The year 2015 was a heady time to do marketing for tech startups. The venture baronry that controlled the fates of founders had decided that markets, rather than engineering or personnel, made or broke new companies. If you were a strategist or a creative, swagger came with the job, along with corporate Uber and free lunches of glistening sushi. You’d enter a pitch meeting in your sharp blowout and bravura nail art—every time; it was all about the rose gold accent nail that year—extremely confident that a solid creed preceded you. The only thing startups need is markets.
Marketing was on fleek, just as “on fleek” was on fleek. Those were the days. I was the editorial director of a tech marketing shop based in San Francisco, and—having come up as a blowout-deprived journalist—I felt almost high on the luxe marketing-chick lifestyle. Not only did the job often seem like one long perk, but it was important. I knew, almost by heart, “The Only Thing That Matters,” the 2007 essay by Marc Andreessen, in which the oracle of Menlo Park argued that markets are, indeed, “the most important factor in a startup’s success or failure.”
But didn’t the product matter? The team? Not really. Andreessen was blunt: With a great market, a company can handle a staff of half-wits or jerks because “the team is remarkably easy to upgrade on the fly.” What’s more, he wrote, “the product doesn’t need to be great; it just has to basically work.”
VCs had also soundly discredited pricing as the key to success. (When a sector is indifferent to the laws of supply and demand, that is some serious irrational exuberance.) “Innovation,” too, was yesterday’s news. Disappointingly, for those of us who cottoned to the folktale of a new economy driven by brilliant little Edisons and Teslas in Everlane, technological breakthroughs were, by 2015, believed to be too easily copied. Instead, success lay in branding flourishes—Snapchat ghosts, Instagram influencers, the massive glass lantern that is Istanbul’s Apple store.
We in marketing also held tight to Rachleff’s Law of Startup Success, named for Andy Rachleff, another VC god who cofounded the firm Benchmark that made a mint betting on eBay, OpenTable, Snapchat, Twitter, and Uber. Rachleff’s Law: The number one company killer is lack of market.
And so, flush off earlyish rounds of venture capital, startups paid us to identify, reach, and soften up prospective consumers, using an alchemy of surveys, intuition, design, blue-sky ideation, typography, ethnographies, direct email, advertising, events, comms, logos, PR, stunts, and (in theory) art, literature, and film. And of course my specialty: decks. These are the sententious keynote presentations, used to dazzle investors or recruit employees, that try to get a startup to seem like a holy mission. In my decks, I liked to associate things like payment software and organic-snack subscription boxes with such universally admired ideas as Apple, love, or Banksy.
We marketing teams came to believe we alone could save startups from untimely deaths by achieving the desideratum to end all desiderata: product/market fit. PMF. Products were seen as placeholders that were to be broken, iterated on, pivoted from. By contrast, a nice loamy market, primed, was a joy forever. The everything. In the right market, anything—vanilla-honey vape, ancient grains meal-delivery service—can find purchase. Though not all startups believed marketing was the silver bullet for success, the ones that came to us seemed to think: If you build it, they will come, and if they come, you will find a way—even if far, far down the road—to sell them mugs. Or memberships. Or ads, or some freemium bunk.
The problem was the usual. We were bullish for too long. As we watched the big agencies, we saw that even the best marketing couldn’t quite compensate for a certain miniature blood test that didn’t work. Nor, at another agency, could Instagram influencers turn disaster-relief tents into a sexy island bacchanal worthy of Kendall Jenner. From our firm’s gleaming digs, we shuddered as we watched the first cracks in the facade of Theranos. Later, other offerings with marvelous marketing—Jawbone, Hampton Creek (Just Mayo), and Airware—burned through millions of dollars trying to get the optics right on products, services, or business models that were, yeah, janky.
Moreover, when it came right down to it, staffing did matter, especially because teams underperformed when mismanaged by bumptious founders like Uber’s Travis Kalanick and WeWork’s Adam Neumann. Teams willing to work with volatile, arrogant management weren’t so “remarkably easy to upgrade on the fly,” as Andreessen had once led investors to believe; word gets around about people like Kalanick and Neumann. And then, after shake-ups like the ones at Uber and WeWork, startups generally seem more shaken than revitalized.
Four years ago, when companies had profound problems with their models, leadership, or products, marketing came to be seen as not just a way to lipstick pigs but as a way to block and tackle regulation, to keep secrets, to shut out anyone who wanted to so much as see the product.
So marketing went from the only solution to the smoke that suggested fire that suggested indictments. To be fair, at the advent of the social networks, VCs could be forgiven for thinking that marketing was the whole game. Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Pinterest, and Instagram were acquiring users to make a network and attract more users: The market (users) is the product (the network). So by acquiring users with marketing you were simultaneously building your product. VCs used to love the idea of a young big shot who saw a vast market that the old didn’t: the diary writers who would contribute to Tumblr. The lonely hearts that became Facebook. Investors also swooned at the idea of using relatively cheap marketing magic to get millions of users hooked on something and then cashing in.
The investors cashed in. But social media companies had to turn into galactic data Hoovers to become profitable, and the naive hope that one day startups could trade on the users, accounts, or subscriptions they’d acquired meant that the early years of a company were expected to be devoted to UA. It’s not that that logic didn’t hold up; it’s that users used to come cheap to divey, bare-bones joints like Twitter, and they’d stick by glitches and unpopular updates because they had made them their own and had nowhere else to go. Now users cost much more to court—have you seen the freebies offered at companies like the home-products club Grove Collaborative?!—and with too many apps already on their phone, they enter new brand relationships more warily. Then, unless they’re blinded by love, they tend to jump at the first signs of glitchiness.
When Blue Apron ill-advisedly went public in 2017, it had a valuation of nearly $2 billion. With brilliant marketing, it gained a multi-furlong lead among meal kits, including an also-ran I worked on, and it had an unshakable reputation for being the luxe one. At the same time, I remember taking one look at my first, lovely, logo-adorned box and thinking: This can’t last. Sustainable seafood, no GMOs, antibiotic-free and five-star, verdant herbs? The margins must be nearly zilch. But to reduce cost would be to reduce quality, and to hold onto a market of pious foodies, Blue Apron couldn’t risk that. So the company kept spending without hiking prices, while still throwing no end of freebies at customers to gain loyalty. In May, the NYSE warned Blue Apron that it was in danger of being delisted. It’s currently valued at about 94 percent less than it was at its IPO. Maybe attending to supply and demand is not such a quaint superstition after all.
Companies that do manage to blind users by love, like the Calm meditation app, now seem to concentrate on the product, while essentially bootstrapping. Between 2012 and 2016, investors, evidently late to get religion on mindfulness, turned Calm down by the dozens on the grounds that it was “fluffy” and “a load of nonsense.” Founders Michael Acton Smith and Alex Tew decided to do what entrepreneurs did before startups were called startups: work on the product on a Scrooge budget with fewer than 10 employees out of a one-bedroom apartment. They gave little away but rain sounds and a short free trial; once you paid, the app provided lovely, sleepy music and stress-relieving meditations for its users. Of whom there are now 2 million active subscribers. Gaining traction with extensive, elegantly produced content, rather than giveaways and marketing jazz, has allowed them to expand their offerings to meet the desires of subscribers, who pay up to $156 a year for their services. And well after the company turned profitable on its own terms, in 2017, VCs came calling. Now I’m not saying the Calm people are good people and Blue Apron people are not. I’m just saying Calm has been valued at $1 billion. Meditate on that.
Virginia Heffernan (@page88) is a regular contributor to WIRED.
This article appears in the November issue. Subscribe now.
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Andrew Yang Is Not Full of Shit
It’s 7 pm on a Monday night in late September, and Andrew Yang, the most idiosyncratic of presidential candidates, is about to storm a stage in Los Angeles’ MacArthur Park.There are several thousand members of the #Yanggang milling around, talking, flirting, debating, and, by the scent of it, taking advantage of California’s liberal herbal policies.…
It’s 7 pm on a Monday night in late September, and Andrew Yang, the most idiosyncratic of presidential candidates, is about to storm a stage in Los Angeles’ MacArthur Park.
There are several thousand members of the #Yanggang milling around, talking, flirting, debating, and, by the scent of it, taking advantage of California’s liberal herbal policies. Many are wearing hats that say “math,” an acronym for Make America Think Harder. Others are wearing T-shirts with one of the pithiest and most compelling slogans in American politics today: “Math. Money. Marijuana.” It feels like a combination of Coachella and a TED Talk. As the opening act warms up the crowd, everyone chants “PowerPoint, PowerPoint, PowerPoint!”
Yang, a man no one had heard of a year ago, is everywhere. His face, chiseled by a generous graphic artist into something resembling Daniel Craig’s, is on posters all around. A more accurate depiction—with softer lines and a bigger smile—grins from hundreds of shirts and fake $1,000 bills, symbolizing Yang’s signature idea of giving every American adult a “freedom dividend” of $1,000 a month for life.
Most of the people here put an even higher value on his candidacy. To Vanessa Hurtado, a 35-year-old woman who says that she has never voted before, it’s worth more than seven figures. “If someone offered me a million dollars or for Yang to be president, I’d take Yang,” she says. “He seems to think about everything with a clear head.”
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Eventually, the real Yang comes bounding onstage and immediately launches into the core argument of his candidacy: Donald Trump wasn’t elected because of Russia, James Comey, or Macedonian trolls. He was elected because he spoke to people’s fears about automation and lost manufacturing jobs.
This is a problem that can be solved with smart policy choices, bipartisan outreach, and billions of $1,000 checks. He’s a true nerd, and he’s making arguments common in the nerd capital of the world, Silicon Valley. Except for one thing: Much of his stump speech lacerates Silicon Valley.
Yang’s candidacy is something of a toxic bouillabaisse for the tech industry. He presents himself as someone of the industry, wearing a lapel that says “math” instead of one with a flag. Pundits call him a tech entrepreneur, though he actually made his money at a test-prep company. He talks about breaking problems apart and finding solutions. He played D&D as a kid, read science fiction, and understands blockchain.
He has run his campaign in the most modern of digital ways too. The guy is dynamite on Reddit, and he spends time answering questions on Quora. And that is part of why he’s going to win, he hollers from the stage. He can beat Trump on his own terrain—“I’m better at the internet than he is!”
But the tech-friendly trappings mask a thorough critique of technology itself. His whole message is premised on the dangers of automation taking away jobs and the risks of artificial intelligence. He lambastes today’s technology firms for not compensating us for our data. If there’s a villain in his stump speech, it’s not Trump—it’s Amazon. (“We have to be pretty fucking stupid to let a trillion-dollar tech company pay nothing in taxes, am I right, Los Angeles?”)
If Yang is the candidate of Silicon Valley, he’s the one driving a Humvee up the wrong side of the 101. Or, as Chris Anderson, one of my predecessors as editor of WIRED and now a drone entrepreneur, tweeted the night of the fourth Democratic debate, “I turned on the radio for 6 seconds, enough to hear that the Dem debates were on and @AndrewYang, who I thought I liked, was talking about how autonomous trucks were endangering driver jobs. Head slapped, vote changed. Bummer.”
As Yang wraps up, he has another message: “What does this look like to you, Los Angeles? This looks like a fucking revolution to me.” That may be a bit much. It’s more an evolution, and it’s a killer party. Still, Andrew Yang has found his voice, found his message, and found his people.
So it’s entirely possible that, long after most of the other candidates have dropped out, Yang will still be there tweeting, jumping onto Reddit threads, grabbing microphones, and using the best of modern technology to explain why modern technology is leading America into the abyss.
There isn’t a whole lot in Yang’s background that would seem to have prepared him for this. He grew up in Schenectady, New York, where his father worked as a researcher for GE and his mother was a trained statistician who worked as a university systems administrator and then became a painter. When he’s telling his life story in a way that emphasizes immigrant success, Yang notes that his father got 69 patents. When he’s playing for hardscrabble background points he says, “My father grew up on a peanut farm in Asia with no floor.”
Eventually, he went to Phillips Exeter Academy, where his contemporaries included the social critic Roxane Gay and the musician John Forté, who wrote songs for the Fugees. His lab partner in physics class was Jedediah Purdy, later the author of For Common Things. Yang seems to have stood out among his classmates mainly for his goth style. One classmate, who thinks highly of Yang and has donated to his campaign, added that his main memory of Yang is that “he is the most disgusting eater of barbecue chicken wings that I have ever witnessed. Seriously. I can make myself throw up just by thinking about it.”
Exeter led to Brown, which led to law school and then to a law firm in New York City. As Yang tells the next chapter, he became disenchanted with the law. His firm, Davis Polk, had become “a temple to the squandering of human potential.” It’s also helpful to note, though, that his next step was to immediately jump into the frothiest startup market in the history of mankind, which was a temple of similar design.
He and a friend from the firm founded a startup called Stargiving.com. An early press release notes that “Stargiving, a high-profile celebrity/charity event platform, enables fans to become everyday philanthropists by allowing internet users to send money from corporate sponsors to charity. At the same time visitors to the site are entered into a raffle to win a unique experience with featured celebrity.”
Despite an early partnership with John Leguizamo, or perhaps because of it, the company went belly-up. Eventually, though, Yang built a test-prep company that he sold to prep giant Kaplan for somewhere in the low tens of millions. The deal made Yang wealthy, but not as wealthy as many believe. His net worth, according to Forbes, is just one-twelfth that of Elizabeth Warren. “Andrew worked his butt off, and that ethic came from his parents’ hustle,” said Nagesh Rao, a friend. “Immigrant families: Everybody’s got to earn their keep.”
After selling to Kaplan, Yang founded an organization called Venture for America that helped entrepreneurs start companies throughout the country—with a special focus on the sorts of places where people don’t start a lot of companies. And this is when, like so many other people in recent years, he came to believe that technology is hollowing out our economy.
Yang’s recent book, The War on Normal People, is a story about the costs of automation and the uneven distribution of wealth in America. At one point, he writes of seeing the country as a place where the most ambitious people all do one of six things (finance, consulting, law, technology, medicine, or academia) in one of six places (New York, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, LA, or Washington.). And as economic growth centralizes there, it disappears elsewhere. “In places where jobs disappear, society falls apart,” he writes.
This means Yang had a different perspective after Hillary Clinton’s balloon drop at the Javits Center was canceled, and as Trump swaggered toward the White House. He had an instinct that economic change had done this, not Vladimir Putin. Yang started reading the research and talking with people in and around politics. He lived in midtown Manhattan with his wife and two young children, but he worried about the rest of America.
As Yang explained to me in his offices on West 39th street—where he had ridden in on a battered Schwinn bicycle with granny bars and a child seat in the back—the data seemed entirely obvious to him. “If you look at the voter district data, there’s a straight line up between the adoption of industrial robots and the movement toward Trump in each voting area in the Midwest. And so I went through the numbers and said ‘Oh my gosh, this is an economic and automation story.’”
The canonical meeting—at least as the story has solidified—was in early 2017 with Andy Stern, formerly the head of the SEIU, one of the largest labor unions in the country. Stern had written a book arguing that America needed some kind of universal basic income as a way to counter rising income inequality. Yang agreed and told Stern that he’d run for president on that platform if no one else was likely to.
In February 2018, Yang sent an email to the contacts in his Gmail address book. “Hello all, I’m writing with some big news to share—I’m running for president as a Democrat in 2020,” he wrote. He explained his signature policy issues, asked for some help, and signed off “Andrew Yang US Presidential Candidate (D)” and his phone number.
Many recipients were confused, but intrigued. “My jaw dropped,” Rao says. “I chuckled and thought this is pretty darn cool!” Even the people who knew him well enough to get personal calls were surprised. According to Rachel Sheinbein, a San Francisco investor who has known him for years, “when he called me to tell me he was running for president, I couldn’t believe it.” She asked him “president of what?” Other friends, he just forgot to tell. One, Andrew Chau, told me that he had hung out with Yang and only learned the next day that he had declared for the presidency.
“I’m a fairly normal, sane person. And it’s not normal to run for president. So—I’d be surprised if they weren’t surprised,” Yang tells me when I ask about his friends.
But something funny happened when Yang started running: It turned out he was damn good at it. Unlike most humans, fame and cameras seemed to improve him. Unlike most presidential candidates, the book he wrote to launch his campaign was actually interesting. And soon after entering the mix, Yang got a chance to go onto the most important political program in America right now: the Joe Rogan podcast.
The Yang who came across to Rogan and his many millions of listeners, over the course of two hours, was thoughtful, charming, and full of original ideas. Almost immediately, they got to the centerpiece of Yang’s campaign: universal basic income. (Yang freely admits he dubbed it a freedom dividend because it tests better.) The plan calls for every American older than 18 to get a $1,000 check in the mail every month, for life. In theory, the money would help people transition between jobs as the riptides of automation grow stronger.
Rogan loved the idea, and he broke into his affectionate bro-speak after an extended Yang riff on the topic. “Yeah, it does make perfect sense! That’s what’s scary about it. I’m not disagreeing with you in any way, shape, or form. I’m just thinking, man.” Rogan’s listeners loved it too. Wandering through the crowd at MacArthur Park, roughly half of the people I surveyed said that they’d first heard of Yang on that podcast.
And as Yang has hammered home in interviews and on his website, the freedom dividend wouldn’t just help with job transitions. It could also reduce domestic violence, child abuse, and drug overdoses. It could improve mental health and encourage art too; America would have increased entrepreneurship.
One of our interviews was, charmingly, conducted as we played foosball in a boba tea shop near the park where he spoke. As we shot the ball back and forth, he added that the money from freedom dividends would go to day care, car repairs, Little League sign-ups, and nonprofit donations. In fact, the only benefits I have not heard him claim are that it will cure baldness or make your teeth whiter.
Yang’s idea isn’t original. He likes to attribute it to Thomas Paine and Martin Luther King. (Credit could also be given to Richard Nixon and Charles Murray, but those names might not test as well in Iowa.) No matter the origins, universal basic income has started to gain traction in Silicon Valley, in part because that’s the place most attuned to technological disruption, in part because it’s the place most interested in crazy ideas, and in part because, if income disparity leads to revolution, we know whose heads roll off the guillotines first.
After the Rogan interview, Yang went on arch-conservative Ben Shapiro’s show. His Twitter follower count bloomed, and his tweets started getting better. He jumped into Reddit with the handle AndrewyangUBI and explained his policy choices, his strategy, and his favorite condiment (honey mustard).
Eventually, he started giving out actual freedom dividends to actual voters, mostly in the early primary states. At first, he paid them out of his own pocket, and then from the campaign. Critics suggest it’s a violation of campaign finance law, but the Federal Election Commision is staffed by only three commissioners at the moment, and no meeting can take place unless there are four. So there is, quite literally, no one to enforce the law.
Reddit for the most part has loved Yang’s ideas. Economists, though, have been more cautious. There are three critiques of Yang’s freedom dividend, the first of which is that there’s no need for it. As numerous economists have pointed out, there’s limited evidence that technology is actually making jobs disappear.
We have feared the robot displacement since the time cars started replacing the folks who drove the horses and buggies. And so far we’re doing just fine. (As WIRED’s Kevin Kelly argued in 2012, automation tends to unleash a cascade of new jobs for humans.) The current unemployment rate is at historic lows. Productivity growth has been sluggish too, suggesting that hyper-efficient machines haven’t come for all the jobs yet.
The second critique is that, even if job loss accelerates, a freedom dividend isn’t going to be a panacea. Self-driving trucks may eventually dominate the highways, and as Yang points out, trucking is the largest employer in 29 states. But a trucker making $50,000 isn’t going to be thrilled with $12,000. Put another way, the freedom dividend is just too small.
The third critique is that the freedom dividend, is just, well, too big. Say there are roughly 250 million Americans over age 18. Send each of them $12,000 a year, and that’s $3 trillion a year. I asked Austan Goolsbee, the top economic adviser to Barack Obama, what he thought of the cost. “The entire income tax is around $1.5 trillion. The entire [annual] payroll tax, all of FICA, that’s a little over $1 trillion,” Goolsbee responded. In short, as the saying now goes, “an affordable UBI would be inadequate, and an adequate UBI would be unaffordable.”
Goolsbee also doesn’t buy the premise of Yang’s campaign—that automation is responsible for the rise of Trump. Yes, it is true that districts which lost a lot of jobs to automation swung for Trump. But to draw a conclusion from that may be to interpret correlation as causation. “Yes, it’s true that places that had more manufacturing and had more manufacturing job losses voted for Trump,” Goolsbee says. “It’s also true that more rural places voted for Trump, and rural places tend to have more manufacturing.” He adds that Trump also won places with lots of pickup trucks. But that doesn’t mean the president’s best electoral strategy is to ship pickup trucks to blue states.
It may be impossible to run a regression analysis that truly explains why America voted for Trump. This doesn’t really matter to Yang’s argument. Because what he’s actually saying is somewhat simpler: “I care about numbers, and I care about people who don’t watch Rachel Maddow every night.” Maybe he’s wrong about why so many counties in Indiana and Iowa switched from supporting Obama in 2012 to Trump in 2016. But at least he’s paying attention to those places and trying to win back those voters.
In fact, much of Yang’s appeal is that he so frequently breaks out of left-wing filter bubbles. When Mark Zuckerberg was being denounced for meeting with conservatives, Yang tweeted that, actually, in America it’s good for people to have dinner with those they don’t agree with.
He topped that a few days later by defending the woman a few on the left had erroneously renamed Tolstoy Gabbard. (The kerfuffle was launched when Hillary Clinton was quoted by The New York Times as saying that Russia was grooming Gabbard for a third-party presidential run. What she had said was that Gabbard is a favorite of the Russians being groomed by Republicans.)
Digging into Yang’s policies for technology, one sees the same pattern: The only thing predictable is his unpredictability. He generally favors the Green New Deal, but he wants to accomplish it by using geo-engineering and thorium nuclear reactors. There are other curveballs too: He’s in favor of ranked-choice voting, reducing pretrial bail, free marriage counseling, and term limits for Supreme Court justices. (He’s against circumcision, though.)
Yang may take tech companies to task as much as anyone on the trail, but unlike the rest of them he doesn’t want the government to break them up. (Or, as he put it in the fourth Democratic debate last month, “using a 20th-century antitrust framework will not work.”) What’s more, he doesn’t hold their engineers responsible for the woes he thinks they have wrought. “One of the biggest farces in America right now is that it’s somehow reasonable to hold an innovator responsible for the downstream impacts that could be 10 states away. Like, they’re in a lab working on stuff. They can’t figure out what the heck is gonna happen in Ohio as a result of what they’re working on in the lab.”
Silicon Valley does not have a political ideology right now. There’s a long-standing strain of libertarianism and optimism, which is gradually being canceled by more powerful strains of progressivism and pessimism. But it’s still a muddled ideological melting pot, and perhaps it’s a place where Andrew Yang can do well. He’s received endorsements (or, to be more precise, public shout-outs) from Elon Musk, Casey Neistat, and Alexis Ohanian. And he’s doing reasonably well across the wider state of California, an early primary state this season. One statewide poll even put him at 7 percent, ahead of California senator Kamala Harris, even as he’s still 19 points behind the front-runners.
All of those endorsers have something in common, which illuminates a weakness of Yang’s campaign: He’s attracting more men than women. The crowd in Los Angeles was mostly male, as is the crowd at most Yang events. On Facebook, Yang’s campaign ads have resonated more among men. Overall, Yang has directed 71 percent of his Facebook ad spending toward men and just 29 percent toward women.
Indeed it is men who serve as the protagonists in most of the stories Yang tells and in the problems that he is trying to solve. It is men who hold the majority of the manufacturing jobs that are being automated away. It is men who mostly drive the trucks that will be replaced by AI. And it is men who are dying younger and sooner. “We are back in Spanish flu territory because drug overdoses and suicides have overtaken vehicle deaths,” Yang proclaimed in Los Angeles, lamenting that life expectancy in America has declined for three years in a row for the first time since 1918. But this decline is due to men—who are three and a half times more likely to commit suicide than women, and twice as likely to die of opioid overdoses.
There’s no indication that Yang’s XY focus is conscious, intentional, or the result of misogyny or bias. Nor is he by any means myopic. By the time we started playing foosball in LA, he had just finished taping a podcast with Alyssa Milano. In every stump speech, he speaks movingly of his wife, and of the sacrifices she has made to stay at home and raise their two children. But Yang’s perhaps inadvertent focus has provided him with a niche: Every other major candidate has spent more money on women with their Facebook ads. (Sanders comes closest to paying attention to men, with a 50-50 gender split on Facebook targeting.)
Yang’s approach to race is much more in the foreground. He is the first major Asian American presidential candidate, which also seemingly has allowed him to become the first candidate to thrive on making Asian jokes. (His signature one-liner: “The opposite of Donald Trump is an Asian man who likes math.”) Perhaps not surprisingly, he performs particularly well among Asian voters, a fact that was on vivid display at his event in Los Angeles.
But there are other demographic groups where he doesn’t do as well. Just on the edge of the crowd before the speech, I met an African American man named Jeffrey Connor who lives nearby. He seemed skeptical of the entire scene. “We aren’t here,” he said, gesturing to the crowd. “Black people aren’t here.” He noted that there were more black men working security than standing in the crowd. As he said this, a black man working security, right next to Connor, nodded and smiled. “No one in the neighborhood knew he was coming,” Connor added, pointing out that Yang was set to speak on a stage that had recently hosted a tribute to Stevie Wonder.
After the speech ended and the hip hop blared, Connor came to find me as I approached the stage to try to grab another second with Yang. “They’ve appropriated our music,” he said. “They’ve appropriated the colloquialisms.” Still, Connor admitted that the speech impressed him. He said he was open to voting for Yang.
Yang is going to need that vote—and the votes of lots of other people of color and women too—if he is to have any hope of beating the odds and winning the Democratic nomination. In reality, of course, those odds look very long. He is currently in sixth place in the most recent polls, trailing one former vice president, three senators, and a mayor. He has yet to garner a single major endorsement from a political figure.
His supporters, though, truly believe he’s going to win. All that needs to happen, they argue, is for more people to learn about him. If you’re a supporter of Cory Booker, you need to believe that people’s impression of your candidate will change. If you’re a Yang backer, you just have to believe that people will like your candidate when they hear more of him.
In late October, Julián Castro told his supporters, slightly embarrassingly, that he would drop out if he didn’t reach his next fund-raising goal. Yang responded on Twitter by declaring that, if he didn’t meet his next fund-raising goal, he’d stay in. Last week, after Beto O’Rourke announced that he was dropping out, news broke that Yang was staffing up.
Turns out that lots of candidates are going to drop out between now and the dog days of the primaries. It’s depressing and embarrassing for a senator to get 2 percent of the vote in Nevada. It’s pretty cool if you’re Andrew Yang. Plus, Yang got into the race as much to push an idea as he did to win, which means he doesn’t need to worry as much about losing.
He’s also getting new fans in surprising places. Late in October, New York columnist Andrew Sullivan wrote in despair about the current crop of Democratic candidates, but noted that “the only true bright spot is Andrew Yang—fresh, real, future-oriented, sane, offering actual analyses of automation, trade, and technology that distinguish him from the crowd.” He added: “I suspect he’d be a superb foil for Trump and could flummox the dictatorial dotard into incoherence and open bigotry.”
It’s another of Yang’s most salient selling points—that he may indeed match up well against Trump. Perhaps someone talking about automation in the heartland can persuade some of Trump’s voters to switch sides. Perhaps a man who’s pretty darn funny on Twitter can counter a president who’s pretty darn mean there. Maybe America is ready for a State of the Union written in PowerPoint, after four years of a president who struggles to spell.
In Los Angeles, Yang supporters broke into a chant familiar to anyone who has attended one of his rallies: “Yang beats Trump! Yang beats Trump!” The idea, as the candidate declared on the stage, “[Trump] knows his attacks work on politicians. And his fear was that a new nonpolitician who is not full of shit comes out of nowhere.”
After the speech, Yang danced around both awkwardly and euphorically, and then he took selfies with supporters. I scrambled on stage to ask him one more question: “Is anyone having more fun running for president.”
Yang smiled. “I highly doubt it,” he said.
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Need to Run Errands *Really* Quickly? Try This Lamborghini SUV
Lamborghinis can provoke a range of feelings. For drivers, there’s joy for 0 to 60 mph sprints in 3 seconds, fear of crashing a few hundred thousand dollars into a tree, and pride in a capitalism-approved measure of success. Just the sight of a charging bull car can evoke jealousy from streetside fans and contempt…
Lamborghinis can provoke a range of feelings. For drivers, there’s joy for 0 to 60 mph sprints in 3 seconds, fear of crashing a few hundred thousand dollars into a tree, and pride in a capitalism-approved measure of success. Just the sight of a charging bull car can evoke jealousy from streetside fans and contempt from those who consider the cars overrated or obnoxious. Whatever the reaction, it tends to be strong. But with the Urus SUV, Lamborghini has introduced a new feeling: consternation.
That’s because the Urus, which starts at $200,000, represents a new direction for Lamborghini. It moves away from the form for which the brand is known—low-slung rides like the Gallardo and Aventador—but retains the sort of specs you get from those chest-beating two-seaters. The resulting numbers don’t seem to match. The Urus has four doors (not counting the rear hatch) and five seats. It weighs nearly 5,000 pounds and stands more than 5 feet tall. But it generates 641 horsepower and uses 627 pound-feet of torque to send you and the kids to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds, and to a top speed of 190 mph. The trunk’s 21.75 cubic foot capacity can hold more than two dozen grocery bags. Lamborghini’s sports cars have shown signs of domestication in recent years, but the Urus goes further, offering the kind of comfort that makes cruising down the highway feel like you’re hardly driving at all.
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It exists because American drivers have proven so enamored of SUVs and crossovers that Ford and GM are moving away from making sedans. Eager to cash in on the nascent super-luxury end of that market, Bentley, Aston Martin, Rolls-Royce, and even Ferrari are rolling out SUVs to compete with this Lambo. Whatever the reason, the Urus exists.
From the driver’s seat, where I spent a few days this summer, the Urus combines opposing values: aggression and comfort, excess and moderation, dogma and flexibility. I don’t know how to feel about what Lamborghini calls the first “super SUV,” a vehicle that packages the ridiculous, uncompromising essence of a Lamborghini supercar into the kind of thing you’d take to the mall. Once I stop worrying about how to categorize it, the Urus proves something of a delight.
It’s no easy feat to take design language evolved to fit two-seaters with the profiles of ballet flats, and map it onto a high-rider. Where other SUVs from luxury brands look anodyne or bloated, the Urus is angular, sharp. You may not love it, but you’ll notice it. That’s the product of sticking to Lamborghini’s heritage, while stretching it just a bit. The Urus bears the influence of the current Aventador, iconic Miura, the funky Espada. The rakish angles of the wheel arches and triangular air outlets call back to Lamborghini’s first SUV, the LM002 (aka Rambo Lambo) of the late 1980s and early ’90s.
Inside, the Urus carries the classic marks of today’s Lamborghini sports cars, including scimitar-like paddle shifters for when you want to row through the eight gears yourself, and the plastic cover you flip up for access to the ignition button. “It’s a big melting pot of ideas of the past of Lamborghini,” says the company’s chief designer, Mitja Borkert.
The Urus is a family car, you could say, and not just because you can take your partner and kids and Great Dane along for a ride. It melts various ideas into one. Like most cars these days, the Urus offers various modes, which rejigger the suspension, steering, acceleration, and braking. In Sant’Agata, home to Lamborghini, those modes are Strada (for street, or comfort), Corsa (race, or sport), Terra (off-road), and Sabbia (sand). Each iteration does its job well, I discovered when I took the car up the California coast for a weekend that involved a late-night kayaking tour of Tomales Bay. Terra makes for a sure-footed climb and descent of the steep dirt road that leads to the kayaking parking lot. After a few tiring hours on the water, I’m glad to have Strada smooth out the ride for the late-night drive down a woodsy stretch of Highway 1, and the carbon-ceramic brakes are more than adequate for keeping me from hitting the deer that jets across the road. The next day, with the sun out and the deer cleared, Corsa lets me slice down the coast, making the most of the twin-turbocharged V8 engine.
The average Lamborghini owner, unsurprisingly, owns more than one car. They don’t have to choose between the dedicated sports car for those days of winding backroads and the more comfortable, practical vehicle for when it’s time to take the kids to practice. But the Urus eliminates the need to choose which one to take out of the garage. Confusing, maybe. But when you’ve got an hour to kill on the backroads near the polo grounds while your youngster bumps and rides, it all becomes a bit clearer.
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Do We Need a Special Language to Talk to Aliens?
In May 2018, a radar facility in Tromsø, Norway, trained its antennas on GJ237b, a potentially habitable exoplanet located 12 light years from Earth. Over the course of three days, the radar broadcast a message toward the planet in the hopes that there might be something, or someone, there to receive it. Each message consisted…
In May 2018, a radar facility in Tromsø, Norway, trained its antennas on GJ237b, a potentially habitable exoplanet located 12 light years from Earth. Over the course of three days, the radar broadcast a message toward the planet in the hopes that there might be something, or someone, there to receive it. Each message consisted of a selection of short songs and a primer on how to interpret the contents.
This was the second iteration of Sónar Calling GJ273b, an interstellar messaging project by the nonprofit METI International that began in 2017. Although both transmissions were billed as a “music lesson for aliens,” the second broadcast was notable for rehabilitating an extraterrestrial language developed by the physicists Yvan Dutil and Stephane Dumas in the late 1990s.
This custom symbolic system begins by introducing ET to numerals, and then progresses to more complex topics like human biology and the planets in our solar system. An earlier version of the language was first sent into space in 1999 and again in 2003 as part of the Cosmic Call messages—a crowd-sourced interstellar messaging project that marked the first serious attempt at interstellar communication since Carl Sagan and Frank Drake sent the Arecibo message into space 25 years earlier.
All of these formal messaging attempts have taken basically the same approach: Teach numerals and basic arithmetic first. But as some recent insights in neurolinguistics suggest, it might not be the best way to greet our alien neighbors.
The world’s first interstellar communication system, the lingua cosmica, or Lincos, set the tone for all subsequent attempts by placing basic math at its core. Designed by the Dutch mathematician Hans Freudenthal in 1960, Lincos inspired several other mathematicians and scientists to try their hand at designing extraterrestrial languages. Each system is ultimately an attempt at solving a remarkably complex problem: How do you communicate with an intelligent entity you know nothing about?
The question gets at the nature of intelligence itself. Humans are the only species on Earth endowed with advanced mathematical ability and a fully fledged faculty of language, but are these hallmarks of intelligence or human idiosyncrasies? Is there an aspect of intelligence that is truly universal?
Scientists and mathematicians have grappled with these questions for centuries. As the Nobel laureate Eugene Wigner once observed, mathematics is “unreasonably effective” at describing the natural universe, which has led a significant contingent of mathematicians to conclude that math is baked into the fabric of reality. From this perspective, mathematics isn’t something produced by the human mind so much as something the human mind discovers.
Most interstellar communication systems were designed around this conclusion. The goal isn’t to teach ETs about addition and subtraction—presumably they know as much if they can build a telescope to receive the message. Instead, these systems teach ETs about the way we code numbers as symbols. Then they can build up to more complex ideas.
It’s an elegant solution to a difficult problem, but Lincos still rests on the assumption that an ET is “human-like in its mental state,” as Freudenthal once conceded. But if ET does in fact think like a human, does that alien also have some kind of human-like language?
That was where Marvin Minsky and John McCarthy, two of the progenitors of artificial intelligence, landed after they became interested in interstellar communication. Both Minsky and McCarthy had a deep interest in the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, which they realized had a lot in common with their own search for artificial intelligence. As Minsky argued on several occasions, ET is likely to have language because language is an ideal solution to the fundamental problems faced by any intelligent species—namely constraints on time, energy, and resources.
A deeper question is whether ET’s language will be similar to our own. In other words, whether it will also obey the universal grammar, the hierarchical, recursive structure that linguist Noam Chomsky has argued is the deep structure common to all human languages. Although languages tend to be analogized as a form of software running on the hardware of our brain, recent work in neurolinguistics suggests that language—and the universal grammar—is actually an expression of the hardware itself.
The WIRED Guide to Aliens
Several brain imaging studies have shown that the deep structure of human language manifests in our neural activity. When people are taught fake rules for either a made-up or real language, their brains respond differently than when they use actual languages (whether familiar to them or not). These findings suggest that the shared attributes of natural languages might be encoded in how neurons connect. In other words, our faculty of language may be inextricably tied to the structure of our noggins.
If extraterrestrials do have a language similar to ours, that might imply they also have a functionally equivalent neurobiology. To say aliens might think like us and have language is one thing, but to argue they have brains like ours pushes the limits of credulity. But it might not be as crazy as it sounds.
Biology, after all, is beholden to the laws of physics, which puts constraints on the trajectory of evolution. Astrobiologist Charles Cockell makes this argument in his recent book, The Equations of Life, in which he points to the remarkable similarities across species on Earth—from the fact that life is cellular and arises from the same four nucleotides, to the structure of an eye or a wing. This is not to say that evolution is deterministic (random events like asteroid impacts and genetic mutations still happen), but that the number of evolutionary end points isn’t limitless. In other words, we’re not going to discover a planet inhabited by sentient ice cubes.
There is a good chance that ET’s planet will be quite a bit different from our own, and the species there will adapt accordingly. But the course of evolution on ET’s planet will still be bound by the same physical laws, and ET will face the same fundamental constraints on time, energy, and resources. So it is reasonable to assume that extraterrestrial evolution might arrive at similar solutions to these common problems, such as a brain capable of wielding hierarchical, recursive languages.
If that’s the case, then the best way to communicate large amounts of information may not be painstakingly designing artificial languages from scratch, but sending a large corpus of natural language text, such as an encyclopedia. This is how we train natural language algorithms on Earth, which tease out the rules of human language by statistically analyzing large collections of text. If ET has developed its own AI, it could potentially decipher the structure of a natural language message.
Of course, natural language processing algorithms on Earth don’t really understand the meaning of the text they analyze. They are blindly manipulating symbols. And aliens may still need some kind of extraterrestrial language to connect some of the symbols of human language to their meaning. But as on Earth, the best way to start an interstellar conversation might simply be saying “hello.”
This article is adapted from Extraterrestrial Languages by WIRED staff writer Daniel Oberhaus. It was released on October 22 by MIT Press.
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