Yesterday, OpenAI announced that it had acquired a daily tech talk show that, until recently, was mostly watched by people who work in tech, AKA founders, investors, and engineers.

At first glance, the deal feels slightly ... weird? A company best known for building artificial intelligence systems is now the owner of a three-hour livestream where founders and executives talk through the news of the day. Interesting. The reported price tag, estimated in the low HUNDREDS of millions, only makes it harder to place, especially for a company that has raised tens of billions and is spending aggressively.

Why does this matter? you may ask.

Why am I writing you this Friday afternoon to tell you this news? Well because as a journalist, I find it to be super indicative of the current media climate we’re in, and where it’s going. More and more, big-time conversations aren’t happening in traditional outlets, who have long been decaying. They’re happening in smaller spaces like this, where the audience is tighter and made up of the people actually building and funding these companies. Reactions are mixed.

Analysts and investors have already started questioning how the acquisition fits into OpenAI’s broader strategy, especially as the company heads toward a potential IPO while spending heavily and facing more competition. One analyst described the move as “a fairly small bet for a lot of attention,” while another called it “chasing vibes,” suggesting this isn’t a traditional, carefully modeled deal so much as a fast decision meant to keep OpenAI visible and relevant.

Your next question may be, okay Olivia, what is TBPN?

The show was started in 2024 by Jordi Hays and John Coogan, both former founders who came out of the startup world themselves. Coogan co-founded Soylent, the meal replacement brand that became shorthand for a certain kind of Silicon Valley mindset, and Hays built a company focused on helping founders raise money. They didn’t set out to build a newsroom, but turn the camera inside a world they already knew how to navigate.

A typical episode can run for hours, with the hosts reacting to news in real time, pulling up data, debating decisions, and bringing on guests who are often founders, investors, and tech executives. That can mean people like Mark Zuckerberg, Satya Nadella, or other startup founders and operators moving between companies. The conversations feel less like formal interviews and more like ongoing discussions between people who are already inside the same world, which is part of why those same founders, CEOs, and investors keep coming back on the show.

The show doesn’t reach a massive audience, after all they only have 33.5K followers on Instagram. But the people who do watch it tend to be the ones building companies, investing in them, or trying to get their foot in the door. That kind of audience has turned into real business. TBPN was already on pace to generate roughly $30 million in annual advertising revenue, despite having a small team and relatively simple production.

So, once you see it that way, the price starts to feel less confusing. Paying a few hundred million dollars for a show with around 70,000 viewers per episode only looks strange if you’re thinking about it like a traditional media deal. If what you’re buying is access to the very audience you pray will come across your work.

What’s truly shocking about this all is how quickly TBPN got here. The show didn’t exist a year and a half ago. It wasn’t even called TBPN. In that time, it’s gone from a founder-led livestream to a company being acquired by one of the most powerful AI players in the world. That kind of trajectory is unusual even by startup standards, let alone in media.

OpenAI has said that TBPN will continue to operate with editorial independence, with its hosts still choosing their guests and running the show. That may be true. But ownership has a way of shaping things, even in a low-key way. The show now sits inside a company it regularly talks about, which makes it harder to ignore how that might influence the tone, the questions, or even who decides to come on.

Some observers have pointed out that competitors like Meta or other major tech players may be less inclined to participate going forward, especially if appearing on the show now means stepping into an environment tied to OpenAI. If that happens, the guest mix could shift over time, with more appearances from founders and executives already aligned with or supportive of the company.

It’s been clear that founders and executives are spending a lot more time in spaces where they can speak directly to audiences, whether that’s podcasts, newsletters, or shows like this one.

The tone in those environments is usually more relaxed, the format more flexible, and the control over the conversation more evenly distributed.

You can see that shift across news media more broadly. Publications like Puck have built similar business around smaller, high-value audiences, with reporters who focus on specific industries and regularly break stories that move into larger outlets. Companies like Semafor, The Information, and Free Press are built around speed and access, often publishing details before traditional outlets catch up.

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8 months ago · 84 likes · 5 comments · Emily Sundberg and John Coogan

There are tons of similar Substacks. Newsletters like , and have built large, loyal audiences by publishing consistently and developing a clear point of view. Some of them break news directly, others move just as quickly by shaping how that news is understood.

There are also newer outlets like Drop News Site and and AirMail, often staffed by journalists who left legacy publications to work more directly with their audiences. They tend to move faster, with fewer layers between reporting and publication, which changes how and when information shows up.

What this really shows is something pretty straightforward. A lot of the most important conversations aren’t happening in traditional news outlets anymore. They’re happening in smaller spaces like this, where the audience is made up of the people actually building companies, investing in them, and making decisions. That changes how information spreads, because the people being talked about are often part of the conversation themselves.

That creates a tradeoff. When you’re close to the people you’re covering, they’re more likely to show up, speak openly, and keep coming back. But it can also make the conversation feel more comfortable, and less likely to challenge them directly. That’s not new. Journalism has always dealt with that tension. The difference is that in traditional outlets, there are more layers (editors, reporting standards, distance) that help balance it out. In spaces like this, those layers aren’t always there.

OpenAI buying one of these platforms suggests that being close to that conversation is now something companies see as valuable. And, I mean, it’s a huge win particularly for OpenAI. TBPN has become good at something that’s increasingly hard to do: explaining a fast-moving, often abstract industry in a way that feels accessible to both insiders and a broader audience. In a moment where public understanding of AI is still forming, owning a platform that can shape how those ideas are discussed, in real time, is valuable in a way that doesn’t show up cleanly in a spreadsheet.

In the weeks leading up to the Oscars, actors who are nominated for major awards usually become very, very careful about what they say in public. Every interview, panel discussion, podcast appearance, and red carpet moment becomes part of the campaign for their film. The goal is straightforward: remind voters why the performance matters, show respect for the craft of filmmaking, and avoid saying anything that could irritate the industry voters who are about to decide whether they deserve a gold statue.

Which is why the situation currently unfolding around Timothée Chalamet is so bizarre.

Chalamet, who is widely considered one of the frontrunners for Best Actor this year for his performance in Marty Supreme, has somehow found himself in the middle of an extremely specific cultural feud just days before the Academy Awards. And not with another actor, or a rival studio, or even a critic. The people currently annoyed with him are ballet dancers and opera singers?

If you did not have “opera community vs. Timothée Chalamet” on your awards season bingo card, you are not alone.

The whole situation started with what seemed like a fairly ordinary industry conversation. Chalamet recently appeared at a public town hall hosted by CNN and Variety, where he was joined by fellow actor and former “Interstellar” father Matthew McConaughey for a discussion about filmmaking, careers, and the future of the movie theater experience. These kinds of conversations are common during awards season because they give actors a chance to reflect on their work in a thoughtful setting while reminding audiences that movies are still worth seeing on a big screen.

At one point the conversation turned to a topic that has been hanging over Hollywood for years now: whether traditional movie theaters are slowly disappearing. Chalamet was explaining that he respects actors who go on talk shows encouraging audiences to keep movie theaters alive, but he also believes that audiences ultimately decide what survives. If people truly love something, he argued, they will go out of their way to see it. He pointed to the huge cultural impact of films like Barbie and Oppenheimer, which drew massive crowds without needing to beg anyone for support.

Up to that point, the argument made sense. Then Chalamet reached for an example to illustrate his point, and that is where things went sideways.

“I don’t want to be working in ballet or opera,” he said, referring to art forms that sometimes frame themselves as needing to be preserved. “Things where it’s like, ‘Hey, keep this thing alive,’ even though no one cares about it anymore.”

He laughed almost immediately after saying it, clearly realizing it might come off harsh. He added that he meant no disrespect to the people who work in those fields, and then joked that he had probably just “lost 14 cents in viewership.”

But the clip circulated online, and the people who dedicate their lives to ballet and opera understandably had a few thoughts.

Within days, performers and cultural institutions from around the world began responding. The Royal Ballet and Opera issued a statement explaining that ballet and opera have influenced countless other art forms, including film itself. The Metropolitan Opera posted a video montage celebrating the scale and craftsmanship of its productions, pointedly dedicating it to Chalamet. The English National Opera even extended a friendly invitation for the actor to attend a performance, suggesting that seeing opera live might change his perspective.

Some companies leaned into humor instead of confrontation. The Seattle Opera launched a promotional code called TIMOTHEE offering discounted tickets to its upcoming production of Carmen. If the goal was to prove that people still care about opera, it was an effective strategy.

Individual performers were more direct. Grammy-winning mezzo-soprano Isabel Leonard described the comment as dismissive of fellow artists, while other singers and dancers took to social media to post clips of their performances set to Chalamet’s audio. It seemed, maybe to the surprise to Chalamet, that people may actually care about this work, and they care enough to defend it.

What might normally have remained a debate inside arts circles started showing up everywhere—from social media feeds to late-night comedy. Over the weekend, the moment even made its way onto Saturday Night Live, where Colin Jost pointed out the fact that Chalamet had made the remark while promoting a movie about… ping-pong. Which is so ironically true.

Watch the full Weekend Update clip here.

Unfortunately for Timmy, this flub came at a very important time in his career, and also admidst one of the most prolific and… psychotic (?) press rollouts in recent memory — one that has made it pretty clear he isn’t just promoting Marty Supreme, he’s also making a serious push for that Oscar.

Over the past few months, Chalamet has approached the rollout for the film less like a traditional press tour and more like an ongoing series of internet moments designed to keep people talking. Instead of relying mainly on late-night interviews and press junkets, he has leaned heavily into the way attention actually works now, popping up in places that feel unexpected and new — from random podcast interviews to a rapper side-quest. He even went to the top of the Sphere and flew around in a giant orange blimp.

What makes the campaign especially notable is that it actually worked. Marty Supreme opened as one of the strongest limited-release debuts in recent years and has continued to build momentum at the box office. It even beat out Leo’s One Battle After Another in the box office.

And suddenly, instead of talking about the marketing behind Marty Supreme, everyone is talking about ballet. It’s a pretty unfortunate comment, in my opinion, coming from someone who seemed to have so much respect for the fine arts, coming from Laguardia Performing Arts high school and having a mother and sister both trained at the School of American Ballet for God’s sake.

I’m sure that this won’t effect his chances at an Oscar in the slightest, but it is definitely putting Chalamet in the hot seat.

As for the Best Actor race, it’s still extremely tight, and if anything the last few weeks have made it harder to call, not easier. Earlier in the season, Chalamet looked like the clear person to beat after winning the Golden Globe and Critics Choice Award, but since then, the momentum has started to shift slightly toward Michael B. Jordan, who picked up the Screen Actors Guild Award for Sinners. Kalshi and Polymarket have the two of them essentially neck and neck.

PLEASE leave a comment and let me know who you think will win the Oscar…xx

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The headline writes itself, doesn’t it?

Erewhon, the $21-smoothie Los Angeles grocery chain that has become cultural shorthand for aspirational wellness, just announced a year-long partnership with Ject, a med spa chain, to offer cosmetic treatments like lip flips, brow lifts, and Botox through quarterly pop-ups across its locations. Erewhon’s 50,000+ members will get 20% off services at Ject’s nine locations across LA, New York, Florida, and New Jersey.

You can picture it perfectly: Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie in hand, raw milk in your cart, $40 supplement bag tucked under your arm, and then, why not, a quick brow lift before checkout. It sounds like satire, an SNL skit, yet it’s a very smart business strategy, and also not the first time it’s been done. This is Erewhon’s second foray into the med spa space after partnering with Lyev Beverly Hills last October —but for just a month, likely to test if this plan was feasible.

This announcement may be exciting to some, surprising to others, but one it doesn’t is exist in a vacuum. Cosmetic procedures have become easier and easier to access over the last decade. They’ve gotten cheaper, faster, more casual. You can book them online, walk in without a referral, pay less than you would for a facial. But that accessibility, of course, has come with trade-offs. Oversight has thinned out, safety standards vary wildly, and he friction that used to exist around medical procedures, the kind that made people pause and ask questions, has largely disappeared. And once that friction is gone, the business case becomes obvious. Erewhon isn’t inventing anything here. They’re just recognizing what’s already true: procedures that used to feel serious now feel like another service you can add to your routine. And if that’s the case, why not offer them next to the smoothies?

reported on it here:

A med-spa actually just opened on my block (yes, I of course clocked it).

It’s not a Ject, but a no-name competitor that joins the many already operating in New York City and across the United States. Don’t believe me? There are literally almost as many med spas in the US as there are McDonald’s locations. The industry exploded from roughly 1,600 med spas in 2010 to about 10,500 in 2023—a phenomenon one report dubbed “Med Spa Nation.” The American Med Spa Association predicts there could be 13,000 by the end of 2026. For context, there were 13,557 McDonald’s locations in the country at the end of 2024. This isn’t niche anymore. This is infrastructure.

And it’s booming financially. Med spas now generate an estimated $17 billion annually. The American Society of Plastic Surgeons reported that demand for non-surgical treatments like injectables and energy-based devices was up 79% over the last five years. Between 2019 and 2022 alone, the use of Botox and other neuromodulators increased 73% overall. The entire consumer economy is moving toward procedures that promise visible results with minimal downtime, which makes them easy to fold into a lifestyle. And that’s exactly what med spas have figured out how to sell.

If you’ve ever been inside of a med-spa (and I, as a beauty writer, have been inside many) they’re designed to feel like wellness retail. The branding is minimalist with waiting rooms that look like boutique hotel lobbies. Some places offer tea, aromatherapy, little touches that make the whole experience feel more like a treat than a medical appointment. Like most things, that’s not coincidental.

Gabby Garritano, founder of Ject, has been explicit about this. What distinguishes certain med spas in a crowded market, she explained, is the “experience,” and she actually compared it directly to Erewhon in her announcement. There are a million grocery stores and a million med spas, so the differentiator becomes customer service, curation, and the feeling of being taken care of. Ject aims to create a “hospitality-driven model for aesthetic services,” which aligns perfectly with Erewhon’s approach to wellness retail. It’s the same logic applied to two different industries, which makes the partnership feel almost inevitable. But here’s where I want to pump the brakes, because the experience economy framing is doing something subtle and important: it’s changing how we think about what these procedures actually are. Procedures. With needles. And side effects. Not to be a Karen here, but…

In the United States, there are significant gaps when it comes to regulation, oversight, and consumer understanding of what these spaces actually are. The regulatory landscape is confusing even for people who work in the industry, with rules varying state by state on who can do what, what kind of supervision is required, and what counts as the practice of medicine. In most states, physician assistants can inject at a med spa. Registered nurses and nurse practitioners can inject under the supervision of a doctor, but what that supervision looks like varies dramatically. In some cases, a medical director might be on-site and actively involved. In others, they might be off-site and technically “reachable,” which is a very different level of oversight when something goes wrong.

A 2023 study looking at med spas in the greater Chicago area found that more than 80% did not have a doctor on-site. That’s a notable number when you consider that many of the services being performed involve needles, prescription drugs, and devices that can cause serious harm if used incorrectly.

Complications, while not common, can happen, just like with any other procedure. Vascular occlusion from fillers can cause tissue necrosis and, in rare cases, blindness if not treated quickly. Lasers can burn or discolor skin. Radiofrequency and fat reduction treatments can cause damage if administered incorrectly. PRP microneedling and other procedures that involve blood and skin barrier disruption can carry infection risks if sterile protocols aren’t followed. In 2024, the CDC investigated HIV transmission in four patients who received PRP microneedling at a New Mexico med spa, linked to improper infection control. That investigation marked the first documented cases of HIV contracted through cosmetic procedures in the United States. That’s enough to make me squirm.

Then there’s the issue of counterfeit products. In April 2024, the FDA reported that counterfeit Botox was administered in 11 states between November 2023 and March 2024. Twenty-two women reported symptoms of botulism after receiving injections from unlicensed or untrained injectors or in non-healthcare settings. Some cases required hospitalization. When Botox is priced far below what legitimate providers can offer, it can be a red flag for counterfeit product, watered-down toxin, or an injector with minimal experience. The point isn’t that every med spa is unsafe. The point is that the industry’s growth has created more entry points, and not all entry points have the same standards.

So why are people flocking to med spas despite these risks?

Because there are also very real, practical reasons driving this boom, and they’re not just about vanity. There’s a dermatologist shortage in many parts of the country, and cosmetic dermatology practices can have long wait times. Med spas often offer appointments within days. A 2021 article in Dermatologic Surgery reported that the average wait time for any treatment was three days at med spas compared to 11 days at dermatology practices.

Pricing is another factor. Med spas can often charge less than physician offices because they do high volume and can buy injectables in bulk, which lowers per-unit costs. Manufacturers offer tiered pricing based on the amount purchased, meaning large chains can offer lower prices. Some med spas also use neuromodulators like Botox as a “loss leader,” offering it at attractive prices to bring people in, then upselling additional services. This isn’t necessarily sinister. It’s just business.

PLUS the consumers are there, whether we like it or not. American Society of Plastic Surgeons reported that Botox injections in those 19 and younger increased by 9% between 2022 and 2023. The American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery reported that 75% of plastic surgeons had seen a spike in clients under 30. That’s not a fringe. That’s a real change in who’s getting these procedures. Experts point to social media, filters, and AI as drivers of unrealistic beauty expectations, and research has supported a correlation between time spent on social media and photo editing apps and the desire to undergo cosmetic procedures.

As someone who’s personally gotten lip filler a few times in my life, I don’t view getting any sort of plastic surgery as an immediate sign of vanity or insecurity. But I will say, when med spas become as common as Starbucks, the barrier to entry drops, not only financially but psychologically. When the storefront is next to your spin class, the procedure feels less like a big decision and more like a service you can try. People are busy. People want convenience. People want treatments that feel accessible. People want to look rested and refreshed in a world where they’re photographed constantly, and where beauty standards have become both more visible and more demanding. Med spas have responded to that demand with a model that is fast, aesthetically pleasing, and easy to integrate into daily life.

Which brings us back to the grocery store.

What makes the Erewhon partnership feel culturally significant isn’t that it will necessarily be unsafe. Ject is a real chain with real locations and credentialed providers and the pop-ups will likely be designed to feel high-end and carefully managed, because Erewhon’s entire brand is built on the idea that you’re paying for curation and quality. But even if everything is done perfectly, the partnership still represents something about how these procedures are framed. Because the moment you put injectables in a grocery store environment, you’re telling consumers this is as casual as picking up your weekly grocery haul. You’re telling them this is something you could (and should!) do easily between errands. And call me a cynic, but I don’t necessarily like that.

Why, you ask, dear reader? Well call me old fashioned, but I don’t like the idea of a medical procedure being treated like an add-on while you shop. I’d rather choose a provider in a setting that’s designed to make me feel like a patient, not a customer, because I think that mindset matters when you’re making decisions about your face. It’s also a reflection of how the modern definition of wellness has fully absorbed aesthetics into its portfolio, when they used to be on different planes.

Let me also play Devil’s advocate here. If Botox at Erewhon is the headline today, then tomorrow’s version might be Botox at the gym, Botox at the coworking space, Botox as part of a hotel package, Botox as a perk of a membership program, Botox bundled with other wellness services. I mean, some of this is already happening! So if there’s one thing to take away from this is for us all to become more literate, and make sure not to do any sort of medical treatments on a whim. You may end up not sipping out of a straw for months otherwise by accident!

For most of the modern entertainment era, the romance-book-to-screen pipeline has been treated like a side hustle of the culture industry. Romance was lucrative in publishing, but it wasn’t granted the kind of default respect afforded to action franchises, prestige dramas, or even YA dystopias.

And yet, within the book market, romance had become one of the clearest growth engines in consumer media. By mid-2025, romance volume had more than doubled compared to four years earlier, with roughly 51 million units sold in the prior 12 months and year-to-date print sales up 24%. To me, that represented one of the largest, most consistent audience signals available, especially at a time when many other publishing categories have flattened or declined.

A significant driver of that growth is also what has fueled skepticism around the genre: sex. Or, as it’s more commonly labeled online, “smut.”

Over the past few years, BookTok has normalized open discussion of sexual content in romance. Readers regularly talk about explicit scenes, tropes, and heat levels with the same ease they discuss skincare routines or celebrity gossip. That visibility has translated into tangible changes in the market. Romance-only bookstores have expanded in major cities. “Spicy” book clubs have moved from niche online spaces into mainstream social settings. Retailers now categorize romance titles by heat level because readers actively seek out those distinctions when buying books. Even traditionally conservative publications have described the current moment as a “golden age” for racy reads, driven by sustained sales rather than novelty.

At the same time, as romance reading has become more public and more popular, online discourse has increasingly questioned whether it should be taken seriously at all. Viral posts dismiss romance as “not real reading,” or frame explicit fiction as excessive, unserious, or even unhealthy. In some corners of the internet, high-volume romance reading has been described in the language of addiction, with little distinction made between sexual content and compulsive behavior.

What’s notable about this debate is how quickly it stops being about the books themselves and turns into a judgment about the people (mainly, the women) reading them. The same patterns of engagement that are celebrated in other genres — rereading favorite installments, collecting special editions, building fan communities, and evangelizing titles to friends — are often treated as embarrassing or frivolous when they center romance.

But dismissiveness aside, something undeniable has started happening: romance readers are showing up for screen adaptations in numbers that studios can no longer ignore.

Colleen Hoover’s book-to-screen pipeline is the most obvious example. It Ends With Us, made for roughly $25 million, opened in August 2024 to an estimated $50 million domestic weekend and went on to become one of the strongest female-driven theatrical performers of the year — buoyed less by…Ahem…critical acclaim than by audience enthusiasm. Now, Hoover’s everywhere: Regretting You hit theaters in October 2025. Reminders of Him is set for a wide Universal release in March 2026, with its marketing explicitly tied to the book’s millions of copies sold. Verity, backed by Amazon MGM and a prestige cast, arrives later this year. What this sequence shows is not just demand, but momentum. Once one adaptation works, the next ones are no longer treated as gambles.

Emily Henry represents a parallel case. Where Hoover’s work is emotionally intense and often polarizing, Henry’s brand is funny, contemporary, and unapologetically romance-forward. People We Meet on Vacation premiered on Netflix in January 2026 and quickly topped the platform’s movie charts (I thought it was so good!). Netflix has since announced adaptations of Happy Place and Funny Story, with Beach Read and Book Lovers in development as features. Taken together, that slate signals more than enthusiasm for a single title. It suggests an industry beginning to treat romance authors not as one-off bets, but as engines capable of sustaining long-term screen strategies.

And then there’s Heated Rivalry, of course, because how could I not talk about my boys. Adapted from Rachel Reid’s romance novels, the series became a breakout phenomenon in late 2025, driven largely by women — many of whom had never previously sought out M/M romance. Its success was completely audience-led, propelled by word of mouth and online fandom. Like Hoover and Henry, Heated Rivalry reflects the same pattern: a romance readership mobilizing in support of a screen adaptation that treats love and sex with seriousness and scenes of yearning with tender love and care.

The pattern is clear. When romance novels are translated to screen with care, intimacy, and confidence, women show up — regardless of format. But that raises the obvious question: why now? Romance has been popular for decades. What explains this sudden, sustained mobilization?

The answer might have less to do with what’s happening on screen and more to do with what’s happening off it.

There’s a notable asymmetry taking shape. Romance novels and their adaptations are experiencing unprecedented success at the same moment that women report withdrawing from real-life dating in measurable numbers, as I outlined last month. As a refresher, women are now significantly less likely than men to say they’re actively looking for a relationship, with some surveys finding women 20% or more less likely to want to date at all. Among Gen Z in particular, women report opting out earlier, setting firmer boundaries, or deciding that the emotional cost of dating often outweighs the potential reward.

Cis women’s disengagement from dating isn’t rooted in cynicism about love itself. It reflects fatigue with a system that asks women to invest deeply while offering little in return.

In that context, the romance boom looks less like escapism and more like a calculated trade. What these novels offer—and what real-life dating increasingly doesn’t—is men who were literally invented in someone’s head to be better. Of course fictional men are more emotionally available. They were designed that way.

And yet, even with all this evidence—the sales data, the box office returns, the streaming numbers, the documented audience hunger—studios are still hesitating to bring these stories fully theatrical. Like, I have to admit I was disappointed to see that Emily Henry’s adaptations are going to Netflix. The number of girls who would show up to theaters for Beach Read is INSANE. I just don’t understand how women’s cultural power still isn’t treated as four-quadrant power when there’s so much evidence proving otherwise. Romance readers have shown they’ll buy the books, stream the shows, pack the theaters when given the chance. At some point, the industry’s reluctance stops looking like caution and starts looking like something else entirely.

Think of the storytellers and worlds that defined the prestige eraL Tony Soprano, the Targaryens, the Roys, the DC heroes, the Warner Bros. legends. Now picture them being claimed by one. Single. Platform. The scale is impressive…the power it concentrates is even more so.

On Friday, Netflix announced it plans to buy Warner Bros. Discovery’s studio and streaming business, including HBO and HBO Max, for more than $80 billion dollars. That is one of the biggest entertainment deals in history. To put it plainly: Netflix, the company you open to watch a comfort show, is trying to become not just a streamer, but one of the most powerful studios on Earth. If the deal goes through, Netflix would own both the place where shows are made and the place where millions of people go to watch them. Damn.

Here’s what that really means.

Warner Bros. Discovery owns some of the most important movies and shows ever made, from The Sopranos, Game of Thrones, and Succession to Harry Potter, The Dark Knight, Barbie, and decades of classics. HBO is widely considered the crown jewel of prestige TV. For Netflix to acquire all of that is more than an everyday expansion, but a change in identity. And to understand just how dramatic that shift is, it helps to remember where Netflix actually started.

The giant launched in 1997 as a DVD-by-mail service that my dad used to get — a scrappy alternative to Blockbuster built around red envelopes, no late fees, and a long queue you curated like a wish list. In 2007, as internet speeds improved, it shifted to streaming with a tiny catalog of about a thousand titles. By the early 2010s, streaming had eclipsed DVDs, and Netflix began producing its own shows, using House of Cards and Orange Is the New Black to prove it could compete with the biggest studios. Then it expanded globally, commissioning series in dozens of countries and becoming a studio with worldwide reach. Oh, and the company that once mailed movies to your house eventually shut down its DVD business in 2023. Yes, Netflix put its own business model out of business!

A deal this huge doesn’t come out of nowhere, of course. Streaming has been shifting toward consolidation for years as companies try to survive rising costs, shrinking profits, and audiences who cancel the second they finish a show. Disney bought Hulu. WarnerMedia merged with Discovery. Amazon picked up MGM. Paramount merged with Skydance. The era of dozens of competing platforms was never sustainable; the business model only works when a few giants control most of the content. But Netflix buying Warner Bros. is definitely the biggest and loudest version of a trend that’s been unraveling for quite a bit.

Right now, the company is saying that everything will stay the same.

HBO Max will remain a separate app “for now,” and you won’t suddenly open Netflix to see a giant White Lotus hub tomorrow. That’s because deals like this take more than a year to approve, and regulators (the government lawyers who decide whether a merger is allowed) will be studying this one very carefully. There are real questions about whether one company should be allowed to own this much.

Why? Because when one company controls both the content and the distribution, it changes how the whole system works.

Netflix already has more than 300 million subscribers around the world. Warner’s streaming services add another 128 million. Combined, they could control close to half of the paid streaming market. That’s why people in Washington, both Democrats and Republicans, are upset. Senator Elizabeth Warren called the deal “an anti-monopoly nightmare.” Senator Mike Lee said it “should alarm antitrust enforcers.” Even the Writers Guild and the Producers Guild, groups that represent people who make movies and shows, say the merger could hurt workers and reduce the number of places creators can sell their ideas.

Netflix, meanwhile, is fighting the monopoly label by trying to change the way the government defines the “market.” Netflix doesn’t want the market to be defined as “paid streaming platforms,” because in that world they’d suddenly own a massive share once HBO Max is folded in. That would make them look dominant in a way that regulators don’t like. So, Netflix is pushing the idea that their real competition isn’t other streamers at all — it’s every single thing you might choose to look at on a screen. YouTube. TikTok. Fortnite. Live sports. Cable. Even things like texting or scrolling Instagram. If regulators accept that definition, Netflix becomes just one player in a giant “attention economy,” not a monopoly. They’re basically saying, “We can’t control the market, we’re competing with your entire phone!”

But if the government decides the market should be defined more narrowly, AKA as subscription streaming services like Netflix, HBO Max, Disney+, Hulu, and the rest, then the story changes fast. In that version, Netflix swallowing Warner Bros. gives one company an enormous share of the content, the subscribers, and the power to decide what gets made and how much it costs. The merger starts to look less like “healthy competition” and more like one company becoming so large that everyone else, from creators to consumers to smaller streamers, has to rearrange their plans around it.

Here is where this matters for people at home.

Prices will almost definitely go up. Netflix raised its prices earlier this year. HBO Max did too. When companies merge, they often use the bigger library as a reason to create new, more expensive subscription tiers. They might offer bundle deals that look good at first but slowly become the only way to watch the shows you care about. Over time, that leads to less choice, not more.

There’s also a creative cost. When fewer companies control the money, fewer projects get made. Mid-budget movies disappear. Weird, risky shows get cancelled faster. Writers and directors have fewer buyers to pitch. Netflix is already known for cancelling shows before they find an audience. Imagine that instinct applied to HBO’s slate. Imagine it applied to Warner Bros.’ film division. It’s not hard to see how this could lead to safer programming and fewer opportunities for new voices.

And there’s another piece people don’t talk about enough: theaters.

Groups representing movie theaters are terrified. Netflix has always preferred releasing films online, because that keeps you subscribed. Warner Bros., on the other hand, has a long history of strong theatrical releases. If Netflix becomes the owner of those movies, it also becomes the company that gets to decide which films go to theaters — or whether theaters remain part of the ecosystem at all.

So, do we have a monopoly?

Not formally. The government hasn’t decided yet, and Netflix hasn’t merged the platforms. But the direction is clear: the streaming world you’ve been living in for the past decade is collapsing into a few massive companies. And Netflix is trying to become the biggest one.

The deal is impressive. The library is enormous. But the real story is how much power this puts in one place — and how quickly the “future of TV” is starting to look like the past.

LinkedIn was built as the internet’s professional backbone.

A place to hire, get hired, post your promotion, and maybe reconnect with a former coworker who now sells marketing software. It was designed to function like a living résumé. These days, that original purpose is almost impossible to see. The average user spends only 17 minutes a month on the platform, and most of that time is spent scrolling through posts that look nothing like work. The feed has tilted toward personal storytelling, influencer lifestyle content, and TikTok-style confessionals. Many workers describe it as a strange hybrid of a dating app, a motivational forum, and early-2010s Facebook. Which raises the obvious question: If LinkedIn is not acting like a job site anymore, what exactly is it?

You can see it immediately when you scroll.

The feed is full of generically inspirational posts that look like they were pasted straight out of ChatGPT. Reddit threads are full of users pointing out that multiple strangers publish identical phrasing within minutes of each other. Then there are the influencer-marketing coaches who promise to “scale your personal brand to six figures,” and the recruiters who insist they can “get you the job of your dreams,” although many cannot prove they have done it even once.

Mixed among these are blurry photos from conferences where a circle of coworkers pose like they are at summer camp. There are carousels about “leadership mindset” recorded in airport lounges. There are startup founders announcing product “launches” via Canva slides. And there are job listings that lead nowhere, which users recognize immediately because they have already applied to them five times in the past month.

The Top 5 “LinkedInfluencers” below for context

LinkedIn didn’t start as a content platform…

or a place to post your breakup haircut, or a venue for inspirational monologues written at 6 a.m. on the Peloton. It began in 2002 in Reid Hoffman’s living room as a simple idea: professionals should be able to find each other online. At the time there was Friendster for friends, Match.com for dating, and absolutely nothing for work. Hoffman and his co-founders built LinkedIn to fill that void.

When the site officially launched in May 2003, its entire premise was utility. Profiles, connections, jobs. No feed, no viral content, no personality-driven thought leadership. It grew quickly anyway: 1 million users by the end of 2004, 6 million the next year, and a lucrative job-listings business soon after. Recruiters flocked to it. People treated it the way you treat a passport: update it when necessary, otherwise leave it alone.

Then the incentives shifted.

By the late 2000s, LinkedIn realized the big money wasn’t just in résumés; it was in attention. The company introduced Groups, Recommendations, Pulse (a publishing tool), and native video. It acquired SlideShare. It launched a mobile app. It rolled out a full-fledged advertising business and premium subscriptions. In 2015 it bought Lynda.com for $1.5 billion to expand into professional learning. And in 2016, Microsoft acquired LinkedIn for $26.2 billion, largely for its unmatched global data on workers.

Under Microsoft, the platform continued to morph from a static résumé directory into a content engine. More features meant more posting; more posting meant more engagement; more engagement meant more data to feed its recruitment and advertising business. And somewhere along the way, the site stopped feeling like a neutral professional record and started feeling like something closer to a social network with a dress code.

Which is how we arrived at the version of LinkedIn we have now: a place built for professionalism that behaves like everything but.

All of this unfolds during one of the most competitive job markets in recent memory.

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If you spend even five minutes online, you’ll notice we’re living through a full-blown dating malaise. Every platform is diagnosing something: a “dating depression,” a “male loneliness epidemic,” the slow death of the talking stage. And the numbers don’t exactly make you feel more optimistic. Pew says only 30% of single women under 30 are actively dating, while men in the same age group are clocking in above 60%. Women describe dating as unsafe, exhausting, and unrewarding. Men say they feel anxious, disconnected, and unsure how to show up. Apps are losing engagement. First dates are down.

For men: one study found that 1 in 3 men aged 18 to 24 believes no one will ever fall in love with them. Another survey reported that over half of men think they don’t “stand a chance” on dating apps. For women: loneliness reports at just as high, and in some cases higher, rates. Studies from the Campaign to End Loneliness show that women under 30 are the loneliest age group and that women are often more chronically lonely than men.

In other words: no one feels particularly good about any of this.

But here’s the part I can actually speak to. I am a 26-year-old single woman living in New York, and dating right now feels less like a path to connection and more like a messy social experiment we’re all conducting at the same time..which is probably why we use vocabulary as a way to make chaos legible. He didn’t just disappear…he ghosted. He didn’t drift…he slow-faded. He didn’t flirt…he breadcrumbed. We name the behavior so it feels like something we can understand rather than something happening to us. Survival through semantics, as they say.

So here is the lay of the land, from a woman who has lived through most of these terms before and heard the rest from friends at 1 a.m. Below, a glossary of what dating looks like right now for both men and women, through the key terms we all know and love <3

1. Ghosting

Ghosting is the cleanest cut in modern dating. It’s both happened to me and I’ve done it (don’t judge me). It has always existed, but the digital world has turned it into a default exit strategy. Pew data shows that about 42% of people ages 18 to 29 have been ghosted, and newer research goes even further. One study reports that 84% of Gen Z and Millennials have experienced it, while almost 1 in 3 ghosters say mental health struggles influenced their decision. When disappearing takes one ignored text or an un-match, people choose ease over effort almost every time.

But, of course, a sudden silence creates a vacuum that fills with anxiety, overthinking, and self-blame, especially when the person who “vanished” is still posting pics on Instagram. It reflects a dating culture shaped by overstimulation and avoidance, where clarity feels optional and disappearing is framed as “protecting someone’s feelings” instead of dodging discomfort. Lately, though, some daters are trying to reverse the trend with the “anti-ghost text,” a short message that lets someone down gently instead of dropping off the planet. It’s basically a polite “I’m not feeling the spark,” and yes, I have always made my best friend draft mine. Dating is chaotic enough, and sometimes the smallest bit of honesty really is the kindest route. Treat others how you’d want to be treated!

2. Slow-fading

Slow fading is ghosting’s cousin. It’s intentional but gradual. Texts arrive hours later than they used to. Plans drift into the hypothetical. You’re not rejected, just stuck in a confusing middle space where nothing is said but everything is implied. And it’s surprisingly common. One survey found that 63% of daters have slow-faded someone, which tracks because the behavior feels “kinder” than disappearing outright.

Therapists say people rely on the slow fade because avoiding discomfort feels easier than having an adult conversation. They convince themselves they’re letting things “naturally fizzle,” even when they’re deliberately creating the fizzle. Research backs this up too — most slow-faders admit they do it to dodge awkwardness or conflict, and nearly 90% of young daters worry they’ll be “fizzled” instead of given a clear answer. Some even confess they keep the door cracked just in case they want to wander back through it later.

3. Love bombing

Love bombing is the opposite problem. Instead of pulling away, someone rushes in so fast it feels like you hit fast-forward on the relationship. While it can feel sooo nice it’s also not healthy. Surveys show nearly 70% of people say they’ve been love-bombed, and the number jumps even higher among dating-app users. Researchers link the behavior to insecure attachment styles and even narcissistic traits. The Crown Prosecution Service officially categorizes love bombing as part of coercive control because the pattern often moves from early idealization to jealousy and withdrawal.

Culturally, love bombing makes sense in a dating landscape where everyone is starved for connection. When so many early-stage interactions fizzle, that kind of enthusiasm can feel like proof that something real is happening. Even when we sense it’s too much too soon, the excitement is tempting. It feels good to feel wanted! Love bombing taps into the part of us that craves certainty, but it also shows how easily that craving can be manipulated.

4. Benching

Benching is what happens when someone doesn’t want to date you but also doesn’t want to stop dating you. You get just enough attention to stay warm on the sidelines, but never quite lock in a real plan. Dating researchers say this is a direct byproduct of choice overload. When people feel like the apps offer an endless lineup, they’re more likely to keep multiple connections “simmering” rather than choosing one. Psychology Today even describes benching as treating people like “back-up inventory,” which sounds harsh but I guess fits.

@sabrina.zoharBenching in dating. #benching #datingadvice #dating #anxiousattachment #emotionallyunavailaible

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What makes benching so confusing is the pattern itself. Experts compare the inconsistency to intermittent reinforcement, the same psychological loop that makes gambling addictive, so one good night of texting can undo two weeks of distance. As a broader trend, benching reflects how dating has turned into a rotation system where everyone wants to feel chosen but no one wants to choose. I’m not here to give prescriptions, nor do I know literally anything, but therapists are pretty united on one idea: if someone’s effort doesn’t rock, they’re probably keeping you nearby “just in case,” not building something real.

5. Breadcrumbing

Breadcrumbing is dating’s version of “don’t leave… but don’t come too close either.” It’s the tiny, inconsistent crumbs of attention that keep you vaguely invested without anything actually progressing. A story react when you stop texting. A “we should hang soon” that never becomes a plan. A perfectly timed check-in right when you were ready to move on. Psychologists link this to intermittent reinforcement, the same reward pattern casinos use to keep people at slot machines. And the numbers are real… studies show more than 30% of young adults say they’ve breadcrumbed or been breadcrumbed in the past year, and victims report higher loneliness and lower life satisfaction than people who were simply rejected outright.

Dating apps make breadcrumbing easier than ever. When someone can swipe up ten new matches before their Uber arrives, certain people start treating connections like browser tabs they won’t close “just in case.” Hinge practically fuels this — you can toss someone a like without offering anything meaningful at all. Those little pings feel flattering in the moment, but over time they chip away at your standards until you’re grateful for crumbs instead of expecting consistency. Researchers even tie breadcrumbing to insecure attachment and vulnerable narcissism, which can feel on the nose. But, as a tweet I read the other day said, a breadcrumb trail usually leads nowhere.

5. Shrekking

Shrekking is one of those trends that started as a TikTok joke and then became a little too real. The idea is simple: you date someone you’re not fully attracted to because you assume they’ll worship the ground you walk on and therefore can’t hurt you. Creators joke on TikTok, “even my Shrek had the audacity to ghost.” Gagged.

Psychologists say the behavior underneath is familiar. It mirrors what experts call “safety dating,” where people pick a low-risk partner out of fear, burnout, or the hope that someone “grateful to be chosen” will treat them better. There’s also real research on “mate value gaps,” where people choose partners they see as “safer” because they think it protects them from rejection.

But “dating down” doesn’t actually protect anyone. Attraction is not a hierarchy where picking someone “beneath your league” guarantees loyalty. People still flake, disappear, or underwhelm you, and then you’re left spiraling like, “I wasn’t even that into you, why am I upset?” Trend analysts say Shrekking took off because it spotlights how many of us are dating from fear instead of fun. It’s less about ogres and more about the illusion that we can hack heartbreak by lowering the stakes.

6. Nanoships

Nano-ships are the tiniest possible “relationships,” the ones that barely exist outside your imagination but still give you a tiny serotonin hit. Tinder’s Year in Swipe 2024 report (based on 8,000 singles across the US, UK, Canada, and Australia), says these “micro-connections” are on the rise because daters want small moments of warmth without the exhaustion of a full dating arc. Psychology Today describes them as quick sparks that come with zero expectations, like a barista remembering your order or a subway stranger making meaningful eye contact. They mimic that early-crush buzz without involving any vulnerability at all, which explains why they’re suddenly everywhere.

It makes sense, the low-stakes joy of a three-second interaction becomes enough to count. Experts caution that these tiny sparks can mimic intimacy and keep people busy with illusion instead of connection. Nanoships are cute and comforting, but they’re not supposed to replace dating entirely, apparently. My nanoship you ask? Jacob Elordi in Frankenstein.

7. Sidelined

Being sidelined is exactly what it sounds like. You’re technically still in the game, but you’re not actually on the field. Someone keeps you nearby without committing to anything real. You get the check-ins. It feels warmer than ghosting and more involved than breadcrumbing, which makes it incredibly easy to rationalize. (“He wouldn’t text me this much if he wasn’t interested.” Girl, yes he would. It costs him nothing.) Researchers even have a name for this pattern: low-investment maintenance. The person is doing the absolute minimum to keep you around while they explore other options. Psychologists say it often comes from ambivalence or fear of choosing wrong, not some deep emotional attachment.

With endless matches and constant access to new people, attention has become something people redistribute rather than something they actually invest. It creates this extended limbo where multiple “maybes” float around because no one wants to make the wrong choice. Experts say the sideline exists as a way for people to avoid fully letting go without fully stepping in, which can leave the person on the receiving end feeling unsteady and stuck.

I’m not an influencer per sé, but I monitor the industry constantly. It’s practically part of my job at this point (case-in-point my piece for The Cut about influencer engagement) and now as someone who tracks this ecosystem the way others track the stock market. Every week, there’s a new rollout, a new pivot, a new platform promising to “redefine” how creators and brands connect. And more and more influencers flooding the feed.

Underneath the churn, something more interesting is happening. The influencer world is expanding and splintering. Influence, as an industry, is growing up.

So I’m going to walk you through the terrain: what’s changing, who’s winning, and where it’s all going next. IMO, the next decade of influence won’t reward volume, it’ll reward credibility. And with a global market topping $30 billion dollars, this isn’t slowing down anytime soon.

The credible influencer

For a long time, “influencer” meant something shallow. It was a definition of someone who looked good in a frame, who knew the right filter and caption formula, who could sell you a product without saying much at all. It was about charm, aesthetic, relatability. But somewhere in the past couple years, that model started to feel flat: identical morning routines, whispered “day in my life” voiceovers, glut of affiliate links with no fashion expertise behind them.

Enter the credible influencer: creators who built followings not through aspiration, but through expertise. We’re seeing makeup artists explaining undertones, dermatologists breaking down ingredient lists, stylists walking through real fittings with clients. And we’re seeing journalists (the ones who used to live behind bylines) turning their reporting into a social conversation, face and all.

When Wired editor-in-chief Katie Drummond took over in 2023, she inherited a publication with serious credibility but almost no personality. But within a year, she changed that by building a strategy around her staff’s voices — literally — launching six new reporter-led video series and putting Wired journalists front and center. It was a small shift that completely rewired the brand.

Now, Wired reporters host YouTube shows like On the Grid and HackLab, which routinely pull millions of views. TikTok engagement is up triple digits; Instagram reach has soared. When Wired raised subscription prices two- to threefold, sign-ups went up 31 percent month over month. Credibility, it turns out, converts! Great news for me as a journalist. They also went big with marketing, creating massive murals across Brooklyn and Austin, each featuring a journalist’s face and a QR code to subscribe.

The Washington Post followed a similar playbook. Dave Jorgenson — better known as “the TikTok guy from the Post” — built an entire audience by mixing deadpan humor with serious reporting. The Post’s TikTok grew to nearly two million followers, turning its journalists into mini-brands. Then, in the Spring, Jorgenson left to launch his own venture, Local News International, taking his editors and audience with him. It’s a now-familiar story: the platform creates the star, and eventually, the star becomes the platform.

What’s interesting about the development of the “credible influencer” is that they aren’t here to sell you something; they’re here to translate it. They’re the bridge between industries and audiences, between knowledge and culture. And in a world of deepfakes, misinformation, and AI-generated everything, that kind of authenticity is necessary. And what has emerged was a hybrid creator, and their ranks are only rising.

The retail revolution

For years, influencer headlines were about shiny partnerships and viral campaigns; lately, the news is about infrastructure. Gap Inc. introduced a creator network across all its brands under a new “Fashiontainment” strategy. Sephora launched My Storefront, giving creators the ability to build in-app shops. Condé Nast announced Vette, an AI-powered marketplace where editors and influencers co-run digital boutiques.

Zoom out and a new shape emerges: influence has become infrastructure. And retail is where this shift is most visible. What used to be “influencer marketing” — people talking about products for money while pretending not to — has matured into full-scale commerce operations. The affiliate link has become a business model; the “creator closet” has become a digital department store.

In September 2025, Gap quietly rolled out its affiliate platform across Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, and Athleta. Creators earn commissions, get early access to drops, and may even have their content featured on official brand channels. “Fashiontainment” may sound cringe, but it captures a real shift: fashion isn’t just about selling clothes anymore, it’s about producing content that sells them.

Sephora’s My Storefront applies the same logic inside the app, giving beauty creators curated shops followers can browse without leaving the platform. Condé Nast’s Vette goes further, pairing editorial authority with influencer personality. It’s a digital hybrid of Vogue and TikTok. And the infrastructure around all of this is evolving, too: ShopMy, once a niche affiliate tool, now resembles a sleek marketplace led by Sofia Richie Grainge — something closer to Net-a-Porter than Instagram.

The goal is control: brands want ownership over the full pipeline, from creator to conversion. Creators are fine with this because the terms have improved: real revenue sharing, analytics dashboards, platform visibility in exchange for the one thing brands can’t manufacture themselves: trust.

Researchers are calling this the “Commerce OmniFluencer” era, where creators function more like operators, diversifying revenue streams and optimizing content the way companies optimize supply chains. The influencer isn’t the product anymore.

Their system is. And increasingly, that’s what the market is buying.

Politics join the party

Politics finally RSVP’d to the influencer economy, too. For years, the two worlds pretended not to know each other (politicians clutching their press releases while creators clutched their ring lights) but now they’re basically seatmates at the same dinner party. Campaigns have gone creator-native, and the results are as fascinating as they are a little terrifying.

At this year’s Campaigns & Elections Creative Summit on Sep. 2025, strategists were talking all about collabs. One consultant called influencers “the new broadcast networks.” Another said they’re “the most efficient way to reach voters who’ve never seen a campaign ad in their lives.” Translation: if Gen Z isn’t watching the news, the news is coming to them… via their favorite lifestyle vlogger.

Now political influencer marketing isn’t new, but the 2024 election cycle made it mainstream. When the Biden-Harris campaign quietly hired TikTok strategists to help reach younger voters, the move sparked a wave of imitators. Republican operatives did the same, recruiting “patriotic microinfluencers” to post about gas prices and border security. Suddenly, political messaging lived on For You pages. And it hasn’t left.

Democratic digital firms like IMGE and GMMB began partnering with creators to promote ballot initiatives, often through “relatable” lifestyle content…think GRWMs explaining reproductive rights or local vloggers breaking down ballot measures over coffee. Republican consultants joined in, funding creator partnerships around small business advocacy and “American values.”And it works. A 15-second TikTok from a local creator saying, “Hey, I’m voting yes on this measure because it helps small businesses like mine,” feels infinitely more trustworthy than a candidate in a suit reciting talking points.

Of course, this comes with its own kind of chaos. Influence and politics are both built on trust, and once you start monetizing trust, the lines blur fast. Is it authentic advocacy, or is it sponcon with higher stakes? When creators start serving as unofficial campaign surrogates, disclosure and ethics get murky. (If you wouldn’t take skincare advice from an undisclosed #ad, should you take voting advice from one?)

And while it’s easy to roll your eyes at the idea of “influencer democracy,” there’s something genuinely revealing here: influence has become the dominant language of persuasion. The same emotional storytelling and identity-driven framing that sells beauty serums and supplements is now selling policy. The same infrastructure that moves lip gloss moves votes.

So no, the next election probably won’t be decided by a viral TikTok — but it might be shaped by the logic of one.

The fight to stay human

I can’t write about influencer culture without commenting on the one thing creators fear most: AI.

In the last week of September, OpenAI’s Sora 2 and Meta’s Vibes launched side by side, promising to “reimagine social video.” Translation: infinite, AI-generated feeds that look, sound, and feel like real creators without the burnout, contracts, or drama. They can produce content on autopilot, tweak tone by prompt, and respond to trends in seconds. The result? Feeds that (they want to) blur the line between algorithm and audience until you can’t tell who’s influencing whom.

The arrival of AI content sparked an existential panic across the creator economy. “The creators are all high on the hog right now,” one media analyst told TWiT. “But I’d be thinking they’re one of the first things that could be totally annihilated by AI.” And maybe that’s true…if your brand is just your face, your workflow is now replaceable. But if you have a voice, if your influence is rooted in context and connection, AI can’t touch that. Not yet.

In fact, this technological anxiety has led to what I’d call the anti-automation aesthetic — a renewed obsession with humanity. The more the internet fills with perfect, prompt-engineered videos, the more we crave the unpolished. Messy editing, visible lighting changes, shaky camera work, and background noise all have become the new markers of credibility. Perfection now reads as robotic.

But ironically, AI is helping enable that? According to a 2025 URLgenius report, 44% of creators now use AI tools weekly to manage editing, affiliate links, and analytics up from 19% at the start of the year. The difference is that these tools aren’t replacing the creator (yet), but they’re surely scaling them. URLgenius calls this new class of creator the Commerce OmniFluencer, AKA people who operate like hybrid businesses, automating the backend so they can focus on the front-end.

The paradox is that AI, which was supposed to make content creation easier, has made connection harder. It’s flooded the internet with synthetic voices, forcing audiences to search for signals of truth the way we once searched for entertainment. But IMO, AI can replicate your tone, but it can never replicate your timing — or your intuition, or your humor, or that weird, small, imperfect thing that makes you you.

That’s why the most valuable skill in the influencer economy right now is consciousness, and how to stand out from the “slop” we can’t get around (except for Jake Paul’s SoraAI videos. Those are funny).

So, what does the next decade of influence look like?

The creator economy isn’t going anywhere. It’s just changing shape, yet again.

What started as people talking to their phones has turned into an industry that 57% of kids want to enter upon graduation. And yet, the deeper it embeds into everything — retail, media, politics, technology — the more invisible it becomes.

So I think the next decade won’t be about who shouts the loudest, or even who’s the most liked. It’ll be about who builds the deepest foundation: creators who own their audience pipelines, brands that treat influencers as partners rather than media buys, and journalists who understand that credibility is influence in its purest form.

If the last five years were about attention, the next five will be about alignment. People are more skeptical than ever, more discerning, and more emotionally fluent. We know when we’re being sold to. We know what feels off. The creators who last will be the ones who make us feel seen, not targeted, and help us learn, not numb our brains. We’ll see more journalists become influencers, more influencers become entrepreneurs, and more brands behave like media companies.

So yes, the market is overwhelming, but there are new ways in — if you know where to look.

The Oscars have statues. The Grammys have gramophones. And now, Instagram has rings. Yes… literal rings.

On Monday, the platform announced Rings, a new awards program crowning 25 creators for “taking creative chances.” Each winner gets a gold band designed by Grace Wales Bonner and, more importantly, a digital gold ring that encircles their profile photo — AKA — visible proof that you’re amongst Instagram’s “chosen ones.”

Judges include Adam Mosseri, Marc Jacobs, Spike Lee, Pat McGrath, Ilona Maher (love), and MKBHD, an eclectic lineup that could double as a Met Gala table. Their jobs? To decide which creators “shift culture.” Their rewards? Well, also a ring. But unlike YouTube’s plaques or TikTok’s revenue programs, Instagram’s offering doesn’t come with a paycheck, just prestige.

It’s a curious move, and a very Meta one.

The company quietly ended its Reels Play bonuses in 2023 and has spent the last two years phasing out direct creator payments, even as competitors like YouTube and TikTok expand theirs. Meanwhile, a Kajabi survey found that brand deals, once a major income stream for influencers, dropped 52% across the industry last year. In other words, the money’s disappearing, but the pressure to post hasn’t. Rings feels like Instagram’s workaround for that tension: if it can’t afford to pay creators, it can at least reward them with clout. It’s the platform’s new economy, one built on symbolism instead of salary. Interesting, huh?

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At this rate, the next Marvel blockbuster might star a woman who doesn’t even exist.

Meet Tilly Norwood, Hollywood’s newest ingénue that is not human at all. Tilly is the first creation of actress-comedian-technologist Eline Van der Velden, who, through her AI talent studio Xicoia, has designed an entirely synthetic performer. She’s got Instagram reels, TikToks, and even a comedy sketch under her belt. Everything but a pulse! And get this, Van der Velden has made it clear she envisions Tilly as “the next Scarlett Johansson or Natalie Portman.”

The revelation at the Zurich Summit that real-world talent agents are preparing to sign her was the moment the internet (and the industry) lost it. Suddenly, the nightmare scenario that dominated last year’s SAG-AFTRA strike isn’t a theoretical talking point about background actors and likeness rights. It has a name, a face, and an Instagram account.

I have to admit, I was fascinated scrolling through Tilly’s feed.

She really does have that “star” energy: screen tests, goofy captions, selfies. She even fronts a comedy sketch called AI Commissioner, which she promoted with, “I may be AI generated, but I’m feeling very real emotions right now.” There’s no messy off-camera life or bad takes or emotional stakes. She is, as Van der Velden puts it, a “creative work,” which is true, but also makes her feel like a really well-designed product drop.

The distinction between character vs. product is exactly what has actors and directors furious. Melissa Barrera, Kiersey Clemons, and Abigail Breslin have all called for boycotts of agencies that sign AI performers, with Breslin calling the news “a f--- you to the entire craft.” Mara Wilson accused Van der Velden of “identity theft,” saying Tilly’s face was pieced together from hundreds of real women’s likenesses. Director Reed Morano posted a scorching note on Instagram: “An AI actor has no life experience and no amount of clever prompts can replicate the effect of true humanity and soul.” Actor Lukas Gage joked that “she couldn’t hit her mark and she was late,” because not even a fake actress can’t escape shade on X. Whoopi Goldberg said AI actors have “an unfair advantage,” on the View and she’s ready to compete, but feels “you can always tell them from us.”

The creator’s response arrived fast. In a statement posted to social and given to press, Van der Velden insisted Tilly “is not a replacement for a human being, but a creative work — a piece of art,” arguing AI is “a new paintbrush,” like puppetry, animation, or CGI before it. She framed the project as experimentation, “imagination and craftsmanship,” “iteration,” “holding up a mirror through satire,” and asked that AI characters be judged as their own genre. It’s a clear, confident ask to “welcome AI as part of the wider artistic family.”

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The play by play

It started Monday night, when Kimmel opened his monologue by talking about the killing of conservative activist Charlie Kirk. He didn’t go after Kirk himself — in fact, he barely mentioned him at all — but he did aim his fire at what he called “the MAGA gang,” accusing them of “desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them, and doing everything they can to score political points from it.” It was a sharp, careless line, and critics quickly seized on it as Kimmel implying the shooter was right-wing, even though court filings later showed he had recently begun leaning left politically. Here’s the full thing:

By Tuesday morning, a clip of the monologue was circulating online, amplified by conservative media watchdogs and radio hosts. By evening, Fox News had turned it into a panel topic. Elon Musk called Kimmel “disgusting” on X. And by Wednesday morning, the backlash had reached the top of government: FCC chair Brendan Carr went on a right-wing podcast and warned that ABC affiliates had “a license granted by us” and that the network could “do this the easy way or the hard way.”

By Wednesday afternoon, the pressure campaign was in full swing. Nexstar, the country’s biggest station group, announced it wouldn’t air the show “for the foreseeable future.” Inside Disney, executives scrambled through emergency calls while Kimmel prepared a fiery follow-up monologue for that night’s broadcast. But just hours before taping, with staffers facing doxxing threats and federal pressure hanging over the network, Disney CEO Bob Iger and entertainment chief Dana Walden made the call: pull Kimmel before he could go live.

From Air Force One, President Trump celebrated the suspension, musing that networks giving him “97 percent bad press” should “maybe” have their licenses revoked. The message could not have been clearer: this was about more than one joke, more than one host.

As a working journalist and an NYU journalism grad student, I can’t help but see this story through the lens of my own career, and what it signals about where the industry is headed. It’s made me think hard about the risks we’re willing to take, the compromises we’re asked to make, and what it means to keep telling the truth when the ground under us keeps shifting. Naturally, I have thoughts. Keep reading for all of them.

Let’s look back…

We didn’t land here overnight. We’ve actually been sleepwalking toward this moment since at least 2017, when the Trump White House barred CNN, The New York Times, and several other outlets from a press gaggle — an early sign that hostility toward the press wasn’t just rhetorical but operational. From there, “fake news” became a rallying cry, a scarlet letter slapped on any coverage the administration didn’t like. Section 230, the law that shields online platforms from liability for user content, became a political weapon with both parties threatening to rewrite or repeal it whenever they felt the platforms were hurting their side more than helping it.

Even outside Washington, the culture war has seeped into the media business. Social platforms became the battleground for deciding what speech should stay up and what should come down. Liberals cheered when Alex Jones was banned from Twitter; conservatives cried censorship when Trump himself was suspended after January 6. Everyone claimed the mantle of “free speech,” but few were willing to grant that freedom to the other side.

Fast-forward to this year, and you can feel how much more emboldened Trump’s second administration is. Disney’s decision to bench Kimmel wasn’t an isolated incident, but rather followed Paramount’s abrupt cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (on the record as a cost-cutting move, but one that came after months of Trump attacks on Colbert’s coverage) and comes as David Ellison is circling CNN with plans to steer its editorial line rightward. The chilling effect is cumulative: one by one, the most prominent voices skewering the administration on national television are disappearing, leaving a much quieter, but much more subjective broadcast landscape.

So, what’s really at stake?

Depending on where you sit politically, this is either corporate responsibility (“consequence culture,” as some on the right are now calling it) or state-backed censorship, the very kind the First Amendment was designed to prevent. The right argues that Kimmel went too far, that corporations have the right to discipline employees, and that audiences shouldn’t have to tolerate what they see as smears and/or misinformation. The left argues this isn’t just an overstep, but a warning shot.

I mean, it’s a fact that in the span of two months, Trump has effectively knocked two of late night’s biggest critics off the air. And because broadcasters like ABC still need FCC approval to keep their local stations licensed, and media giants like Disney are pursuing high-stakes deals that require regulatory sign-off, they can’t exactly afford to pick a fight with the White House. The result is a network that doesn’t just weigh the risk of offending viewers, it has to weigh the risk of offending the president. This wasn’t a gentle nudge, it was a shove, and one that sends a message to every journalist, comedian, and critic about what happens when you cross the wrong line.

Where do I land? As a journalist, I’m personally deeply uncomfortable with any government official on ANY side of the spectrum leaning on media companies to silence critics. I don’t watch Kimmel every night. I don’t even like the guy. I thought he did a bad job hosting the Oscar’s. But that’s not the point. The point is that when regulators say, “Do it the easy way or the hard way,” that’s coercion dressed up as persuasion. It’s not just bad for comedy, it’s bad for democracy. And as someone who plans to a living writing things that sometimes irritate people, I’d like to know that my editor’s main concern is whether my argument is good … not whether it might jeopardize the company.

Trump’s latest comments put an even sharper edge on this.

Threatening to revoke TV licenses for “bad coverage” is a clear shot across the bow to every news division, comedy show, and investigative program that might be tempted to take a swing at him. Federal law technically forbids the FCC from yanking licenses over unfavorable coverage, but the point isn’t whether he can do it…it’s that he’s willing to say it out loud, knowing executives will hear the threat and adjust accordingly.

And that’s what makes the Kimmel case feel like a turning point. There is a clear narrowing space for dissent, for risk, for saying something unfavorable without wondering if it’s worth the fallout. When executives start seeing their talent as regulatory liabilities, the jokes get safer, the reporting gets softer, and eventually we stop recognizing ourselves as a democracy at all.

James Madison once warned that:

“A popular government without popular information, or the means of acquiring it, is but a prologue to a farce or a tragedy.”

We’re getting dangerously close to that prologue. If the government can threaten licenses every time it dislikes a joke, it freezes free speech completely.

Maybe this will blow over. Maybe Kimmel will return and no other hosts will lose their jobs. But this week felt like the moment when state power and corporate caution locked arms to silence a voice that had been part of the nightly soundtrack for two decades. Democracy can survive one joke, it always has. What it may not survive is a future where the punchline needs government approval before it ever makes it to air.

Fashion loves a good stunt hire, but respectfully, what does Jaden Smith know about sneakers?

Jaden Smith — actor, rapper, philosopher of the “water is consciousness” school — is now the first-ever men’s creative director at Christian Louboutin. Huh?!

The announcement is headline-worthy because it’s part of a bigger pattern: luxury houses handing the keys to celebrities (and nepo-babies) instead of career designers. Pharrell at Louis Vuitton was the blueprint, but Jaden is younger, less fashion-industry–entrenched, and has nearly 20 million Instagram followers that Louboutin hopes will resuscitate a sluggish men’s business. His first collection will drop during Paris Men’s Fashion Week in January, but what is really dropping is the larger question about what “creative director” even means in 2025.

In a New York Times interview, Christian Louboutin says the idea came to him while swimming laps in Paris (of course), recalling his years of run-ins with Jaden and their “volley of ideas” that never ran out of energy. He describes Jaden as fast, collaborative, and capable of lighting up an entire office when he walks in. Jaden, for his part, talks about designing for “the multiverse of men” (grandfathers, fathers, sons, “rebels”) and bringing a Dadaist sensibility to footwear design, asking questions like, “When does something become a shoe? When does it become art?”

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It now effectively costs $43,000 to access a smoothie in New York.

Erewhon, the Los Angeles temple of celebrity collagen and eyebrow-raising prices, isn’t opening a grocery here; it’s debuting a drinks-only “tonic bar” inside Kith Ivy, a private padel-and-wellness club in the West Village with a $36,000 initiation fee and $7,000 in annual dues. Yes, that puts the $23 Hailey Bieber smoothie behind a velvet rope.

Kith’s members’ club, first flagged by Emily Sundberg’s Feed Me, also clarifies how the brand is translating itself across coasts. In Los Angeles, Erewhon’s performance was public: anyone could walk in, clock the $30 ice cubes and hyper-oxygenated water, and buy a celebrity blend for the plot. In New York, the performance is now privatized. The counter lives inside a key-fob club with Giorgio Armani–branded spa treatments and a dress code that literally requires members to look “well-presented.” Nonmembers may still get delivery via Postmates or Uber Eats if they’re within range, but the sell here isn’t the drink, of course…it’s the access.

Zoom out and the move fits a broader city pivot where access itself has become the amenity.

The private-club boom (Zero Bond, Casa Cipriani, San Vicente, and now Kith Ivy) packages belonging as the core product. The amenities are glossy (Cipriani’s waterfront, San Vicente’s West Village townhouse, padel courts and spa branding at Kith), but the value proposition is knowing you’re inside while others are out.

Wellness has adopted similar logic. Remedy Place bills itself as a “social wellness club,” swapping tequila for cryotherapy, IV drips, and hyperbaric sessions—with bottle-service water priced like a night out. Bathhouse (Williamsburg and Flatiron) turns thermal pools and saunas into a scene; AIRE Ancient Baths stages soaking as theater; Othership’s guided sauna-and-ice sessions function like sober nightlife. It’s nightlife without alcohol, exclusivity repackaged as health.

Dining has shifted in parallel. “Going out” often starts at 10:59 a.m. with the Resy ritual: two devices, Notify lists, and a race against bots, credit-card concierges, and reservation marketplaces that treat prime tables like a tradable asset. When it works, it feels like victory; when it doesn’t, it feels like a lottery. Either way, spontaneity keeps getting priced out.

Erewhon at Kith Ivy lands squarely in that ecosystem.

In LA, the spectacle was accessible from the sidewalk. Here, the smoothie is the souvenir, the setting is the sell.

There are reasonable arguments for all of this. A crowded, chronically overbooked city creates demand for order, privacy, and curated rooms; for some, clubs and wellness hubs are real social anchors. But the optics are unavoidable: a “$43,000 smoothie” during a cost-of-living crunch underscores an underlying truth of the modern wellness economy—mapped neatly by Amy Larocca—that optimization is increasingly sold to those who can afford to opt in. Health isn’t just habit anymore, it’s hierarchy.

There have always been two New Yorks. But right now, it feels like one of them is winning: the one where belonging is bought, not earned, and where taking a selfie of you playing padel = status. Maybe that’s why the other New York, the scrappy one, matters more than ever. But I’ll surely be buying a Hailey Bieber smoothie every week, sue me!

This story isn’t just about one bad job listing or one inherited title, it’s about a system where access is the currency, low wages are the gatekeeping mechanism, and family money greases the ladder. If you don’t come with connections, you need parents who can Venmo your rent until you “make it.” And if you don’t have either? Good luck squeezing through a door that was never built for you.

Scene one: $55K Gate

Recho Omondi’s The Cutting Room Floor has been hailed as one of fashion’s most honest platforms, and one of my personal favorites. Guests like Law Roach and Steve Madden have bared their souls on her mic. So when she posted a job for a studio coordinator/personal assistant/bookings administrator (three jobs in one, might I add) with a $55K salary and no benefits, the internet went feral. Comments ranged from “55K is 33K after taxes” to “Girl, hire your cousin at this rate.”

Omondi defended the role as an “early hustle” opportunity, noting she was once paid $30K out of school and still lived to tell the tale. She claimed 800 people applied anyway. Which, of course, is the point. People are so desperate to wedge themselves into fashion that they’ll take the crumbs…because the industry keeps telling them crumbs are the price of entry.

And here’s the thing: $55K isn’t even uniquely bad. Condé Nast editorial assistants reportedly make around $51K. When I graduated, my first job at a fashion PR agency paid me $47K (gasp!). However, I did at least have benefits. I only survived because my parents floated my rent. Without them, I would’ve been out in a month. That’s the dirty secret: wages this low are designed to sort who can afford to stick around.

Scene two: Vogue’s coronation

While Omondi was being dragged, Vogue announced that Chloe Malle—39 years old, Brown grad, Candice Bergen’s daughter—will succeed Anna Wintour as head of editorial content. She’s been at Vogue since 2011, she’s run Vogue.com, and yes, she’s talented. But the subtext was louder than the press release: after 37 years of Wintour, the crown stays in the family, metaphorically and literally.

Malle doesn’t deny it. In fact, she leaned in, telling The New York Times: “I’m a proud nepo baby. It’s delusional to say otherwise.” Refreshing candor, sure. But naming your privilege doesn’t redistribute it. Her vision for Vogue is “collectible” print issues, thicker paper, niche digital coverage. Interesting, maybe. Radical? Not really. But then again, radicality has never been the job description of an heir apparent.

The double standard

Look at who we torch and who we celebrate. Omondi—Black, indie, self-made—was dragged as the face of exploitation for offering a job that mirrors what the corporate side pays all the time. Malle—white, Hollywood lineage, Condé insider—is celebrated as a steady hand guiding Vogue into its next chapter. Same system. Different optics.

This isn’t to say Malle is unqualified, or that Omondi was above criticism. But the disparity in reactions shows how little grace the industry extends to outsiders while it normalizes insider inheritance as destiny.

Privilege is the pipeline

Fashion has long been obsessed with nepo babies: on runways, in campaigns, on mastheads. But it’s not just a casting quirk, it’s structural. The industry reproduces itself by demanding wealth to survive its early jobs and rewarding lineage at the top. Nepotism isn’t an exception here; it’s the operating system.

And the kicker is that the nepo label has gone from insult to credential. Models like Kaia Gerber shrug it off; editors like Malle embrace it. Audiences roll their eyes, but also click, repost, and share. Brands know this. The nepo economy thrives because we participate in it—even when we’re hate-reading.

So what now?

We can’t meme our way out of structural inequity, but we can stop pretending this is meritocracy. A job that doesn’t pay a living wage isn’t an “opportunity.” A promotion that goes to a nepo heir isn’t just an “inevitable choice.” If fashion wants to be progressive, it has to do more than swap names on the masthead or post a salary with a wince.

Until then, let’s call it what it is. Not just nepo babies. A nepo industry. And the rest of us? We’re just trying to pay rent while they build legacies on thicker paper stock.

Botox has become such a normalized part of beauty maintenance that it’s less about “if” and more about “when.” I wouldn’t say everyone I know is frozen-faced, but at this point I know more people who’ve tried Botox than who haven’t — a quick dabble here, a baby dose there. It’s reached the same tier as balayage or lash lifts: something you experiment with, then decide if you’ll make it a habit.

But with that casualness comes a creeping risk. This spring, the FDA issued a warning after counterfeit Botox was injected in multiple states, leading to hospitalizations with symptoms like drooping eyelids, blurred vision, and even trouble breathing. The fake vials looked convincing enough (purple labels, shiny holograms) but tipped off anyone paying attention with details Allergan doesn’t produce: 150-unit doses, “Botulinum Toxin Type A” instead of “OnabotulinumtoxinA.” Duh!

Then came this Massachusetts case that could’ve been ripped from a Bravo script. An aesthetician named Rebecca Fadanelli was accused of running a nearly $1 million business off counterfeit injectables she allegedly bought on Alibaba for $50 a vial (the real thing costs $650). She reportedly told clients she had a degree from “Havard [sic],” injected them herself without a medical license, and stored vials in a cooler bag. Federal agents seized boxes of knockoffs from her med spa offices. If it sounds absurd, it also feels inevitable…

Because here’s the reality:

The med spa industry is now a $15 billion business in the U.S., with virtually no federal oversight. There’s no single agency regulating med spas nationwide. Instead, state medical boards — often understaffed and underfunded — are expected to police thousands of new clinics opening every year. In practice, many operate with a physician “on paper” while estheticians, assistants, or sometimes completely unlicensed workers handle injections and lasers. That’s how you end up with cases like the one NBC reported: a young woman injected hundreds of times with a “fat-dissolving” cocktail that left her with a drug-resistant infection, on antibiotics for years. NPR documented IV drips gone wrong, patients spiking fevers or winding up in the ER. Even treatments we think of as routine, like chemical peels, can burn skin when handled improperly.

And still, med spas are marketed as wellness playgrounds. Botox next to a vitamin IV. Filler sold like a Sephora upsell. “Fat-melting” shots bundled into package deals. TikTok and Instagram are full of influencer collabs, “Botox parties,” and discount codes that make injectables feel like a casual accessory. It’s the same marketing logic as fast fashion: volume over safety, vibes over standards.

Why is this happening?

Because demand has outpaced regulation. Botox has been rebranded from a medical treatment to a lifestyle choice; “preventative maintenance,” like a retinol prescription with faster results. People want it younger, faster, and cheaper. And in a country where regulation is piecemeal, there’s always someone willing to cut corners to meet that demand.

Here’s the deal: The FDA has named only five wrinkle-relaxers as safe and approved: Botox, Dysport, Xeomin, Jeuveau, Daxxify. Anything else is either compounded, imported, or counterfeit. There are coalitions pushing for stricter oversight, but until federal regulation catches up, enforcement is reactive. That leaves patients (us) to do the policing ourselves.

Listen, I’m not anti-Botox. (See me at 27 for proof.) But if Botox is going to be treated like a rite of passage we need to be honest about the stakes. Counterfeits and corner-cutting aren’t hypothetical. They’re already here, sending people to the hospital, or worse.

So maybe the takeaway isn’t “don’t get Botox.” It’s: don’t get Botox without asking uncomfortable questions.

Who’s injecting you? Where did they buy their product? Is the hologram real? The safest move isn’t swearing off injectables altogether, it’s remembering that they are actual medical procedures, not menu add-ons.

Because the only thing more inevitable than crow’s-feet is the fact that if something feels too cheap to be true, it probably is. And in this case, the cost isn’t just a bad deal, it’s your health.

I remember my first time ever smoking a cigarette. It was a gray fall day in October or maybe November and I was visiting a friend in Oxford (England). The friend I had come to visit, her friends from school, and me were sitting on a cobblestoned street in the outdoor area of a bar. I must’ve been fifteen or an old fourteen so in all likelihood there was a vodka redbull in my hand. A little ways away, at another table, there was a group of boys, boys that attended the same school as my friend, boys that we wanted to talk to.

How to do it? We brainstormed and decided the best way to approach them was by asking for a light, you know, in the movie way. One girl had a pack of cigarettes that had probably sat in her bag for at least two months. Who was going to do it? Who was going to be the brave girl to ask? I volunteered.

Picture me as I march over: I had not had a growth spurt yet, so I had the body of an eight-year-old, vis-a-vis chest area. I was probably wearing skinny jeans, a Zadig & Voltaire-style long-sleeve shirt with a gemstone skull on the back, and crudely applied make-up. I suffered from horrible cystic acne that left my chin a red, cratered battleground. My hair was slightly tinted green after a failed attempt to dye it an ashy blue without bleaching my hair first, and despite the dye being marketed as “temporary,” and “fading in approximately ten washes,” had left me Shrek-like for months. Finally, the piece-de-resistance, I still had braces.

And yet, there I was, with a cigarette delicately held between two fingers walking over to the boys, cloaked in confidence only a visitor could have, the knowledge that Oxford wasn’t where I lived and that I, more than likely, would never see any of them again.

I went straight to the main one. He had blonde hair that reached past his ears and was already smoking a cigarette. He eyed me, tendrils of smoke escaping his nose.

“Can I have a light?,” I asked, smiling in an awkward attempt at being charming.

“Sure,” He responded.

He fished the lighter from his pocket as I held out my cigarette towards him, maybe a foot away from my face, confidently expecting a light.

“Aren’t you gunna suck in?”

I blushed, my total inexperience showing. Right, I thought, you need to inhale to light the cigarette. But I really didn’t want to inhale, smoking was bad for you after all.

I quickly put my lips to the filter as he lit my cigarette. The end glowed a bright orange as I rushed back to my table.

We didn’t talk to the boys for the rest of the night.

How it’s going

Since then, I have had smoking and non-smoking periods of my life. I smoked socially throughout high school and college. I had a couple months here and there where smoking was far less casual, but I could always just stop. But in the last year, things have shifted. I am smoking far more regularly. It has become a ritual, a break from what’s going on. I stand outside, take a few breaths, and smoke (only about three to five cigarettes a day). In June, I quit cold turkey and did so successfully for months, but in pursuit of this (very important and relatable) story I faltered. I am smoking regularly again. Sorry mom, but I’ll quit soon, promise.

So, what is this story? I know I have a special knack for making things all about me, but this isn’t just a personal essay, it’s investigative journalism (ha!).

In the smoke shop downstairs from my old apartment on 30th and Madison a pack of Marlboro Reds is $14. Pretty good. But one day I was downtown and needed a new pack. I went to a deli by Astor Place and the cigarettes were $21. $21?!??? A seven dollar price differential? Extortion-like!

This set me off on a journey only a person dedicated to the best bargain could take, a journey to find the cheapest cigarettes in New York City.

Putting my Journalism skills to good use (on the ground)

I started by going around to all of the bodegas in my neighborhood asking, “how much for a pack of Marlboro reds?” and worked my way to the Bronx and Harlem (Brooklyn is so big that it was daunting to cover that much ground, so I decided not to cross a river for this story, ruling out Staten Island too).

In my neighborhood aka hell aka midtown east, on 1st from 57th to 59th there is a string of at least three delis. Dusk to Dawn told me that he’d sell me a pack of Marlboro Reds for $19.

“Only for you,” he said.

Literally right across the street at 57th Street Corner Convenience a pack of Marlboro Reds is $17. Does this put into perspective why this matters? Would you cross the street for $2? I certainly would.

In Noho, the East Village, and the Lower East Side the median price of a pack of Marlboro Reds from what I found was around $20 dollars. In Hell’s Kitchen it's around $19.

I walked around the West Village and Chelsea on a sweltering day and found a wide range of prices spanning a few blocks. At a bodega across from Olio e Pui the Reds are 18.50 but nearby at 6th Avenue Deli & Grill a pack is $15! At World of Organic on 7th Ave and 21st Street it’s $17 but a block away at 7th Avenue Convenience Ultimate Smoke Shop it’s $14.

In Harlem, I walked into a bodega with a real sense of community and a pack cost $19.

On the Upper West Side I went to one deli that didn’t sell cigarettes at all and another that was also selling cigarettes for $19

“The license is expensive,” the clerk told me.

In NoMad, the smoke shop on Madison between 29th and 30th (my old haunt) sells Reds for $14 but around the corner, housed in the same building is a deli selling them for $19, a five dollar difference within the same building.

On the Upper East Side there is an absolute cigarette shortage. Around 96th, I went to three delis that didn’t sell cigarettes at all. Demand must be low. On my fourth deli, they sold Marlboro Reds for $20 on the dot.

Finally, the cheapest pack I found was in the Bronx. At Maysa Gourmet Deli on Rider Ave and E 138th, a pack of Marlboro Reds is $12. If I were a regular smoker and my closest bodega sold a pack for $21 I would make the trip to the Bronx, pick up several packs and bring them home. A $9 difference is nothing to laugh at. I bought a pack, it was too good a deal to resist.

Putting my journalism skills to good use (on the internet)

My trip to the Upper East Side got me thinking: how many of these delis actually have a license to sell tobacco and does that affect the price?

According to the Health Department, a “bodega” is any store under 300 square feet that sells milk, meat, or eggs, isn’t a specialty shop (like a bakery or butcher), and has no more than two cash registers. In 2010, the department estimated there were about 13,000 bodegas in New York City. That number doesn’t include the surge of smoke shops in the last four years. Yet, in 2022, Columbia University found just 5,107 active tobacco retail licenses in the city. That means nearly two-thirds of bodegas are selling vapes, cigarettes, and nicotine pouches illegally.

You can often tell who’s licensed by where the cigarettes are kept: if they’re proudly lined up behind the counter in full view, the shop is probably legal. If they’re hidden under the counter or behind a curtain, odds are they’re not. Those unlicensed sellers skip the $200 license fee (renewed every two years), a cost that might not dramatically change retail prices but adds to the list of reasons some cigarettes sell cheaper.

Then there’s packaging. Cigarettes sold legally in the U.S. carry a small gold-lettered Surgeon General’s warning, “Quitting Smoking Now Greatly Reduces Serious Risks to Your Health,” a requirement dating back to the 1965 Federal Cigarette Labeling and Advertising Act. Amendments in the 1980s and 1990s introduced rotating warnings about cancer, heart disease, pregnancy risks, and addiction. Our warnings are discreet; in Canada, the labels are so large and graphic that it’s almost impossible to smoke without confronting them.

Legit cigarettes in New York also have New York State and New York City tax stamps on the plastic wrap, showing taxes have been paid. But on-the-ground observation reveals plenty of packs without warnings or stamps, or with stamps from other states. Many are likely imported from countries with looser regulations and no U.S. tobacco taxes, another reason they’re cheaper.

It takes a village to tell a well-rounded story

I’ve been talking about this story for months. The price differential has plagued me enough to yell about it at parties and to gnaw my doorman’s ear off. Most people either don’t care or respond with the dreaded “interesting,” which might be the biggest slight in the English language. But my friend Olivia said something that nearly blew my whole theory apart.

She asked: “Isn’t there a price differential across products depending on the neighborhood you’re in, and the price the residents of that neighborhood are willing to pay?”

Duh. Of course there is. And yes, apparently I am naïve enough to think Oreos cost the same in every corner of New York City.

To check myself, I went back out and asked about the price of something far more innocent than a pack of cigarettes: a can of Coca-Cola. My research wasn’t as obsessive this time, but I did find variation ranging from $1 to $2. Still, nothing in the deli comes close to tobacco in terms of price whiplash.

My takeaway

A well-meaning friend told me, “This is the most Jewish way you could go about smoking.”

Am I crazy for wanting to save a couple bucks? I don’t think so. Is it strange to get borderline angry about cigarette pricing? Maybe. My grandmother might be proud of the thrift, though probably not the habit. Still, I’m happy to be a penny-pincher-extraordinaire when it comes to one of the most expensive and pervasive vices out there.

Who is this story for? I’m not sure there’s a big market for “extremely frugal serious smokers.” And I doubt there’s a huge contingent of Jews who care more about their wallets than their lungs.

But in recent years, cigarette smoking has had a strange cultural resurgence. I could joke that everyone’s just faking it—trying to look worldly and aloof—or that I lose half my packs to friends who “only smoke when they’re drunk,” subsidizing their non-habit with my real one. But truthfully, I see more smoking overall in my circles.

So this is for all of them: the everyday smokers, the tipsy smokers, the on-the-fence smokers who buy a pack once in a while. I hope it nudges you to think before you grab the nearest pack from the nearest deli. Shop around. And if you want to apply the same logic to a can of Coke or a pack of Oreos, go ahead. Basically, I want you to think of me every time you buy cigarettes.

Last Thursday morning, David Ellison walked into CBS News headquarters like a man who just found out your single sliding into your DMs: fast, intense, and making a lot of promises. Less than 24 hours earlier, the $8 billion Skydance–Paramount merger had officially closed, making Ellison (41 years old), the new CEO and chairman of Paramount, a Skydance Corporation.

For background, Ellison is the son of Larry Ellison, cofounder of Oracle, one of Silicon Valley’s most powerful and famously competitive tech companies. He grew up surrounded by the culture of high-growth, high-stakes tech entrepreneurship. That upbringing shows in how he talks about and runs his businesses. It was all handshakes, cameras, and “Day One” soundbites. But if you’ve been in this particular relationship before (and I have) you know the “amazing first date” hides a lot of messy backstory.

I used to work for Showtime Sports, which Paramount abruptly shut down at the end of 2024. And now? My ex (company) is spending $7.7 billion to absorb the UFC (where my ex-boyfriend works, by the way) — a live sports property that, frankly, isn’t all that different from the one they canned. If this were a rom-com, I’d be the audience member whispering, “Oh, so NOW you’re into combat sports?”

Here’s the plot so far.

The Skydance–Paramount deal was one of the most talked about mergers in the media world, and not in a fun, “look at this power couple” way. In the months before it closed, Donald Trump was suing CBS and Paramount for defamation over a 60 Minutes interview, demanding $20 billion. A lawsuit like that can blow up a merger — think of it as finding out your new partner is still in court with their ex. It finally settled in July for a reported $16 million, no apology, but with new guardrails for how CBS will handle political candidate interviews going forward. That was the first sign that Ellison would be inheriting not just a movie studio (Paramount), but a newsroom (CBS) with a target on its back.

Then came the money fights. Some of Paramount’s own investors — including New York City and Rhode Island pension funds — accused the company of selling itself too cheaply just to get this Skydance deal done. Meanwhile, Apollo and Sony came sniffing around with competing offers, hoping to lure Paramount away at the last minute. The FCC, basically the relationship counselor in this scenario, only gave its blessing after all the lawsuits, rival bids, and paperwork were put to bed. By the time Ellison officially got the keys, the place wasn’t a fresh start. It was a house with half-unpacked boxes, angry in-laws, and a to-do list that could bury you.

Ellison wasted no time making moves.

He promised $2 billion in cost cuts, reorganized the company into three divisions — Studios, Direct-to-Consumer, and TV Media — and told Vanity Fair he has “zero interest” in partisan politics, calling CBS News’ independence “sacrosanct.” That’s the kind of line you give on the first date to signal you’re not going to snoop through someone’s phone. But then came his first real flex: the UFC deal.

Seven years, $7.7 billion, exclusive U.S. rights. Forty-three events a year on Paramount+ and CBS starting in 2026. No more pay-per-view. For Ellison, it’s a way to make Paramount+ indispensable, especially to the young, male-skewing audience UFC dominates. For Wall Street, it’s a bold growth and retention play after Paramount+ lost 2.8 million subscribers earlier this year despite raising prices.

For me, it’s obviously whiplash.

Showtime Sports had been covering boxing and MMA for decades. We were nimble, well-regarded, and doing the kind of storytelling UFC can only dream about. Paramount shut us down in the name of cost-cutting, and now they’re writing one of the biggest checks in sports media history for something in the same lane. Sure, UFC comes with its own controversies — fighter pay, head trauma lawsuits — but that hasn’t stopped Ellison from selling it as the crown jewel of his new era.

Ellison—a former pilot and the guy who built Skydance into a blockbuster factory with titles like Top Gun: Maverick, Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning, and Jack Ryan— talks about “unifying tech stacks” and “AI-enabled localization” with the same ease other execs talk about ratings and premieres. It’s the language of Silicon Valley (efficiency, scalability, automation) and it thrills investors as much as it unsettles creatives.

That’s the real tension here.

Ellison is trying to run Paramount as both a legacy studio and a tech company, a hybrid built for streaming, global expansion, and cost discipline. If he pulls it off, he could redefine what a Hollywood major looks like in the 2020s. If he doesn’t, the company risks losing the very identity that makes it valuable.

From my vantage point (former employee, current bystander) it’s like watching your ex start dating someone completely different while still wearing the sweater you bought them. The speed is dizzying. The moves are expensive. The stakes are enormous. And the plot is only getting messier. Maybe Ellison will turn Paramount into a streaming-era powerhouse. Or maybe this will go down as one more overhyped rebound. Either way, I can’t stop watching.

Welcome to the modern dupe economy, a full-blown retail ecosystem where everything from $15 primers to $3,500 coats can be replicated, rebranded, and resold at a third of the price, with a side of moral justification. Not knockoffs. Not fakes. Just... “inspired by.” It’s a world where Steve Madden is likening his designer “nicks” to the Beatles borrowing from Motown, and Charlotte Tilbury is publicly fighting Target shelf placement like it’s trench warfare. In the middle of it all: Quince, a beige-swathed retail behemoth now valued at $4.5 billion, is lowkey becoming a favorite of both Hamptons wedding planners and frugal moms everywhere.

The timing makes sense. We’re in an era of peak economic disillusionment: rent is up, wages are flat, and Instagram keeps dangling that one influencer’s $4,000 Italy capsule wardrobe in your face like it’s a birthright. No one wants to feel duped by fashion anymore. So dupes, ironically, feel like power. They’re the closest thing we have to aesthetic upward mobility.

Since its 2019 launch, Quince has scaled from cashmere sweaters and Turkish towels to luggage, diamonds, dog beds, and — as of this summer — over 200 new fashion SKUs in a single drop. Their website calls it “affordable luxury.” Critics call it a Shein with better lighting. Their business model is ruthlessly efficient: scrape competitor sales data, replicate the trend, manufacture it overseas (often paying vendors post-purchase, not upfront), and undercut everyone on price. Sometimes down to the descriptor copy (Yeti, UGG, Coach, and others have sued or threatened to). But despite litigation, Quince rarely flinches.

Their success is undeniable. Sales tripled in 2023 and doubled again in 2024, now reportedly pushing $700 million annually. The company has no storefronts, no celebrity ambassadors, and no creative director; just low overhead, Google ad dominance, and a slick UI that reads more like a PDF moodboard than an actual brand. It's Everlane without the earnestness. Kirkland Signature with better SEO.

Meanwhile, the makeup aisle has its own “duper”: e.l.f. Cosmetics has made its name with sub-$10 recreations of prestige beauty products. Charlotte Tilbury’s $49 Hollywood Flawless Filter became e.l.f.’s $14 Halo Glow. Dior lip oil? Check. Drunk Elephant bronzing drops? Been done.

In interviews, e.l.f. executives frame this as democratization. “Accessibility is innovation,” said MCoBeauty CMO Meridith Rojas, another dupe-forward brand stocked at Target. And in a market where viral beauty products are often unattainably priced, it’s hard to argue. e.l.f. is now one of the fastest-growing beauty brands in America.

And then there’s Steve Madden, the one-time mall staple turned dupe-world icon. On The Cutting Room Floor podcast (one of my favorites, by the way), he openly identified the luxury designs his company has "borrowed" — Alaïa’s fishnet flats, Hermès’s Oran sandals, Chanel’s cap-toe ballerinas, The Row’s $700 jelly shoes — and doubled down. “This is not a copy,” he laughed, giggled about his version of Gucci’s horsebit mule. “We changed it a little bit.” TikTok erupted in approval. His stock price literally rose. The virality worked.

All of this points to a broader truth: the stigma around dupes is gone. The copy is no longer shameful. Dupes are celebrated, framed as evidence of savvy taste in an inflated economy. Even Walmart’s “Wirkin,” a $98 Birkin-style tote, went viral late last year for its absurdity and its genius. Because in 2025, the only thing more gauche than a $12,000 Hermès bag might be paying for it.

But this isn’t just a story about fake fashion. It’s a story about taste. About speed. About the slow erosion of aesthetic risk under a hyper-capitalist algorithm. Because baby, as the dupe economy grows, it’s not just price points that are collapsing… it’s originality, too.

Look around. The Pinterest moodboards. The Tank Air dupe dances on TikTok, always linked. The “wardrobe staples” repeated ad nauseam in a sea of navy, ivory, camel. “Bourgeois normcore,” trend analyst Sean Monahan calls it — a post-hype, post-logo, post-style uniform designed to signal safety and taste while saying absolutely nothing. It’s Carolyn Bessette cosplay flattened into content. A symptom of our homogenized visual culture, accelerated by the same tech tools that sell us the dupe.

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Last week, American Eagle launched a campaign starring Sydney Sweeney. The ad opens with her draped over a white Mustang, reciting a monologue about inherited traits like hair and eye color. The camera lingers on her obviously perfect body. She says, “My jeans are blue.”

The screen then flashes: “Sydney Sweeney has great genes,” with “genes” crossed out and replaced with “jeans.” That line — a dad joke of sorts — kicked off one of the weirdest culture wars of the year.

Some online critics argued the campaign was promoting eugenics. Others suggested it was coded white supremacist messaging. TikToks dissected Sweeney’s looks and accent. MSNBC warned of a cultural shift toward whiteness. And on the other end of the spectrum, politicians like Ted Cruz leapt in to defend her, casting Sweeney as a symbol of “anti-woke resistance.” Doja Cat posted a parody video mocking the ad, while users debated whether the campaign was dumb, dangerous, or just another brand baiting outrage for clicks.

@dojacatmy jeans are blee

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And somewhere in all that noise, no one asked the most basic question:

WTF was this ad even trying to say in the first place — and how did it get approved?

According to Ashley Schapiro, a VP of marketing at American Eagle, the tone of the campaign didn’t come from some horned-up executive team. It came straight from Sweeney. On a Zoom call, when asked how far she wanted to take it, she allegedly said, “Let’s push it, I’m game.”

And push it they did. The rollout included 3D billboards in Times Square, an AI-powered try-on feature, and a limited-edition “Sydney Jean” embroidered with a butterfly — with all proceeds going to Crisis Text Line, a nonprofit supporting survivors of domestic violence, a cause Sweeney has spoken about before (which, to be fair, is great). They even splashed the campaign across the Vegas Sphere, transforming the world’s most expensive screen into a giant blue-jean pun.

The whole thing was built to dominate your feed. As NPR reported, the goal wasn’t necessarily to be clever — it was to be seen. “People remember disruption,” brand strategist Allen Adamson told Morning Edition. “Especially when you’re selling something as interchangeable as jeans.”

As the internet has been doing more and more lately, it polarized itself.

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It’s called a “duty to inform,” and while it sounds like something a knight might swear on a battlefield, it’s really just the bare minimum. After a formal interview, employers will have 45 days to give candidates a final answer. Yes or no. That’s all. No crystal ball. No lengthy call. Just the decency of a response.

What’s wild is that it took legislation to get here. Somewhere along the way, we decided that ghosting — once reserved for commitment-phobic Tinder matches — was a valid corporate communication strategy. Companies now require cover letters, portfolio links, take-home assignments, and three rounds of interviews just to hit you with the cold, silent void. And if you’re lucky, maybe an automated “we’ll keep your resume on file” email that reads like it was written by a Roomba.

I know this because I’ve been ghosted more times than I can count. Interviews I prepped for like a sophomore-year midterm. Follow-ups I agonized over. Refreshing my inbox like I was waiting on a college acceptance letter.

I once had a job where I made it to the final round, met five members of the team, and then heard nothing. Not a rejection, not a “we went with someone else,” not even a “we’ve decided to freeze the role” — just radio silence. As if the whole process had been a dream I imagined.

I’m not the only one, I fear. According to Greenhouse, 75% of candidates never hear back after an interview. In tech, it’s even bleaker… 77% say they’ve been ghosted post-interview (a number that feels almost generous if you’ve actually tried to get a job in that world lately). It’s not an isolated bad experience anymore, it’s part of the user journey. Ghosting has become so embedded in the hiring process that it feels less like a red flag and more like a core feature. Right alongside unpaid test projects, 12-step interview pipelines, and personality questions ripped from a freshman year RA orientation. (What’s your spirit animal, and how would it thrive in a fast-paced hybrid environment?)

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