I knew what to expect. Both of my parents had experienced retinal detachments, so I was terrified but prepared. The warning signs sounded vague: “Be wary of sudden bright flashes or arcs of light,” doctors told me. In reality, it was more like hot white blaster fire ricocheting off the hull of an Imperial light cruiser. “Be wary of any new ‘floaters,’ ” they said. When the floaters came, they were like black, stringy Dementors descending unexpectedly over my field of vision.
I’ve always seen the world through this perspective—everything filtered through what I watched, heard, read, and loved. But consuming pop culture like the world was ending when it actually was wasn’t so much fun. By December 2020, we had binged, read, spun enough. My wife and I decided to focus on our health, going on nightly mile-long walks around our Forest Hills neighbourhood, in Queens. One evening, the symptoms started in my left eye. We rushed to a retina specialist for outpatient laser eye surgery. Pew-pew-pew, and the hole was patched. Phew. More lasers in subsequent visits (both eyes, to be safe). My own up-close-and-personal Pink Floyd light-show experience, with encore performances.
Our newfound fixation on health was timely. A staph infection puckered my left calf like Freddy Krueger’s. Meanwhile, gummy bears were apparently killing me—prediabetes had matured into full-blown Wilford Brimley–style “diabeetus.” I was hitting middle age hard. I was no Wolverine; my healing ability was vastly inferior. While my body was failing, my mind was racing. The realisation that “life moves pretty fast” made me channel my inner John Hughes, as I attacked my decades-gestating manuscript like I was frantically writing a Ferris Bueller sequel.
And so, at 48 years old, I was finally able to see my pandemic project, my debut novel, published to great acclaim. No one was happier than my mother. Her da xinganbao (“big precious”) was finally a published author. I have always taken after her family: thick black hair, broad nose, the love of the written word. I was inspired by my grandfather, a famous Chinese reporter who sacrificed everything to immigrate to the US for journalistic integrity. He then spent much of his life caring for his fragile wife, my grandmother, who suffered from anxiety and a weak heart. So much of them was yi chuan, inherited by us. The noble talents, but also the poor eyesight, diabetes, and mental-health issues.
My mother had spent much of her time looking after the men in her life: shuttling my grandfather to appointments, working 12-hour days while her husband pursued his doctorate, raising her sons to do good. But now, like mine, her priorities were shifting: The pandemic presented an opportunity. My mother informed me that she had started writing, too. Or rather, she had resumed writing, tapping back into the collegiate aspirations she abandoned when she began her life here in the States.
And so, at 73 years old, Grace I-Yin Jeng was finally able to see her pandemic project, her first essays, accepted for publication in a Chinese journal.
Both of us were always inspired by my grandfather’s professional legacy, even more so after he passed. His final message years prior was one simple eternal character, ai (“love”), writ large in marker across the unfolded panels of a Chinese newspaper, left on the table of his hospital bed. As I wrote about such big ideas expressed through small moments, I wondered what my mother was writing about. Her childhood in Taiwan and the Philippines? Her early struggles in New York City as an entrepreneur? (She owned three shoe stores.) Having two teenagers and then a third miracle baby in her 40s, or helping thousands as a Social Security caseworker? Her response: “Thoughts on the season changing to autumn—and about you becoming a writer.” She still can’t help but focus on the men in her life.
What no one saw coming: my vision growing exponentially worse. In August 2023, as I was starting the final edits on my book, the lasers stopped working on my left eye. I would have to go under the knife. The vitrectomy would replace my eyeball juice with fresh-squeezed artificial replacement fluid, and a self-dissolving gas bubble would be injected to push my retina into place. A painless procedure (thanks, propofol and Valium!), but the following seven days of constant facedown positioning would be absolute torture. I was inverted and sore, and sleeping with my CPAP machine (like Hannibal Lecter in his face mask) was inhumane. Worse yet, in December 2023, I learned that my right eye required the same process. I immediately burst into tears.
Most people will get cataracts (the slow, natural decay of the lenses in their eyes) as they enter their 70s and 80s. But as a result of these surgeries, my eyes are undergoing vast changes until they stabilise. I am fast developing cataracts and losing my sight. (And no, my other senses aren’t heightened. Turns out I’m not Daredevil, either.) Each check-up fills me with dread. If the vitrectomy surgeries don’t hold, I may need further procedures to save my vision. If it’s only the cataracts I have to contend with, then hopefully within the year, my eyeballs will be “ripe” enough for this next round of routine surgery to replace my zombified lenses. Nothing makes you feel so old as looking forward to receiving the same treatment as octogenarians.
On the other hand, my mom is in great health, hopping on airplanes and cruise ships. On her last visit to Taipei, she got a blue whale tattoo. In honour of my dad, the marine biologist? “No deeper meaning,” she insists. “It’s cute and I like the ocean.” My mother, pleading with her sons to take her to see Bon Jovi. My mother, smoking weed for the first time. She’s been in her renaissance. But plans don’t always work out; her Cabo trip was curtailed when my father grew uncharacteristically pale and refused the buffet. He’s been dealing with his own health crisis ever since: leukemia. While we are slowly being attacked by our own bodies, she keeps us afloat, as per usual—sorting the pills for my dad, sending frozen dumplings to me. All done with grace, by Grace.
Nothing makes you feel so old as looking forward to receiving the same treatment as octogenarians.
Her “big baby,” tall and strong. But now I can no longer lift anything heavier than a half-full banker’s box for fear of putting pressure on these fragile eyes. What I fear, what I am most wary of now, is time—our mortal flesh fades fast, in spite of all we have left to do, say, and see.
Recently, my mother started letting her bob go grey. My temples, too, grow more into the same signature silver of that pliant genius Reed Richards. But I feel further from fantastic, as my limbs become increasingly stiff and achy every day. My eyes, too, miss out on so much wonder before them.
My mother has read my novel and is my biggest champion. Soon I will get to read her new work—in translation, sized up to a 24-point font. But there are still so many stories she hasn’t yet written. I am afraid to ask about them, to hear them spoken in this life or the next. But isn’t everything that’s inherited and passed down simply about ai—love—in the end? At my book events, I can make out her shape, beaming proudly from the front row, that familiar magnetic red phone case flapping wildly as she tries to record a video. What I experience now, however, is all blurry, hazy like a dream. I’m hoping once my vision is renewed, I’ll get to see this all again with her, for the first time and not the last.
Originally published on Esquire US
It is September, the month magazines typically turn their attention to the subject of style. Esquire Singapore may be far less conformist than many of this city-state’s publications, but delivering a fashion-centric September issue is one rule we’re glad to adhere to.
For much of my 20 years as a journalist and editor, I’ve covered fashion, among other subjects of vital socioeconomic importance.
Up until the pandemic, I would often spend much of each January and June at Pitti Uomo and the fashion weeks in London, Paris and Milan. Though I mostly focus on menswear, on several occasions, I had the privilege of attending the women’s couture presentations in Paris.
Being lucky enough to see Raf Simons’s spring 2013 Christian Dior couture show remains one of my most memorable fashion moments. Then a newbie to couture, Raf brought a crisp futurism to this classic discipline, creating structured gowns and mellifluous frocks that were ‘pretty’ and glamorous yet modern, and immaculately tailored suits that lent couture an almost everyday practicality.
(DIOR MEN'S SUMMER 2024)
The 2015 documentary Dior and I, which explored the frenzied eight-week creative process behind Raf’s first couture collection as artistic director for Dior, brought into sharp focus not only his passionate perfectionism but the incredible skill of the artisans toiling in Dior’s Avenue Montaigne ateliers. As much as the designer’s vision, it is these craftspeople’s painstaking execution of minute details that gives a couture garment its magic—contributing to a price tag that can stretch well into six figures.
It was details that distinguished the experience when I recently became one of the first customers of the Dior spa on Belmond’s Eastern & Oriental Express train, travelling through the jungles of Malaysia. Operating some of the world’s most elegant hotels, as well as several gracious sleeper trains and boats, Belmond was acquired several years ago by Dior-allied LVMH, making this collaboration very much a family affair.
Positioned between the dining and bar cars, the spa comprises two treatment rooms clad in rich tropical wood panelling carrying Dior’s canework motif, which figured prominently in Kim Jones’ spring 2024 Dior Men’s collection. Feature walls and bedspreads are dressed in Dior’s Toile de Jouy print, a graphic used across an array of apparel and accessories by the house’s current women’s artistic director, Maria Grazia Chiuri. The rooms look gorgeous, but where the Dior spa really impressed was in its attention to certain points that many five-star spas fumble.
(LUDOVIC BALAY)
Whatever plush fleecy textile was used to cover the massage table, it felt like lying on a cloud, and somehow, the face cradle miraculously avoided giving me the throbbing forehead-ache that most do. The music steered clear of meditative chants, nature sounds and panpipe cliché, instead opting for the type of laidback sounds you’d hear in a chic Parisian bar. (At several points, I wished I’d had Shazam handy. And a martini.)
Protecting my modesty, a zephyr-like cotton sheet of incalculable thread count was draped across me. It carried an embroidered quote from Monsieur Dior: “Au fond d’un cœur sommeille toujours un rêve,” which translates as “Deep inside a heart, there always lies a dream”—apt, as this spa experience was indeed dreamy. The massage itself was very nice, I might add. The vibrations as we rattled down the tracks added a certain je ne sais quoi.
(LUDOVIC BALAY)
I’d never been on a luxury sleeper train before, and it proved a terribly stylish way to travel. There’s an ineffable elegance to journeying at a pace far slower than an aircraft, relaxing and enjoying lush palm-treed scenery with a cocktail in one hand, a paperback of Paul Theroux’s Great Railway Bazaar in the other. “If a train is large and comfortable you don’t even need a destination; a corner seat is enough, and you can be one of those travellers who stay in motion, straddling the tracks, and never arrive or feel they ought to,” Theroux writes. Can confirm.
It was also pleasant to be in the company of travellers who’d made an effort to dress in key with the sophisticated surroundings. Prompting this, passengers on the Eastern & Oriental Express are issued with dress code guidance pre-departure, noting that the “atmosphere aboard is one of relaxed refinement,” suggesting that gentlemen should wear a sports coat or blazer for dinner, and to please avoid jeans or sneakers during meal times (where acclaimed chef André Chiang’s cuisine is served). Nearly everyone aboard stepped up sartorially, with a couple of gents going so far as to don a tuxedo one evening, adding to the sense of occasion and Agatha Christie-esque atmosphere.
(FRANKIE LIN)
Relaunched this year after a pandemic hiatus and a periodic spruce-up of its Art Deco interiors, the Eastern & Oriental Express currently navigates several different itineraries across Malaysia, and will soon also explore Thailand. Belmond operates classic trains in South America, Europe and Great Britain, but the man responsible for running the company’s mobile hospitality offering has a particular fondness for our local route, shunting from Woodlands to Penang and back.
“People always ask me which is my favourite train, and it’s like choosing between children—you’re not really allowed to say,” Gary Franklin, the vice president for Belmond trains and cruises, tells me. “But spending time on that train, sitting in the observation car, watching the Asian countryside go by, is amazing.”
Belmond’s philosophy centres on savouring both the destination and the journey, travelling in style, and much like the Dior atelier, having skilled personnel in place to ensure all the fiddly details are “just so”. “Luxury is evolving, it’s less about formality and more about genuine care. The art of hospitality is about creating an atmosphere where guests feel that everything is taken care of and that they are special,” Franklin believes.
“It’s about making guests feel comfortable, well looked after, and relaxed, creating an environment where people feel like they’re at home—but better,” he explains. “It’s not just about the tangible things like the quality of the food or the type of champagne served, though those are important, of course. It’s more about the people who make you feel at ease, the generosity and care that go beyond what’s expected.” In couture or hospitality, it’s the personal touch that makes all the difference. That, and a sense of style. Human qualities AI has fortunately not yet learnt to imitate.
It was 10am on a Sunday, and I, of course, was still in bed. In my floating consciousness, I felt hands on my shoulder—someone was shaking me vigorously. This immediately sent me into alert mode because being shaken awake had been a rarity since my secondary school days. I’d usually groan and ignore the person, but on that day, I felt sober. My eyes shot open to find my sister hovering over me, which was odd because she wasn’t someone to wake me up without a reason. When she spoke, her voice sounded almost puzzled as she said, “Kobe Bryant just died.”
My sister doesn’t watch basketball, let alone play it. I could give her two pictures—one of Michael Jordan, another of Kobe Bryant—and five times out of ten, she’d probably point to MJ and say, “That’s Kobe Bryant.” She’s clueless when it comes to sports, but she knew his name. She knew how important he was, and she knew the impact his death would have—not just on me but on the world.
“Without studying, preparation, and practice, you’re leaving the outcome to fate. I don’t do fate.” — Kobe Bryant
Perhaps it’s the idea of this man, who seemed to conquer every challenge he ever faced through sheer will, perishing helplessly in a fiery blaze. Or maybe it’s the heartbreaking loss of his 13-year-old daughter, Gianna, alongside him and seven other passengers. Maybe it’s the cruel irony of both—a larger-than-life figure who spent his life obsessing over dictating his own destiny, reduced to a mere mortal, powerless during his final moments, unable to protect the daughter he cherished above anything else.
Whatever the reason, his death was devastating to basketball fans worldwide—so much so that it seems they’ve subconsciously created a religion built around him. Fans now hunt for significant sporting dates that coincide with the jersey numbers he wore for the Lakers, 8 and 24. Twenty-fourth of August has become the unofficial, official Kobe Day. Yet, in the recently concluded Paris Olympics, the gold medal basketball game between France and the USA fell on 8/10/24—a date that incorporates not only his Lakers numbers but also the 10 he wore as an Olympian.
Wait, so which is the real Kobe Day? Fans see his jersey numbers lining up on the calendar and convince themselves of a greater cosmic design. After all, what are the odds of the gold medal game happening on Kobe Day? They need to win gold for Kobe. Kobe will make sure Team USA wins. This is Kobe speaking to us. Ironically, the same men who mock women for following astrology now find themselves doing the same thing through Kobe numerology. This is precisely how fans have inadvertently formed a sports-centric faith around the Black Mamba, without even realising it.
For those unfamiliar, Bryant bestowed himself the nickname Black Mamba in the mid-2000s to create an alter ego that helped him separate his personal life and tap into an unrelenting focus on the court. Rumours suggest he drew inspiration from a documentary about the black mamba snake, admired for its fearlessness, precision, and deadly strike—qualities that mirrored his fierce approach to basketball. You still hear tales today of his unmatched work ethic, passed down by his peers and contemporaries:
Kobe played a bench warmer to 100 multiple times when he was in high school. In his worst game, he still won 100–12.
Mamba used to learn Spanish and French so he could trash-talk European players in their native languages and psych them out.
In 2015, Kobe injured his right shoulder in a game but continued playing single-handedly with his left hand.
During the 2008 Olympics, Kobe would come in at 8 a.m. with ice on his knees, sweat-drenched through his workout gear. Meanwhile, players like LeBron James and Dwyane Wade were still yawning and asking, “Where in the hell is he coming from?”
These stories now linger in the archives of YouTube, are given new life on Instagram and repackaged for new audiences on TikTok. Because of Kobe’s untimely death, these stories are on the path to becoming myths—but who’s to say they won’t eventually transform into legends?
Every religion needs a scripture; some kind of moral or ethical code to live by. Kobe fans, of course, have the “Mamba Mentality,” a philosophy created by Bryant himself that preaches discipline, perseverance, and curiosity. Bryant even published a book titled The Mamba Mentality: How I Play, offering a detailed guide to his mindset and practices. The book, like a scripture, contains personal reflections, wisdom, and lessons, and is treated like a source of truth for those seeking to emulate Bryant's success. Other elite athletes like Naomi Osaka and Anthony Davis have adopted this mindset, appearing almost as apostles to Bryant’s teachings. But this framework transcends sports itself—the idea that, through rigorous application of the Mamba Mentality, one can achieve a form of immortality through lasting impact and legacy is malleable and can be applied to various areas of life.
The idea of religious themes in sports isn’t something new. In the book Understanding Sport as a Religious Phenomenon, Eric Bain-Selbo and Gregory Sapp posit that the human need that drives religious participation—a sense of belonging, identity, and emotional experiences—are the same needs that compel people to engage deeply in sports. Think of mass gatherings, chants, and superstitions that reflect traditional religious expressions. Are you seeing the parallel?
Kobe Bryant wasn’t perfect. In 2003, a 19-year-old hotel employee accused him of sexual assault. While Bryant maintained that the encounter was consensual, the accuser disagreed, leading to a civil lawsuit that was eventually settled outside of court. It was a horrific situation that left the victim scarred and Bryant’s reputation obliterated.
Redemption is a powerful narrative often found in religious texts, and Bryant’s life reflects this narrative of repentance and public forgiveness. Following his legal issue, he issued a public apology to the victim and began repairing his personal life with his wife and children. In the years that followed, his family weathered the storm, and Bryant matured. He became deeply involved in charitable work, particularly in youth sports, education, and initiatives that supported disadvantaged communities. On the court, he became a mentor for young athletes, positioning himself as a role model who inspired many with his work ethic and dedication. After his retirement, he became a primary advocate for women’s basketball, emphasising the need for greater support for female athletes—who historically received less attention and funding compared to men’s sports. As a proud “girl dad” of three daughters, Bryant dedicated time to coaching his daughter Gianna’s youth basketball team.
For many fans, the last image they have of him is of a tender, loving father who passionately shared his love of basketball with his daughter—a far cry from his younger days when stories of his intensity and playing style screamed macho, red-blooded energy. While we cannot speak for the victims or assume their forgiveness, in the public eye, this journey quietly marked the closing chapter of Bryant’s life story of redemption.
A decade ago, kids would yell “Kobe!” as they shot crumpled paper into trash bins. Whether kids nowadays still yell his name before taking a shot or have replaced it with “Curry” remains uncertain. The future generation’s understanding of Bryant’s legacy and its lasting impact is yet to unfold. Will the next wave of athletes born after Bryant’s death practice the Mamba Mentality as a guiding philosophy? Will they look to him and start praying before important games? I don’t know, but it’s fascinating to observe.
For now, what seems certain is the unifying power of Bryant’s legacy among his devoted fans. Across different backgrounds, cultures, and political ideologies, there is a shared identity and common ground to be had. This social cohesion spans oceans and borders, satisfying the human need for connection, inspiration, and belonging. After all, this has long been the role religion has served for societies, centuries before the deification of Kobe Bryant.
From the very same kids who brought us brain rot speak like '+1000 aura points' and 'skibidi Ohio' (that's quite literally 'very good' and 'very bad' for the millennial dinosaurs) is the latest viral lifestyle to adopt. And it's actually pretty good.
The trend—sorry, I mean core—is basically sexy anti-consumerism. It spells out in the name: Underconsumption. This blowback reaction, like the last one about personal finances, makes perfect sense in the economic climate Gen Zs are navigating.
The frugality may be a direct result of inflation, or the social impact of environmental awareness. All very mindful, cutesy and demure, yet you can't disregard that there's a deeper root to acknowledge. Because if budget is what's holding you back, what happens when circumstances allow you to splurge?
Don't get me wrong. The call for conscious purchasing and alternative consumption is single-handedly resurrecting the first two "R"s of the infamous 3Rs boyband that everyone casually ignores. That's much more constructive than recycling; efforts which have proven to be negligible without the cooperation of big corporations.
We will certainly take this over the one where affluent Chinese influencers flushed the Rolexes that daddy paid for down the toilet, but Underconsumption Core has to be more than just minimalism.
It's not even about bringing back Quiet Luxury. All these seem to carry a notion of romanticising. The way the word 'core' itself refers to an aesthetic, as opposed to a practising habit. The way critics have argued how it is rather #NormalCore, except society is too accustomed to excess that we deem it "under" not to waste.
Stop to think about how crazy it is that majority of us live like kings (or better than, depending on how far back in time you go) with the "basic" amenities we have. Or how we can afford our favourite indulgences that would have been considered luxuries in our parents' day. It really puts things into perspective.
Instead of simply buying less because it's trendy or even the "right" thing to do, perhaps we should find contentment with what we already have, than remain convinced a new version will satisfy. Do we really need a new phone, tablet, laptop, smartwatch, headphones and speakers every two years?
A fool-proof, admittedly dramatic, method I like to use to resist a purchase is to imagine it amid the hypothetical context of war: probably not so necessary. There are countless occasions I forget what it was I initially desired to own or—shocker—felt completely fine without it.
The good news about abstinence though, is uncovering a greater level of appreciation for the item when you do make the rare splash of cash. We take for granted our easy access to treat ourselves that we become immune to the pleasures it brings.
So, can we rebrand Underconsumption Core to just Appreciation Core?
Have you ever wondered about the concept of time? Whether we consciously choose to take notice of it or not, time remains constant. For some, time may feel like a continuous force that races by and never stops. While for others, time is cherished and embraced as a precious commodity. Over the years, my journey with time and my love for horology has impacted the way I view and approach life.
Admittedly during my early teens, I had little to no interest in watches. To me, they were merely an accessory to tell time, and I had always been the kid who preferred tinkering and getting handsy instead with tech gadgets. At the end of high school, the social media wave took over and photos of trendy timepieces would flood my feed. I vividly remember being exposed to the macro and caseback magic and that was how my love story with horology began. In fact, the more I learnt about the intricate workings and how the delicate balance of gears, springs and hands moved in perfect synchrony, I became increasingly captivated. Horology was a slippery slope, they said; but still, I could not look away.
Over time, I realised I would subconsciously link personal objects to a special occasion, milestone or a specific period of my life. My first watch was gifted to me by my father: a Rolex Datejust 16233 to commemorate my 18th birthday. For me, this timepiece marked the beginning of my journey into adulthood and horology; and today remains a treasured heirloom. My watch collection is essentially a time capsule of my favourite memories and achievements. Some of these pieces also serve as tangible reminders of real moments in time, such as losing a loved one, as well as learning to embrace the little things in the everyday. Life is truly a series of interconnected events, each with its own significance and timing.
If life moves with time, then we are expected to be adaptable and resilient, just as watches require regular winding and adjustments. Horology has taught me to embrace both change and continuity. Case in point, we often see vintage watches being restored to their former glory, symbolising the ability to adapt and renew. On the other hand, modern pieces that push the limits of watchmaking are also more present than ever, representing innovation and progress. This balance of old and new honours the past and embraces the future, mirroring my own growth and journey. Moreover, my passion for horology has given me numerous opportunities to intimately experience timepieces I never imagined I would, as I immersed myself in the watch community.
From piece uniques and tourbillons to minute repeaters and grand complications. The child in me would never have expected this to be a reality. As much as it is a delight to encounter such exquisite watches, the true value of my hobby lies in the authentic and heartfelt friendships I have formed over the years through watch communities. The camaraderie and shared experiences make every moment in this hobby deeply rewarding and memorable.
As individuals, it is important for us to have something relatable in all that we do, and I am thankful that my love for horology has provided me with that connection. From scouring the depths of the Internet for information on specific watch references, to now knowing some of the most knowledgeable and humble people in the industry, I am grateful for how far this unexpected hobby has taken me.
Ryan Ong's writings on watches can be found at Curated Times.
The smell of freshly baked madeleines in the air. A crackling commercial of the Mopiko ointment. Driving past your old school you used to loathe as a child. That slightly melted plastic toy sitting in the drawer of your top cabinet. Nostalgia can be a wonderful thing—if not a sobering reminder of time’s relentless march. The feeling comes when a memory—long tucked away in the recess of your brain—suddenly blooms uncontrollably, a wistful warmth enveloping your mind (and sometimes your heart). It’s comforting, until the yearning morphs into an ache that lulls and lingers once the harsh reality of passing time sets in. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.
Now imagine having these feelings for a time you were never in, an era that existed before you were even born. Is it even possible? As someone who’s experienced this phenomenon (deeply), I’m here to tell you, yeah, it is.
As a teenager, The Breakfast Club made me hang up an unnecessarily large poster of the movie in the middle of my room (it’s still there) and buy a pair of Converse high-tops (Allison best girl). The Cure had me scouring the web for overpriced band tees (eventually settling for low-quality Hanes re-prints on eBay). All this, mind you, in a desperate attempt to taste the sweet, sweet nectar of 80s life. Spoiler alert: I was born in 2000.
Otherwise known as “Fauxstalgia”, this phenomenon occurs when an individual falls victim to a romanticised, idealised version of a previous time. It’s often perpetuated by the media through movies, television shows, music, and advertising that shape social perceptions of the past.
Shows like Stranger Things portrayed the coming out experience of a queer individual (Robin) during the height of the AIDS crisis as relatively smooth, while Bridgerton’s diverse casting creates a world where race doesn't seem to impact social status as much as it should during an era where slavery was still legal. Glossing over the complexities and uncomfortable aspects of the times presents a sanitised version of history that erases the crimes and wrongdoings of the institutions in power. Great shows, don’t get me wrong, I'd watch Steve Harrington babysit a cactus, but is it too much to ask for a more nuanced portrayal of history?
It doesn’t help that content like this is embraced by consumers who yearn for a simpler, more authentic time. A study by the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology revealed that people tend to remember past events more positively than they experienced them at the time, creating a cognitive bias that contributes to the appeal of the past.
Here’s the kicker: corporations know this, and have converted this into a marketing tool, frequently tapping into this yearning to sell products and services. When is the last time you’ve heard a remake of a classic film get rave reviews? Remember The Lion King (2019)? All the CGI in the world couldn't bring Mufasa back to life. Fantastic Four (2015) flopped beyond anyone’s expectations, and don’t get me started on Aladdin (2019). It makes sense that fauxstalgia function as part of a wider neoliberal capitalist strategy to repackage and resell perfectly functional products under the guise of nostalgia. It’s just safer and more profitable.
Don’t take it from me, though. Take it from one of the biggest capitalists in the world, a certain orange-hued former president who built an entire campaign on this phenomenon. "Make America Great Again," he said. But remind me, when exactly was this golden age? Was it the Trail of Tears? The enslavement of Africans and their descendants? Or perhaps the discrimination against LGBTQ+ and immigrant folks. I’ll spare you the history lesson, but was America ever truly that great?
Look, I get it, there’s nothing wrong with consuming and enjoying the media’s portrayal of the history. I'm as excited as the next guy to see Paul Mescal strut his stuff as a young Paul McCartney. But maybe it's time we took off the rose-tinted glasses and faced reality. The good old days? They weren't always that good. Recognising the difference between genuine historical appreciation and manufactured nostalgia can help us engage more authentically with both our past and our present. Because let's face it, the only thing worse than living through difficult times is pretending they never happened.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be retreating into my bed under my Breakfast Club poster and listen to Abba on vinyl. What? I never said I was immune to fauxstalgia's charms.
When I was 40, I raised my fists and did not run away from a fight for the first time since sixth grade.
It happened in a gym straight out of a Rocky movie. I was spending that year working in a rented office on the second floor of a three-story walk-up in Rome, Georgia. I filled my time staring out the office window, tapping gloomily at my keyboard on a failing project. One day, I heard banging.
Fire-escape stairs led to a newly cleared third floor. “A gym,” an intense, wiry man said. And sure enough: heavy bags, speed bags, weights. Along one brick wall: a ring, canvas duct-taped directly to the wood floor. Plaster hung in patches; the bags hung directly from exposed roof joists.
The wiry man was Lee Fortune, onetime holder of the World Boxing Council’s Continental Americas middleweight title. Did I want to learn to box? Lee, a cop, planned to work the gym around his schedule. It would be USD25 a month for limitless time and coaching, several afternoons a week. “Not kickboxing,” he said. “Real boxing. Sparring. You’ll wear headgear.” I said sure.
“A man you’ve never met before said for USD25 he will hit you in the head,” a friend summarised. What else did I have going on?
But there was more. When I was growing up in suburban Cleveland, unless you were an athlete, you were a school playground victim. You were pushed, teased, hit; I was, anyway. The adults in those days blithely assured us that standing up for yourself cured bullies but I never witnessed that. I tried once, against my will, in sixth grade. The class decided, seemingly en masse, that a dodgeball incident required playground resolution. I told the other kid it was stupid, tried to walk away, finally started pushing back, and ultimately ended up on the lawn in a ring of jeering classmates, flailing. “Look,” I heard someone say. “It’s the two queers fighting.” I kept on until we both stopped swinging, then went, crying, to my piano lesson. The lead bullies took no notice; as for me, I spent the remainder of my youth and young adulthood resolutely avoiding, even running from, fights.
All kinds of fights. I slunk away from arguments with parents and siblings; retreated, stung, from locker-room teasing. In junior high, I tried the bullied-child strategy of bullying someone else but I failed at the first push back; when I was randomly hit during a high school eruption of race-related strife, I simply stood, mystified at why and what to do. As an adult walking on city streets, I quickly withdrew from anything threatening, once sprinting away from a random beatdown that left both me and a friend bloodied. Fighting back seemed not unthinkable but unimaginable.
When I was 40, that gym represented an opportunity: Maybe it was time to fight. I was instructed to buy high-top sneakers, cotton hand wraps, a pair of training gloves. And, ominously, a mouth guard.
The first weeks were boot camp. About a dozen of us—all men in their mid-20s, except me—stretched, jumped rope, did gym exercises. Lee, in his mid-30s, taught us to wrap our hands. The wrapping and gloves, I learned, protect the boxer’s hands, not his opponent’s head. This was a hitting sport.
We learned to crouch and angle our shoulders, protecting still-soft bellies. Left hand up by left cheek, right around the chin, peering between gloves, we adopted the classic fighter’s pose. Lee taught us the jab: straighten that left, pop!, directly at the heavy bag. Then the cross, the overhand right—launched not from the shoulder but from the hips, pushing off that back leg and shifting your entire bodyweight. I had always heard “throw a punch,” but on those grimy wood floors facing a stained heavy bag, I understood.
“Jab!” Lee would say. Then the hooks, left and right; the jab and cross were one and two, the hooks three and four. “Give him the old one-two” suddenly had meaning. Lee explained: The one, he leans to his left; the two gets him sliding hard to his right, where your left hook meets the side of his head. We got used to pounding that heavy bag and learned the speed bag, which is about rhythm, “bappity-bappity-bappity,” and about holding arms high enough to make shoulder muscles cry out by the end of a three-minute round. That three-minute clock defines everything, followed by a buzzer and a minute of gasping rest.
It was working. My biceps strengthened, my shoulders swelled; my wife called me “Gregory Pecs.” I started to think maybe I could actually hit somebody. Then Lee said, “Bring your mouth guards Thursday,” and my stomach dropped.
We had begun moving with Lee in the ring, jabbing at his hands in paddles, learning to duck his slow-motion swipes, but sparring was different, and the gym felt different that day. Lee checked mouth guards, chose boxers of similar size, jammed competition gloves over outstretched fingers, taped laces. I had to yoga-breathe for calm.
We entered the ring and the buzzer sounded. Lee had to encourage us to approach each other, and when the first tentative jabs were thrown, terrified backpedaling followed. “Don’t turn your back!” Lee yelled, pushing us back together. But when I crouched and faced my opponent, a guy heavier but shorter and 15 years my junior, he connected. With the headgear, I felt impact, but not pain. A lifetime of running from fights and that was it? I relaxed. We moved and probed, and once I got a right hand through, I realised I had hit him. It may have been the first punch I landed since that day on the playground. It may have been the first one in my life. The buzzer sounded; suddenly, hands were removing my headgear. Soon others wore the lace-up gloves and I leaned on a bag and watched, vibrating. I had fought someone.
We sparred every few weeks. My movements grew more confident as I learned to parry and feint. I began to think I was a guy who could take care of himself. One day Lee’s dad, Roy, a small-time promoter, took me aside. He put together cards for the casinos in Biloxi. Headliners required undercards, and two-round jousts earned USD500 per palooka. Did I want to fight? I was 41 and in the best shape of my life.
“Don’t you think your life is hard enough with your brains on the inside?” my wife responded at home. Roy shrugged and life went on. Then one day, Lee approached.
“I have a bout coming,” he said, with an opponent he called a slow white guy. “I need you for sparring.” Before I knew it, I was in headgear and gloves in the ring. “To your left,” Lee would say, and I would float that way, jabbing, trying an occasional combination. He’d move forward and I’d try to duck, defend, feint, and then suddenly I was leaning against the ropes watching the light fixture swim in circles. Lee backed away as Roy and a couple others held me up. “When you see that big right hook coming,” Roy said, “you know you can duck.”
I pulled out my mouth guard. “If I could see that hook coming,” I said, “we would be having a different conversation.” I ceased to spar with Lee. I never really believed I was a guy who could take care of himself. But evidently, I can take a punch.
The next year, I lived in Nashville and took a boxing class in an office building basement. When in a newspaper office I playfully threw an air combination at other writers, one jumped, startled. “Jeez,” he said. “Do you box?”
I guess I did, a little. But I retired with a record of 0–0 lifetime. You’ll find me now on a bicycle or running underneath a fly ball. Not as good for the pecs, but fewer headaches. And no troubling echoes from childhood playgrounds, either.
Originally published on Esquire US
I should qualify to say whatever I’m about to, since I am biologically (and also identify as, for woke folks) female. It’s like the free pass we have to make racist comments, but only if they’re about your own race. So, toxic femininity. Let's go.
It’s tricky to determine where the awakening began. Perhaps it was the many Instagram Reels that seemed so dead right in exposing the myriad insensitivities of men. It might have been the article that Shakira somewhat called Barbie “emasculating”. Or more concerningly that I found myself agreeing with the other parts of her statement.
That’s not to say I didn’t thoroughly enjoy what I consider a revolutionary movie. I recall being disappointed at the reaction of male friends, who while not despising it the way chauvinistic online trolls do, did not seem to fully appreciate its brilliance either. But how could they?
This wasn’t a toy they spent their childhood with, so that alone eliminates sentimental resonance. They never had the complicated relationship of affection for the doll through the eyes of a girl, to questioning her caricature appearance as a woman. Nor have they been personally treated to the male gaze which, as Margot Robbie’s version observes, is underscored by the threat of violence.
A universal female experience so comedically yet accurately captured in that Master of None episode (S1E07: Ladies and Gentlemen); contrasting an evening return home for both sexes—a casual jaunt for one and sheer terror for the other, no prizes for guessing which is which.
It’s hard to dispute that phrase that what men fear most about going to prison is what women fear most walking down a quiet sidewalk. Or justify against why seven out of eight women would rather encounter a bear than a man alone in a forest.
This is not to demonise men, but it was a haunting revelation the day I counted the number of women I knew directly who have been sexually assaulted. It’s bitterly ironic to say this, but you just have to take my word that these were not “asking for it”-type situations, nor “asking for it”-type social circle.
So I certainly understand what’s fuelling the 4B Movement and other spouts of Down with the Patriarchy. Just as much as I will never understand how to strike that perfect balance of being attractive without being provocative, or how to strive towards that standard without looking like it.
Nonetheless, I also see how easy it is to be swept into the many waves of hate perpetuated by social media that often focus on polarising a topic; whether racial, political, or etc. The flavour of the season just happens to be gender disparity.
Sure, Boyboss is not a thing, but why do we act like only women are subject to unrealistic expectations? If societal pressure was one-sided, male mental health issues would not exist. Instead of ammunition to pit against each other, differences would be better handled as learning points towards empathy and synergy.
To quote the Columbian pop star, “We complement each other, and that complement should not be lost.”
Given last year’s annus horribilis for the digital asset sector, many investors would be forgiven for writing off cryptocurrencies altogether. But the fear of missing out is an underestimated human driver.
In the first half of 2023, Bitcoin and other major cryptocurrencies kicked off the year with a strong performance. But with rising borrowing costs and a slowdown in the global economy have since dampened appetite for the speculative asset.
In July, a decision by the US District Court for the Southern District of New York ruled the XRP token sold by Ripple Labs in secondary markets was not a security, which led to a short-lived bump in cryptocurrency prices.
Many legal observers noted serious flaws in the Ripple Labs decision. Especially in the District Court’s flawed application of the famed Howey test for securities, established by the US Supreme Court.
The US Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) has announced it intends to appeal the Ripple Labs decision, possibly bringing all token issuances within the ambit of the regulatory agency’s oversight.
Cryptocurrency enthusiasts, eager for the SEC to approve a long-awaited spot-based Bitcoin Exchange-Traded Fund (ETF), also had their hopes dashed when the regulator recently announced a delay in considering all applications. Payment processing giant PayPal announced it would be issuing a stablecoin, only to “pause” the initiative just a week later.
Against this backdrop of continued regulatory uncertainty, investors, both retail and institutional, are understandably standing on the sidelines when it comes to cryptocurrencies and the sector has not seen meaningful inflows.
Yet as investments go, Bitcoin and some other cryptocurrencies, including ether, have had an incredible run this year, with Bitcoin gaining some 75 per cent and Ether up some 55 per cent. And even with the recent pullback in cryptocurrency prices, it seems the human penchant for speculation on a technology simultaneously overhyped and underdeveloped, shows no signs of waning.
Central banks globally have yet to stop exploring the prospect of issuing their own digital currencies, commonly known as “central bank digital currencies” or CBDCs. BlackRock, one of the biggest asset managers globally, has thrown its hat into the ring and applied to list a spot Bitcoin ETF in the US. Meanwhile, Europe saw its first spot Bitcoin ETF listed on the Amsterdam stock exchange.
These activities come against a backdrop of regulatory enforcement actions against some of the biggest names in the digital asset industry. That includes action by the SEC against Binance and Coinbase, two of the world’s largest exchanges.
If financial institutions are skittish about participating in a sector so rife with regulatory challenges, their actions don’t seem to be reflecting that reticence. In some ways, the prospect of enforcement and regulatory action may be a good thing for cryptocurrencies long-term as it would provide the much-needed backdrop of certainty that could move more institutional participation.
At just over a trillion dollars in market capitalisation on a good day, cryptocurrencies, to paraphrase a recent decision of the New York District Court for the Southern District of New York, just aren’t that systemically significant.
Yet, an ongoing narrative touted by proponents of cryptocurrency as an investable asset, argues the unprecedented growth in money supply, inflation and an interest rate hiking cycle that looks set to taper, should bolster the attractiveness of deflationary assets such as Bitcoin.
Bitcoin’s deflationary quality (there will only ever be 21 million Bitcoins and the amount that can be mined roughly every four years halves) has long been touted as a reason for its inclusion in an investment portfolio.
Many investors have been seduced by the siren song of the simplicity of Bitcoin’s “deflationary asset quality” as an investment case. But just because an asset is deflationary doesn’t necessarily mean it will retain its value over the long term.
Take gold for instance, which has long been touted as a hedge against inflation given its finite supply.
Yet despite record-high inflation in the US in 2022, the value of gold as an inflation hedge actually decreased because a stronger dollar and higher US Treasury yields made it more attractive for investors to put their dollars into assets which generate yields, which gold does not.
Similarly, with the current risk-free rate of return well over zero, it’s hard to make an investment case for an asset that generates zero yields such as Bitcoin.
Another narrative being touted as supporting the investment case for Bitcoin is that interest rates will soon taper and start to be cut, which will bring increased liquidity and make speculative assets such as cryptocurrencies more attractive. Yet, there is nothing to suggest interest rates won’t simply remain higher for longer.
The US Federal Reserve has not indicated it intends to cut interest rates anytime soon, instead, the overwhelming messaging from members of the Fed has been persistently high inflation and a need to keep rates at their current level or higher for longer.
Historically, central banks have also always acted one step behind market conditions, cutting rates only in the face of a full-blown recession rather than preemptively.
And if a recession is a necessary precursor to rate cuts, it’s difficult to see how dire economic conditions could bolster the investment case for cryptocurrencies.
The elephant in the room of course is Bitcoin can’t be a Chimera, constantly shifting its investment case on the basis of the current macroeconomic climate—Bitcoin can’t be both a speculative asset and a store of value to hedge against inflation depending on who’s asking.
Perhaps, and because, Bitcoin in particular and cryptocurrencies in general are so susceptible to narrative capture, the nascent asset class (if it’s safe to refer to it as that) will almost always find itself an audience, even if the size of that audience may regularly vary.
Many cryptocurrency enthusiasts liken the current state of blockchain technology and cryptocurrencies to the early days of the Internet and acknowledge that the propensity to oversell its usefulness was in many ways similar to when the world was first coming to terms with a new means of communication in the form of the Internet.
Today, few, if any, can imagine a life without the Internet, which orders many aspects of modern life. Given how much of our lives are increasingly digital, surely the way we conduct our commerce ought to be as well? But much of commerce already is digital.
Whereas early iterations of the web were ill-suited to supporting financial transactions, digital payments in most of the developed world are taken for granted. Where there remains plenty of room for improvement is in the areas of transparency and access. Although digital payments have become almost ubiquitous, huge swathes of the global population remain unbanked.
Mismanagement and inflation have plagued citizens in certain parts of the world, where it turns out that holding Bitcoin is far more sensible than clutching to pesos and bolívars.
The tokenisation of assets and the analytics and transparency that would afford is attracting greater interest.
Billions of dollars of bonds have already been tokenised, and financial institutions globally are embracing the use of blockchain technology to speed up processes without giving up security.
And finally, to improve access to banking services and speed up transactions while reducing friction, central banks are still open to the idea of issuing their own digital currencies.
The concept of tokenised securities is also taking root, with some pointing to the ability to effect faster and safer trades while receiving real-time information on interested party transactions.
It is difficult to say what cryptocurrencies and the blockchain technology that underpins them, would look like a decade from now; it is unclear at best.
Even in the early days of the Internet, it was impossible to foresee how advancements in bandwidth, mobile technology and rich content would reshape not just our digital experience but our physical lives. Similarly, where blockchain and cryptocurrencies will take us next is less certain.
To be sure, blockchain technology will need to scale significantly while keeping costs low, to constitute a meaningful alternative to current methods of value transfer.
What is clear though is that given the potentially transformative power of both blockchain and cryptocurrencies, there will be more than a handful of investors willing to take a punt on their long-term value, which is all fine and dandy as long as they recognise exactly what they are doing—taking a punt.
Let’s talk trends. Hotel trends, specifically. It’s axiomatic that you
can have too much of a good thing. They also say the cart shouldn’t lead the horse. The social media revolution has brought much good but it can also do great harm. And while I enjoy a sexy hotel Instagram shot as much as the next guy, I’m starting to wonder if we are entering the Upside Down; a world where influencers have run wild.
I see more and more of a prevailing trend in design that revolves around the dangerous idea of being Instagram-worthy. A lot of clients believe that this is what drives guests to stay with them. I try to instil in them the notion that this is the antithesis of authentic, lasting design. While going for the easy wow factor might make for Insta-gratification, guests will soon see past the shallow stunts. And in a world of wow and one-upmanship, where does it end? Chasing after the next fleeting fad as the filtered, pouty crowd rushes off to the next photo opportunity.
In parallel, another trend in luxury travel is authentic experiences. Luxury hotel guests often search out the unique and plan their travels around it. This is my wheelhouse. At BLINK Design Group, we subscribe to the philosophy of placemaking as the genesis of authentic, unique design rooted in a sense of place, and inspired and fed by local culture, arts, crafts and traditions.
This is a much deeper point of distinction in an ever-fiercer competition for guests. Sure, cheap wows can get attention. The secret is keeping it. Peeling the onion. Going deeper. Revealing more. True luxury travel is a marathon, not a sprint. Discerning travellers demand more. Is the Insta-crowd doing the TikTok tango trend? You can keep them.
I guess, I’ve always viewed a real sense of place as an inherent part of our design process. I’ve not thought of it as a trend or something fleeting. It really is the genesis of all of our projects. Through the years I think we’ve managed to refine it and it’s driven largely by our desire and love for travel and exploring. Authenticity is key in placemaking but so is the art of distilling that authenticity into a single thread to magnify its significance.
Travel has bounced back in a big way post-pandemic but it’s a double-edged sword. The two big challenges that affect what BLINK does more than ever are time and money. Developers want things done yesterday. Everyone is in a rush to make up for lost time and opportunities. But the supply chain is broken and it can’t be healed overnight.
There are a lot of materials and supplies that are either no longer available or have much longer lead times, which leads to project delays. For us, abortive work is having to reselect finishes and materials. Project deadlines have got shorter and we have become used to meeting online. Calendars are awash with Zoom dates.
Trends are trending to the universal. Love it or hate it, the world we live in is ever-more instantly connected. A client in one part of the world can see what is happening halfway around the world. This has led to a circular design culture in which trends stretch across continents and clients are more often than not in search of the same trends. Of course, the danger is design becomes an ouroboros, hell-bent on devouring itself.
Now, the elephant in the room: Artificial Intelligence. I think we are at the tipping point in terms of hotel design. AI is still nascent yet its potential is both scary and endless. I had always thought the day when AI replaces hotel designers would not be an integral part of our industry during my generation, but I was wrong. We’ve already had a few clients asking for AI-generated mood images. At BLINK, AI is something that we are keen to understand more and embrace as a design tool.
In a very human industry, built by and for people, can artificial intelligence really ever replace the human touch? It’s an interesting question. I am more excited than scared, and I’m rolling up my sleeves to try to understand how to work with AI in order to make hotel designs better. How can we create spaces through the use of AI?
Another trend I find encouraging is the shift to a small, local and nimble perspective. Just a few years ago the hospitality design firm was dominated by large practices with global offices. But times have changed. In almost every corner of the world, there are now a lot of small firms that do wonderful work. I’ve been following a handful of them on (insert ironic chuckle) Instagram. It’s inspiring, to say the least.
Regarding geographical trends, the Middle East is a big story right now. It’s a huge hotspot for growth due to several factors. The region, which has long relied on its wealth from oil, has pivoted into becoming travel-focused. In countries like the UAE, a lot of the interest is driven by man-made attractions such as the recently opened USD1.6B Atlantis The Royal. But its neighbours such as Saudi Arabia are turning to their rich history and natural beauty, which I find more exciting. Places like the Red Sea where they are developing two giga-projects or more historical places like Alula and Dhiryah Gate.
A quieter trend has been the ongoing development of new destinations within proximity to major urban cities like Bangkok and Tokyo, with areas like Khao Yai and Karuizawa being hotspots for new developments that BLINK is keeping a close eye on.
I’ve also recently been fascinated by collaborative efforts between two labels, like the Gucci and adidas collab. It forced me to think [about how] these unions work. Usually, they’re from two opposite directions—luxury versus sports apparel—but together, they create something different.
That could be an emerging trend in hospitality design: smashing polar opposites together to create something new and unexpected. That’s exciting. It would take brands and owners with the courage to step into the unknown but it could just be the future.
