Can South Park save Paramount Plus?
With a $1.5 billion five-year deal to lock the irreverent show down and take it away from HBO Max, the streaming service clearly thinks so.
Paramonut Plus is steadily gaining subscribers, but lags behind rivals when it comes to the most popular content, and securing South Park might just help. And hey, if it distracts from stories about its troubled Skydance merger and payouts to Trump, that can't hurt either, right?
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Yahoo
19 minutes ago
- Yahoo
Monthly Curriculums Are Trending on TikTok — Are They Worth the Hype for Parents?
Parents, you don't need to schedule every day of your month or have a perfectly curated curriculum to grow as a person. I'm a strong believer in the value of hobbies, especially now, when boredom can be cured with a single tap. Hobbies offer a fresh perspective, a chance to learn something new, and often a well-needed distraction from life's less pressing moments (like the Jet2 holiday sound we all can't stop singing). Whether it's reading a subject you wished you studied in college or dropping into a local workshop to sculpt a mug, setting aside time for yourself—especially as a parent—can be deeply rewarding. And now that no one's grading us, we get to explore topics that genuinely interest us, at our own pace, without fear of failure. So I was excited when I first came across TikTok's new monthly curriculum trend. Most videos start with creators setting their goals for the month, many of which centered around reading new books, exploring hobbies, and building better habits. But, as with most things online, this wholesome trend has split into two directions. The Monthly Curriculum Trend Sparks a New Type of Self-Care The monthly curriculum trend took off in early August as users (many of them moms and teens) began flooding the hashtag #monthlycurriculum with videos of their August goals. The goals range from what types of books they hope to finish by the end of the month, to setting time aside to journal and move their body. As one Tiktoker put it in her video, "I think it holds us accountable to not let the month go by without doing anything that stimulates our brains." Many #monthlycurriculum videos are incredibly wholesome, and some even feel a bit therapeutic. Some creators make goals to learn topics they were too self-conscious to explore during their time at school. In one video of a stay-at-home-mom sharing the list of books she hopes to read, she explains that she selected one on finances and even cheekily mentions that it is likely intended for high schoolers. "I'm a 32-year-old stay-at-home-mom and I decided to go through [the book] because I've never really been good with money and it's time to get my finances in order. So this is my economics unit." I've seen video after video of folks sharing what books they plan to read, what they hope to learn, and ways to hold themselves accountable (while still giving themselves grace—of course). Many are finding books at local libraries, recreating recipes to share with friends, and finally setting aside time to finish watching their favorite shows and movies. And while there's a strong focus on activities that promote learning, there's also a side of the trend that leans heavily into beauty enhancements and some curriculum videos are packed with activities that promise to help women "look better"—that is to be more conventionally attractive through dramatic weight loss or adhering to expensive skincare routines. The Not-So-Wholesome Side of the Monthly Curriculum Trend As with most online trends, it didn't take long before it went from inspiring to questionable. In one video, an influencer begins by opening her laptop and showing a slideshow that starts with a slide entitled "Monthly Curriculum"—which is how most of these videos start. But beneath it reads "Miami Girl Glow-Up Guide." She begins to explain that this video will help people "become the best version of themselves." In the video, she runs through over a dozen different things women should start doing, including hot yoga/sauna/steam room two or three times a week, daily red-light therapy, castor-oil-Epsom-salt baths, drinking natural juices every single morning, buying new workout sets (to motivate you to workout), a 10-mile walk once a week, hot pilates four or five times a week, doing a hair mask once or twice a week, scheduling a lymphatic drainage facial (or micro-needling), and much much more. The video is over six minutes long and doesn't mention any creative or intellectual goals until five minutes and 30 seconds in. In another video, another creator emphasizes going to the gym five times a week as her non-negotiable goals in her monthly curriculum, "I'm starting to get older and genetics can only help with so much," she says. However, she does include goals like learning a new instrument. At its worst, this trend veers into "looksmaxxing" territory—a term used online to describe doing everything possible to optimize physical appearance. The shift from encouraging personal growth to enforcing appearance-based perfectionism is subtle but significant and while many of these beauty goals are rooted in personal choice, the messaging—whether intentional or not—can imply that self-improvement is only valid if results in being more conventionally attractive. The idea that we must spend every moment becoming smarter, more interesting, and more beautiful can feel exhausting, especially for women already navigating unrealistic societal expectations. So, Is It Harmful or Harmless? The monthly curriculum trend might be one of the most positive movements I've seen come out of TikTok in recent memory. Folks are rediscovering their love for learning, finding ways to heal their inner child, and holding themselves accountable for what they know (and what they don't fully get yet). But as it gets swept into the tide of algorithm-driven beauty standards, it risks reinforcing the idea that every moment must be optimized, and that we must always be improving ourselves. While many of these curriculum videos are harmless and even healing, others include strict expectations to finish several lengthy books or master a new hobby—all within 30 days. The desire to learn more isn't inherently bad, but when improvement is treated like a full-time job, it can leave people feeling inadequate or burned out. You don't need to schedule every day of your month or have a perfectly curated curriculum to grow as a person. In fact, sometimes the most meaningful progress comes from slow, meandering learning and quiet wins that aren't captured on a TikTok slideshow. (You should still try to finish that book, though). Read the original article on Parents Solve the daily Crossword
Washington Post
21 minutes ago
- Washington Post
Millennials went wild for Outdoor Voices. Can it become cool again?
In the 2010s, millions of millennials made the lurch into adulthood, bringing with us our famed earnestness and idealism as well as our gently tasteful Millennial Aesthetic. Declared immortal in 2020, pronounced dead 2021, said Aesthetic washed out our homes and gathering spaces in dusty pink and sage green, with soft arch-shaped accents and big, groovy plants. It wiped away maximalist commercial culture to replace it with pleasing, Instagram-friendly sans serif fonts and ad campaigns starring models with freckles. A totem of this particular time: the undyed canvas Outdoor Voices tote, bearing its 'Technical Apparel for Recreation' tagline in a bubbly blue font. It bobbed around city blocks on the shoulders of women who sometimes also wore the brand's distinctive, pale-pastel-color-dipped leggings, or its tennis-adjacent Exercise Dress, or the baseball cap that bore its tail-waggingly cheery slogan, 'Doing Things.' By the end of the decade, you could route yourself to almost any major metro area's liveliest postgrad neighborhood just by Googling directions to the local Outdoor Voices. Parsons School of Design graduate Ty Haney founded Outdoor Voices in 2013 at the age of 23. The former track athlete quickly rose to fame alongside it, a trajectory common to a whole class of young, stylish female founders of the then-burgeoning direct-to-consumer movement. Haney was pushed out of the role in 2020, but the company came under new ownership last year and announced last week that Haney had returned to the helm. (Also, as it happens, a common development lately for said class of female founders.) In the week since the announcement, a flurry of TikTok videos have materialized celebrating the return of 'Ty,' with whom fans seem to be on a parasocial first-name basis. The first collection of her second stint dropped Tuesday. Outdoor Voices 1.0 was earnest, it was friendly, it made the pursuit of health feel fun. It was, in many ways, an ur-millennial brand, free of irony and determinedly welcoming. But it worked the first time because it was — to borrow a then-buzzword — disruptive. Now Haney faces the tricky assignment of once again standing out in an athleisure market over which Outdoor Voices has undeniably exerted an influence. Back in 2013, workout gear was 'like, shiny black Spandex and superhuman-looking,' Haney told me this week. 'I wanted to go the other way, with neutrals and texture, things that would integrate nicely into your daily wardrobe.' So in the early years, Outdoor Voices' matte color palette largely consisted of light, creamy hues called 'oatmeal' and 'ash' and 'beach' and 'white sand.' Even the more saturated tones had names such as 'dandelion' and 'evergreen,' and the high neck- and waistlines of most OV garments gave even their body-hugging high-compression workout sets a sweetly modest affect. Today, if something gets described, or derided, as 'millennial-coded,' chances are it looks like Outdoor Voices: 'It definitely set the tone in a lot of ways for that era, in terms of, like, 'clean and simple,'' Haney said, then added, laughing, 'and sans serif.' At the time, its conviction that exercise didn't have to be punishing — Haney fondly remembers an ad campaign built entirely around dog-walking — won over legions of shoppers. More came into the fold when the brand began offering community events such as group hikes and fun runs. And still others, myself (25 at the time, married only to my gym membership, regularly washing sweaty yoga clothes to the point of disintegration) included, got converted just by the shocking durability of the clothes. Technical apparel for recreation, indeed. In some ways, 2025 America might seem like a perfect climate for the return of OG OV. Gen Z women are carrying their Owala FreeSip water bottles (gentle colors, sans serif font) to the Pilates studio after work instead of meeting up for happy hour. Now, though, the athleisure market is flooded with Exercise Dress copycats and candy-colored two-piece compression sets. (And the latter feel 'a little tired,' Haney quipped.) Not to mention brand-sponsored run clubs and yoga events. After the announcement of Haney's return, Outdoor Voices released the first preview image of her new collection: a black zip-up hoodie with a cursive, bedazzled 'Doing Things,' a notion that would have sounded like parody — or blasphemy — in 2015, given Outdoor Voices' famously understated look at the time. But a decade later, as Gen Z gleefully revives the gaudy, goofy styles of the early 2000s, the concept feels on-trend, if not on-brand. ('What in the Juicy Couture Y2K is going on right now,' replied a chorus of TikTok reaction videos.) Among the other new offerings are looser-fitting variations on the Exercise Dress in black and white, shorts and workout bras in vibrant canary yellow, and grass-green and pastel cardigans made of a cotton-cashmere blend. The collection's single style of leggings is a similarly Y2K-invoking black capri. This new Outdoor Voices has 'more details' and is 'more fashion-driven,' Haney said. 'I think the whole ecosystem of activewear brands has gotten a little bit boring and plain and bland.' In Haney's absence, Outdoor Voices was displaced from dominance by brands such as Alo and Vuori, whose workoutwear is frequently photographed in settings that suggest $300-a-month fitness club memberships and luxe beach getaways ('I am somewhat shocked that the '[fitness as] recreation' path is still so wide open for us to own,' Haney mused) and tend to offer a surfeit of earth tones alongside one or two bolder accent colors. Their muted 2020s color palettes, arguably, are a downstream effect of Outdoor Voices' muted 2010s color palette, though 2010s OV looks Lisa Frank-esque in comparison. Haney wants the brand to once again lead athleisure in a new direction. So rhinestones and capri pants and loud fabrics may be what's required for Outdoor Voices 2.0 to stand out in a post-Outdoor Voices 1.0 world. Still, a certain subset of women might be content to order those 1.0 staples from Haney forever if she were to keep making them, buying back pieces of their youth. 'Outdoor Voices is making a comeback. And it feels like 2019 again,' one New Yorker rejoiced on TikTok. In Los Angeles, another user mimed blowing cobwebs off a blue 'Doing Things' cap. And one woman who had posted in jubilation in response to 'Ty' 'rising from the ashes' posted again a few days later: 'Just dusted off this vintage, archival, authentic Outdoor Voices exercise dress,' read the caption. In a polka-dot version, she posed whimsically for a moment before slurping her iced coffee and pushing a bassinet stroller out of frame.
New York Times
21 minutes ago
- New York Times
When Blond Meets Ambition
Loni Anderson's TV persona — the bombshell with a brain — was a brilliant amalgam of old Hollywood and 1970s feminism, pitched perfectly for a pop-culture audience. As Jennifer Marlowe, the clever receptionist on 'WKRP in Cincinnati,' she solved everyone's problems while bringing the slightly doofy men in the office to their knees with just a glance. Ms. Anderson, who died on Sunday, developed a signature look on this show: clinging jersey dresses or sweaters, nearly always in solid colors (to minimize any visual interruption of her famous curves); false eyelashes; wide lipsticked smile; and that famous blond mane: shoulder-length, bouffant on top, with low-hanging scalloped bangs undulating around her face — all immovable, firmly sprayed into place. That hair was key. At first glance, it looked much like the So-Cal glamour styles worn by her TV contemporaries, such as Farrah Fawcett or Suzanne Somers. But those women looked tousled and touchable, their bangs feathering out as if blown by ocean breezes, while Ms. Anderson's hair had a teased and lacquered look. Its shape said 'come hither,' but its sculptural stiffness said 'keep a respectful distance.' And while those other women's variegated blond tones mimicked sun-kissed highlights, Ms. Anderson's hair was bleached to a monochromatic platinum more doll-like than human, a color reminiscent of 'blond bombshells' of earlier decades. This makes sense, because Loni Anderson was not aiming for '70s and '80s 'lighthearted naturalness.' (In fact, she was turned down for the role of 'Chrissy' on 'Three's Company,' which went to Ms. Somers.) She was fashioning herself into a kind of exaggerated, ironic version of the classic Hollywood sex kitten, the voluptuous blonde no man can resist. Numerous stars have occupied this category (including Jean Harlow, Mae West, Lana Turner, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot), but it was Marilyn Monroe whom Ms. Anderson conjured most clearly. Critics often noted Ms. Anderson's Marilyn-like qualities — particularly the combination of mature sexual allure and disarming sweetness. (Vincent Canby pointed out her 'sweet, Marilyn Monroe-like turn' in his review of her 1983 film, 'Stroker Ace,' for example.) But there was more to Ms. Monroe's onscreen persona. Through all her breathy bounce and giggle, she always seemed to be winking at her audience, acknowledging that this creature she'd dreamed up was purely fictional — a kind of useful, even slightly funny, alter-ego, a masquerade. Ms. Anderson picked up where Ms. Monroe left off, borrowing elements of the Marilyn persona — the showcased bosom, the Kewpie-doll prettiness, the white-blond hair — while adding a new ingredient: obvious, self-assured intelligence. When first offered the role of 'Jennifer,' Ms. Anderson had rejected it, disliking its stereotypical 'dumb blonde' portrayal. But seeing her star potential, the producer Hugh Wilson offered to rewrite the role so that Jennifer could be 'the smartest person in the room,' as Mr. Wilson recalled to The Hollywood Reporter. It worked. Ms. Anderson had figured out a way to don a Marilyn-esque persona and then infuse it with a new intelligence that did not need suppressing, the recognition that a woman could look like a pinup but think like a C.E.O. This self-awareness was in keeping with the second-wave feminist sensibilities of the late 1970s. 'Jennifer,' in all her high-gloss artificiality, was like a theatrical prop, even a marionette operated by Ms. Anderson, the canny puppeteer. Audiences could sense both halves of the act, and loved them equally. (It's not surprising that Ms. Anderson was married for a time to Burt Reynolds, himself the epitome of a winkingly ironic sex symbol.) While Ms. Anderson's career continued past 'WKRP in Cincinnati,' her look remained largely the same throughout her life. Later, she savvily capitalized on her association with 1950s Hollywood sirens, playing Jayne Mansfield in a 1980 television movie, and even channeling Marilyn Monroe at a 2010 event at the Hollywood Museum, where she appeared in one of Ms. Monroe's evening gowns. 'Bombshell' style never fully fades away, of course. We see it in celebrities such as Sydney Sweeney, Sabrina Carpenter and the Kardashian-Jenner clan, especially Kim, who bleached her hair and wore Marilyn's sequin-covered 'naked dress' for the 2022 Met Gala. We see it in the 'Real Housewives' franchise, with its bosom-centric fashions and big blond hair. Recently, we saw it dissected thoughtfully by Mariska Hargitay in 'My Mom, Jayne,' her excellent documentary about her mother, Jayne Mansfield. And we even see it among some government officials and their spouses. Big hair, tight curve-displaying clothes, big lashes and high heels are not uncommon among women in the current administration. Few of these bombshells-come-lately evince Ms. Anderson's degree of witty self-awareness. Perhaps we're too far away now from the Hollywood golden age that invented all this outré glamour, and even further from the feminist wave that inspired its reassessment. Whatever the reason, even decades later, Loni Anderson is still uniquely watchable, seeming to peer out at us conspiratorially from beneath the persona she invented. She remains the platinum standard.
