In the News 03.09.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets


In the News 03.09.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 03.09.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 03.09.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

A Week Inside WeLive, the Utopian Apartment Complex That Wants to Disrupt City Living

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re just slightly more alone than everyone else? Like when you’re scrolling through Instagram, and you get that sinking sensation that you’re missing out on some kind of deep human fulfillment? It’s not a specific pang of FOMO; it’s a broader suspicion that your social life would be somehow richer, more populated with actual humans, with fewer nights eating takeout and watching Netflix—if only something changed.

Well, that’s the feeling the “co-living” start-up WeLive believes it has devised the cure for. Or at least that was my takeaway the first time I found myself watching GIFs of happy millennials hugging one another and laughing on its website. WeLive is functionally an apartment building, but with all the amenities listed on the standard Silicon Valley rider. It runs on a very modern set of principles in the urban housing market: The units come fully furnished; there’s a laundry room and a yoga studio. But more, there are the things you might ordinarily need to leave your apartment for—an espresso bar and trendy eateries and happy hours. Most critically, WeLive comes stocked with neighbors who intend to become your real-life human friends. This one building, your home, has everything you could ever need, is the idea, including a built-in community.

From afar, WeLive seemed to be one part social experiment, one part endless summer. It was a market-savvy effort to solve the digital-age loneliness that registers as a low-level yet omnipresent white noise in the lives of young urbanites.

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

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The Olympian Who Believes He’s Always On TV

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As Kevin Hall stood onboard the Artemis, a 72-foot catamaran, trying to help his teammates dredge Andrew Simpson’s body out of the water, he wasn’t entirely sure if the scene unfolding before him was really happening or not.

Andrew “Bart” Simpson, whose body might or might not have been in the water, was a stocky British Olympic gold medalist with short, spiky chestnut hair and a wide smile. One of the world’s best sailors, Simpson knew what to do in emergencies, which made his being trapped underwater for ten minutes all the more incomprehensible. The $140-million Artemis was supposed to be a technological wonder, so it made no sense to anyone onboard that it had crumpled so quickly into a taco shell, trapping Simpson in its fold.

Finally, Kevin and his teammates were able to pull Simpson’s soggy two hundred pounds out of the water and onto a floating backboard.

The emergency responders began to perform CPR, one officer cutting open Simpson’s wetsuit so he could apply a defibrillator to his chest. They pushed, the sailors waiting for Simpson to breathe, to show some sign of life. But Simpson was dead. He was 36 years old.

Months of preparation and millions of dollars had gone into the design of the Artemis, a vessel that had stunned other sailors with its foils and gadgets and that had seemed almost to fly over the water. Kevin suddenly felt lost. What had happened? Who, if anyone, was to blame? And why had Simpson, of all the sailors on the boat, been the one to die? Kevin had known Simpson for years, their sailing careers often overlapping, intersecting, and running in parallel. Simpson had something that Kevin and some of the other men on board the Artemis did not — an Olympic gold medal — and he represented something that all of the men on board aspired to be: a champion athlete and family man with a kind heart and generous spirit, seemingly unfazed by the success that he had attained.

Kevin thought about all this and more as the emergency workers took Simpson’s body away and everyone went home. In the days that followed, part of him wanted to talk to his teammates about what had happened, but part of him dared not. Because, if he was honest, he still wasn’t entirely sure that the crash and Simpson’s death had really happened. It seemed too horrifying to be real. And for a few moments, there had been that flash.

Read the rest of this article at: Longreads

Tuscany Tote in Midnight

Shop the Tuscany Tote in Midnight
at Belgrave Crescent &

The Tragedy of the Commons

One is struck, at first, by the surfaces: polished stainless steel, ceramic subway tile, acacia wood veneer in an acorn finish. Then the all-inclusive amenities: utilities, weekly cleaning, high-speed wifi, toilet paper, and Seventh Generation dish soap. These details, they pile up on the tour as one is led up from the common areas—basement lounge, kitchen, living room, all furnished rigidly in accordance with current trends—and into the private haven that could be yours: a sparse but bright bedroom sporting an en-suite bath and bedecked with a Caspar mattress and West Elm dresser. The window looks directly onto a brick wall.

Starting at $1,500 a month, all this and more could be yours at Common Kingston in Brooklyn—one of sixteen co-living houses spread across the country and operated by Common, a startup newly flush with $40 million in vulture capital and hell bent on delivering “city living done better” to a woefully neglected slice of the populace: millennials either upwardly mobile or lingering on the parental tit, panicked by the horror stories of slumming with random roommates in a new town.

As helpfully indicated by the folks at Common, the state of the housing market is under stress: “For the first time in over a century, more young, working people live with their parents than own a home.” Twenty-five million Americans share an apartment, with approximately 30 percent of all adults bunking with roommates in New York—where the average one bedroom rents for over 200 hours of minimum wage labor a month, give or take a lunch break. Often, these passing arrangements are entered into begrudgingly and between total strangers who, brought together on Craigslist and out of necessity, may have once entertained visions of building a utopian commune and instead got a windowless bedroom with an innocuous patch of mold on the ceiling.

Read the rest of this article at: The Baffler


Gray Hat

Marcus Hutchins was still recovering from the night before as he settled into a lounge at the Las Vegas airport one afternoon this past August. Hutchins, a 23-year-old cybersecurity researcher, had come from his home in rural England in part to attend DefCon, the world’s biggest computer-hacking conference, and in part to take a well-deserved vacation.

Three months earlier, a North Korean cyberattack known as WannaCry had crippled the British health-care system and caused a billion dollars in losses across 150 countries. The damage could have been much worse — tens of billions, by one estimate — but a few hours after the attack began, Hutchins figured out how to stop it, almost by accident, while sitting at a computer in his bedroom at his parents’ house.

That act made Hutchins the closest thing cybersecurity had ever had to a global celebrity. “Oops! I Saved the World,” read the cover of the New York Daily News. “Cyber Geek Accidentally Stops Huge Hack Attack.” Edward Snowden congratulated Hutchins, and strangers recognized him at Heathrow. Hutchins had gone to DefCon the year before and found the convention unpleasant — “I remember slowly moving down a packed hall in a sea of people who smelled like they hadn’t showered in days” — but in 2017, Cisco invited him into the VIP section at its party. “A year earlier, I’d never have gotten in,” Hutchins said. At six-foot-four, with hair that adds an inch or two, Hutchins was easy to spot, and conferencegoers asked him to pose for photos that they put online with the tag #WannaCrySlayer.

The post-WannaCry attention had been a bit overwhelming for Hutchins, but he loved Vegas. He stayed in an Airbnb with the city’s largest private pool, lit up a bin Laden target at a gun range, and drove around in a friend’s rented Lamborghini. Hutchins didn’t gamble, but he hung around the casino floor to get free drinks. “About to cross ‘turn up at a club in clothes I bought on the way’ off my bucket list,” he announced on Twitter as he went to the nightclub XS to see one of his favorite groups, the Chainsmokers. He wasn’t even mad when he lost his credit card and ID. “Chainsmokers was definitely worth the lost wallet,” he said.

Read the rest of this article at: New York Magazine

How Pop-Ups Took Over America’s Restaurants

Why Pop-ups Are Popping Off

Koslow’s food lab residency was an opportunity to test-drive the menu for Tel, her new restaurant, which will open in L.A. later this year. Sqirl, a studio-apartment-sized subway-tiled spot on an unassuming street corner, has built a name for itself as a counter-service restaurant where you can get grain bowls and turmeric tonic that you’ll enjoy at wobbly sidewalk tables. The new place will have an actual dining room, where you can get not just breakfast and lunch but also dinner. The menu will be more expansive than Sqirl’s, and will include beer and wine. It’s bigger, more expensive. And a risk.

So Koslow needed a place that would temporarily allow such risk and experimentation, a place where diners had “no preconceived notion” of her or of Sqirl. “It felt almost like a safe zone,” she said, “testing out on people who are not the people who will be eating there every day.” And East Coast acolytes of Koslow’s got to eat the stuff—creamed yogurt with shredded pickle, quail shawarma, and sturgeon with a green Yemeni curry called sahawek—before their L.A. counterparts.

This was not Koslow’s first pop-up; she regularly hosts them at Sqirl, with people like Eric Werner and Mya Henry, of Hartwood in Tulum. The events often have an insidery feel, which is part of the draw: These cool chefs, who seem to be friends, are cooking together for you and your friends, and maybe you’re their friend, too? It also forces a kitchen out of its routine. “When Roberta’s came to town, we learned how to shape the pizza and what pH they like the dough at,” Koslow said of the blistered, puffy, crisp-yet-chewy crust that makes Roberta’s pies some of the best in the country. “You learn by doing, and you learn from the best, and there’s real power in that.”

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

P.S. previous articles & more by P.F.M.

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