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The host of CNN’s Parts Unknown (starting again on Sunday) wants to make a great show—and challenge some cultural assumptions.

The point is to resist the predictable, especially when it comes to TV’s ingrained conventions. “The only thing that makes me upset and, really, a dick is if something is fucking plodding and reasonable,” he says, spitting out that last word with palpable revulsion. “It starts with an establishing shot, I go someplace, I meet somebody, I sit down, I eat, and I come to a conclusion: That kind of conventional thinking really upsets me. I would much rather see some incomprehensible, over-the-top, fucked-up thing, because at least you’re trying to do something awesome.”

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The host of CNN’s Parts Unknown (starting again on Sunday) wants to make a great show—and challenge some cultural assumptions.

The point is to resist the predictable, especially when it comes to TV’s ingrained conventions. “The only thing that makes me upset and, really, a dick is if something is fucking plodding and reasonable,” he says, spitting out that last word with palpable revulsion. “It starts with an establishing shot, I go someplace, I meet somebody, I sit down, I eat, and I come to a conclusion: That kind of conventional thinking really upsets me. I would much rather see some incomprehensible, over-the-top, fucked-up thing, because at least you’re trying to do something awesome.”

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Great things have come from Quirky and its community of inventors. but their biggest project, Aros, strained everyone.
Garthen Leslie is an IT consultant and looks the part. He’s geeky, quiet, and middle-aged, sporting a long, untucked white polo, khakis, and wire-framed glasses. But today, very suddenly, he is also the face of a new ideal—a symbol of how invention itself is being reinvented.
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Great things have come from Quirky and its community of inventors. but their biggest project, Aros, strained everyone.

Garthen Leslie is an IT consultant and looks the part. He’s geeky, quiet, and middle-aged, sporting a long, untucked white polo, khakis, and wire-framed glasses. But today, very suddenly, he is also the face of a new ideal—a symbol of how invention itself is being reinvented.

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How a culture of creative collaboration has helped the company maintain its brand voice amid rapid growth.

The last two years have seen Vice’s (vicenews) growth go into hyperdrive. Such rapid expansion is a strain on any company’s culture, and when your brand has been so inextricably tied to the young, cool and dangerous, flirting with Rupert Murdoch could put a serious cramp in your style. But after 20 years catering to the tastes of youth culture, Vice has arguably held on to its brand and identity, something it sees as its most valuable asset. In fact, in many ways, the edges have been sharpened—see projects like its recent, much-discussed five-part documentary providing an unprecedented look inside terrorist group ISIS. As chief creative officer Eddy Moretti has said, despite its sizable audience and ability to monetize, “the only thing we really have at the end of the day is our brand, if we screw that up we have nothing.”

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How a culture of creative collaboration has helped the company maintain its brand voice amid rapid growth.

The last two years have seen Vice’s (vicenews) growth go into hyperdrive. Such rapid expansion is a strain on any company’s culture, and when your brand has been so inextricably tied to the young, cool and dangerous, flirting with Rupert Murdoch could put a serious cramp in your style. But after 20 years catering to the tastes of youth culture, Vice has arguably held on to its brand and identity, something it sees as its most valuable asset. In fact, in many ways, the edges have been sharpened—see projects like its recent, much-discussed five-part documentary providing an unprecedented look inside terrorist group ISIS. As chief creative officer Eddy Moretti has said, despite its sizable audience and ability to monetize, “the only thing we really have at the end of the day is our brand, if we screw that up we have nothing.”

Read More>

As Stephen Colbert or any great satirist will tell you, a key to satire is to always stay in character. In The Onion’s case, that “character” is an absurd, alternative world invented to comment on the real one. Every aspect of the fake world has to ring true for the trick to work. That includes the visuals. When nothing you publish is real, every single image has to be made from scratch. “We want to make sure that we’re making our Onion-world fully realized and very real,” says Ben Berkley, managing editor of The Onion. It’s all in service of the joke.
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As Stephen Colbert or any great satirist will tell you, a key to satire is to always stay in character. In The Onion’s case, that “character” is an absurd, alternative world invented to comment on the real one. Every aspect of the fake world has to ring true for the trick to work. That includes the visuals. When nothing you publish is real, every single image has to be made from scratch. “We want to make sure that we’re making our Onion-world fully realized and very real,” says Ben Berkley, managing editor of The Onion. It’s all in service of the joke.

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Real-estate developer Jamestown has perfected the art of creating the Next Hot Neighborhood. This is its formula—and where you fit in.
It is Sunday in Brooklyn, the July air oppressive. You get on the subway, heading for the depths of the borough, someplace no one you know lives—yet.
Off the train, phone and maps app in hand, you walk toward the pedestrian underpass of the noisy Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, meandering through a mix of residential buildings, bodegas, factories, and abandoned buildings. And then you find it: a huge, shady courtyard between two towering manufacturing buildings, strung with twinkling lights and tricked out with bars serving sangria, a taco stand, a dance floor, and most importantly, a DJ table.

You’ve arrived at Mister Sunday, one of the best daytime dance parties in New York. A sweaty, multi-ethnic tangle of scantily clad twenty- and thirtysomethings in barely-there rompers and jorts rub shoulders and butts on the dance floor with young parents with babies on their hips and aging disco-era veterans.
This throbbing, vibrant scene will play out each Sunday afternoon through the fall at a place called Industry City, a hulking 16-building industrial complex that had fallen on hard times since peaking in the mid-1900s manufacturing boom.
The hundreds of people who show up each week to party at Mister Sunday are out for a good time. What the carefree fun-seekers likely do not realize is that they are also a part of a powerful real-estate developer’s plan to remake Industry City—and the Sunset Park community in which it sits—into the Next Hot Property (with rents, of course, to match).
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Real-estate developer Jamestown has perfected the art of creating the Next Hot Neighborhood. This is its formula—and where you fit in.

It is Sunday in Brooklyn, the July air oppressive. You get on the subway, heading for the depths of the borough, someplace no one you know lives—yet.

Off the train, phone and maps app in hand, you walk toward the pedestrian underpass of the noisy Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, meandering through a mix of residential buildings, bodegas, factories, and abandoned buildings. And then you find it: a huge, shady courtyard between two towering manufacturing buildings, strung with twinkling lights and tricked out with bars serving sangria, a taco stand, a dance floor, and most importantly, a DJ table.

You’ve arrived at Mister Sunday, one of the best daytime dance parties in New York. A sweaty, multi-ethnic tangle of scantily clad twenty- and thirtysomethings in barely-there rompers and jorts rub shoulders and butts on the dance floor with young parents with babies on their hips and aging disco-era veterans.

This throbbing, vibrant scene will play out each Sunday afternoon through the fall at a place called Industry City, a hulking 16-building industrial complex that had fallen on hard times since peaking in the mid-1900s manufacturing boom.

The hundreds of people who show up each week to party at Mister Sunday are out for a good time. What the carefree fun-seekers likely do not realize is that they are also a part of a powerful real-estate developer’s plan to remake Industry City—and the Sunset Park community in which it sits—into the Next Hot Property (with rents, of course, to match).

Read More>

Susan Wojcicki built Google into a $55 billion advertising giant. Now she’s running YouTube. Her job: Do it again.
When Susan Wojcicki took over YouTube in February, she received almost as much unsolicited advice as there are YouTube videos. One open letter not-so-subtly pleaded with Wojcicki, ”So please, I’m begging you, please, please, please, don’t f*** it up.” 
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Susan Wojcicki built Google into a $55 billion advertising giant. Now she’s running YouTube. Her job: Do it again.

When Susan Wojcicki took over YouTube in February, she received almost as much unsolicited advice as there are YouTube videos. One open letter not-so-subtly pleaded with Wojcicki, ”So please, I’m begging you, please, please, please, don’t f*** it up.” 

Read More>