wrong.
Our new research, published in the Journal of Social Psychology, suggests that some people consider it a “win” to lean in to known falsehoods. (...)
Rather than consider issues in light of actual facts, we suggest people with this mindset prioritize being independent from outside influence. It means you can justify espousing pretty much anything—the easier a statement is to disprove, the more of a power move it is to say it, as it symbolizes how far you’re willing to go... for some people, literal truth is not the point."
In the chaotic aftermath, as a nation grappled with an incomprehensible act of violence, the image of the “Umbrella Man” became a fetish, as novelist John Updike would later write, dangling around history’s neck. The man was an anomaly, a detail that didn’t fit. In a world desperate for causal links, his presence seemed anything but benign. Was the umbrella a secret signaling device? A disguised flechette gun that fired the first, mysterious throat wound? For years, investigators and conspiracy theorists alike saw him as a key to a sinister underpinning, a puzzle piece in a grand, nefarious design.
The story of the Umbrella Man reveals our deep-seated human desire to make sense of a complex universe through tidy, airtight explanations. We crave certainty, especially in the face of tragedy, and are quick to weave disparate facts into a coherent, and often sinister, narrative. We see a man with an umbrella on a sunny day and assume conspiracy, because the alternative — that the world is a stage for random, idiosyncratic and often meaningless acts — is far more unsettling. (...)
Making consequential choices about an unknowable future is a profoundly challenging task. The world is not a laboratory. It is a vortex of ambiguity, contingency and competing perspectives, where motives are unclear, evidence is contradictory and the significance of events changes with the passage of time. No economic model or regression analysis can fully explain the Umbrella Man, nor can it provide the clarity we need to navigate the intricate challenges of our time.
What we have lost, and what we desperately need to reclaim, is a different mode of cognition, a historical sensibility. This is not about memorizing dates and facts. It is, as the historian Gordon S. Wood describes it, a “different consciousness,” a way of understanding that profoundly influences how we see the world. It is a temperament that is comfortable with uncertainty, sensitive to context and aware of the powerful, often unpredictable rhythms of the past. To cultivate this sensibility is to acquire the intellectual virtues of modesty, curiosity and empathy — an antidote to the hubris of rigid, monocausal thinking.
The Historian’s Audacious Act
The stereotypical image of a historian is a collector of dusty facts, obsessed with the archives, who then weaves them into a story. But this portrait misses the audacious intellectual act at the heart of the discipline. (...)
This is an ambitious, almost brazen attempt to impose a shared order on the infinite, confusing array of facts and causes that mark our existence. It offers an argument about causality and agency — about who and what matters, and how the world works and why. Does change come from great leaders, collective institutions or vast, impersonal structural forces? A historian’s narrative is never just a story; it is a theory of change.
This process is fundamentally different from that of many other disciplines. Where social sciences often seek to create generalizable, predictive and parsimonious theories — the simplest explanation for the largest number of things — history revels in complexity. A historical sensibility is skeptical of master ideas or unitary historical motors. It recognizes that different things happen for different reasons, that direct causal connections can be elusive, and that the world is rife with unintended consequences. It makes no claim to predict the future; rather, it seeks to deepen our understanding of how the past unfolded into our present, reminding us, as British historian Sir Llewellyn Woodward said, that “our ignorance is very deep.”
This sensibility compels us to reconsider concepts we take for granted. We use terms such as “capitalism” and “human rights” as if they are timeless and universal, when in fact they are concepts that emerged and evolved at particular historical moments, often identified and defined by historians. A historical consciousness demands that we seek the origins of things we thought we understood and empathize with the past in its own context. This is to imagine ourselves in the shoes of those who came before, wrestling with their dilemmas in their world. It doesn’t mean suspending moral judgment, but rather being less confident that we — here today — have a monopoly on timeless insight.
This process is fundamentally different from that of many other disciplines. Where social sciences often seek to create generalizable, predictive and parsimonious theories — the simplest explanation for the largest number of things — history revels in complexity. A historical sensibility is skeptical of master ideas or unitary historical motors. It recognizes that different things happen for different reasons, that direct causal connections can be elusive, and that the world is rife with unintended consequences. It makes no claim to predict the future; rather, it seeks to deepen our understanding of how the past unfolded into our present, reminding us, as British historian Sir Llewellyn Woodward said, that “our ignorance is very deep.”
This sensibility compels us to reconsider concepts we take for granted. We use terms such as “capitalism” and “human rights” as if they are timeless and universal, when in fact they are concepts that emerged and evolved at particular historical moments, often identified and defined by historians. A historical consciousness demands that we seek the origins of things we thought we understood and empathize with the past in its own context. This is to imagine ourselves in the shoes of those who came before, wrestling with their dilemmas in their world. It doesn’t mean suspending moral judgment, but rather being less confident that we — here today — have a monopoly on timeless insight.
Why We Get History Wrong
Thinking historically is valuable but rare. Most of us encounter “history” in up to three ways, none of which cultivates this deeper consciousness. First, in school, where it is often presented as a dry chronology of dates and facts to be memorized with little connection to our lives. Second, through public history — museums, memorials, historical sites — which can inspire curiosity, but are themselves historical products, often reflecting the biases and blind spots of the era in which they were created. (A tour of Colonial Williamsburg may reveal more about the Rockefeller-funded restoration ethos of the 1930s than about the 18th-century reality it purports to represent.) Third, through bestselling books and documentaries, which may tell vivid, engaging stories, but can be hagiographic and anecdotal, oriented toward simple lessons and celebrating national myths rather than challenging our assumptions.
None of these is the same as developing a historical sensibility. They are more like comfort food, satisfying a deep urge to connect with the past but providing little real nourishment. At worst, they reinforce the very cognitive habits — the desire for certainty, simple narratives and clear heroes and villains — that a true historical sensibility seeks to question.
The academic discipline of history has, in recent decades, largely failed in its public duty. It has retreated from the consequential subjects of statecraft and strategy, seeing them as unworthy of scholarly pursuit. The rosters of tenured historians at major universities show a steep decline in scholars engaged with questions of war, peace and diplomacy. When they do address such topics, they often do so in a jargon-laden style that is inaccessible and unhelpful to decision-makers or the wider public.
This decline is a tragedy, especially at a time when leaders confronting complex global challenges are desperate for guidance. The field of history has become estranged from the very world of power and decision-making it is uniquely equipped to analyze. Historians and policymakers, who should be natural interlocutors, rarely engage one another. This has left a vacuum that is eagerly filled by other disciplines more confident in their ability to provide actionable advice — which is often dangerously simplistic. (...)
Thinking historically is valuable but rare. Most of us encounter “history” in up to three ways, none of which cultivates this deeper consciousness. First, in school, where it is often presented as a dry chronology of dates and facts to be memorized with little connection to our lives. Second, through public history — museums, memorials, historical sites — which can inspire curiosity, but are themselves historical products, often reflecting the biases and blind spots of the era in which they were created. (A tour of Colonial Williamsburg may reveal more about the Rockefeller-funded restoration ethos of the 1930s than about the 18th-century reality it purports to represent.) Third, through bestselling books and documentaries, which may tell vivid, engaging stories, but can be hagiographic and anecdotal, oriented toward simple lessons and celebrating national myths rather than challenging our assumptions.
None of these is the same as developing a historical sensibility. They are more like comfort food, satisfying a deep urge to connect with the past but providing little real nourishment. At worst, they reinforce the very cognitive habits — the desire for certainty, simple narratives and clear heroes and villains — that a true historical sensibility seeks to question.
The academic discipline of history has, in recent decades, largely failed in its public duty. It has retreated from the consequential subjects of statecraft and strategy, seeing them as unworthy of scholarly pursuit. The rosters of tenured historians at major universities show a steep decline in scholars engaged with questions of war, peace and diplomacy. When they do address such topics, they often do so in a jargon-laden style that is inaccessible and unhelpful to decision-makers or the wider public.
This decline is a tragedy, especially at a time when leaders confronting complex global challenges are desperate for guidance. The field of history has become estranged from the very world of power and decision-making it is uniquely equipped to analyze. Historians and policymakers, who should be natural interlocutors, rarely engage one another. This has left a vacuum that is eagerly filled by other disciplines more confident in their ability to provide actionable advice — which is often dangerously simplistic. (...)
The Practice Of Thinking Historically
If a historical sensibility is the temperament, then thinking historically is the practice. It is the active deployment of that sensibility as a set of tools to assess the world and make more informed choices. It is a distinct epistemology, one that offers a powerful method for evaluating causality and agency, weighing competing narratives and navigating the dilemmas of decision-making without succumbing to what can be called “paralysis by analysis.” It offers not a crystal ball, but a more sophisticated lens — a historian’s microscope — through which to see the present.
Thinking historically begins by questioning vertical and horizontal time. The vertical axis asks: How did we get here? It is the rigorous construction of a chronology, not as a mere list of dates, but as a map of cause and effect. Where this timeline begins — with the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the end of World War II in 1945 or the rise of China in 1979 — fundamentally changes the story and its meaning. It reveals our own unspoken assumptions about what truly drives events.
The horizontal axis asks: What else is happening? It recognizes that history is not a single storyline but a thick tapestry of interwoven threads. The decision to escalate the war in Vietnam, for example, cannot be fully understood without examining the parallel, and seemingly contradictory, efforts by the same administration to cooperate with the Soviet Union on nuclear nonproliferation. Thinking historically is the act of integrating these divergent streams.
Crucially, this practice leads us to confront our own biases, particularly outcome bias. Because we know how the story ended — how the Cold War concluded or how the 2008 financial crisis resolved — we are tempted to construct a neat narrative of inevitability. Thinking historically resists this temptation. It demands that we try to see the world as the actors of the past saw it: through a foggy windshield, not a rearview mirror, facing a future of radical uncertainty. It restores a sense of contingency to the past, reminding us that choices mattered and that the world could have turned out differently.
Ultimately, thinking historically is about asking better, more probing questions. It is a disciplined curiosity that fosters an appreciation for the complex interplay of individual agency, structural forces and pure chance. Instead of offering easy answers, it provides the intellectual equipment to engage with hard questions, a skill indispensable for navigating a future that will surely be as unpredictable as the past.
If a historical sensibility is the temperament, then thinking historically is the practice. It is the active deployment of that sensibility as a set of tools to assess the world and make more informed choices. It is a distinct epistemology, one that offers a powerful method for evaluating causality and agency, weighing competing narratives and navigating the dilemmas of decision-making without succumbing to what can be called “paralysis by analysis.” It offers not a crystal ball, but a more sophisticated lens — a historian’s microscope — through which to see the present.
Thinking historically begins by questioning vertical and horizontal time. The vertical axis asks: How did we get here? It is the rigorous construction of a chronology, not as a mere list of dates, but as a map of cause and effect. Where this timeline begins — with the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the end of World War II in 1945 or the rise of China in 1979 — fundamentally changes the story and its meaning. It reveals our own unspoken assumptions about what truly drives events.
The horizontal axis asks: What else is happening? It recognizes that history is not a single storyline but a thick tapestry of interwoven threads. The decision to escalate the war in Vietnam, for example, cannot be fully understood without examining the parallel, and seemingly contradictory, efforts by the same administration to cooperate with the Soviet Union on nuclear nonproliferation. Thinking historically is the act of integrating these divergent streams.
Crucially, this practice leads us to confront our own biases, particularly outcome bias. Because we know how the story ended — how the Cold War concluded or how the 2008 financial crisis resolved — we are tempted to construct a neat narrative of inevitability. Thinking historically resists this temptation. It demands that we try to see the world as the actors of the past saw it: through a foggy windshield, not a rearview mirror, facing a future of radical uncertainty. It restores a sense of contingency to the past, reminding us that choices mattered and that the world could have turned out differently.
Ultimately, thinking historically is about asking better, more probing questions. It is a disciplined curiosity that fosters an appreciation for the complex interplay of individual agency, structural forces and pure chance. Instead of offering easy answers, it provides the intellectual equipment to engage with hard questions, a skill indispensable for navigating a future that will surely be as unpredictable as the past.
by Francis Gavin, Noema | Read more:
Image: Mr.Nelson design for Noema Magazine[ed. Unfortunately, I'm not seeing a Renaissance in critical thinking anytime soon. See also: Believing misinformation is a “win” for some people, even when proven false (Ars Technica - below); and, Rescuing Democracy From The Quiet Rule Of AI (Noema).]
"Why do some people endorse claims that can easily be disproved? It’s one thing to believe false information, but another to actively stick with something that’s obviously wrong.
Our new research, published in the Journal of Social Psychology, suggests that some people consider it a “win” to lean in to known falsehoods. (...)
Rather than consider issues in light of actual facts, we suggest people with this mindset prioritize being independent from outside influence. It means you can justify espousing pretty much anything—the easier a statement is to disprove, the more of a power move it is to say it, as it symbolizes how far you’re willing to go... for some people, literal truth is not the point."
Mission Impossible
After the midair collision in January over the Potomac River between an Army helicopter and a regional jet packed with young figure skaters and their parents flying out of Wichita, Kansas, and considering the ongoing travails of the Boeing Company, which saw at least five of its airplanes crash last year, I was so concerned about the state of U.S. aviation that, when called on by this magazine to attend President Donald Trump’s military parade in Washington, on June 14, 2025, I decided to drive all the way from my home in Austin, Texas, even though it cost me two days behind the wheel and a gas bill as expensive as a plane ticket.
I was no less concerned about the prospect of standing on the National Mall on the day of the parade, a celebration of the two-hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the U.S. Army, which happened to coincide with Trump’s seventy-ninth birthday. The forecast predicted appropriately foul weather for the occasion, and there would be a number of helicopters, of both modern and Vietnam-era vintage, flying over the parade grounds. The Army’s recent track record didn’t bode well for those positioned under the flight path. In the past two years, there had been at least twenty-four serious accidents involving helicopters and nineteen fatalities, culminating with the collision over the Potomac, the deadliest incident in American commercial aviation since 2001.
A crash was not the only thing that I worried about. Acts of low-level domestic terrorism and random shootings take place routinely in this country, and although security at the parade would be tight, I wondered what the chance was of some sort of attack on the parade-goers, or even another attempt on Trump’s life. The probability seemed low, but considering the number of veterans who would be in attendance, I had occasion to recall a 2023 study that found that military service is the single strongest predictor of whether an American will commit a mass killing. (...)
Then there were the politics of the parade, the first procession of military forces past the White House since the end of the Gulf War. For weeks, opinion columnists and television pundits had been sounding the alarm over the controversial festivities, which they saw as another sign of America’s downward slide into authoritarianism, into fascism. Comparisons abounded to Mussolini’s Italy, Pinochet’s Chile, and Hitler’s Germany. A coalition of opposition groups had organized a day of protests under the slogan “No Kings,” and that morning, in thousands of cities across the United States, millions of demonstrators were assembling, waving signs that said things like stop fascism, resist fascism, and no to trump’s fascist military parade.
I was no more thrilled than they were about the idea of tanks and armored vehicles rolling down Constitution Avenue. Trump’s accelerationist instincts, the zeal of his fan base, and the complicity, cowardice, and inaction of the Democratic Party in the face of the governing Republican trifecta made the possibility of a military dictatorship in the United States seem borderline plausible. But in a reminder that Trump is not wildly popular with the electorate so much as unopposed by any effective political counterweight, groups of foreign tourists predominated among the parade’s early arrivals.
The first people I met in the surprisingly short line to pass through the security checkpoint were an affable pair of fun-loving Europeans. Jelena, a Slovenian, had come in hopes of meeting a husband. “If someone’s going to marry me,” she explained with a laugh, “it will be a Republican man.” Liberals were too elitist for her: “Democrats will ask what school I went to.” Her high-spirited wingman, a Bulgarian named Slavko, was drinking beer out of a plastic cup at eleven o’clock in the morning. He had come “to get fucking drunk and high all day long,” he told me, “and just hang out.”
There were a number of Trump voters in line, but they seemed muted, even reasonable, in their political views, far from the legions of MAGA faithful I had expected to encounter. David and Sandra Clark, a middle-aged couple from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, were divided in their opinions of the president. Sandra was not a fan, she said, and David described himself as a “marginal” Trump supporter. They had come to observe the Army’s semiquincentennial, a “momentous occasion,” he said. The day before, Israel had bombed Iran, opening yet another front in the apartheid state’s war against its Muslim neighbors, and the Clarks were concerned about the situation. “It seems like it could get out of hand,” he said. “I’m here to see the protesters,” Sandra put in. “I may join them.”
A few of the attendees trickling in had on red hats that said trump 2028 or make iran great again, but these slogans somehow lacked their intended provocative effect. I looked out over the Mall, where the second-rate exhibits that the Army had set up made a mockery of the parade’s $30 million price tag. Was this supposed to be a show of American military might? (...)
By midday, the heat was ungodly. Not a drop of the predicted rain fell, and not a breeze blew. Near a much-needed water station was an exhibit of military first-aid kits manned by a delegation from Fort Bragg’s 44th Medical Brigade, which recently saw three of its current or former soldiers convicted of federal drug-trafficking charges related to a racket smuggling ketamine out of Cameroon. After hydrating, I watched the 3rd Infantry Regiment, a ceremonial unit known as the Old Guard, spin and toss their rifles and bayonets to a smattering of languorous applause from a small crowd of South Asian tourists, aging veterans, and subdued MAGA fans.
What kind of fascism was this? Rather than the authoritarian spectacle that liberals had anticipated, the festivities seemed to be more a demonstration of political fatigue and civic apathy. And if Trump intended the parade to be an advertisement of America’s military strength, it would instead prove to be an inadvertent display of the armed forces’ creeping decrepitude, low morale, shrinking size, obsolescence, and dysfunction. (...)
During the speech, Trump touted his proposed trillion-dollar defense budget, taunted the reporters in attendance, warned of hordes of immigrants coming from “the Congo in Africa,” denounced the protesters in Los Angeles as “animals,” ridiculed transgender people, and promised the troops a pay raise, even as he repeatedly strayed from his prepared remarks to praise the good looks of handsome service members who caught his eye. “For two and a half centuries, our soldiers have marched into the raging fires of battle and obliterated America’s enemies,” Trump told the crowd. “Our Army has smashed foreign empires, humbled kings, toppled tyrants, and hunted terrorist savages through the very gates of hell,” he said. “They all fear us. And we have the greatest force anywhere on earth.” (...)
In point of fact, the modern American military is a much weaker and more debilitated force than Trump’s braggadocio, and the Defense Department’s gargantuan spending habits, might suggest. The United States has either failed to achieve its stated aims in, or outright lost, every major war it has waged since 1945—with the arguable exception of the Gulf War—and it only seems to be getting less effective as defense expenditures continue to rise. You don’t need to look back to U.S. defeats in Iraq or Afghanistan, much less Vietnam, to illustrate this point. Just one month before Trump’s parade, in May, our armed forces suffered a humiliating loss against a tiny but fearless adversary in Yemen, one of the poorest countries in the world.
The Houthi rebels, also known as Ansar Allah, have been defying the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Israel ever since they first emerged as a military force in 2004 protesting the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the Israeli occupation of Palestine, and the quisling Yemeni regime’s collaboration with the Bush Administration. After Hamas attacked Israel on October 7, 2023, the Houthis, who had endured nearly a decade of starvation under a U.S.-backed Saudi blockade of their ports, tried to force Israel and its allies to lift the siege of Gaza by using their scrappy speedboat navy and homemade arsenal of cheaply manufactured missiles, drones, and unmanned underwater vehicles to choke off maritime traffic in the Red Sea. In response, the Biden Administration, invoking the threat posed by the Houthis to freedom of navigation, launched a wave of air strikes on Yemen and dispatched a naval fleet to reopen the Bab el-Mandeb Strait. The campaign did not go well. A pair of Navy SEALs drowned while attempting to board a Houthi dhow, and the crew of the USS Gettysburg accidentally shot down an F/A-18F Super Hornet fighter jet after it took off from the USS Harry S. Truman, one of America’s premier aircraft carriers, which a short time later collided with an Egyptian merchant ship.
In January of this year, Trump declared the Houthis a terrorist organization and doubled down on Biden’s war. The administration replaced the commander of the Gettysburg and augmented U.S. assets in the region with another aircraft-carrier strike group, which costs $6.5 million a day to operate; B-2 bombers, which cost $90,000 per flight hour; and antimissile interceptors, which can cost $2.7 million apiece. In the span of a few weeks in March and April, the United States launched hundreds of air strikes on Yemen. The tough, ingenious (and dirt-poor) Houthis, protected by Yemen’s mountainous interior, fought back with the tenacity of drug-resistant microbes. They downed hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of Reaper drones; nearly managed to shoot several F-16s and an F-35 out of the sky; and evaded air defenses to strike Israel with long-range drones, all the while continuing to harass commercial shipping in the Red Sea, which plummeted by 60 percent.
On April 28, American warplanes struck a migrant detention center in the northern Yemeni city of Sadah, then dropped more bombs on emergency workers who arrived in the aftermath. Sixty-eight people were killed. In retaliation, the Houthis launched a fusillade of ballistic missiles at the Truman, which turned tail and steamed away, causing another Super Hornet to slide off the deck into the ocean.
The loss of a second $67 million fighter jet was evidently a turning point for President Trump. In one month, the United States had used up much of its stockpile of guided missiles and lost a number of aircraft but failed to establish air superiority over a country with a per capita GDP one sixth the size of Haiti’s. To avoid further embarrassment, Trump officials declared Operation Rough Rider a success and ordered U.S. Central Command to “pause” operations, effectively capitulating to the Houthis. “We hit them very hard and they had a great ability to withstand punishment,” Trump conceded. “You could say there was a lot of bravery there.” The very same day, yet another $67 million Super Hornet slipped off the deck of the Truman and sank to the bottom of the sea. (...)
At last it was time for the parade. The thin crowd, which hadn’t thickened much over the course of the day, filtered through a secondary security checkpoint and took up positions along Constitution Avenue, angling for spots in the shade. I saw a woman changing a baby’s diaper at the base of a tree, and a shirtless old man in a cavalry hat standing atop an overflowing garbage can. With the sun still high in the sky at six o’clock, the heat had barely relented. Smoke from a wildfire in New Jersey had turned the overcast sky a dirty brown.
On the north side of the street, in front of the White House, a covered stage had been set up for the reviewing party, protected by bulletproof glass and flanked by tanks below. First to take his seat was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Dan Caine, a “serial entrepreneur and investor,” according to his Air Force biography. The secretary of defense, former Fox News host Pete Hegseth, came out shortly after, wearing a blue suit and camouflage tie, followed by Vice President J. D. Vance, who garnered scattered claps and whistles from the crowd. More-enthusiastic applause greeted President Trump’s appearance onstage, accompanied by a jarring blast of trumpets, but the cheering was still rather sedate. First Lady Melania Trump stood beside him, looking down at the crowd with cold contempt. The whole perverse regime was onstage, including Kristi Noem and Marco Rubio. Seeing them seated there in such close proximity, I found myself wondering how long-range those Houthi drones really are.
Throughout the day, I had spoken to various Trump voters and tried to sound out their opinions on Trump’s brand of militarism and his foreign policy. Rather than any ethos or ideology that could support the renewal of National Socialism in the United States, I found them to be motivated mostly by tired cultural grudges, xenophobic resentment, social-media memes, and civic illiteracy. Few were enthusiastic about defending Trump’s complete capitulation to Israel and the neocons.
Trump voters know just as well as the rest of us that the terror wars were a mistake. We all know that they were based on lies. We are all well aware that our side lost, and that the defeats were costly, and indeed ruinous. We are going to keep starting new wars anyway, and losing them too. As President Biden said last year of his administration’s air strikes on Yemen: “Are they stopping the Houthis? No. Are they going to continue? Yes.”
This isn’t a sign of ascendant fascism so much as the nadir of late-stage capitalism, which depends on forever wars to juice corporate profits at a time of falling rates of return on investment. In its doddering senescence, the capitalist war machine is no less murderous than fascism was—witness the millions of Muslims killed by the United States and Israel since 2001—but it has considerably lower production values. In this soft dystopia, our military forces will not be destroyed in a cataclysmic confrontation with the armies of Communism, as befell Nazi Germany on the Eastern Front. Instead, the defense oligarchs who own Congress will go on pocketing the money allocated to the military, just as they have been for the past forty years, until nothing is left but a hollow shell, a shrinking and sclerotic military so debilitated by graft, suicides, overdoses, and violent crime that it’s incapable of fulfilling its mission, and suitable only for use in theatrical deployments at home beating up protesters and rounding up migrants and the homeless.
Mustering the last of my morale, I trudged back to Constitution Avenue and took my place among the remaining parade-goers. One of the last formations to march past was an Army weapons-testing platoon accompanied by a number of small quadcopter drones. Quadcopters like these have proved pivotal in Ukraine, but the United States hardly makes any. China can churn out an estimated hundred cheap, disposable drones for every one produced in America. In an effort to close the gap, Pete Hegseth has announced new initiatives to boost domestic manufacturing of the devices, but early results have not been promising. A recent report in the New York Times described an exercise in Alaska in which defense contractors and soldiers tested prototypes of U.S.-built “one-way” kamikaze drones with results so dismal they were almost comical. None of the tests described were successful. The drones failed to launch or missed their targets. One crashed into a mountain.
The quadcopters hovering over the testing platoon at the rear of the parade were the X10D model made by Skydio, the largest U.S. drone manufacturer. Not long ago, Skydio transitioned its business from consumer to military and police drones, targeting markets in Ukraine, Israel, and elsewhere. After Skydio sold drones to Taiwan, Beijing retaliated last year by cutting off the company’s access to Chinese batteries, prompting the company to ration them to only one per drone. I noticed that one of the Skydio quadcopters hovering over the parade had dropped out of view. I couldn’t see where it had gone. Then one of the soldiers in the testing platoon marched past, holding it up over his head, make-believing that it was still aloft.
A crash was not the only thing that I worried about. Acts of low-level domestic terrorism and random shootings take place routinely in this country, and although security at the parade would be tight, I wondered what the chance was of some sort of attack on the parade-goers, or even another attempt on Trump’s life. The probability seemed low, but considering the number of veterans who would be in attendance, I had occasion to recall a 2023 study that found that military service is the single strongest predictor of whether an American will commit a mass killing. (...)
Then there were the politics of the parade, the first procession of military forces past the White House since the end of the Gulf War. For weeks, opinion columnists and television pundits had been sounding the alarm over the controversial festivities, which they saw as another sign of America’s downward slide into authoritarianism, into fascism. Comparisons abounded to Mussolini’s Italy, Pinochet’s Chile, and Hitler’s Germany. A coalition of opposition groups had organized a day of protests under the slogan “No Kings,” and that morning, in thousands of cities across the United States, millions of demonstrators were assembling, waving signs that said things like stop fascism, resist fascism, and no to trump’s fascist military parade.
I was no more thrilled than they were about the idea of tanks and armored vehicles rolling down Constitution Avenue. Trump’s accelerationist instincts, the zeal of his fan base, and the complicity, cowardice, and inaction of the Democratic Party in the face of the governing Republican trifecta made the possibility of a military dictatorship in the United States seem borderline plausible. But in a reminder that Trump is not wildly popular with the electorate so much as unopposed by any effective political counterweight, groups of foreign tourists predominated among the parade’s early arrivals.
The first people I met in the surprisingly short line to pass through the security checkpoint were an affable pair of fun-loving Europeans. Jelena, a Slovenian, had come in hopes of meeting a husband. “If someone’s going to marry me,” she explained with a laugh, “it will be a Republican man.” Liberals were too elitist for her: “Democrats will ask what school I went to.” Her high-spirited wingman, a Bulgarian named Slavko, was drinking beer out of a plastic cup at eleven o’clock in the morning. He had come “to get fucking drunk and high all day long,” he told me, “and just hang out.”
There were a number of Trump voters in line, but they seemed muted, even reasonable, in their political views, far from the legions of MAGA faithful I had expected to encounter. David and Sandra Clark, a middle-aged couple from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, were divided in their opinions of the president. Sandra was not a fan, she said, and David described himself as a “marginal” Trump supporter. They had come to observe the Army’s semiquincentennial, a “momentous occasion,” he said. The day before, Israel had bombed Iran, opening yet another front in the apartheid state’s war against its Muslim neighbors, and the Clarks were concerned about the situation. “It seems like it could get out of hand,” he said. “I’m here to see the protesters,” Sandra put in. “I may join them.”
A few of the attendees trickling in had on red hats that said trump 2028 or make iran great again, but these slogans somehow lacked their intended provocative effect. I looked out over the Mall, where the second-rate exhibits that the Army had set up made a mockery of the parade’s $30 million price tag. Was this supposed to be a show of American military might? (...)
By midday, the heat was ungodly. Not a drop of the predicted rain fell, and not a breeze blew. Near a much-needed water station was an exhibit of military first-aid kits manned by a delegation from Fort Bragg’s 44th Medical Brigade, which recently saw three of its current or former soldiers convicted of federal drug-trafficking charges related to a racket smuggling ketamine out of Cameroon. After hydrating, I watched the 3rd Infantry Regiment, a ceremonial unit known as the Old Guard, spin and toss their rifles and bayonets to a smattering of languorous applause from a small crowd of South Asian tourists, aging veterans, and subdued MAGA fans.
What kind of fascism was this? Rather than the authoritarian spectacle that liberals had anticipated, the festivities seemed to be more a demonstration of political fatigue and civic apathy. And if Trump intended the parade to be an advertisement of America’s military strength, it would instead prove to be an inadvertent display of the armed forces’ creeping decrepitude, low morale, shrinking size, obsolescence, and dysfunction. (...)
During the speech, Trump touted his proposed trillion-dollar defense budget, taunted the reporters in attendance, warned of hordes of immigrants coming from “the Congo in Africa,” denounced the protesters in Los Angeles as “animals,” ridiculed transgender people, and promised the troops a pay raise, even as he repeatedly strayed from his prepared remarks to praise the good looks of handsome service members who caught his eye. “For two and a half centuries, our soldiers have marched into the raging fires of battle and obliterated America’s enemies,” Trump told the crowd. “Our Army has smashed foreign empires, humbled kings, toppled tyrants, and hunted terrorist savages through the very gates of hell,” he said. “They all fear us. And we have the greatest force anywhere on earth.” (...)
In point of fact, the modern American military is a much weaker and more debilitated force than Trump’s braggadocio, and the Defense Department’s gargantuan spending habits, might suggest. The United States has either failed to achieve its stated aims in, or outright lost, every major war it has waged since 1945—with the arguable exception of the Gulf War—and it only seems to be getting less effective as defense expenditures continue to rise. You don’t need to look back to U.S. defeats in Iraq or Afghanistan, much less Vietnam, to illustrate this point. Just one month before Trump’s parade, in May, our armed forces suffered a humiliating loss against a tiny but fearless adversary in Yemen, one of the poorest countries in the world.
The Houthi rebels, also known as Ansar Allah, have been defying the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Israel ever since they first emerged as a military force in 2004 protesting the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the Israeli occupation of Palestine, and the quisling Yemeni regime’s collaboration with the Bush Administration. After Hamas attacked Israel on October 7, 2023, the Houthis, who had endured nearly a decade of starvation under a U.S.-backed Saudi blockade of their ports, tried to force Israel and its allies to lift the siege of Gaza by using their scrappy speedboat navy and homemade arsenal of cheaply manufactured missiles, drones, and unmanned underwater vehicles to choke off maritime traffic in the Red Sea. In response, the Biden Administration, invoking the threat posed by the Houthis to freedom of navigation, launched a wave of air strikes on Yemen and dispatched a naval fleet to reopen the Bab el-Mandeb Strait. The campaign did not go well. A pair of Navy SEALs drowned while attempting to board a Houthi dhow, and the crew of the USS Gettysburg accidentally shot down an F/A-18F Super Hornet fighter jet after it took off from the USS Harry S. Truman, one of America’s premier aircraft carriers, which a short time later collided with an Egyptian merchant ship.
In January of this year, Trump declared the Houthis a terrorist organization and doubled down on Biden’s war. The administration replaced the commander of the Gettysburg and augmented U.S. assets in the region with another aircraft-carrier strike group, which costs $6.5 million a day to operate; B-2 bombers, which cost $90,000 per flight hour; and antimissile interceptors, which can cost $2.7 million apiece. In the span of a few weeks in March and April, the United States launched hundreds of air strikes on Yemen. The tough, ingenious (and dirt-poor) Houthis, protected by Yemen’s mountainous interior, fought back with the tenacity of drug-resistant microbes. They downed hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of Reaper drones; nearly managed to shoot several F-16s and an F-35 out of the sky; and evaded air defenses to strike Israel with long-range drones, all the while continuing to harass commercial shipping in the Red Sea, which plummeted by 60 percent.
On April 28, American warplanes struck a migrant detention center in the northern Yemeni city of Sadah, then dropped more bombs on emergency workers who arrived in the aftermath. Sixty-eight people were killed. In retaliation, the Houthis launched a fusillade of ballistic missiles at the Truman, which turned tail and steamed away, causing another Super Hornet to slide off the deck into the ocean.
The loss of a second $67 million fighter jet was evidently a turning point for President Trump. In one month, the United States had used up much of its stockpile of guided missiles and lost a number of aircraft but failed to establish air superiority over a country with a per capita GDP one sixth the size of Haiti’s. To avoid further embarrassment, Trump officials declared Operation Rough Rider a success and ordered U.S. Central Command to “pause” operations, effectively capitulating to the Houthis. “We hit them very hard and they had a great ability to withstand punishment,” Trump conceded. “You could say there was a lot of bravery there.” The very same day, yet another $67 million Super Hornet slipped off the deck of the Truman and sank to the bottom of the sea. (...)
At last it was time for the parade. The thin crowd, which hadn’t thickened much over the course of the day, filtered through a secondary security checkpoint and took up positions along Constitution Avenue, angling for spots in the shade. I saw a woman changing a baby’s diaper at the base of a tree, and a shirtless old man in a cavalry hat standing atop an overflowing garbage can. With the sun still high in the sky at six o’clock, the heat had barely relented. Smoke from a wildfire in New Jersey had turned the overcast sky a dirty brown.
On the north side of the street, in front of the White House, a covered stage had been set up for the reviewing party, protected by bulletproof glass and flanked by tanks below. First to take his seat was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Dan Caine, a “serial entrepreneur and investor,” according to his Air Force biography. The secretary of defense, former Fox News host Pete Hegseth, came out shortly after, wearing a blue suit and camouflage tie, followed by Vice President J. D. Vance, who garnered scattered claps and whistles from the crowd. More-enthusiastic applause greeted President Trump’s appearance onstage, accompanied by a jarring blast of trumpets, but the cheering was still rather sedate. First Lady Melania Trump stood beside him, looking down at the crowd with cold contempt. The whole perverse regime was onstage, including Kristi Noem and Marco Rubio. Seeing them seated there in such close proximity, I found myself wondering how long-range those Houthi drones really are.
Trump voters know just as well as the rest of us that the terror wars were a mistake. We all know that they were based on lies. We are all well aware that our side lost, and that the defeats were costly, and indeed ruinous. We are going to keep starting new wars anyway, and losing them too. As President Biden said last year of his administration’s air strikes on Yemen: “Are they stopping the Houthis? No. Are they going to continue? Yes.”
This isn’t a sign of ascendant fascism so much as the nadir of late-stage capitalism, which depends on forever wars to juice corporate profits at a time of falling rates of return on investment. In its doddering senescence, the capitalist war machine is no less murderous than fascism was—witness the millions of Muslims killed by the United States and Israel since 2001—but it has considerably lower production values. In this soft dystopia, our military forces will not be destroyed in a cataclysmic confrontation with the armies of Communism, as befell Nazi Germany on the Eastern Front. Instead, the defense oligarchs who own Congress will go on pocketing the money allocated to the military, just as they have been for the past forty years, until nothing is left but a hollow shell, a shrinking and sclerotic military so debilitated by graft, suicides, overdoses, and violent crime that it’s incapable of fulfilling its mission, and suitable only for use in theatrical deployments at home beating up protesters and rounding up migrants and the homeless.
Mustering the last of my morale, I trudged back to Constitution Avenue and took my place among the remaining parade-goers. One of the last formations to march past was an Army weapons-testing platoon accompanied by a number of small quadcopter drones. Quadcopters like these have proved pivotal in Ukraine, but the United States hardly makes any. China can churn out an estimated hundred cheap, disposable drones for every one produced in America. In an effort to close the gap, Pete Hegseth has announced new initiatives to boost domestic manufacturing of the devices, but early results have not been promising. A recent report in the New York Times described an exercise in Alaska in which defense contractors and soldiers tested prototypes of U.S.-built “one-way” kamikaze drones with results so dismal they were almost comical. None of the tests described were successful. The drones failed to launch or missed their targets. One crashed into a mountain.
The quadcopters hovering over the testing platoon at the rear of the parade were the X10D model made by Skydio, the largest U.S. drone manufacturer. Not long ago, Skydio transitioned its business from consumer to military and police drones, targeting markets in Ukraine, Israel, and elsewhere. After Skydio sold drones to Taiwan, Beijing retaliated last year by cutting off the company’s access to Chinese batteries, prompting the company to ration them to only one per drone. I noticed that one of the Skydio quadcopters hovering over the parade had dropped out of view. I couldn’t see where it had gone. Then one of the soldiers in the testing platoon marched past, holding it up over his head, make-believing that it was still aloft.
Inside the Web Infrastructure Revolt Over Google’s AI Overviews
It could be a consequential act of quiet regulation. Cloudflare, a web infrastructure company, has updated millions of websites' robots.txt files in an effort to force Google to change how it crawls them to fuel its AI products and initiatives.
We spoke with Cloudflare CEO Matthew Prince about what exactly is going on here, why it matters, and what the web might soon look like. But to get into that, we need to cover a little background first.
The new change, which Cloudflare calls its Content Signals Policy, happened after publishers and other companies that depend on web traffic have cried foul over Google's AI Overviews and similar AI answer engines, saying they are sharply cutting those companies' path to revenue because they don't send traffic back to the source of the information.
There have been lawsuits, efforts to kick-start new marketplaces to ensure compensation, and more—but few companies have the kind of leverage Cloudflare does. Its products and services back something close to 20 percent of the web, and thus a significant slice of the websites that show up on search results pages or that fuel large language models.
"Almost every reasonable AI company that's out there is saying, listen, if it's a fair playing field, then we're happy to pay for content," Prince said. "The problem is that all of them are terrified of Google because if Google gets content for free but they all have to pay for it, they are always going to be at an inherent disadvantage."
This is happening because Google is using its dominant position in search to ensure that web publishers allow their content to be used in ways that they might not otherwise want it to.
The changing norms of the web
Since 2023, Google has offered a way for website administrators to opt their content out of use for training Google's large language models, such as Gemini.
However, allowing pages to be indexed by Google's search crawlers and shown in results requires accepting that they'll also be used to generate AI Overviews at the top of results pages through a process called retrieval-augmented generation (RAG).
That's not so for many other crawlers, making Google an outlier among major players.
This is a sore point for a wide range of website administrators, from news websites that publish journalism to investment banks that produce research reports.
A July study from the Pew Research Center analyzed data from 900 adults in the US and found that AI Overviews cut referrals nearly in half. Specifically, users clicked a link on a page with AI Overviews at the top just 8 percent of the time, compared to 15 percent for search engine results pages without those summaries.
And a report in The Wall Street Journal cited a wide range of sources—including internal traffic metrics from numerous major publications like The New York Times and Business Insider—to describe industry-wide plummets in website traffic that those publishers said were tied to AI summaries, leading to layoffs and strategic shifts.
In August, Google's head of search, Liz Reid, disputed the validity and applicability of studies and publisher reports of reduced link clicks in search. "Overall, total organic click volume from Google Search to websites has been relatively stable year-over-year," she wrote, going on to say that reports of big declines were "often based on flawed methodologies, isolated examples, or traffic changes that occurred prior to the rollout of AI features in Search."
Publishers aren't convinced. Penske Media Corporation, which owns brands like The Hollywood Reporter and Rolling Stone, sued Google over AI Overviews in September. The suit claims that affiliate link revenue has dropped by more than a third in the past year, due in large part to Google's overviews—a threatening shortfall in a business that already has difficult margins.
Penske's suit specifically noted that because Google bundles traditional search engine indexing and RAG use together, the company has no choice but to allow Google to keep summarizing its articles, as cutting off Google search referrals entirely would be financially fatal.
Since the earliest days of digital publishing, referrals have in one way or another acted as the backbone of the web's economy. Content could be made available freely to both human readers and crawlers, and norms were applied across the web to allow information to be tracked back to its source and give that source an opportunity to monetize its content to sustain itself.
Today, there's a panic that the old system isn't working anymore as content summaries via RAG have become more common, and along with other players, Cloudflare is trying to update those norms to reflect the current reality.
A mass-scale update to robots.txt
Announced on September 24, Cloudflare's Content Signals Policy is an effort to use the company's influential market position to change how content is used by web crawlers. It involves updating millions of websites' robots.txt files.
Starting in 1994, websites began placing a file called "robots.txt" at the domain root to indicate to automated web crawlers which parts of the domain should be crawled and indexed and which should be ignored. The standard became near-universal over the years; honoring it has been a key part of how Google's web crawlers operate. (...)
We spoke with Cloudflare CEO Matthew Prince about what exactly is going on here, why it matters, and what the web might soon look like. But to get into that, we need to cover a little background first.
There have been lawsuits, efforts to kick-start new marketplaces to ensure compensation, and more—but few companies have the kind of leverage Cloudflare does. Its products and services back something close to 20 percent of the web, and thus a significant slice of the websites that show up on search results pages or that fuel large language models.
"Almost every reasonable AI company that's out there is saying, listen, if it's a fair playing field, then we're happy to pay for content," Prince said. "The problem is that all of them are terrified of Google because if Google gets content for free but they all have to pay for it, they are always going to be at an inherent disadvantage."
This is happening because Google is using its dominant position in search to ensure that web publishers allow their content to be used in ways that they might not otherwise want it to.
The changing norms of the web
Since 2023, Google has offered a way for website administrators to opt their content out of use for training Google's large language models, such as Gemini.
However, allowing pages to be indexed by Google's search crawlers and shown in results requires accepting that they'll also be used to generate AI Overviews at the top of results pages through a process called retrieval-augmented generation (RAG).
That's not so for many other crawlers, making Google an outlier among major players.
This is a sore point for a wide range of website administrators, from news websites that publish journalism to investment banks that produce research reports.
A July study from the Pew Research Center analyzed data from 900 adults in the US and found that AI Overviews cut referrals nearly in half. Specifically, users clicked a link on a page with AI Overviews at the top just 8 percent of the time, compared to 15 percent for search engine results pages without those summaries.
And a report in The Wall Street Journal cited a wide range of sources—including internal traffic metrics from numerous major publications like The New York Times and Business Insider—to describe industry-wide plummets in website traffic that those publishers said were tied to AI summaries, leading to layoffs and strategic shifts.
In August, Google's head of search, Liz Reid, disputed the validity and applicability of studies and publisher reports of reduced link clicks in search. "Overall, total organic click volume from Google Search to websites has been relatively stable year-over-year," she wrote, going on to say that reports of big declines were "often based on flawed methodologies, isolated examples, or traffic changes that occurred prior to the rollout of AI features in Search."
Publishers aren't convinced. Penske Media Corporation, which owns brands like The Hollywood Reporter and Rolling Stone, sued Google over AI Overviews in September. The suit claims that affiliate link revenue has dropped by more than a third in the past year, due in large part to Google's overviews—a threatening shortfall in a business that already has difficult margins.
Penske's suit specifically noted that because Google bundles traditional search engine indexing and RAG use together, the company has no choice but to allow Google to keep summarizing its articles, as cutting off Google search referrals entirely would be financially fatal.
Since the earliest days of digital publishing, referrals have in one way or another acted as the backbone of the web's economy. Content could be made available freely to both human readers and crawlers, and norms were applied across the web to allow information to be tracked back to its source and give that source an opportunity to monetize its content to sustain itself.
Today, there's a panic that the old system isn't working anymore as content summaries via RAG have become more common, and along with other players, Cloudflare is trying to update those norms to reflect the current reality.
A mass-scale update to robots.txt
Announced on September 24, Cloudflare's Content Signals Policy is an effort to use the company's influential market position to change how content is used by web crawlers. It involves updating millions of websites' robots.txt files.
Starting in 1994, websites began placing a file called "robots.txt" at the domain root to indicate to automated web crawlers which parts of the domain should be crawled and indexed and which should be ignored. The standard became near-universal over the years; honoring it has been a key part of how Google's web crawlers operate. (...)
The next web paradigm
It takes a company with Cloudflare's scale to do something like this with any hope that it will have an impact. If just a few websites made this change, Google would have an easier time ignoring it, or worse yet, it could simply stop crawling them to avoid the problem. Since Cloudflare is entangled with millions of websites, Google couldn't do that without materially impacting the quality of the search experience.
Cloudflare has a vested interest in the general health of the web, but there are other strategic considerations at play, too. The company has been working on tools to assist with RAG on customers' websites in partnership with Microsoft-owned Google competitor Bing and has experimented with a marketplace that provides a way for websites to charge crawlers for scraping the sites for AI, though what final form that might take is still unclear.
I asked Prince directly if this comes from a place of conviction. "There are very few times that opportunities come along where you get to help think through what a future better business model of an organization or institution as large as the Internet and as important as the Internet is," he said. "As we do that, I think that we should all be thinking about what have we learned that was good about the Internet in the past and what have we learned that was bad about the Internet in the past."
It takes a company with Cloudflare's scale to do something like this with any hope that it will have an impact. If just a few websites made this change, Google would have an easier time ignoring it, or worse yet, it could simply stop crawling them to avoid the problem. Since Cloudflare is entangled with millions of websites, Google couldn't do that without materially impacting the quality of the search experience.
Cloudflare has a vested interest in the general health of the web, but there are other strategic considerations at play, too. The company has been working on tools to assist with RAG on customers' websites in partnership with Microsoft-owned Google competitor Bing and has experimented with a marketplace that provides a way for websites to charge crawlers for scraping the sites for AI, though what final form that might take is still unclear.
I asked Prince directly if this comes from a place of conviction. "There are very few times that opportunities come along where you get to help think through what a future better business model of an organization or institution as large as the Internet and as important as the Internet is," he said. "As we do that, I think that we should all be thinking about what have we learned that was good about the Internet in the past and what have we learned that was bad about the Internet in the past."
by Samuel Axon, Ars Technica | Read more:
Image: Cloudflare CEO Mathew Prince. Noam Galai for TechCrunch (CC BY 2.0)
Image: Cloudflare CEO Mathew Prince. Noam Galai for TechCrunch (CC BY 2.0)
Wednesday, October 15, 2025
Robotics Has Catapulted Beijing Into a Dominant Position
After visiting a string of factories, Jim Farley was left astonished by the technical innovations being packed into Chinese cars – from self-driving software to facial recognition.
“Their cost and the quality of their vehicles is far superior to what I see in the West,” Farley warned in July.
“We are in a global competition with China, and it’s not just EVs. And if we lose this, we do not have a future at Ford.”
The car industry boss is not the only Western executive to have returned shaken following a visit to the Far East.
Andrew Forrest, the Australian billionaire behind mining giant Fortescue – which is investing massively in green energy – says his trips to China convinced him to abandon his company’s attempts to manufacture electric vehicle powertrains in-house.
“And you’re walking alongside this conveyor, and after about 800, 900 metres, a truck drives out. There are no people – everything is robotic.”
Other executives describe vast, “dark factories” where robots do so much of the work alone that there is no need to even leave the lights on for humans.
“We visited a dark factory producing some astronomical number of mobile phones,” recalls Greg Jackson, the boss of British energy supplier Octopus.
“The process was so heavily automated that there were no workers on the manufacturing side, just a small number who were there to ensure the plant was working.
“You get this sense of a change, where China’s competitiveness has gone from being about government subsidies and low wages to a tremendous number of highly skilled, educated engineers who are innovating like mad.”
by Matt Oliver, Telegraph | Read more:
Images: uncredited
[ed. Meanwhile we're busy turning people against each other and trying to bring back low-wage industrial jobs (that'll probably be obsolete in a few years if they aren't already). Guess who's got the momentum and strategic vision.]
Cañones y Mantequilla
"The song is featured in "Tierra y Silencio," a short film by Beatriz Abad. "Tierra y Silencio" tells the ins and outs of the people of a place ruled by a landowner, Krishna, who rebuilt that world to give the people a new opportunity. Now, the world of "Tierra y Silencio" is crumbling, driven by the same negative feelings that drove Krishna to flee the cities long ago. One night, the lives of its protagonists unite in a dark evening of judgment where the earth will protest their evil deeds and have the final say for all of them."
[ed. Still can't tell what's going on.]
Everything Is Television
A spooky convergence is happening in media. Everything that is not already television is turning into television. Three examples:
2. When I read the Meta filing, I had been thinking about something very different: the future of my podcast, Plain English.
When podcasts got started, they were radio for the Internet. This really appealed to me when I started my show. I never watch the news on television, and I love listening to podcasts while I make coffee and go on walks, and I’d prefer to make the sort of media that I consume. Plus, as a host, I thought I wanted to have conversations focused on the substance of the words rather than on ancillary concerns about production value and lighting.
But the most successful podcasts these days are all becoming YouTube shows. Industry analysts say consumption of video podcasts is growing twenty times faster than audio-only ones, and more than half of the world’s top shows now release video versions. YouTube has quietly become the most popular platform for podcasts, and it’s not even close. On Spotify, the number of video podcasts has nearly tripled since 2023, and video podcasts are significantly outgrowing non-video podcasts. Does it really make sense to insist on an audio-only podcast in 2025? I do not think so. Reality is screaming loudly in my ear, and its message is clear: Podcasts are turning into television.
3. In the last few weeks, Meta introduced a product called Vibes, and OpenAI announced Sora. Both are AI social networks where users can watch endless videos generated by artificial intelligence. (For your amusement, or horror, or whatever, here is: Sam Altman stealing GPUs at Target to make more AI; the O.J. Simpson trial as an amusement park ride; and Stephen Hawking entering a professional wrestling ring.)
Some tech analysts predict that these tools will lead to an efflorescence of creativity. “Sora feels like enabling everyone to be a TikTok creator,” the investor and tech analyst MG Siegler wrote. But the internet’s history suggests that, if these products succeed, they will follow what Ben Thompson calls the 90/9/1 rule: 90 percent of users consume, 9 percent remix and distribute, and just 1 percent actually create. In fact, as Scott Galloway has reported, 94 percent of YouTube views come from 4 percent of videos, and 89 percent of TikTok views come from 5 percent of videos. Even the architects of artificial intelligence, who imagine themselves on the path to creating the last invention, are busy building another infinite sequence of video made by people we don’t know. Even AI wants to be television.
Too Much Flow
Whether the starting point is a student directory (Facebook), radio, or an AI image generator, the end point seems to be the same: a river of short-form video. In mathematics, the word “attractor” describes a state toward which a dynamic system tends to evolve. To take a classic example: Drop a marble into a bowl, and it will trace several loops around the bowl’s curves before settling to rest at the bottom. In the same way, water draining in a sink will ultimately form a spiral pattern around the drain. Complex systems often settle into recurring forms, if you give them enough time. Television seems to be the attractor of all media.
By “television,” I am referring to something bigger than broadcast TV, the cable bundle, or Netflix. In his 1974 book Television: Technology and Cultural Form, Raymond Williams wrote that “in all communications systems before [television], the essential items were discrete.” That is, a book is bound and finite, existing on its own terms. A play is performed in a particular theater at a set hour. Williams argued that television shifted culture from discrete and bounded products to a continuous, streaming sequence of images and sounds, which he called “flow.” When I say “everything is turning into television,” what I mean is that disparate forms of media and entertainment are converging on one thing: the continuous flow of episodic video.
By Williams’s definition, platforms like YouTube and TikTok are an even more perfect expression of television than old-fashioned television, itself. On NBC or HBO, one might tune in to watch a show that feels particular and essential. On TikTok, by contrast, nothing is essential. Any one piece of content on TikTok is incidental, even inessential. The platform’s allure is the infinitude promised by its algorithm. It is the flow, not the content, that is primary.
One implication of “everything is becoming television” is that there really is too much television—so much, in fact, that some TV is now made with the assumption that audiences are always already distracted and doing something else. Netflix producers reportedly instruct screenwriters to make plots as obvious as possible, to avoid confusing viewers who are half-watching—or quarter-watching, if that’s a thing now—while they scroll through their phones. (...)
Among Netflix’s 36,000 micro-genres, one is literally called “casual viewing.” The label is reportedly reserved for sitcoms, soap operas, or movies that, as the Hollywood Reporter recently described the 2024 Jennifer Lopez film Atlas, are “made to half-watch while doing laundry.”... The whole point is that it’s supposed to just be there, glowing, while you do something else. Perhaps a great deal of television is not meant to absorb our attention, at all, but rather to dab away at it, to soak up tiny droplets of our sensory experience while our focus dances across other screens. You might even say that much television is not even made to be watched at all. It is made to flow. The play button is the point.
Lonely, Mean, and Dumb
… and why does this matter? Fine question. And, perhaps, this is a good place for a confession. I like television. I follow some spectacular YouTube channels. I am not on Instagram or TikTok, but most of the people I know and love are on one or both. My beef is not with the entire medium of moving images. My concern is what happens when the grammar of television rather suddenly conquers the entire media landscape.
In the last few weeks, I have been writing a lot about two big trends in American life that do not necessarily overlap. My work on the “Antisocial Century” traces the rise of solitude in American life and its effects on economics, politics, and society. My work on “the end of thinking” follows the decline of literacy and numeracy scores in the U.S. and the handoff from a culture of literacy to a culture of orality. Neither of these trends is exclusively caused by the logic of television colonizing all media. But both trends are significantly exacerbated by it.
Television’s role in the rise of solitude cannot be overlooked. In Bowling Alone, the Harvard scholar Robert Putnam wrote that between 1965 and 1995, the typical adult gained six hours a week in leisure time. As I wrote, they could have used those additional 300 hours a year to learn a new skill, or participate in their community, or have more children. Instead, the typical American funneled almost all of this extra time into watching more TV. Television instantly changed America’s interior decorating, relationships, and communities: (...)
When literally everything becomes television, what disappears is not something so broad as intelligence (although that seems to be going, too) but something harder to put into words, and even harder to prove the value of. It’s something like inwardness. The capacity for solitude, for sustained attention, for meaning that penetrates inward rather than swipes away at the tip of a finger: These virtues feel out of step with a world where every medium is the same medium and everything in life converges to the value system of the same thing, which is television.
[ed. See also: The Last Days Of Social Media (Noema).]
1. You learn a lot about a company when its back is against the wall. This summer, we learned something important about Meta, the parent company of Facebook and Instagram. In an antitrust case with the Federal Trade Commission, Meta filed a legal brief on August 6, in which it made a startling claim. Meta cannot possibly be a social media monopoly, Meta said, because it is not really a social media company.
Only a small share of time spent on its social-networking platforms is truly “social” networking—that is, time spent checking in with friends and family. More than 80 percent of time spent on Facebook and more than 90 percent of time spent on Instagram is spent watching videos, the company reported. Most of that time is spent watching content from creators whom the user does not know. From the FTC filing:
Today, only a fraction of time spent on Meta’s services—7% on Instagram, 17% on Facebook—involves consuming content from online “friends” (“friend sharing”). A majority of time spent on both apps is watching videos, increasingly short-form videos that are “unconnected”—i.e., not from a friend or followed account—and recommended by AI-powered algorithms Meta developed as a direct competitive response to TikTok’s rise, which stalled Meta’s growth.Social media has evolved from text to photo to video to streams of text, photo, and video, and finally, it seems to have reached a kind of settled end state, in which TikTok and Meta are trying to become the same thing: a screen showing hours and hours of video made by people we don’t know. Social media has turned into television.
2. When I read the Meta filing, I had been thinking about something very different: the future of my podcast, Plain English.
When podcasts got started, they were radio for the Internet. This really appealed to me when I started my show. I never watch the news on television, and I love listening to podcasts while I make coffee and go on walks, and I’d prefer to make the sort of media that I consume. Plus, as a host, I thought I wanted to have conversations focused on the substance of the words rather than on ancillary concerns about production value and lighting.
But the most successful podcasts these days are all becoming YouTube shows. Industry analysts say consumption of video podcasts is growing twenty times faster than audio-only ones, and more than half of the world’s top shows now release video versions. YouTube has quietly become the most popular platform for podcasts, and it’s not even close. On Spotify, the number of video podcasts has nearly tripled since 2023, and video podcasts are significantly outgrowing non-video podcasts. Does it really make sense to insist on an audio-only podcast in 2025? I do not think so. Reality is screaming loudly in my ear, and its message is clear: Podcasts are turning into television.
3. In the last few weeks, Meta introduced a product called Vibes, and OpenAI announced Sora. Both are AI social networks where users can watch endless videos generated by artificial intelligence. (For your amusement, or horror, or whatever, here is: Sam Altman stealing GPUs at Target to make more AI; the O.J. Simpson trial as an amusement park ride; and Stephen Hawking entering a professional wrestling ring.)
Some tech analysts predict that these tools will lead to an efflorescence of creativity. “Sora feels like enabling everyone to be a TikTok creator,” the investor and tech analyst MG Siegler wrote. But the internet’s history suggests that, if these products succeed, they will follow what Ben Thompson calls the 90/9/1 rule: 90 percent of users consume, 9 percent remix and distribute, and just 1 percent actually create. In fact, as Scott Galloway has reported, 94 percent of YouTube views come from 4 percent of videos, and 89 percent of TikTok views come from 5 percent of videos. Even the architects of artificial intelligence, who imagine themselves on the path to creating the last invention, are busy building another infinite sequence of video made by people we don’t know. Even AI wants to be television.
Too Much Flow
Whether the starting point is a student directory (Facebook), radio, or an AI image generator, the end point seems to be the same: a river of short-form video. In mathematics, the word “attractor” describes a state toward which a dynamic system tends to evolve. To take a classic example: Drop a marble into a bowl, and it will trace several loops around the bowl’s curves before settling to rest at the bottom. In the same way, water draining in a sink will ultimately form a spiral pattern around the drain. Complex systems often settle into recurring forms, if you give them enough time. Television seems to be the attractor of all media.
By “television,” I am referring to something bigger than broadcast TV, the cable bundle, or Netflix. In his 1974 book Television: Technology and Cultural Form, Raymond Williams wrote that “in all communications systems before [television], the essential items were discrete.” That is, a book is bound and finite, existing on its own terms. A play is performed in a particular theater at a set hour. Williams argued that television shifted culture from discrete and bounded products to a continuous, streaming sequence of images and sounds, which he called “flow.” When I say “everything is turning into television,” what I mean is that disparate forms of media and entertainment are converging on one thing: the continuous flow of episodic video.
By Williams’s definition, platforms like YouTube and TikTok are an even more perfect expression of television than old-fashioned television, itself. On NBC or HBO, one might tune in to watch a show that feels particular and essential. On TikTok, by contrast, nothing is essential. Any one piece of content on TikTok is incidental, even inessential. The platform’s allure is the infinitude promised by its algorithm. It is the flow, not the content, that is primary.
One implication of “everything is becoming television” is that there really is too much television—so much, in fact, that some TV is now made with the assumption that audiences are always already distracted and doing something else. Netflix producers reportedly instruct screenwriters to make plots as obvious as possible, to avoid confusing viewers who are half-watching—or quarter-watching, if that’s a thing now—while they scroll through their phones. (...)
Among Netflix’s 36,000 micro-genres, one is literally called “casual viewing.” The label is reportedly reserved for sitcoms, soap operas, or movies that, as the Hollywood Reporter recently described the 2024 Jennifer Lopez film Atlas, are “made to half-watch while doing laundry.”... The whole point is that it’s supposed to just be there, glowing, while you do something else. Perhaps a great deal of television is not meant to absorb our attention, at all, but rather to dab away at it, to soak up tiny droplets of our sensory experience while our focus dances across other screens. You might even say that much television is not even made to be watched at all. It is made to flow. The play button is the point.
Lonely, Mean, and Dumb
… and why does this matter? Fine question. And, perhaps, this is a good place for a confession. I like television. I follow some spectacular YouTube channels. I am not on Instagram or TikTok, but most of the people I know and love are on one or both. My beef is not with the entire medium of moving images. My concern is what happens when the grammar of television rather suddenly conquers the entire media landscape.
In the last few weeks, I have been writing a lot about two big trends in American life that do not necessarily overlap. My work on the “Antisocial Century” traces the rise of solitude in American life and its effects on economics, politics, and society. My work on “the end of thinking” follows the decline of literacy and numeracy scores in the U.S. and the handoff from a culture of literacy to a culture of orality. Neither of these trends is exclusively caused by the logic of television colonizing all media. But both trends are significantly exacerbated by it.
Television’s role in the rise of solitude cannot be overlooked. In Bowling Alone, the Harvard scholar Robert Putnam wrote that between 1965 and 1995, the typical adult gained six hours a week in leisure time. As I wrote, they could have used those additional 300 hours a year to learn a new skill, or participate in their community, or have more children. Instead, the typical American funneled almost all of this extra time into watching more TV. Television instantly changed America’s interior decorating, relationships, and communities: (...)
Digital media, empowered by the serum of algorithmic feeds, has become super-television: more images, more videos, more isolation. Home-alone time has surged as our devices have become more bottomless feeds of video content. Rather than escape the solitude crisis that Putnam described in the 1990s, we now seem to be more on our own. (Not to mention: meaner and stupider, too.)
It would be rash to blame our berserk political moment entirely on short-form video, but it would be careless to forget that some people really did try to warn us that this was coming. In Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman wrote that “each medium, like language itself, makes possible a unique mode of discourse by providing a new orientation for thought, for expression, for sensibility.” Television speaks to us in a particular dialect, Postman argued. When everything turns into television, every form of communication starts to adopt television’s values: immediacy, emotion, spectacle, brevity. In the glow of a local news program, or an outraged news feed, the viewer bathes in a vat of their own cortisol. When everything is urgent, nothing is truly important. Politics becomes theater. Science becomes storytelling. News becomes performance. The result, Postman warned, is a society that forgets how to think in paragraphs, and learns instead to think in scenes. (...)
It would be rash to blame our berserk political moment entirely on short-form video, but it would be careless to forget that some people really did try to warn us that this was coming. In Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman wrote that “each medium, like language itself, makes possible a unique mode of discourse by providing a new orientation for thought, for expression, for sensibility.” Television speaks to us in a particular dialect, Postman argued. When everything turns into television, every form of communication starts to adopt television’s values: immediacy, emotion, spectacle, brevity. In the glow of a local news program, or an outraged news feed, the viewer bathes in a vat of their own cortisol. When everything is urgent, nothing is truly important. Politics becomes theater. Science becomes storytelling. News becomes performance. The result, Postman warned, is a society that forgets how to think in paragraphs, and learns instead to think in scenes. (...)
When literally everything becomes television, what disappears is not something so broad as intelligence (although that seems to be going, too) but something harder to put into words, and even harder to prove the value of. It’s something like inwardness. The capacity for solitude, for sustained attention, for meaning that penetrates inward rather than swipes away at the tip of a finger: These virtues feel out of step with a world where every medium is the same medium and everything in life converges to the value system of the same thing, which is television.
by Derek Thompson | Read more:
Image: Ajeet Mestry on Unsplash
The Limits of Data
Right now, the language of policymaking is data. (I’m talking about “data” here as a concept, not as particular measurements.) Government agencies, corporations, and other policymakers all want to make decisions based on clear data about positive outcomes. They want to succeed on the metrics—to succeed in clear, objective, and publicly comprehensible terms. But metrics and data are incomplete by their basic nature. Every data collection method is constrained and every dataset is filtered.
Some very important things don’t make their way into the data. It’s easier to justify health care decisions in terms of measurable outcomes: increased average longevity or increased numbers of lives saved in emergency room visits, for example. But there are so many important factors that are far harder to measure: happiness, community, tradition, beauty, comfort, and all the oddities that go into “quality of life.”
Consider, for example, a policy proposal that doctors should urge patients to sharply lower their saturated fat intake. This should lead to better health outcomes, at least for those that are easier to measure: heart attack numbers and average longevity. But the focus on easy-to-measure outcomes often diminishes the salience of other downstream consequences: the loss of culinary traditions, disconnection from a culinary heritage, and a reduction in daily culinary joy. It’s easy to dismiss such things as “intangibles.” But actually, what’s more tangible than a good cheese, or a cheerful fondue party with friends?
It’s tempting to use the term intangible when what we really mean is that such things are hard to quantify in our modern institutional environment with the kinds of measuring tools that are used by modern bureaucratic systems. The gap between reality and what’s easy to measure shows up everywhere. Consider cost-benefit analysis, which is supposed to be an objective—and therefore unimpeachable—procedure for making decisions by tallying up expected financial costs and expected financial benefits. But the process is deeply constrained by the kinds of cost information that are easy to gather. It’s relatively straightforward to provide data to support claims about how a certain new overpass might help traffic move efficiently, get people to work faster, and attract more businesses to a downtown. It’s harder to produce data in support of claims about how the overpass might reduce the beauty of a city, or how the noise might affect citizens’ well-being, or how a wall that divides neighborhoods could erode community. From a policy perspective, anything hard to measure can start to fade from sight.
An optimist might hope to get around these problems with better data and metrics. What I want to show here is that these limitations on data are no accident. The basic methodology of data—as collected by real-world institutions obeying real-world forces of economy and scale—systematically leaves out certain kinds of information. Big datasets are not neutral and they are not all-encompassing. There are profound limitations on what large datasets can capture.
I’m not just talking about contingencies of social biases. Obviously, datasets are bad when the collection procedures are biased by oversampling by race, gender, or wealth. But even if analysts can correct for those sorts of biases, there are other, intrinsic biases built into the methodology of data. Data collection techniques must be repeatable across vast scales. They require standardized categories. Repeatability and standardization make data-based methods powerful, but that power has a price. It limits the kinds of information we can collect. (...)
These limitations are particularly worrisome when we’re thinking about success—about targets, goals, and outcomes. When actions must be justified in the language of data, then the limitations inherent in data collection become limitations on human values. And I’m not worried just about perverse incentives and situations in which bad actors game the metrics. I’m worried that an overemphasis on data may mislead even the most well-intentioned of policymakers, who don’t realize that the demand to be “objective”—in this very specific and institutional sense—leads them to systematically ignore a crucial chunk of the world.
Decontextualization
Not all kinds of knowledge, and not all kinds of understanding, can count as information and as data. Historian of quantification Theodore Porter describes “information” as a kind of “communication with people who are unknown to one another, and who thus have no personal basis for shared understanding.” In other words, “information” has been prepared to be understood by distant strangers. The clearest example of this kind of information is quantitative data. Data has been designed to be collected at scale and aggregated. Data must be something that can be collected by and exchanged between different people in all kinds of contexts, with all kinds of backgrounds. Data is portable, which is exactly what makes it powerful. But that portability has a hidden price: to transform our understanding and observations into data, we must perform an act of decontextualization.
An easy example is grading. I’m a philosophy professor. I issue two evaluations for every student essay: one is a long, detailed qualitative evaluation (paragraphs of written comments) and the other is a letter grade (a quantitative evaluation). The quantitative evaluation can travel easily between institutions. Different people can input into the same system, so it can easily generate aggregates and averages—the student’s grade point average, for instance. But think about everything that’s stripped out of the evaluation to enable this portable, aggregable kernel.
Qualitative evaluations can be flexible and responsive and draw on shared history. I can tailor my written assessment to the student’s goals. If a paper is trying to be original, I can comment on its originality. If a paper is trying to precisely explain a bit of Aristotle, I can assess it for its argumentative rigor. If one student wants be a journalist, I can focus on their writing quality. If a nursing student cares about the real-world applications of ethical theories, I can respond in kind. Most importantly, I can rely on our shared context. I can say things that might be unclear to an outside observer because the student and I have been in a classroom together, because we’ve talked for hours and hours about philosophy and critical thinking and writing, because I have a sense for what a particular student wants and needs. I can provide more subtle, complex, multidimensional responses. But, unlike a letter grade, such written evaluations travel poorly to distant administrators, deans, and hiring departments.
Quantification, as used in real-world institutions, works by removing contextually sensitive information. The process of quantification is designed to produce highly portable information, like a letter grade. Letter grades can be understood by everybody; they travel easily. A letter grade is a simple ranking on a one-dimensional spectrum. Once an institution has created this stable, context-invariant kernel, it can easily aggregate this kind of information—for students, for student cohorts, for whole universities. A pile of qualitative information, in the form of thousands of written comments, for example, does not aggregate. It is unwieldy, bordering on unusable, to the administrator, the law school admissions officer, or future employer—unless it has been transformed and decontextualized.
So here is the first principle of data: collecting data involves a trade-off. We gain portability and aggregability at the price of context-sensitivity and nuance. What’s missing from data? Data is designed to be usable and comprehensible by very different people from very different contexts and backgrounds. So data collection procedures tend to filter out highly context-based understanding. Much here depends on who’s permitted to input the data and who the data is intended for.
by C. Thi Nguyen, Issues in Science and Technology | Read more:Image: Shonagh Rae
Some very important things don’t make their way into the data. It’s easier to justify health care decisions in terms of measurable outcomes: increased average longevity or increased numbers of lives saved in emergency room visits, for example. But there are so many important factors that are far harder to measure: happiness, community, tradition, beauty, comfort, and all the oddities that go into “quality of life.”
It’s tempting to use the term intangible when what we really mean is that such things are hard to quantify in our modern institutional environment with the kinds of measuring tools that are used by modern bureaucratic systems. The gap between reality and what’s easy to measure shows up everywhere. Consider cost-benefit analysis, which is supposed to be an objective—and therefore unimpeachable—procedure for making decisions by tallying up expected financial costs and expected financial benefits. But the process is deeply constrained by the kinds of cost information that are easy to gather. It’s relatively straightforward to provide data to support claims about how a certain new overpass might help traffic move efficiently, get people to work faster, and attract more businesses to a downtown. It’s harder to produce data in support of claims about how the overpass might reduce the beauty of a city, or how the noise might affect citizens’ well-being, or how a wall that divides neighborhoods could erode community. From a policy perspective, anything hard to measure can start to fade from sight.
An optimist might hope to get around these problems with better data and metrics. What I want to show here is that these limitations on data are no accident. The basic methodology of data—as collected by real-world institutions obeying real-world forces of economy and scale—systematically leaves out certain kinds of information. Big datasets are not neutral and they are not all-encompassing. There are profound limitations on what large datasets can capture.
I’m not just talking about contingencies of social biases. Obviously, datasets are bad when the collection procedures are biased by oversampling by race, gender, or wealth. But even if analysts can correct for those sorts of biases, there are other, intrinsic biases built into the methodology of data. Data collection techniques must be repeatable across vast scales. They require standardized categories. Repeatability and standardization make data-based methods powerful, but that power has a price. It limits the kinds of information we can collect. (...)
These limitations are particularly worrisome when we’re thinking about success—about targets, goals, and outcomes. When actions must be justified in the language of data, then the limitations inherent in data collection become limitations on human values. And I’m not worried just about perverse incentives and situations in which bad actors game the metrics. I’m worried that an overemphasis on data may mislead even the most well-intentioned of policymakers, who don’t realize that the demand to be “objective”—in this very specific and institutional sense—leads them to systematically ignore a crucial chunk of the world.
Decontextualization
Not all kinds of knowledge, and not all kinds of understanding, can count as information and as data. Historian of quantification Theodore Porter describes “information” as a kind of “communication with people who are unknown to one another, and who thus have no personal basis for shared understanding.” In other words, “information” has been prepared to be understood by distant strangers. The clearest example of this kind of information is quantitative data. Data has been designed to be collected at scale and aggregated. Data must be something that can be collected by and exchanged between different people in all kinds of contexts, with all kinds of backgrounds. Data is portable, which is exactly what makes it powerful. But that portability has a hidden price: to transform our understanding and observations into data, we must perform an act of decontextualization.
An easy example is grading. I’m a philosophy professor. I issue two evaluations for every student essay: one is a long, detailed qualitative evaluation (paragraphs of written comments) and the other is a letter grade (a quantitative evaluation). The quantitative evaluation can travel easily between institutions. Different people can input into the same system, so it can easily generate aggregates and averages—the student’s grade point average, for instance. But think about everything that’s stripped out of the evaluation to enable this portable, aggregable kernel.
Qualitative evaluations can be flexible and responsive and draw on shared history. I can tailor my written assessment to the student’s goals. If a paper is trying to be original, I can comment on its originality. If a paper is trying to precisely explain a bit of Aristotle, I can assess it for its argumentative rigor. If one student wants be a journalist, I can focus on their writing quality. If a nursing student cares about the real-world applications of ethical theories, I can respond in kind. Most importantly, I can rely on our shared context. I can say things that might be unclear to an outside observer because the student and I have been in a classroom together, because we’ve talked for hours and hours about philosophy and critical thinking and writing, because I have a sense for what a particular student wants and needs. I can provide more subtle, complex, multidimensional responses. But, unlike a letter grade, such written evaluations travel poorly to distant administrators, deans, and hiring departments.
Quantification, as used in real-world institutions, works by removing contextually sensitive information. The process of quantification is designed to produce highly portable information, like a letter grade. Letter grades can be understood by everybody; they travel easily. A letter grade is a simple ranking on a one-dimensional spectrum. Once an institution has created this stable, context-invariant kernel, it can easily aggregate this kind of information—for students, for student cohorts, for whole universities. A pile of qualitative information, in the form of thousands of written comments, for example, does not aggregate. It is unwieldy, bordering on unusable, to the administrator, the law school admissions officer, or future employer—unless it has been transformed and decontextualized.
So here is the first principle of data: collecting data involves a trade-off. We gain portability and aggregability at the price of context-sensitivity and nuance. What’s missing from data? Data is designed to be usable and comprehensible by very different people from very different contexts and backgrounds. So data collection procedures tend to filter out highly context-based understanding. Much here depends on who’s permitted to input the data and who the data is intended for.
by C. Thi Nguyen, Issues in Science and Technology | Read more:
Tuesday, October 14, 2025
Is it Really Different this Time?
What is amusing is just how much talk there has been about the AI investment bubble, and what it will do or not do to the markets and the economy when it implodes or doesn’t implode: That it’s almost like at the peak of the Dotcom Bubble. That it’s much worse than at the peak of the Dotcom Bubble. That it’s nothing like the Dotcom Bubble because this time it’s different. That even if it’s like the Dotcom Bubble and then turns into the Dotcom Bust, or worse, it’s still worth it because AI will be around and change the world, just like the Internet is still around and changed the world, even if those first investors got wiped out, or whatever.
There are many voices that loudly point this out, and point out just how risky it is to bet on hocus-pocus money, or that explain in detail why this isn’t risky at all, why this is not anything like the Dotcom Bubble, why this time it’s different – the four most dangerous words in investing.
The talk fills the spectrum, and these are people with enough stature to be quoted in the media: Jamie Dimon, Jeff Bezos, the Bank of England, Goldman Sachs analysts, IMF Managing Director Kristalina Georgieva…
The focus is on the big-tech-big-startup circularity of hocus-pocus deals between Nvidia, OpenAI, AMD, along with Amazon, Microsoft, Alphabet, Meta, Tesla, Oracle, and many others, including SoftBank, of course.
OpenAI now has an official “valuation” — based on its secondary stock offering — of $500 billion though it’s bleeding increasingly huge amounts of cash. And there are lots of players in between and around them. They all toss around announcements of AI hocus-pocus deals between them.
OpenAI has announced deals totaling $1 trillion with a small number of tech companies, at the top of which are Nvidia ($500 billion), Oracle ($300 billion), and AMD ($270 billion). Each of these announcements causes the stocks of these companies to spike massively – the direct and immediate effects of hocus-pocus money.
OpenAI obviously doesn’t have $1 trillion; it’s burning prodigious amounts of cash. And so it’s trying to rake in investment commitments from the same companies that it would buy equipment from, and engineer creative deals that cause these stock prices to spike, and so the hocus-pocus money announcements keep circulating.
OpenAI’s idea of building data centers with Nvidia GPUs that would require 10 gigawatts (GW) of power is just mindboggling. The biggest nuclear powerplant in the US, the Plant Vogtle in Georgia, with four reactors, including two that came on line in 2023 and 2024, has a generating capacity of about 4.5 GW. All nuclear powerplants in the US combined have a generating capacity of 97 GW.
But it’s real money too. A lot of real money.
Big Tech is letting its huge piles of cash spill out into the economy to build this vast empire of technology that requires data centers that would consume huge amounts of electricity to let AI do its thing.
And these “hyperscalers, are leveraging that money flow with borrowing, by issuing large amounts of bonds.
And private credit has jumped into the mania to provide further leverage, lending large amounts to data-center startup “neocloud” companies that plan to build data centers and rent out the computing power; those loans are backed with collateral, namely the AI GPUs. No one knows what a three-year-old used GPU, superseded by new GPUs, will be worth three years from now, when the lenders might want to collect on their defaulted loan, but that’s the collateral.
The data centers are getting built. The costs of the equipment in them – revenues for companies that provide this equipment and related services – dwarf the costs of the building. And stocks of companies that supply this equipment and the services have been surging.
The bottleneck is power, and funds are flowing into that, but it takes a long time to build powerplants and transmission infrastructure.
Is it really different this time?
So there is this large-scale industrial aspect of the AI investment bubble. That was also the case in the Dotcom Bubble. The telecom infrastructure needed to be built out at great cost. Fiberoptics made the internet what it is today. Those fibers needed to be drawn and turned into cables, and the cables needed to be laid across the world, and the servers, routers, and other equipment needed to be installed, and services were invented and provided, and businesses and households needed to be connected, and it was all real, and it was all very costly, requiring huge investments, but progress was slow and revenues lagging, and then these overhyped stocks just imploded under that weight, along with the stocks that were the pioneers of ecommerce, internet advertising, streaming, and whatnot.
The Nasdaq, where much of it was concentrated, plunged by 78% over a period of two-and-a-half years, investors lost huge amounts of money, many got wiped out, thousands of companies and their stocks vanished or were bought for scrap when that investment bubble crashed. And a year into the crash, it triggered a recession in the US – and a mini-depression in Silicon Valley and San Francisco where much of this had played out.
Yet the internet thrived. Amazon barely survived and then thrived in that new environment. But Amazon was one of the exceptions.
In this mania of hype, hocus-pocus deals, and huge amounts of real money fortified by leverage – all of which caused stock prices to explode – markets become edgy. Everyone is talking about it, everyone sees it, they’re all edgy, regardless of their narrative – whether a big selloff is inevitable with deep consequences on the US economy, or whether this time it’s different and the mania can go on and isn’t even halfway done.
Whatever the narrative, it says risk in all-caps. Anything can prod these stock prices at their precarious levels to suddenly U-turn, and if the selloff goes on long enough, the investment bubble would come to a halt, and the hocus-pocus deals would be just that, and the whole construct would come apart. But AI would still be around doing its thing, just like the Internet.
The talk fills the spectrum, and these are people with enough stature to be quoted in the media: Jamie Dimon, Jeff Bezos, the Bank of England, Goldman Sachs analysts, IMF Managing Director Kristalina Georgieva…
The focus is on the big-tech-big-startup circularity of hocus-pocus deals between Nvidia, OpenAI, AMD, along with Amazon, Microsoft, Alphabet, Meta, Tesla, Oracle, and many others, including SoftBank, of course.
OpenAI now has an official “valuation” — based on its secondary stock offering — of $500 billion though it’s bleeding increasingly huge amounts of cash. And there are lots of players in between and around them. They all toss around announcements of AI hocus-pocus deals between them.
OpenAI has announced deals totaling $1 trillion with a small number of tech companies, at the top of which are Nvidia ($500 billion), Oracle ($300 billion), and AMD ($270 billion). Each of these announcements causes the stocks of these companies to spike massively – the direct and immediate effects of hocus-pocus money.
OpenAI obviously doesn’t have $1 trillion; it’s burning prodigious amounts of cash. And so it’s trying to rake in investment commitments from the same companies that it would buy equipment from, and engineer creative deals that cause these stock prices to spike, and so the hocus-pocus money announcements keep circulating.
OpenAI’s idea of building data centers with Nvidia GPUs that would require 10 gigawatts (GW) of power is just mindboggling. The biggest nuclear powerplant in the US, the Plant Vogtle in Georgia, with four reactors, including two that came on line in 2023 and 2024, has a generating capacity of about 4.5 GW. All nuclear powerplants in the US combined have a generating capacity of 97 GW.
But it’s real money too. A lot of real money.
Big Tech is letting its huge piles of cash spill out into the economy to build this vast empire of technology that requires data centers that would consume huge amounts of electricity to let AI do its thing.
And these “hyperscalers, are leveraging that money flow with borrowing, by issuing large amounts of bonds.
And private credit has jumped into the mania to provide further leverage, lending large amounts to data-center startup “neocloud” companies that plan to build data centers and rent out the computing power; those loans are backed with collateral, namely the AI GPUs. No one knows what a three-year-old used GPU, superseded by new GPUs, will be worth three years from now, when the lenders might want to collect on their defaulted loan, but that’s the collateral.
The data centers are getting built. The costs of the equipment in them – revenues for companies that provide this equipment and related services – dwarf the costs of the building. And stocks of companies that supply this equipment and the services have been surging.
The bottleneck is power, and funds are flowing into that, but it takes a long time to build powerplants and transmission infrastructure.
Is it really different this time?
So there is this large-scale industrial aspect of the AI investment bubble. That was also the case in the Dotcom Bubble. The telecom infrastructure needed to be built out at great cost. Fiberoptics made the internet what it is today. Those fibers needed to be drawn and turned into cables, and the cables needed to be laid across the world, and the servers, routers, and other equipment needed to be installed, and services were invented and provided, and businesses and households needed to be connected, and it was all real, and it was all very costly, requiring huge investments, but progress was slow and revenues lagging, and then these overhyped stocks just imploded under that weight, along with the stocks that were the pioneers of ecommerce, internet advertising, streaming, and whatnot.
The Nasdaq, where much of it was concentrated, plunged by 78% over a period of two-and-a-half years, investors lost huge amounts of money, many got wiped out, thousands of companies and their stocks vanished or were bought for scrap when that investment bubble crashed. And a year into the crash, it triggered a recession in the US – and a mini-depression in Silicon Valley and San Francisco where much of this had played out.
Yet the internet thrived. Amazon barely survived and then thrived in that new environment. But Amazon was one of the exceptions.
In this mania of hype, hocus-pocus deals, and huge amounts of real money fortified by leverage – all of which caused stock prices to explode – markets become edgy. Everyone is talking about it, everyone sees it, they’re all edgy, regardless of their narrative – whether a big selloff is inevitable with deep consequences on the US economy, or whether this time it’s different and the mania can go on and isn’t even halfway done.
Whatever the narrative, it says risk in all-caps. Anything can prod these stock prices at their precarious levels to suddenly U-turn, and if the selloff goes on long enough, the investment bubble would come to a halt, and the hocus-pocus deals would be just that, and the whole construct would come apart. But AI would still be around doing its thing, just like the Internet.
by Wolf Richter, Wolf Street | Read more:
Image: Alexas_Fotos on Unsplash
Image: Alexas_Fotos on Unsplash
[ed. See also: This Is How the AI Bubble Will Pop; and, a bonus: Condo Prices Dropped by 12%-27% in these 25 Bigger Cities through August: Condo Bust Update (WS).]
The Gospel According to South Park
Somehow, five years have passed since the COVID summer of 2020. My son had just “finished” fourth grade. His mother and I were distracted parents of him and his seven-year-old sister, both of us teetering from cabin fever. It felt like we were hanging on to our sanity, and our marriage, by a thread.
We held on to both, thankfully. Our kids seem to have recovered, too. But by this time that summer, it’s fair to say we had completely “lost contain” of our children. Even under normal conditions, we’ve favored a loose-reins approach to parenting, with a healthy dose of Lenore Skenazy-style “Free Range Parenting.” But that summer? I gave up entirely. I let my son watch TV. A lot of TV.
By the time school resumed, he had watched every episode of The Simpsons and every episode of South Park.
At the time, I felt more than a little guilty about letting a 10-year-old binge-watch two decades of South Park. It was a bit early, I thought, for him to be learning proper condom application techniques from Mr. Garrison. When I told friends later, the story always got a laugh – a kind of comic confession from a parent who’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
But as my son made his way through middle school and into high school, something changed. One night over dinner, we were talking about wars when I mentioned Saddam Hussein. My son chimed in casually – he knew exactly who Saddam was. I asked him how. His answer: “South Park.”
That kept happening. From Michael Jackson and Neverland Ranch, to Mormonism, to the NSA, to wokeism … my son was not only familiar with these topics, he was informed, funny, and incisively skeptical. I realized that this crash course from Butters and Cartman and Mr. Mackey had functioned like one of those downloads Neo gets in The Matrix; except that instead of instantly learning martial arts, my son had instantly become culturally literate. And, just as important, that literacy came wrapped in a sense of humor rooted in satire, absurdity, and a deep mistrust of power, regardless of party affiliation.
He jokes about Joe Biden’s senility and Trump’s grifting grossness. He refers to COVID-era masking as “chin diapers,” a phrase South Park coined while many adults were still double-masking alone in their cars. It struck me: my greatest parenting lapse had somehow turned into one of my best decisions.
Of course, it’s not just that South Park is anti-authority and unapologetically crude. So was Beavis and Butthead. The difference is that South Park is crafted. It endures not just because of what it says, but how it’s made – with discipline, speed, and storytelling intelligence.
South Park co-creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone are master storytellers. In a short video that should be required viewing for anyone who writes, they explain that if the beats, or scenes, of your story are best linked by the phrase “and then,” you’re doing it wrong. Instead, each scene should be connected by “therefore” or “but.” It’s deceptively simple, and it’s the single best explanation of narrative momentum I’ve ever seen. (Watch it here.)
Combine that storytelling mastery with a relentless work ethic that has allowed them to churn out weekly takes on almost every major current event of the last three decades, and you get the South Park that we know and (that most of us) love today. A generational institution that’s still funny.
And still winning.
Just days after closing a new five-year, $1.5 billion deal with Paramount+, South Park opened its 27th season with an episode titled “Sermon on the Mount,” which gleefully eviscerated both President Trump and Paramount+. What’s the point of having “fuck you money” if you never say “fuck you”? (...)
And the difference between South Park and the late-night crowd isn’t just about the comedy. It’s about the message. During COVID, while Colbert and others were fawning over Fauci, hawking Pfizer ads, and pushing for school closures, South Park was mocking all of it – the masks, the panic, the bureaucratic gaslighting. As a concept, “chin diapers” wasn’t just funny – it was accurate.
When comedy becomes propaganda, it stops being funny. Parker and Stone have never forgotten that the job is to make people laugh. That means skewering whoever is in power, without asking for permission.
Late night talk shows are dying, not entirely but primarily because the product is borderline unwatchable. But, despite the best efforts of the hall monitor, cancel culture crowd, satire – real, cutting, offensive, hilarious satire – is alive and well. My son, now in high school, is living proof. He is a great conversationalist, comfortable speaking with just about anyone of any age; in large part, thanks to a show I once felt guilty for letting him watch.
As it turns out, enrolling my son in summer school at South Park Elementary wasn’t a parenting blunder at all. And, of course, Parker and Stone had it right from the beginning.
We held on to both, thankfully. Our kids seem to have recovered, too. But by this time that summer, it’s fair to say we had completely “lost contain” of our children. Even under normal conditions, we’ve favored a loose-reins approach to parenting, with a healthy dose of Lenore Skenazy-style “Free Range Parenting.” But that summer? I gave up entirely. I let my son watch TV. A lot of TV.
At the time, I felt more than a little guilty about letting a 10-year-old binge-watch two decades of South Park. It was a bit early, I thought, for him to be learning proper condom application techniques from Mr. Garrison. When I told friends later, the story always got a laugh – a kind of comic confession from a parent who’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
But as my son made his way through middle school and into high school, something changed. One night over dinner, we were talking about wars when I mentioned Saddam Hussein. My son chimed in casually – he knew exactly who Saddam was. I asked him how. His answer: “South Park.”
That kept happening. From Michael Jackson and Neverland Ranch, to Mormonism, to the NSA, to wokeism … my son was not only familiar with these topics, he was informed, funny, and incisively skeptical. I realized that this crash course from Butters and Cartman and Mr. Mackey had functioned like one of those downloads Neo gets in The Matrix; except that instead of instantly learning martial arts, my son had instantly become culturally literate. And, just as important, that literacy came wrapped in a sense of humor rooted in satire, absurdity, and a deep mistrust of power, regardless of party affiliation.
He jokes about Joe Biden’s senility and Trump’s grifting grossness. He refers to COVID-era masking as “chin diapers,” a phrase South Park coined while many adults were still double-masking alone in their cars. It struck me: my greatest parenting lapse had somehow turned into one of my best decisions.
Of course, it’s not just that South Park is anti-authority and unapologetically crude. So was Beavis and Butthead. The difference is that South Park is crafted. It endures not just because of what it says, but how it’s made – with discipline, speed, and storytelling intelligence.
South Park co-creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone are master storytellers. In a short video that should be required viewing for anyone who writes, they explain that if the beats, or scenes, of your story are best linked by the phrase “and then,” you’re doing it wrong. Instead, each scene should be connected by “therefore” or “but.” It’s deceptively simple, and it’s the single best explanation of narrative momentum I’ve ever seen. (Watch it here.)
Combine that storytelling mastery with a relentless work ethic that has allowed them to churn out weekly takes on almost every major current event of the last three decades, and you get the South Park that we know and (that most of us) love today. A generational institution that’s still funny.
And still winning.
Just days after closing a new five-year, $1.5 billion deal with Paramount+, South Park opened its 27th season with an episode titled “Sermon on the Mount,” which gleefully eviscerated both President Trump and Paramount+. What’s the point of having “fuck you money” if you never say “fuck you”? (...)
And the difference between South Park and the late-night crowd isn’t just about the comedy. It’s about the message. During COVID, while Colbert and others were fawning over Fauci, hawking Pfizer ads, and pushing for school closures, South Park was mocking all of it – the masks, the panic, the bureaucratic gaslighting. As a concept, “chin diapers” wasn’t just funny – it was accurate.
When comedy becomes propaganda, it stops being funny. Parker and Stone have never forgotten that the job is to make people laugh. That means skewering whoever is in power, without asking for permission.
Late night talk shows are dying, not entirely but primarily because the product is borderline unwatchable. But, despite the best efforts of the hall monitor, cancel culture crowd, satire – real, cutting, offensive, hilarious satire – is alive and well. My son, now in high school, is living proof. He is a great conversationalist, comfortable speaking with just about anyone of any age; in large part, thanks to a show I once felt guilty for letting him watch.
As it turns out, enrolling my son in summer school at South Park Elementary wasn’t a parenting blunder at all. And, of course, Parker and Stone had it right from the beginning.
by Jeremy Radcliffe, Epsilon Theory | Read more:
Image: South Park
Image: South Park
[ed. They'll pick it all up from classmates anyway. I think my son was near that age, maybe about 12, when I took him to see Pulp Fiction.]
In Praise of the Faroe Islands
Due to its small size and limited variation, I wouldn’t say it’s the singular most beautiful nation on earth (I’d give that to New Zealand), but it’s certainly at the very top tier of the most beautiful places on earth. What stands out about the Faroe Islands’ beauty is that every single place you set foot will be beautiful. There is no real need to go to any specific destinations (there aren’t even national parks or “nature zones” in the Faroe Islands), as there is incredible beauty at every point. And no matter where you go, you will always be in nature, surrounded by a quiet that feels completely removed from the modern world. (...)
In many places, “culture” feels like an aesthetic layer—a set of foods, clothing styles, or historical anecdotes. But in the Faroes, it feels deeper, like a shared operating system. When you speak to any person there, it’s immediately clear they are all operating from the same framework—a worldview that is both deeply felt and meaningfully distinct from the rest of the world.
Conservative intellectuals on Twitter and Substack are constantly sketching out their ideal society: a high-trust community rooted in family (fertility rates are high), self-sufficiency, and continuity with the past. They dream of a life lived closer to the land, with a strong sense of personal responsibility. By almost any of their metrics, the Faroe Islands is the most successful conservative nation on earth. And yet, it is also a profoundly liberal place. It’s cosmopolitan and highly educated. There is a massive social safety net and great equality, a deep belief in the collective over the individual, and a culture where economic aspiration doesn’t dominate life. It is, in many ways, the idyllic left-wing society. The Faroe Islands seems to have achieved the goals of both political tribes simultaneously, without any of the ideological warfare.
What makes the Faroe Islands special in my opinion is not that it’s so nice, but that it’s so nice yet has no desire to optimize or make more efficient (or exploit) anything to become even “nicer.” This is unusual, as most successful places reached their status by climbing a cutthroat ladder, trading off nearly everything in pursuit of greater efficiency.
To give the simplest example: the Faroe Islands are a series of islands, some of which have fewer than 10 people living on them, and are otherwise quite isolated from each other. No worry—the Faroe Islands, with a “we are all one” ethos, have power and internet going to every corner of their nation, with subsidized helicopter rides and ferries to even the smallest islands to make sure life can feel connected for all Faroese people. More well known, the Faroe Islands have built impressive and incredibly expensive undersea tunnels connecting all of the major and proximate islands to each other.
They spend this money not to make the islands more productive or efficient, but simply because they believe all Faroese people should be connected. The infrastructure exists for solidarity, not optimization. A consultant would call the tunnels and helicopter subsidies a spectacular misallocation of capital. But this misses the point entirely—they’re treating infrastructure as as a kind of social infrastructure, not economic.
by Daniel Frank, not not Talmud | Read more:
Images: Daniel Frank
[ed. At first I thought this was about the Falkland Islands (off the tip of South America). Then realized I didn't know where the Faroes were at all.]
Cameras Capture Every Fan’s Reaction
As Jorge Polanco hit his second home run Sunday night, a row of fans in Section 211 quickly unveiled a five-person-long Mariners flag. Meanwhile, in Section 120, a fan in a white Julio Rodriguez jersey tried to high-five everyone in the row behind him. And in Section 308, a once-full beverage cup appeared to soar when someone lost their grip amid the excitement.
The reactions were all captured by a multicamera system that photographs every fan at T-Mobile Park during big moments, like Polanco’s home run, or smaller moments, like the Hydro Challenge.
If you were at a Mariners home game this season, you can see what you looked like and then download dozens of those free images, as a ball went out of the park, hot dogs from heaven parachuted from the upper deck or everyone sang along during the Seventh Inning Stretch. And if you’re at Friday’s Game 5 against the Detroit Tigers in T-Mobile Park, remember to smile — you’re on camera.
The camera system belongs to Momento, a Chicago-based company that also photographs fans at Seattle Seahawks and Seattle Kraken games, among other professional teams.
The Mariners’ partnership with Momento started last year, but its popularity has surged with the baseball team winning its first American League West title since 2001. More than 22,000 images have been downloaded from the Mariners’ first two ALDS games alone, according to founder and CEO Austin Fletcher, compared with an average of 1,000 downloads per game during the regular season.
“With the excitement of the Mariners’ postseason, I think it really just helps teams connect with their fans in a really authentic way,” Fletcher said.
To view images, users go to a website run by Momento, choose the team and specific game, then input their section, row and seat. After submitting a name, contact information and birth date — not for verification, but for analytics that go to the Mariners — a fan can see photos of themselves and the people around them in different formats: just the image, one that looks like a ticket with their seat number or a GIF of multiple photos showing movement.
The photos are labeled by moments from the game — Sunday’s game had crowd images from Polanco’s two home runs, Rodriguez’s double and the moment the Mariners won.
Momento installs 10 cameras in each sports venue that are synced to take photos when a worker presses a button. For T-Mobile Park, Momento enters all 47,000-plus seats to connect them with the correct images and within minutes, fans can view photos. The Mariners still want to capture fan reactions even in losses or games without big plays, said JT Newton, the Mariners corporate partnership team’s manager of operations and development.
“Even if there maybe wasn’t a home run that day, that doesn’t mean that you still don’t want to relive being with your family at the ballpark,” Newton said.
Along with the fan experience, what do the Mariners get out of it? More information about you. As Momento put it in a 2024 news release, the crowd analytics help teams “better understand their fan base,” enabling them to “engage with their audience in unprecedented ways by pioneering personalized marketing campaigns tailored to individual fans through their unforgettable experiences.”
Reliving moments may be jarring for some fans who didn’t realize they were being recorded, particularly those in higher-up sections that don’t get the same camera time as the ones behind home plate. A fan can look up their seats, but in theory, so can a detective; a concerned friend trying to monitor someone’s beer and hot dog intake; or a suspicious ex who found a discarded ticket stub...
A Major League Baseball ticket’s terms of use agreement includes a paragraph giving MLB organizations, as well as some sponsors and other partners, unrestricted rights to the ticket holder’s image in any live or recorded broadcast or other media taken in connection with the event.
In simpler terms: Once you swipe your ticket, the Mariners can use your image however they want.
“In today’s world, fans are pretty aware that at a public space you could show up on a TV broadcast or on the jumbotron,” Fletcher said. “I think it’s just something that’s expected.”
Momento does honor opt-out requests if fans don’t want to have their images shown, Fletcher added. Users can submit requests on Momento’s website, and an employee will remove the seat from appearing. (...)
The company now works with 10 professional teams and earns money through team agreements, sponsorships and, for some events, physical products like framed photos, according to Fletcher, who credits Seattle’s teams, and their fandoms, with their growth.
by Paige Cornwell, Seattle Times | Read more:
The reactions were all captured by a multicamera system that photographs every fan at T-Mobile Park during big moments, like Polanco’s home run, or smaller moments, like the Hydro Challenge.
The camera system belongs to Momento, a Chicago-based company that also photographs fans at Seattle Seahawks and Seattle Kraken games, among other professional teams.
The Mariners’ partnership with Momento started last year, but its popularity has surged with the baseball team winning its first American League West title since 2001. More than 22,000 images have been downloaded from the Mariners’ first two ALDS games alone, according to founder and CEO Austin Fletcher, compared with an average of 1,000 downloads per game during the regular season.
“With the excitement of the Mariners’ postseason, I think it really just helps teams connect with their fans in a really authentic way,” Fletcher said.
To view images, users go to a website run by Momento, choose the team and specific game, then input their section, row and seat. After submitting a name, contact information and birth date — not for verification, but for analytics that go to the Mariners — a fan can see photos of themselves and the people around them in different formats: just the image, one that looks like a ticket with their seat number or a GIF of multiple photos showing movement.
The photos are labeled by moments from the game — Sunday’s game had crowd images from Polanco’s two home runs, Rodriguez’s double and the moment the Mariners won.
Momento installs 10 cameras in each sports venue that are synced to take photos when a worker presses a button. For T-Mobile Park, Momento enters all 47,000-plus seats to connect them with the correct images and within minutes, fans can view photos. The Mariners still want to capture fan reactions even in losses or games without big plays, said JT Newton, the Mariners corporate partnership team’s manager of operations and development.
“Even if there maybe wasn’t a home run that day, that doesn’t mean that you still don’t want to relive being with your family at the ballpark,” Newton said.
Along with the fan experience, what do the Mariners get out of it? More information about you. As Momento put it in a 2024 news release, the crowd analytics help teams “better understand their fan base,” enabling them to “engage with their audience in unprecedented ways by pioneering personalized marketing campaigns tailored to individual fans through their unforgettable experiences.”
Reliving moments may be jarring for some fans who didn’t realize they were being recorded, particularly those in higher-up sections that don’t get the same camera time as the ones behind home plate. A fan can look up their seats, but in theory, so can a detective; a concerned friend trying to monitor someone’s beer and hot dog intake; or a suspicious ex who found a discarded ticket stub...
A Major League Baseball ticket’s terms of use agreement includes a paragraph giving MLB organizations, as well as some sponsors and other partners, unrestricted rights to the ticket holder’s image in any live or recorded broadcast or other media taken in connection with the event.
In simpler terms: Once you swipe your ticket, the Mariners can use your image however they want.
“In today’s world, fans are pretty aware that at a public space you could show up on a TV broadcast or on the jumbotron,” Fletcher said. “I think it’s just something that’s expected.”
Momento does honor opt-out requests if fans don’t want to have their images shown, Fletcher added. Users can submit requests on Momento’s website, and an employee will remove the seat from appearing. (...)
The company now works with 10 professional teams and earns money through team agreements, sponsorships and, for some events, physical products like framed photos, according to Fletcher, who credits Seattle’s teams, and their fandoms, with their growth.
by Paige Cornwell, Seattle Times | Read more:
Image: Momento
[ed. Seriously invasive, and creepy.]
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