If there’s a Wikipedia page about yourself, you must be famous—some kind of celebrity—or an expert in your field, or a figure who’s made a prominent contribution to human history or culture. But what happens when that page is nominated by Wikipedia editors for deletion? In a quirky tech story for Wired, Duncan Fyfe reports on the strange experience of being told you’re just not notable enough.

There is, when you look for it, a careless and cocky tone that can creep into the verdicts of Wikipedia editors who have been doing the job for a long time. “This guy is a nobody. Delete him.” “I’ve got more followers on Instagram than he does.” “All we have here are stand-up comedy, opinion columns, being a guest or collaborator on some non-notable podcasts … This is more or less every twentieth person who lives in NYC.”

When Snigdha Poonam received a strange email from an organization seemingly interested in discussing a book she published seven years ago, she was intrigued, but apprehensive. As it turns out, her suspicions were well-founded. Poonam, after investigating, discovered she’d been the target of an author scam. Little did the grifter know, that Poonam has spent the last 10 years reporting on fraud. Game on!

This was undoubtedly a scam. Genuine book clubs don’t ask for money from authors. But who was behind it?

Had these individuals actually read my work, they would have wanted to stay away from me. I have spent the last 10 years reporting on transnational fraud. My first book, Dreamers, closed with a chapter on fake call centers in India; my second, Scamlands, traveled to other low-income countries in Asia to portray an invisible empire that thrives on inequality, technological change and the erosion of trust.

Along the way, I met and interviewed the scammers whose labor keeps this empire running. For some, fraud was a route to upward mobility; for others, an act of revenge against the privileged. Though I have formally emerged from this underworld, I can never delete a scam email without wanting to know more.

For Emergence Magazine, James Bridle writes about artificial intelligence; carpentry and chair-making with ChatGPT; and Enzo Mari, a famed Italian furniture designer from the 1950s and ’60s. Bridle asks: “What if we used AI for something actually useful?” They offer an interesting take on AI, and why the extractive way we’re using it is far from satisfying.

What we have here is, quite literally, a chair designed by someone who has read a lot about chairs but never actually sat in one. They know what a chair should look like, what it should do, the mechanics of how one is put together, the physics of holding you up. But they have no embodied experience of the world, no history with chairs or any other object, no physical memory. They don’t know how it feels, not merely to sit in a chair, but to encounter one in the world, to place it among other things in a home, to live with it, to be around it every day as one goes about the mundane business of life. This is the idea of a chair brought to life; but things—objects, beings, relationships—are not mere ideas, and you certainly can’t get every aspect of them from books. The chair is low stakes, but, once again, you wouldn’t want to run a society, or a culture, or a planet this way.

When Russia invaded Ukraine, it was summarily booted from one of the world’s greatest—or worst, depending on your taste—pop-culture celebrations: Eurovision. When Israel launched its genocidal campaign in Gaza, it was allowed to keep competing. And it’s done very well. Lisa Borst goes into the pulsing belly of the gaudy Eurovision beast to interrogate the competition’s politics:

One word that comes up a lot in attempts to describe the Eurovision aesthetic is “camp.” In a blog post for the London Review of Books, Andrew O’Hagan pronounced that Eurovision 2009 was “the biggest, campest carnival yet.” The following year, Anthony Lane, in The New Yorker, characterized the contest by its “reliable deployment of camp, whether sly or unwitting.” I’d brushed up on my Sontag before heading to Vienna and thought I’d prepared for artifice, for schlock, for the pileup of off-kilter theatricality and post-disco schmaltz that inspired Carl Wilson, in Let’s Talk About Love, to label Eurovision the “Cheeseball Olympics.”

But as the hook to “Ferto” lodged itself further in my head and Eurovision’s physical presence continued to intrude, it was becoming harder to see all this as properly winking, witty, and “disengaged, depoliticized—or at least apolitical,” as Sontag puts it in her second Note on Camp. What was emanating from the Stadthalle seemed closer to “kitsch,” that nice German loanword for camp without wit. Kitsch is politicized and shaped by residual history; its precondition, Clement Greenberg wrote in 1939, is “the availability close at hand of a fully matured cultural tradition” whose familiar formulas could be recycled by reactionary regimes toward the aim of mass appeal.