I live in Washington, D.C., where I first came to work as a writer and producer for The Atlantic in 2010 and then covered D.C. transportation for TBD On Foot. Now I report on Congress for Communications Daily.
Today, there’s no way to tuck that box under your gym bag in the back of the closet. The echo of your relationship lives in every stroke of the key, in every alert notification noise, and in every single pixel. Exes live in auto-correct, in your Instagram feed, in your Gchat window, and in your very own social media history. Before we became dependent on the Internet for everything, including life management, taking control of the box was easier. Or so I’ve heard. Unfortunately, my life has always happened on the Internet. I was 17 when I got Facebook. For the entirety of my adult life, I have been an online tech reporter. In many ways, I have no control over the box.
One of my ex-boyfriends would, as standard, roll over and check his BlackBerry as his first post-coital act. After a while, I started to do the same. There was an unanswered question: what have I missed? It became a serious issue, something we subconsciously asked beforehand – what would we miss if we had sex now? Is there time for this? Would it be more convenient later?
In the afternoon, the silver-haired, bespectacled Nakamoto stepped outside, dressed in a gray sport coat and green striped shirt, with a pen tucked in his shirt pocket. He was mobbed by reporters and told them he was looking for someone who understood Japanese to buy him a free lunch.
Newsweek estimates his wealth at $400 million.
"I’m not involved in Bitcoin. Wait a minute, I want my free lunch first. I’m going with this guy," Nakamoto said, pointing at a reporter from AP. "I’m not in Bitcoin, I don’t know anything about it," he said again while walking down the street with several cameras at his heels.
He and the AP reporter made their way to a nearby sushi restaurant with media in tow, before leaving and heading downtown.
Resentment simmers, at the fleets of Google buses that ferry workers to the company’s headquarters in Mountain View and back; the code jockeys who crowd elite coffeehouses, heads buried in their laptops; and the sleek black Uber cars that whisk hipsters from bar to bar. … For critics, such sights are symbols of a city in danger of losing its diversity — one that artists, families and middle-class workers can no longer afford.
The New York Times on the class frustrations in the Bay Area, with a mix of photos and anecdotes that dovetail nicely in the similar piece in The Weekly Standard. I also think of the long George Packer take from earlier this year, which appeared in The New Yorker and is from his latest book.