Links and Notes – Week 11, 2020
Tyler Cowen of Marginal Revolution posts some extracts from a new book about ‘the elite global party circuit of “models and bottles” to reveal how beautiful young women are used to boost the status of men.’
The older, uglier men may have to pay 2k to rent a table for the evening, whereas “decent-looking guys with three or four models” will be let in for free with no required minimum.
Men familiar with the scene make these calculations even if they have money to spend: How many beautiful girls can I get to offset how I look? How many beautiful girls will it take to offset the men with me? How much money am I willing to spend for the night in the absence of quality girls?
My Sister spent some time in Los Angeles last year and I was shocked and fascinated by her stories of the bizarrely open shallow world of being granted entry into a club. Cowen said this is his favourite book of the year so far, so I will certainly be picking it up. To be released on May 26, 2020.
Photos from around the world of empty once crowded locations.
TL;DR: $1,215,037 income, $22,116 profit. Razor thin margins (1.8%).
Charging $155 for a single bottle of beer, as some did for Pliny [the Younger IPA], might cause the average beer drinker to spit out their average beer. But for a passionate community of craft beer aficionados who trade and resell rare beers online, that price was just business as usual.
Quibi, set to launch on April 6, stands for “quick bites,” which refers to the service’s plan to offer short segments (10 minutes or less) designed for small screens (your phone).
The list of people making shows for this new streaming streaming service is insane. I guess they’re giving stars a lot of money to make something that doesn’t require a big time commitment. Either way, this could actually be interesting.
Bukowski is now, of course, a kind of patron saint of lowlifes, in Los Angeles and beyond; our eternal brownbag-swilling denizen of the liquor store, the poor East Hollywood–dwelling bum constantly hanging out at the racetrack. And it isn’t as if his type doesn’t exist today: it does, in abundance, the “community” of barflies of every color and non-creed, the tortured class, the not-quite or part-time homeless. He was one of them. But what set him apart was a heightened emotional sensitivity and genuine, stick-to-his-guns literary ambitions. […] He was dealt a bad hand in many ways, but one thing you could say for him: as a drinker and a writer he possessed the stubborn endurance of a cockroach.