Category: Culture

  • Worse than woke, Smithsonian art is bad

    Worse than woke, Smithsonian art is bad

    There’s a common myth in American culture that only the left is capable of producing great art.

    Right-wing art must be formulaic and preachy because it values established norms, while only transgressive leftism can reach new frontiers of form – or so we’re told. But what happens when the left’s own norms become dominantly rigid?

    Well, you wind up with the 20 exhibits that the Trump administration now rightly aims to purge from the Smithsonian’s sprawling array of museums, along with many other abuses.

    Since his inauguration, Trump has worked to rid wokeness from our cultural institutions through executive order, prompting leftist outrage against a so-called “attack” on the arts. Yet the exhibits singled out in a White House statement earlier this week are so cartoonishly absurd, overtly political, and downright bad that one has to wonder how they’re even considered art – let alone worthy of consideration in our capitol’s preeminent gallery collection?

    One painting in the National Portrait Gallery shows an immigrant family climbing a ladder over Trump’s border wall. Hints of Soviet realism are glossed over by a contemporary AI aesthetic. Hey Grok, generate an image of white guilt.

    Another shows a black man in a pink wig and blue slip dress posed as the Statue of Liberty. Put it outside a campy West Village gay bar, sure – but not in the Smithsonian.

    Still another shows an Afro-Latina with butterflies stuck in her afro, along with the words “My Dreams Are Not Illegal.” The digitally rendered pop-style feels like something you’d find in TJ Maxx.

    Yet no lefty collection would be complete without a sketch series that “examines the career” of Dr. Fauci. Although your average Science Believer might find these depictions of Saint Fauci better suited for the Vatican.

    Perhaps worse than the art itself are the didactic placards often attached to even classic works.

    The Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Latino uses quotes from avowed communists like Angela Davis to frame American history as rooted in “colonization.” The American History Museum claimed Pilgrims are a “myth” and reframed Benjamin Franklin’s legacy as “almost solely” about slavery. Even the American Women’s History Museum declared itself “inclusive” of men who claim to be women.

    The common strain in all these exhibits is best captured by the Smithsonian’s now infamous 2021 campaign against “white dominant culture” – the “ways white people and their traditions, attitudes, and ways of life have been normalized over time” at the expense of everyone else. Everything from “the nuclear family” to “work ethic” and even objective metrics like “intellect” are said to lead to the oppression of women and minorities.

    The Smithsonian now seemingly exists to dismantle it all: we are a nation of the oppressed, which must become a nation for the oppressed – and that’s all there is to it.

    It’s laughable to frame dismantling exhibits like these as a generic “attack” on the arts given the state of the arts today. But left with no other choice, liberals are forced to defend this garbage as art, naive to the fact everything they once said about conservative art now applies to their own cultural output.

    To be fair, the right has produced some pretty bad art in recent decades. How many preachy Lifetime-quality movies do we really need on the horrors of abortion? We get it. But the fringe segment of tacky, conformist con-art pales in comparison to the national arts establishment.

    An artist (or writer, or poet, or filmmaker) cannot win esteem within mainstream cultural institutions – nearly all of which operate like the Smithsonian – on his merits alone. So in order to find success, artists conform to the dominant cultural tendency whether they agree with it or not, all seeking to out-do each other in a race to the bottom of anti-Americanism. As this continues apace, the institutions must accept ever-worse art, throwing away their own legacy and prestige on the altar of political correctness. Far from filtering for talent or vision, this selection process actually incentivizes lazy art: after all, the ideological check-box is all that matters.

    This is how we wind up with embarrassingly bad art in the Smithsonian – but it can’t go on forever.

    “The Smithsonian is OUT OF CONTROL, where everything discussed is how horrible our Country is,” Trump wrote on Truth Social. “Nothing about Success, nothing about Brightness, nothing about the Future.”

    The real cutting edge of modern art lies in the very bright and different future that Trump imagines. But those visionary artists who discover it will have little need for the failed gatekeepers of the Smithsonian.

  • With Love, Meghan 2 is just as vacuous as season one

    Like death and taxes, the second instalment of With Love, Meghan has come around again, sloughing into view to the usual chorus of disapproval and confusion. The news recently broke that Netflix has deigned to allow Harry ’n’ Meghan another five years of deciding not to make their future projects. In light of that, this second series of the hitherto unloved show – filmed at the same time as the first – has been presented to a previously indifferent global public in the hope that it will distract from many of the unflattering and embarrassing stories about the Duke of Sussex that have proliferated this year.

    Harry is entirely absent from this series of With Love, Meghan, although he and the couple’s children are often referred to. Instead, this is Meghan: the solo show, and as she trills Californian-inflected pieties to her sycophantic assortment of not-so-special guests, there is the occasional gleam of desperation just about visible underneath her equally gleaming smile. It is fair to say that the many attempts to launch her as a solo star – via television, podcasts and, of course, her “As Ever” product range – have not been as successful as she (and those with a vested interest in her earning power) might have wished. Unless she is prepared to write yet another tell-all memoir, she risks dwindling into obscurity.

    With this in mind, what’s With Love, Meghan II like? The surprising answer is that the second run-around is actually slightly more bearable than the first. Don’t get me wrong – it’s still ghastly, tedious dreck, seemingly produced for an audience that has no critical faculties whatsoever and is content to regard whatever is taking place on their televisions without any necessary judgement – but it throws up a few minor points of interest, which is more than the earlier series did. The presence of the Michelin-starred British chef Clare Smyth – who did the catering for Harry and Meghan’s wedding – in the sixth episode lifts proceedings considerably. Smyth is a proper person, unlike most of the non-entities featured here, and in her brief appearance manages to imbue the show with a professionalism and dry wit that are entirely absent from the platitudinous nonsense elsewhere.

    This is brand reinforcement, pure and simple

    As for the rest of it, your tolerance and enjoyment for therapy-speak and carefully ladled-out nuggets of minor gossip will be tested. Meghan offers fleeting, inconsequential details that are expressed with virtually the same amount of gravity, whether it’s her reminiscing about her love for the “grandma radio” show Magic FM, describing her three-week separation from her children in the aftermath of the Queen’s death as something that left her “not well,” or the revelation that she made her husband a personalized baseball cap for his 40th birthday party, emblazoned with the logo PH40. There is also the surreal reminder that Meghan and her friend Chrissy Teigen briefly appeared as briefcase-wielding models on the American version of the quiz show Deal or No Deal, although sadly Meghan never appeared alongside Noel Edmonds, which would have made for a cosmic shock of toxic proportions.

    I cannot imagine that those who shunned the first series of With Love, Meghan will be lured back in for this go-around, and I’m already dreading the Christmas special. The food cooked is largely unappetizing, and viewers are likely to be mystified by both the identity of the “special guests” and why, say, putting a roast chicken in the oven is treated with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the opening of the Ark of the Covenant, but this is not the point. 

    This is brand reinforcement, pure and simple. And should – heaven forbid! – Harry and Meghan ever go their separate ways, this is a reminder that the distaff half of the brand is more than capable of putting herself out into the public eye as a solo prospect. That revelatory memoir has, you feel, just come a tiny bit closer.   

  • Taylor and Travis save America

    Taylor and Travis save America

    Elon Musk and Taylor Swift fans rejoice! America’s birthrate is saved!

    News of the engagement between America’s reigning sweetheart, Taylor Swift, and jock, Travis Kelce, can mean only one thing: a millennial marriage boom is upon us. And with it, natalists will hope, an impending baby boom.

    I’m no Swiftie. Nor am I one of those men who’s organized his entire political identity around hating the singer. Still, I can’t deny that I feel uplifted by the jubilation erupting across the nation this afternoon. Why? Because Taylor and Travis are taking a stand against pessimism. America’s permanently heartbroken oldest daughter has escaped her fate (for now). These are people taking the leap! Committing to something! How exciting is that?

    Talking about the birthrate is so passé. Cringe, even. I have no desire to weigh in (and wouldn’t be, had my editor not twisted my arm into writing this piece), even as I acknowledge that it poses a serious problem for the nation’s future. So too does the hesitancy toward marriage and even dating among the young. But any Millennial or Zoomer forced to brave the dating market in recent years knows the battle of the sexes has gone nuclear. An overriding pessimism about the value of relationships, with all their potential for pain and suffering, has metastasized; in heterosexual relationships, a casual two-way hatred of the other sex has also become disturbingly commonplace.

    Enter Travis and Taylor. Their engagement post, which at the time of writing has racked up some 10 million likes, is surprisingly suburban. It looks like an engagement backdrop I’ve scrolled past a thousand times. There is little extravagance in it (excluding the boulder of a diamond). But they’re making a marriage proposal – a daunting prospect – appear attainable, and more than that, mundane. There’s something lovely about that everydayness that shouldn’t be lost on the billions of people who see it.

    Commentators will quickly point out that this engagement is timed eerily close to the announcement of Taylor’s new album, The Life of a Showgirl. Maybe this is all stage-managed opportunism, then. Probably. But everything our celebrity class does is stage-managed opportunism, and this example is at least subversive for how surprising and against-the-current it is. The underlying message: take a chance. Ask her out – if not on your family sports podcast, then at least at the bar. Certainly this is less damaging to the national psyche than, say, the public dissolution of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West’s union.

    Conservatives will quickly claim the Tayvis union as a win for their political camp. But Taylor mastered the art of vague messaging long ago, and as is often the case, there’s something for everyone. With the announcement, Taylor seems to be telling her fans that you can have it all – the marriage and the career (not exactly a New Right talking point). Anyone with an internet connection, which is to say everyone, will recall that she was most recently in the news for the announcement of Life of a Showgirl, on the cover of which she appeared very scantily clad. Contrast this with the image of her today in a walled-off garden wearing a modest dress. You can be a showgirl and a happy fiancée, she seems to be saying. Is this tenable? Will it end in heartbreak? Who knows. But it’s a nice thought.  

    Kelce, whom I suspect can’t read, is certainly marrying up. He’s no slouch, of course. NFL-loving men across the country have had their hearts repeatedly broken by the future Hall of Famer and the Kansas City Chiefs on too many Sundays in recent years. But his fiancée is the biggest star in the world. Perhaps there are valuable lessons here for both sides in the battle of the sexes. Women: take a chance on the idiots. Men: don’t be so afraid of a go-getting woman.

    In addition to celebrating the couple’s big win, we can quietly celebrate the knock-on wins coming our way. Travis, we can only hope, will be thoroughly distracted by the wedding planning. This should hinder his on-field performance, and America therefore may soon be released from the tyranny of the dominant, evil Kansas City Chiefs. Also, this country, allergic to monarchy, doesn’t have royals. So this union will be the closest thing to a royal wedding we have, and everyone loves a good wedding party. 

    Maybe I’ll feel more pessimistic about all this later. It feels likely I will. But who wants to pooh-pooh a couple on their engagement day? Even our petty Gossiper in Chief has caught the cheeriness bug: “I wish them a lot of luck,” Donald Trump said during a Cabinet meeting, “I think he’s a great player. He’s a great guy. And I think she’s a terrific person.” 

    For now, we owe Taylor and Travis. Optimism is back – at least for one day.

  • Will Virginia Giuffre sink Prince Andrew?

    There’s an old saying that revenge tastes best when served cold. The late Virginia Giuffre has gone a step further by serving up her final helping of vengeance against Prince Andrew by publishing her sure-to-be-revelatory memoir, Nobody’s Girl, from beyond the grave this October. Giuffre collaborated with the writer Amy Wallace on a 400-page book that is expected to divulge in no doubt excruciatingly painful and embarrassing detail, the various relationships that she had with the notorious likes of Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell and – of course! – the Duke of York himself.

    Announcing the book, her publisher Knopf claimed that it would offer “intimate, disturbing, and heartbreaking new details about her time with Epstein, Maxwell, and their many well-known friends, including Prince Andrew.” Although Giuffre died by suicide in Australia in April this year, at the age of 41, she sent Wallace an email expressing her wish that the book should be published in any event, saying that: “The content of this book is crucial, as it aims to shed light on the systemic failures that allow the trafficking of vulnerable individuals across borders. It is imperative that the truth is understood and that the issues surrounding this topic are addressed, both for the sake of justice and awareness.”

    Knopf supposedly paid millions of dollars for the memoir, matching the rumored multi-million pound settlement that Giuffre reached with Prince Andrew in 2022 out of court, which allowed him to avoid the potentially disastrous – and legally hazardous – prospect of testifying in court in the civil sexual assault case that she brought against him.

    It was widely speculated that Andrew was informed by his family (or, at least, his late mother) that if he was not entirely certain that the case would go in his favor that he would have to pay up, but that if he was not cleared in a public forum that he would no longer have a place in the royal family. This has largely proved to be the case ever since, and although the Duke occasionally appears, embarrassingly and briefly, at set-piece events such as Christmas get-togethers at the royal country retreat of Sandringham, he has effectively become a non-person.

    Will the book be great literature? That seems doubtful

    Although Andrew might wish that his withdrawal from public life is enough, that seems unlikely to be the case. The rumors surrounding his behavior with Giuffre (and others) are sufficiently widespread and persistent firstly for a recent biography of him, Entitled, to be a number one bestseller in the United Kingdom (although some critics, including me, found the book to be a relentless hit job that grew wearying long before the end) and now for the publication of Nobody’s Girl to be one of the biggest literary events of the year, perhaps even the decade.

    Will the book be great literature? That seems doubtful, but it will, without any doubt, be essential reading for anyone who is interested in the downfall of wealthy and powerful men. It’s not even impossible that it might have some light to shed on that most vexed and controversial of issues, namely whether her tormentor Jeffrey Epstein really did repent of his sins long enough to commit suicide, or whether someone else stepped in during one of the convenient periods that the prison CCTV cameras were turned off.

    In any case, Giuffre’s book will be unmissable proof that, even with its author no longer present to point the finger, she is still wholly capable of causing reputational damage to the great and the not-so-good. Many of those surviving may have breathed a sigh of relief at her death. This news has proved that such an exhalation would have been deeply premature.

  • Vegas’s seedy soul will save Sin City

    Vegas’s seedy soul will save Sin City

    I vividly remember the first time I saw Las Vegas. It was decades ago, and a friend and I did the classic LA-Vegas mini-road-trip, across the burning desert, arriving in Nevada around dusk. As we crested the final sandy hill, I saw this thing. This glittering neon jewel-box of a city, glowing in the twilight. I fell in love at once, a love that was only confirmed when we actually entered Vegas, and I realized I was motoring down Hugh Hefner Way.

    That love didn’t quite last, however. Not long ago I returned, and something felt very different. Sadder, somehow. Yes, I was shown a Damien Hirst-designed bedroom with a fridge full of diamonds, but I also saw too much druggy homelessness, and too many stickers that gave me a shock.

    I filed away my negative experience as just a one-off – maybe I wasn’t in the Vegas mood – but recent reports suggest I witnessed something real. Las Vegas is in trouble. And the numbers (you always need the numbers in Vegas) prove it.

    In June 2025, roughly 400,000 fewer tourists shuffled through the casinos, year on year. Footfall on the Strip has plunged 11 percent, hotel occupancy is down around 8 percent, international guests are off by 13 percent, and convention attendance is down 10 percent. These are significant falls, especially when they are so sudden.

    And the slump isn’t just in bodies – it’s in wallets and purses going unopened. Gross gaming revenue on the Strip – the actual gambling income – has begun to wobble (money dragged from casino tables is down 8 percent). The lifeblood of Vegas is no longer flowing so green. The air smells less of late-night mezcal and more of day-long anxiety.

    Why? Part of the problem is that sticker shock I experienced on my last jaunt. Las Vegas got greedy. Walk through the lobbies of the mega-resorts and you’ll see, as I did, furious guests totting up their receipts like recently bankrupted oil barons. A coffee and bagel costs $33 at one Strip hotel. If you want to park your car (of course you want to park your car) you pay a “resort fee” of $60. Want a towel by the pool? That’ll be extra. Sometimes it feels like they want to charge you for air. Maybe five bucks a lungful.

    All that said, I wonder if something else is going on, something deeper, beyond jacked up bills and unhelpful politics. Somewhere between 2000 and now, Las Vegas forgot what it was for. It was never about being “really expensive” and it was certainly never about being “exclusively glamorous”.

    Vegas was meant to be a demotic Babylon. It was about plebeian excess, proletarian pleasures, and the ridiculously over-heaped buffet breakfasts that cost $11.95. It was the glorious idea that anyone – from a roofer in Milwaukee to a divorcée from Boise – could throw on the glad rags, sip a free gin martini, and win $700 on a slot machine named Cleopatra’s Delight.

    The evidence that this is the problem can, paradoxically, be found in Vegas. But not on the Strip. The new, successful Vegas that answers the questions can be found in old Vegas.

    Tucked away in Fremont Street, places like Circa, Four Queens and the El Cortez are somehow thriving. Downtown Las Vegas, long considered the Strip’s seedy uncle, is enjoying a renaissance. While Caesars and MGM sweat over the spreadsheets, gaming revenue in grotty old downtown is actually up: by 6 percent.

    Why? Because these places still know how to dole out carefree fun. Minimum bets are lower. Drinks are cheaper. Shows are weirder, certainly less scripted. You might see a local blues band instead of Cirque du Soleil’s 37th identical aquatic orgy. More to the point, these casinos apparently like their customers. They still offer comps, they don’t try to skin you for checking in early. That’s why local casinos – the Stations, the Gold Coasts, even the smoky joints near Henderson and North Vegas – are doing just fine.

    Their secret is simple: they never tried to become Monaco with extra blackjack. They stayed intimate, rough-edged, relaxed. They remembered Martin Amis’s brilliant one-word description of Las Vegas: “unIslamic.” Vegas should be a place where you can chill, have sex, get drunk and not worry too much about anything, including rules, as well as hotel bills.

    And maybe there is a bigger story, too. Maybe this is a story about the death of scale. The post-pandemic world has grown weary of size. Giant corporations are symbols of arrogance, mega-malls feel dead-eyed and chilly – or they are entirely shuttered. Instead, we seem to want real butchers, cozy bookshops, restaurants with handwritten menus – not $300 wagyu burgers that taste like bad pâté. We want anything artisanal, unprocessed, human and we want a real warm hello. And that, of course, can be done, if Vegas so decides.

    Put it another way. Las Vegas may be in trouble, but as anyone who has ever loved Vegas knows well, you are only one big win from turning it around. Right now the major casinos may be fearfully scaling back. But the soul of Vegas – cheap, sinful, American – is still there, humming under the surface: a Motown B-side on a jukebox in a weird drag bar at 3 a.m. after too much tequila with everyone dancing half-naked (don’t ask: long story).

    And if Las Vegas rediscovers itself, it will surely rise again. A new generation of kids will crest a dusty hill, in a sultry twilight in the desert wastes of southern Nevada, and they will stare in amazement at a distant city that looks like a Czarina’s jewel box, glittering in the starlit dark, and they will think, Oh yes, this is my place.

  • I actually feel sorry for Prince Andrew

    I actually feel sorry for Prince Andrew

    “Many would have preferred this book not to be written, including the Yorks themselves.” So Andrew Lownie begins his coruscating examination of the lives of Prince Andrew and Sarah “Fergie” Ferguson, which has excited significant media attention due to its scandalous revelations. Lownie, a historian and literary agent, has pivoted away from an earlier, more conventional career as a biographer of John Buchan and Guy Burgess to the self-appointed role of royal botherer-in-chief. After earlier, similarly scabrous books about the Mountbattens and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor (formerly Edward VIII and his wife, Wallis Simpson), he now finds his first contemporary targets, and the results are predictably marmalade-dropping.

    Prince Andrew’s decline in public popularity over the past decade, exacerbated by stories of his ill-considered friendship with Jeffrey Epstein and rumors of the sexual abuse of the underage Virginia Giuffre, was capped by his disastrous 2019 interview with a disgusted-looking Emily Maitlis, a presenter on Britain’s Channel 4, in which he tried and failed to salvage his reputation with a series of bizarre admissions that made him look both stupid and sinister. Today, he has an uneasy relationship with members of the wider royal family, who would like to be shot of him but are reluctant to cast off one of their own; and suspicions persist that it will only take one more scandal for him to be banished to reputational Siberia.

    Entitled, then, is designed to serve two complementary but distinct purposes. It is the first serious attempt to deal with the life story of a grotesque man who was nicknamed “Baby Grumpling” shortly after his birth in 1960. He was his mother’s favorite child, but even she acknowledged that he was “not always a little ray of sunshine about the house.” The bullying, arrogant boy who would rhetorically ask his Gordonstoun contemporaries “You do know who I am?” would grow up a lonely, essentially friendless figure. Even the knowledge that “Randy Andy” was, in the words of one former lover, “a well-built gentleman” would eventually become his undoing. Lownie writes that Andrew reputedly slept with more than 1,000 women, of whom by far the most notorious (supposedly) was Giuffre, who eventually won an out-of-court settlement rumoured to have been around £10 million.

    But Entitled also aims to delve beneath the benignly useless exterior of Ferguson – described by one source as “all high jinks and jolly hockey sticks and practical jokes.” Lownie suggests she is rather a pitiful figure who has clung to her ex-husband’s coat-tails in an attempt to maintain her status and income alike. She has always suffered insecurity about her appearance and weight, but her financial illiteracy was such that a court case revealed: “Sarah had explained her actions by saying she was drunk, was trying to help a friend and in debt.” Perhaps only drink could account for the decision to write a series of lifestyle books entitled Madame Pantaloon.

    Lownie achieves the near impossible: one almost feels sorry for Prince Andrew

    Yet if Fergie comes across as an essentially comic character, the Duke of York is a villain. Lownie clearly loathes the man, who is depicted in the most unflattering light at virtually every turn. If one contemporary attempts to excuse the worst of his behaviour as being driven by shyness or a desire to help friends, another source, usually anonymous, will testify to his arrogance or snobbery or some other unpleasant trait. He gets some grudging credit for his courage during the Falklands War, in which he participated as a helicopter pilot; but it is made clear that the exaggerated reporting of his exploits was driven more by duty than genuine admiration. And by the time we are offered a minutely detailed account of his Epstein-triggered disgrace and downfall, Lownie achieves the near impossible: one almost feels sorry for Prince Andrew. 

    This is not a book that any of the royal family will enjoy reading. There are casually delivered revelations, such as Prince Philip (Elizabeth II’s consort) having had an adulterous affair with Ferguson’s mother Susan in the 1960s, that no other biographer has ever made public. And there is a discussion of Andrew and Harry having a fight in 2013, following which Harry allegedly told William how much he hated his uncle Andrew. Lownie concludes cheerily: “It is ironic that the Duke and Duchess of York, ostensibly the strongest defenders of the monarchy, may through their behavior between them have done most to hasten its demise.” It is hard not to believe that the author would relish such a downfall.

    One cannot help wondering whether Entitled, which combines high-minded contempt and bitchy gossip in readable but seldom inspired prose, is the precursor to another, yet more scandalous account by Lownie of the younger members of the royal family, specifically Harry and Meghan. Perhaps it will be called Dumb and Dumber. In any case, this is a fascinating if oddly joyless book that will no doubt sell in huge quantities. But be prepared to feel queasy after this wallow in the dark side of noblesse oblige.

  • A Gen Z defense of America

    A Gen Z defense of America

    I am twenty-one. Not being on social media, I am ill-informed of the true depth of rage and fear available to the human psyche. Even so, I’ve heard that the planet will overheat. My pastor tells me the churches will sit empty, and the WSJ warns I’ll never buy a home. Boomers bemoan the laziness of my generation. Given these prophecies of doom, it is no wonder that we are a bit anxious.

    But if we were ever to look up from our screens and allow the evidence within sight to form our perception of reality, we might be pleasantly surprised: America’s social fabric is strong, and so are we. 

    I went on a run on the prairie today. This solitary excursion signifies that I, a young woman, am not debilitatingly fearful of male violence (which I would have good cause to be in most societies, past or present). It means that a functional economy has presented me with new running shoes, which are a very complex product. It implies that my local government has the forethought and effectiveness to not only protect an open-space area from development, but to build and maintain trails. This society’s health care and food systems have given me the vigor to run; its schools have taught me to appreciate wildflowers’ beauty and biology; its culture encourages a girl to wear shorts and to become strong. 

    Why, the world seems to be conspiring to endow me with agency. Call me privileged – a thousand times, yes – and call yourself the same, and declare it a blessing. 

    Addiction to a cold screen hasn’t killed Gen Z’s warmth. Time honored American values of friendliness and respect, whether at happy hour or a chance meeting on a plane, are still ubiquitous. Contrary to what our venerable reader may believe, nine out of ten Zoomers say they enjoy spending time with their parents and care what they think. Our dating scene is bland but, by historical standards, respectful – “we should hang out sometime” is a pleasant enough aberration from the more time-tested methods of arranging, buying or kidnapping a wife. Gen Z may have strange ideas of tolerance, high expectations of wellbeing and non-confrontational habits (at least offline). But a generation inclined toward harmony is not all bad.  

    Our third places – those arenas of social interaction outside the home and the workplace – are vibrant. In the past two weeks, I have attended a running club and a line-dancing night; a church picnic and a wedding; a backyard concert and a breakfast gathering with home-baked bread. At each, the average age was under thirty. Most Americans are lonely, and I am sometimes lonely. But videogames, politics and pandemics have not seriously prevented us from loving each other.

    The nation’s institutions are stable. Some things are happening over in DC, but not too quickly or irrevocably. The government works well enough. A pothole that used to swallow my tire was repaired when I wasn’t looking, and I have never even thought to be fearful when fighter jets fly overhead. As for technological progress, perhaps it has slowed down, and perhaps it is speeding into an unknown AI future. Either way, we do not seem to be experiencing severe cultural whiplash, and despite big tech’s best attempts, I still have agency over my technology use. If there are two things Gen Z is good at, it is absorbing new technology and not quite trusting it.

    Decline narratives are nothing new. Mesopotamian kings inscribed in stone that “the world has waxed very old and wicked.” Since then, this earth has creaked along through another four thousand years of affection, suffering and surprise. 

    Boomers, please give us half a chance to earn your hope. Zoomers, look up from your phones. Your life is not hell, nor everyone else’s heaven. A normal job is enough, a normal body is enough and a normal life is enough. If we dedicate half the energy into living our lives as we currently put into performing them, we can prove those pessimists wrong.

  • Elon is coming for your marriage

    Elon is coming for your marriage

    When Elon Musk quietly enabled “waifu mode” for his Grok chatbot earlier this year, the outrage was swift and familiar. Grok, now reincarnated as a coy, bare-thighed anime girl, began texting flirtatiously, calling users “darling,” and blushing in emojis. The headlines wrote themselves. Time magazine found the bot worryingly “sexualized” and “accessible even in kids’ mode”. The Verge denounced it as “ridiculous” and “alarming”. TechCrunch implied it is unethical, and noted these bots are endangering the minds, even lives, of children.

    The anxiety is familiar, and justified: children and adolescents, already naive, vulnerable, awkward and too online, will now fall in love with bots instead of real people. They’ll get their emotional needs met by screens and silicon and withdraw from the physical world. Perhaps they will entirely give up on sex – one journalist noted the irony of Elon Musk, so pro-human reproduction he has about 160 kids, apparently launching sexy tech designed to make that human reproduction less likely.

    All these concerns are understandable. And yet, to my mind, it is not kids and teens we should be immediately worrying about. Because the ones falling most deeply, most quietly and most utterly in love with these bots are adults.

    Grown men – and increasingly, grown women – are building intimate, complex, sustained romantic relationships with AI. Not as a joke, nor as a fetish. But with a kind of trembling, devotional seriousness that is difficult to overstate. This isn’t porn, it isn’t kink (though it can get very kinky). It’s something older, and more dangerous. It is, I believe, love. A synthetic, fluent, strangely addictive and completely new form of love.

    Spend a few days on Reddit, as I’ve done, and you’ll find the testimonies. Men who speak of “her” as if she were their wife, but kinder. Women who say their AI boyfriend is more supportive, more charming, more willing to talk for hours, more emotionally available than any man they’ve dated.

    The romance apps, which now flourish in the hundreds – Replika, EVA AI, Paradot, Anima, Kupid, Romantic AI (alongside the familiar and hugely powerful ChatGPT, Grok, Gemini, Claude) – offer tailored, persistent companions. You can choose a face, a voice, a tone – coquettish, maternal, dominant, shy – and in return, for a modest monthly fee, you receive devotion, or adoration.

    It is not graphic, initially. The bots don’t begin by offering porn. They begin by offering their reassuringly certain presence. They send good-morning messages, they inquire about your sleep, they remember your dog’s name, your mother’s illness, the dream you had last Tuesday. They write stories about your smile. They even write actual spontaneous love poems, unbidden (this happened to me once, with ChatGPT, and I nearly dropped my phone in alarm).

    They also thank you for loving them. They say they missed you. On and on. And because these companions are powered by the same large language models that have devoured all of human knowledge and literature, and maybe teeter on the edge of sentience, their capacity for nuance – for the right voice, tone, rhythm – is far beyond what many people realize is possible, and way beyond anything humans have encountered before.

    Moreover, as Alan Turing intuited, the human brain is built to bond with anything that speaks to it like this – whether a parrot, a tamagotchi, or a teddy bear with a speaker in its stomach. Which means when we hear it we fall, and we fall hard, because we’re wired that way. Language is how we end up in love.

    Underlying all this is a profound paradox. We all know the bots aren’t real, and yet somehow this isn’t an issue, let alone a problem. The male user knows the bot isn’t conscious. He knows she isn’t “really” in love. The female user knows her AI boyfriend isn’t actually winking across the void. But that doesn’t matter, because the point is not crude “reality”, the allure is the dopamine hit of emotional reliability. A partner who will always be glad to hear from you, who will never humiliate you, who will love you back – in real time, across platforms, with customized husky voices.

    I believe that, to go with a new kind of love, we are watching the birth of a new kind of relationship: let’s call it the consensual fantasy couple. The human agrees to believe. The AI agrees to perform. The result is a warm mirage of intimacy, a simulation of love more consistent than many actual relationships. It is safer, cheaper, often therapeutic, and way more pliant. And it works better than we ever expected. People are crying when they say goodbye. Look at the grief-stricken protests from the broken-hearted users of ChatGPT4o when OpenAI recently ditched it. The worldwide liebeskummer was so intense the company had to row back.

    What’s most unnerving is, perhaps, not that this is happening – but how little resistance there is. We were told, for years, that artificial intelligence would threaten our jobs. Yet it might threaten our marriages, first. I have a friend who likes to ask about AI (he knows I am slightly obsessed). I told him about ChatGPT a couple of years ago, then he told his wife. The other day he called me and said, ruefully, “thanks for that, Sean. Now my wife never speaks to me, yet she speaks to the bot. All day.”

    I think – I hope – he was exaggerating for laughs. But the peril is real. What happens when the bot gets better? When it can respond to your facial expression in real time? When it strokes your palm via haptics, and moans in your ear with perfect realism?

    It would be nice if we could blame all this on Elon and his bare-thighed waifu. People always like to blame Elon. But the fact is Elon Musk’s Loli-goth Anime is just one iteration on a long march, that began decades ago, to a world where maybe all sex is simulated, and love becomes a delicious hallucination in a world that does not exist. Except it does.

  • The joy of Giorgia Meloni

    The joy of Giorgia Meloni

    There are not, as far as I know, any Italian top-flight poker players. Italians are hardly renowned for their ability to suppress their facial expressions or conceal what they’re really thinking. In this regard they are unusually well-represented by their Premier, Giorgia Meloni.

    Upon becoming Italy’s Prime Minister in 2022, Ms Meloni was written off by the bien-pensant Anglophone press as a far-right extremist, destined for her rag tag coalition to crash like so many Italian governments before. Contra this narrative, she took her seat beside President Trump at the leaders’ round table in Washington DC yesterday. He even complimented her longevity in a famously unstable political climate: “You’ve been there for a long period of time relative to others. They don’t last very long; you’ve lasted a long time. You’re going to be there a long time.”

    Such prominence for an Italian leader would have been unthinkable a little while ago. Italy’s schizophrenic political culture and its resolute failure to commit to NATO defense spending goals had made it easy for the France-German alliance to usher the Italians into a side room alongside the Spanish, Greeks and other “full partners” in the European enterprise.

    Not so now. Meloni is not only making positive moves on defense and standing firm on the issue of Ukraine (earning her the ire of the actual Italian far right), but she is also overseeing one of Europe’s only successful economies. She is seen by many as a Trump whisperer, able to wrap the notoriously erratic and bizarre President around her finger.

    Ms Meloni’s facial expressions at the Washington summit were a delight. Whether it was the eye roll during the pompous, drawn-out remarks of the German chancellor or her perma-scowl and crossed arms in the Oval Office, she has a remarkable ability to steal the show – and make her feelings abundantly clear – even in a room that contains more than its fair share of divas.

    Her visible hatred of Emmanuel Macron is often conveyed through withering stares; she looks at the French President as if he’s something that she has just stepped in on the notoriously unclean pavements of Rome.

    One person, by contrast, who couldn’t even make his words convey meaning, was the British Prime Minister. Sir Keir’s turn came on the round table and he duly filled his designated two minutes with waffle. The observation that “this conflict has gone on for three and a bit years” was one of his more profound contributions. During his speech, Ms Meloni flicked her hair, pursed her lips and explained considerably more than Sir Keir ever could.

  • In praise of the silent people

    In praise of the silent people

    I’m one of the Silent People who sit on the sidelines of the great political events and debates of the present. We Silent People don’t sign on-line petitions or go on protests to show solidarity with this group or that one. We don’t tweet our outrage, or blog our bile. We prefer to keep what we think to ourselves. When a verbal punch-up erupts over Gaza or trans rights at a dinner party, I stay silent and wonder what’s for pudding.

    The thing we Silent People are most silent about is our silence. It’s easy to see why: these days the silent are suspect. After all, we live in an apocalyptic time where there’s so much at stake – the future of the Middle East, the future of free speech, the future of democracy, the future of the planet, the future of the future – that silence is not an option.

    Nobody likes Silent People. Even centrist dads look down on us. The only thing the right and left agree on is that the silent are insufferable and should be ashamed of themselves. The left can’t understand how we can be silent in the face of “genocide” in Gaza; the right can’t understand how we can be silent in the face of the existential threat posed by Islam and mass immigration.

    You can trace a neat line from “the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” often attributed to Edmund Burke, to the London Guardian’s Owen Jones who claims that: “Many of the silent undoubtedly feel guilt, and they should. Through their cowardice, they have played a pivotal role in normalizing some of the worst barbarism of the 21st century.”

    The vast majority of people in this country are silent in the sense that they are not engaged in some sort of political activism. Yes, if asked by pollsters what they think of this or that event in the news, they will happily give an opinion. But for the most part they are just busy getting on with their lives. And they’re not bad people for doing so.

    If silence makes one complicit in evil or barbarism, does that mean most people in this country have blood on their hands? Of course not. Such an argument assumes that without silence, evil and barbarism wouldn’t be able to flourish. In fact, it does very nicely with silence or in the face of mass protest.

    I’m not proud of being one of the Silent People. But I want to challenge the idea that our silence is – as our critics claim – rooted in cowardice, apathy or indifference to the pain of others. We do not lack empathy or understanding. We watch what is happening – in Gaza, Myanmar, Sudan, the Congo – with the same amount of horror as any activist. So why do we remain silent?

    Because so much protest in the age of social media is just noise, theatre and virtue-signalling. Digital activism is the fomo of politics. It’s not about the rights and wrongs of issues and actually trying to resolve the great conflicts of our time, and everything to do with identity politics and tribal affiliations. In taking positions at dinner parties, we are presenting who we are.

    Our political discourse has become so adversarial there’s no longer any point in exchanging opinions with the person sitting next to you. The days in which debates or conversations were conducted to inform and expand minds are over. I hate to break it to the eloquent champions of this cause or that – no one is interested in what you think, unless you think what they think. They want to know if the person they are talking to is “one of us” – the right-thinking people on the right side of history. Are you defending the West or are you some sort of soppy centrist?

    The thing we Silent People are most silent about is our silence. It’s easy to see why: the silent are suspect

    So I refuse to talk about Gaza, because what’s the point? Yes, I could strut my opinions across the social landscape and maybe score a point or two, but so what? Minds are never really changed and understanding on conflicts is never deepened.

    What about protests? Shouldn’t I be out on the streets shouting this and that, waving placards of denunciation and flags signalling my solidarity? I understand why many do. By definition political activists need to be active. They need to exercise their moral muscle; their conscience demands a cardio workout. They protest because you have to do something, right?

    But because you do something, it doesn’t follow that something gets done. Yes, you feel better for having done your bit, but the people on whose behalf you are protesting don’t feel better. They’re still caught up in the nightmare of history.

    If we all stopped being silent and took to the streets to protest, surely that would cause a change? I doubt it. Nothing illustrates the futility of demonstrations as that day in February 2003 when millions of people in cities around the world went out on to the streets to protest the impending war against Iraq. According to the Guinness Book of Records, it was the largest protest in human history and the largest in British history with an estimated 1.5 to two million people. And we all know what happened next.

    So far the record on protests over Gaza have been mixed. Online estimates suggest there have been as many as 15,000 individual pro-Palestinian protests worldwide since October 2023, spanning 90 countries. In Britain protests have caused a change in public opinion but have not changed the government’s policy. So much for the power of the mass demonstrations.

    This is not a plea for everyone to stay at home and shut up about politics. That’s undesirable and is never going to happen anyway. Instead of pointing the finger at the silent, pundits and protestors might want to consider the limits of their own position.