NEWS OF THE WEEK: Rumer Willis shares update on dad Bruce Willis' dementia battle
She wrote in a heart-wrenching Instagram post to mark Father's Day on Sunday, 'Today is hard, I feel a deep ache in my chest to talk to you and tell you everything I'm doing and what's going on in my life. To hug you and ask you about life and your stories and struggles and successes. I wish I asked you more questions while you could still tell me about it all. But I know you wouldn't want me to be sad today, so I'll try to just be grateful, reminding myself how lucky I am that you're my dad..."
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Yahoo
an hour ago
- Yahoo
‘This presidency is a brand-franchise': Trump has taken the commercialization of politics to a new level
'I like thinking big. I always have. To me it's very simple: if you're going to be thinking anyway, you might as well think big.' Those were Donald Trump's words to writer Tony Schwartz in the Art of the Deal. In his second term, Trump has been thinking big about making money. Since his reelection campaign began, Trump is estimated to have more than doubled his net worth to $5.4bn. A sizeable chunk of that cash has come from the launch of Trump-branded products. This week the Trump Organization entered the mobile phone business with a Trump-branded service that will include a 'sleek gold' phone, which costs $499, that is 'made in America'. Maybe? Never to miss a patriotic marketing moment, they launched Trump Mobile at Trump Tower in New York on the 10-year anniversary of their father's announcement at the top of a gold escalator, to the sound of Neil Young's Rockin' in the Free World, that he would run for president. The premium tier of service would be dubbed the 47 Plan, priced at $47.45 a month. Donald Trump Jr said the brothers had partnered with 'some of the greatest people in the industry to make sure that real Americans get true value from their mobile carriers'. 'Celebrity' phone launches are hardly new. The launch announcement came days after the actor-hosts of the popular SmartLess podcast – Will Arnett, Jason Bateman and Sean Hayes – announced their own cut price phone plan, and more than two years since actor Ryan Reynolds profited from his stake in Mint Mobile, sold to T-Mobile for $1.35bn. So was Trump – or the Trumps – thinking big or just following a pattern of seemingly random licensing deals that renew concerns about the president's business enterprises? After all, if Trump is really concerned about phone prices, he could – as president – push for legislative change. 'There was a lot of dialog when Trump returned to power that we would see in this term a particularly interesting residency in the White House about how much money would be made,' says marketing-PR guru Mark Borkowski, 'and this is a typical Trump side-hustle playing off Maga patriotism.' The blurred lines between business and politics, impacting how candidates are portrayed, policies are shaped and voters engage with the political process – commonly referred to as the commercialization of politics – may not be Trump's to own exclusively, but he's taken it to a new level. 'It is troubling, and more than in jest, that this is now a political economy and he's actually saying this presidency is a brand-franchise,' says Borkowski. 'There is no separation between power and profit. He's redrawn the boundaries between commerce and the office of the president, and he's accelerated the notion of post-ethical politics.' The gold phone and patriotically-priced phone plan – '47' referring to Trump's current term, and '45' referring to the previous – is only the latest ask of the Maga (Make America Great Again) faithful, otherwise known as ultra-Magas, to show their commitment in dollar terms. 'The Trumps' continued business expansion often serves to reinforce Trump's political persona rather than distract from it. For Maga supporters, his business ventures are interpreted as proof of his self-made success and outsider status – both key pillars of his political brand,' says Zak Revskyi at the New York brand management consultancy Baden Bower. 'These business moves don't just coexist with his political identity – they actively feed into it. They help sustain the image of Trump as a results-oriented executive who blends capitalism with populism,' Revskyi adds. On Thursday, Bloomberg revealed that investment bank Dominari Holdings, where Donald Jr and Eric work as advisers, helped an obscure toymaker selling Smurf-branded tumblers, koala backpacks and plush sea turtles, pivot into crypto this week, sending its shares up more than 500%. The outlet noted that there was no sign in regulatory filings that Trump family members were involved in this or previous crypto-related transactions through the bank – which is based in Trump Tower – but noted that 'the gain added to the windfalls of executives orbiting the president's family'. Aside from the Trump's well-publicized (and profitable) adventures in crypto – his ownership stake in World Liberty Financial produced $57,355,532 in income since it was launched last year – the family brand has upped by 20 its Trump-branded real-estate projects around the globe, calculated Citizens for Ethics, including an 80-storey skyscraper in Dubai, and plans for branded hotels in Riyadh and Jeddah, and a golf course in Qatar, to an estimated value of $10bn. A 234-page financial disclosure form released by the Office of Government Ethics this month showed 145 pages of stock and bond investments. The disclosure showed that 2024 was a very good year for royalty payments from products featuring his name and likeness. Among them, calculated NBC News, was $3m from a Save America coffee table book; $2.5m from Trump sneakers and fragrances; $2.8m from Trump watches; $1.3m from a Trump-endorsed Bible; and just over $1m each from '45' guitars and non-fungible token (NFT) sales. Most have at least some aspect of gold-coloring, according to a review of the 'Golden Age of America' Trump collection. Many of the assets are held in a revocable trust overseen by Donald Jr, including more than 100,000 shares, or 53%, of Trump Media and Technology Group, the company that owns Truth Social, valued at 5.15bn, or held in partnerships that do not require divestment under conflict of interest laws. The business of selling the family name hums along despite, or because of, the on-the-fly dramas that envelope the White House from week to week. The White House claims that the president 'has been the most transparent president in history in all respects, including when it comes to his finances', noting that Trump handed over 'his multibillion-dollar empire in order to serve our country, and he has sacrificed greatly'. The Trump phone, which analysts doubt can be 'made in America', as promotional materials assert, is merely an add-on to a thriving political-business operation. Democrats have found it hard to find a footing in calling out the interplay, in part because Trump's predecessor, Joe Biden, was similarly accused of allowing a family business of influence peddling to evolve around him and issued a pre-emptive pardon of family members before he left office. 'I don't do it for the money. I've got enough, much more than I'll ever need. I do it to do it,' Trump wrote in the opening lines of in the Art of the Deal, published in 1987. 'Deals are my art form. Other people paint beautifully on canvas or write wonderful poetry. I like making deals, preferably big deals. That's how I get my kicks.' But under Trump politics and business have become melded as never before. 'It's a new hyper-reality that exists in America,' says Borkowski. 'It's about turning political fandom into money, and he's laughing all the way to the bank. He's doing exactly what was expected. Nobody in Trump's heartland sees this as damaging – it's what they expect a deal-maker to do. The absurdity of everything Trump does is the point.'
Yahoo
an hour ago
- Yahoo
Daniel Ricciardo Comes Out of ‘Retirement' to Launch a Business in Texas
Daniel Ricciardo Comes Out of 'Retirement' to Launch a Business in Texas originally appeared on Athlon Sports. Daniel Ricciardo is back but not in the way you'd expect. The Formula 1 fan favorite has traded the paddock for the parking lot, launching a bold new business venture: Dabble Dan's Tailgate Party in Austin, Texas. Advertisement Partnering with Australian betting company Dabble, Ricciardo is fronting a unique competition that will fly one lucky winner and a guest from any major UK airport to the United States for a full-blown American football weekend in September. The prize includes flights, three nights' accommodation, VIP tickets to the tailgate party, and a personal meet-and-greet with Ricciardo himself. 'I've given retirement a crack, but it's not for me,' Ricciardo announced on Instagram. 'So, I've teamed up with the legends at Dabble to start a tailgate business… Check it out at Daniel Ricciardo before the F1 Miami Grand Casey-Imagn Images In a video on the website, Ricciardo explained: 'Bit of golf, a bit of gardening, caught up on sleep… but then I got that itch. I missed the buzz. The energy, That's when it hit me—it was time I chased my true passion.' Advertisement The new project comes months after Ricciardo was officially dropped from F1 following the 2024 Singapore Grand Prix. His last stint with Racing Bulls (formerly AlphaTauri) failed to reignite his racing career after a challenging run with McLaren and a year as Red Bull's reserve driver. Whether this signals a permanent shift away from racing or just another Ricciardo-style detour remains to be seen. But one thing is clear—retirement for Dan isn't about slowing down. It's about firing up the grill, turning up the music, and turning parking lots into party zones. Related: Lewis Hamilton's Brutal Handicap Exposed as Ferrari Struggles Mount This story was originally reported by Athlon Sports on Jun 21, 2025, where it first appeared.
Atlantic
an hour ago
- Atlantic
When SkinnyTok Came for Me
The bride had to do just one last thing before she walked down the aisle. 'I currently am in the bathroom in my wedding dress I asked everyone for just a few mins alone so that I could message you this.' Was she writing to an estranged friend? An old lover—the one that got away? At the beginning of her 'journey,' the bride weighed 134 pounds. 'My goal was to just lose 5lbs,' she wrote, but she had somehow dropped down to 110. 'I'm crying writing this because I have never felt so healthy and confident. THANK YOU!!!' The message was accompanied by two photos—a before and an after. The first shows a thin woman who looks to be a size 2 or 4. In the second, the woman's bones are visible beneath her skin, and her leggings sag. She owed all of this to Liv Schmidt, a 23-year-old influencer known for her harsh, no-bullshit approach to staying thin. 'You feel like a best friend and sister to me,' the bride wrote to Schmidt, who shared the message on Instagram. Schmidt is the queen of SkinnyTok—a corner of the internet where thin, mostly white women try to make America skinny again. Her 'what I eat in a day to stay skinny' videos thrust her into virality about a year ago. There she is with her mint tea—which she always drinks before eating anything, to check if she's really hungry or just bored—or a mile-high ice-cream sundae that she'll take three bites of before tossing. She's very clear: She stays skinny by not eating much. Many find this refreshingly honest. Others think she's promoting eating disorders. Influencers have condemned her; magazines have published scathing critiques. Last month, Meta removed her ability to sell subscriptions ($20 a month for access to private content and a group chat called the 'Skinni Société') on Instagram, and this month, TikTok banned the SkinnyTok hashtag worldwide, saying it was 'linked to unhealthy weight loss content.' And in response, the right has championed Schmidt. She has been canceled, and she may be more powerful than ever. I didn't mean to join the legions of young women on SkinnyTok. It happened fast. I liked an Instagram reel about an 'Easy High Protein, Low Calorie Breakfast.' What I got next, I didn't ask for. Within hours, my Instagram 'explore' page was flooded with videos of conventionally pretty, thin women preaching one message: Stop eating. Phrases such as 'You're not a dog, don't treat yourself with food' and the Kate Moss classic, 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' began to flood my feed—and my subconscious. At lunch with a friend one Saturday, I didn't finish my salad. 'Do you know Liv Schmidt?' I asked. 'The three-bite rule? Of course I do. She's kind of a genius.' I realized I wasn't down this rabbit hole alone. Conor Friedersdorf: The many ripple effects of the weight-loss industry 'I know the advice I'm getting from these women is not healthy,' another friend said, but 'everything I want is on the other side of being skinny, and these women are going to help me get there.' 'I like SkinnyTok. It helps me to not eat 'the extra thing' I don't need. Don't like it? Don't follow it.' 'It's internalized misogynistic brainwash!' 'I love that skinny bitch.' Where had Schmidt come from, and what had happened to the 'body positivity' movement that had been so loudly touted through the past decade? You can form a community around anything online. When I was a kid in the 2000s, teenage girls with eating disorders were gathering on 'thinspiration' websites, where they could exchange tips. Tabloids sold copies off body shaming—one day Britney Spears was too fat; the next, Lindsay Lohan was too skinny—and my friends and I were going around with 100-calorie Chips Ahoy! packs in our lunchboxes. By the time I was a teenager, the body-positivity movement had arrived, promising to change the culture. Plus-size models started appearing in ad campaigns. The problem wasn't women's bodies, activists argued, but women feeling bad about their bodies. Yet when people tried to force society to embrace new body norms, society lashed out, bringing to the surface a lot of underlying hatred. 'Body positivity didn't resonate with a lot of people, because it felt like lying,' Maalvika Bhat, a 25-year-old TikTok influencer who is getting a doctorate in computer science and communication at Northwestern University, told me. Many felt that the movement was in denial about both the practical health risks of being overweight and America's willingness to put its engrained fat phobia aside. Ozempic has accelerated that backlash against body positivity. Many of the plus-size leaders of the body-positivity movement shut up and shrunk down. Their followers noticed that they were using a weight-loss drug. Apparently you didn't have to love yourself as you were—and you didn't have to suffer to change, either. You just had to have a prescription and enough money to pay for it. But what about those pesky last 10 pounds, the difference between being a size 6 and a size 2? Although some healthy-weight women with no medical reason to take GLP-1 drugs have nonetheless found work-arounds to get their hands on the medication, most aren't going to those lengths. How would they keep up now that skinny was back? For some, the answer was SkinnyTok. You don't need a prescription to be ultrathin. You just need a bad relationship with food, fueled by a skinny stranger yelling mean-girl mantras at you. In the end, the body-positivity movement's lasting effect may have been to prove the validity of the very message it was trying to combat—that thinner people are treated better. At least, many women feel, SkinnyTok is telling them the truth. As one SkinnyTok influencer put it, 'Don't sugarcoat that or you'll eat that too.' I started listening more closely to the SkinnyTok videos. They weren't just about self-deprivation. They were about being classy. They were about being a lady—the right kind of woman, one that men drool over. They were, most importantly, about being small. In one of Schmidt's videos, she's approached by a man in a black car during a photo shoot. The caption reads: 'This is the treatment Skinni gets you. Was just taking pics … Then a Rolls-Royce rolled up begging for my number like I'm on the menu mid photo. He saw clavicle he swerved. He saw cheekbones lost composure.' From the July 2025 Issue: Inside the exclusive, obsessive, surprisingly litigious world of luxury fitness SkinnyTok influencers basically never talk in their videos about politics. They aren't preaching about Donald Trump—let alone about issues such as abortion or immigration. And yet everything they talk about—the emphasis on girls and how girls need to behave and how small they need to be—is, of course, political. A few days after my Instagram feed surrendered to the SkinnyTok takeover, the tradwife content began to sneak in. Beautiful women baking bread in linen dresses spoke to me about embracing my divine femininity. I should consider 'softer living' and 'embracing my natural role.' All of a sudden, I wondered whether I, a single woman in her late 20s living in Manhattan, should trade it all in to become a mother of 10 on a farm in Montana. Watch a few more of these videos, and soon you'll be directed to the anti-vax moms, or the Turning Point USA sweetheart Alex Clark's wellness podcast, Cultural Apothecary, or the full-on conspiratorial alt-right universe. This is just how the internet works. Eviane Leidig, the author of The Women of the Far Right: Social Media Influencers and Online Radicalization, sees a connection between SkinnyTok and tradwives in their 'very strong visual representation of femininity.' Whether they mean to be or not, they have become part of the same pipeline. Algorithms grab your attention with lighter, relatable content while exposing you to more extremist viewpoints. The alt-right, she said, is great at making aspirational and seemingly apolitical content that viewers relate to. 'This is a deliberate strategy that the conservative space has been employing over the last several years to capitalize on cultural issues as a gateway to radicalize audiences into more extreme viewpoints.' Two months ago, Evie Magazine, a right-wing publication that promotes traditional femininity, ran a profile of Schmidt: 'Banned for Being Honest? Meet Liv Schmidt, the Girl Who Made 'Skinny' Go Viral.' The magazine had one of the biggest tradwife influencers, Hannah Neeleman of Ballerina Farm, on its cover back in November. The article about Schmidt focused on her being canceled and banned on a number of platforms for promoting thinness. 'I don't owe the internet a version of me that's palatable,' Schmidt told the magazine. 'If a girl bigger than me posted what I eat in a day, no one would care. But when I do, it becomes controversial. Why? Because I'm blonde, thin, young, and unapologetic.' Last year, Evie profiled Amanda Dobler, another SkinnyTok figurehead, whom it described as 'TikTok's skinny queen'—'both brutally honest and surprisingly sweet.' The more the left has attacked Schmidt, the more the right has celebrated her. Bhat, who describes herself as progressive, said, 'I think the left is deeply, deeply exclusive.' On the right, 'you're allowed to make dozens of mistakes and not be shunned. They say, 'If the left doesn't welcome you, we will.' And they always do.' You can't deduce a political manifesto from someone's Instagram followers, but it seems worth noting that Schmidt follows conservative figureheads including RFK Jr., Candace Owens, and Brett Cooper. When she posted about losing the paid-subscription feature on her Instagram, through which she had been making nearly $130,000 a month, according to AirMail, she tagged Joe Rogan. 'She's clearly trying to get her foot in the door with the alternatives,' Ali Ambrose, an influencer who critiques SkinnyTok, told me. (Ambrose struggled with an eating disorder for years, and says Schmidt's content pushed her back into unhealthy habits.) Schmidt's appeal does cross party lines, though. When I polled a politically diverse group of my own friends, my most conservative friends loved SkinnyTok. A number of my progressive friends did too; they just felt like they shouldn't say so out loud. Schmidt has written that the Skinni Société is not 'a starvation or extreme diet community.' She didn't respond to multiple requests for an interview, but I spoke with Amanda Dobler, another SkinnyTok influencer. She remains on TikTok, though she has twice been temporarily barred from its Creator Rewards Program, through which she made some money for her videos, for not abiding by 'community guidelines.' Dobler is almost 10 years older than Schmidt, so she attracts a slightly different demographic. I asked her if she considered herself a political person, or her content politically charged. She responded with a decisive no. 'I'm up at 4 a.m. working my ass off, so I would say I'm the opposite of a tradwife,' she told me. 'If people relate it to right wing, to left wing,' she said, 'there's only so much of the narrative that I can control.' Sophie Gilbert: What porn taught a generation of women Dobler is known for her directness. If anything, she's even harsher online than Schmidt is. Right before our call, I scrolled through her TikTok profile: 'You are killing yourself with the shit you eat. It's disgusting. And you should feel shameful.' I briefly wondered if she'd be able to detect my own insecurities through the phone. But the Dobler I spoke with was approachable and friendly. I instantly liked her. I even opened up to her about the things I wish I could change about my body. 'There's nothing wrong with wanting to look a little better,' she said. Unlike a number of SkinnyTok influencers who only just entered the field, Dobler has been a fat-loss and mindset coach for six years. She talks about the importance of getting your nutrients instead of exclusively practicing restraint. She also pushes for a consistent workout routine, while others focus exclusively on their step count to burn calories and avoid bulking at the gym (SkinnyTok is a spectrum). I brought up the criticism that SkinnyTok content encourages young people to adopt disordered-eating habits. Dobler said that she doesn't coach children, and that the majority of her clients are in their 30s through 50s. 'I get it. It's hard if you're a parent seeing stuff online,' she told me. 'But at the same time, there's porn online; there's a bunch of weird crap. I think that there is a lot of other censorship that should be going on.' When I asked why she was so harsh in her videos, she told me, 'That's the type of talk that I need. I wouldn't say that I'm mean. I'm just blunt.' She added, 'I've been in all of the situations that I'm talking through. So it's not like I'm just up here scolding people.' This echoed something Bhat had said to me: SkinnyTok's ruthless tone rings true to many women because they're already being so ruthless toward themselves. I'd be kidding myself if I said a woman's body size doesn't affect her prospects for dating, and even jobs. I would be lying if I said I did not desperately want to be slightly thinner—that I hadn't wanted that from the moment I first watched my mother critique her own body in her bedroom mirror. I hesitate to admit that I've lost four pounds since I saw my first SkinnyTok video. I have not walked 40,000 steps a day, nor have I stopped eating after three bites. I've just stopped eating when I'm full, which, as silly as it sounds, I did learn from SkinnyTok. Still, I think it's time to unsubscribe. The body of my dreams isn't worth risking my health for. I have two nieces, ages 3 and 6. I hate the idea that somebody might one day tell them to shrink themselves. To them, a swimsuit is nothing but a promise that they'll spend the afternoon running through the sprinkler. They're perfect, and they dream of being bigger, faster, stronger—not smaller.
