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GQP troll Candace Owens joined the long line of malicious conservatives who have tried to accuse George Soros of being a Nazi collaborator, asking on her Daily Wire show today, "Is it plausible that he was actually sympathetic to the Nazis?" — Read the rest
"I love the poorly educated," Donald Trump said in 2016 after polls showed that most of his support came from people who did not attend college. And so does Rudy Giuliani, or so he says on his Common (non)Sense podcast, desperately hoping to charm that same faction of Trump's MAGA base. — Read the rest
Gabriella Paiella pays homage to the ultimate “Dad movie,” Master and Commander, a staggering 20 years after its release. Made in a different era of Hollywood, this fun essay also reflects on how the movie experience has changed over the decades.
Any nostalgia stirred up by Master and Commander is also nostalgia for a different era of Hollywood. This sort of richly detailed, big-budget historical epic rarely gets a chance in today’s movie landscape. And even if the action isn’t the point, the battles absolutely kick ass, using practical effects that would probably be weightless CGI these days.
With Kanye-dependency withdrawal at Adidas and engineered-scarcity blowback at Nike, the sneakerhead world has evolved into a legitimate plurality, and New Balance seems better equipped than anyone to capitalize. Joshua Hunt explains the company’s self-aware dadness with the context and verve to make this a rewarding read — even for those who never braved a predawn line outside Undefeated.
Understanding the evolution of the 990 is a useful way of appreciating how New Balance, America’s most sensible sneaker brand, has captured the zeitgeist in these decidedly nonsensical times. When the 990 was launched in 1982, its four years of development made it the first running shoe with a $100 retail price; a decade or so later, it found new life as a casual sneaker worn by dressed-down celebrities at red-carpet events; and by the turn of the millennium, the 990 had achieved a bizarre niche ubiquity among subcultures as disparate as straight-edge hardcore kids, underground hip-hop fans, and Upper West Side dads. Puzzling out how all of this came to be, and how New Balance managed to bridge the aesthetic gap between Bernie Sanders and Emily Ratajkowski to become one of the most coveted shoes on the planet—while in the process reordering the global pecking order in the $86 billion sneaker market—reveals one of the more improbable success stories in fashion right now.
After years of the NBA being the most Extremely Online sports league on the planet, the chickens are coming home to roost. ESPN hot takes, podcasts, halftime shows — no matter the medium or the source, players are feeling some kind of way about the scrutiny they’re under. Sure, Alex Wong’s dispatch might be a little inside-baseballbasketball for non-fans, but it’s breezy and distillative enough that you’ll leave with some sense of what the r/nba obsessives among us live with every single day.
Welcome to the NBA’s generational wars, where today’s terminally online athletes are fed up with seeing every detail of their lives analyzed under a microscope. Unlike other, less permissive sports leagues, the NBA has long embraced the amplifying powers of social media—from its early embrace of Instagram recappers like @HouseOfHighlights to its cultivation of NBA Twitter—but now we find ourselves at an inflection point, and its young stars are fed up and lashing out.
Bella Ramsey’s journey across a post-apocalyptic landscape — as Ellie, alongside curmudgeonly smuggler Joel (Pedro Pascal) — in The Last of Us, has been a ratings hit on both sides of the Atlantic. Her brilliant performance has silenced some of her online critics, but as Jack King finds out in this insightful profile, the hate she has faced has taken its toll.
So many scenes were ingrained in my mind, from her fiery introduction to the tears that seemed to manifest from nowhere as one particular mid-season episode hit its climactic tragedy, plus many later moments that would be unfair to spoil.
To those outside the world of mountaineering, Nims Purja is the subject of the Netflix documentary 14 Peaks, which chronicled his journey to climb all of the world’s 8,000-meter mountains in record time. To many of those inside the world of mountaineering, though, Nims Purja is a climber in every sense of the word — as much a showboat and a hustle-minded careerist as a talented alpinist. In this gnarled, complex profile, Grayson Schaffer tries to get the measure of the man from all angles, folding in everything from Purja’s newfound influencer clientele to the fraught history of the Nepali sherpa community. It’s a hell of a read, even to those of us who will never set foot in a base camp.
He says he’s the CEO of nine companies, though he won’t name them all. His book and movie are both autobiographical. The former, a best seller, reads like the kind of memoir written by American politicians who have suddenly taken to vacationing in Iowa. The latter, Nims says, was Netflix’s most popular release of 2021. He gets consistent corporate speaking gigs, and his one-on-one guiding rate up Everest is, he told me, more than a million dollars.
It’s a lot. Nims is a lot. But his hustle and bravado are precisely the things that have allowed him to break into the mainstream from Nepal’s deep bench of climbing talent. I’ve covered mountaineering and Sherpa culture on and off for more than a decade, and while there have always been insanely strong climbers with roots in Nepal, nobody has ever amassed the mind share, as the marketers say, that Nims has. In the process he’s gathered a legion of devotees and plenty of critics, all of them hoping to cement his reputation as either a generational talent among high-altitude mountaineers or else an egotistical self-promoter flying perilously close to the sun.
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