
Charles Strouse, Broadway composer of 'Annie' and 'Bye Bye Birdie,' dies at 96
NEW YORK (AP) — Three-time Tony Award-winner Charles Strouse, Broadway's industrious, master melody-maker who composed the music for such classic musical theater hits as "Annie," "Bye Bye Birdie" and "Applause," died Thursday. He was 96.
Strouse died at his home in New York City, his family said through the publicity agency The Press Room.
In a career that spanned more than 50 years, Strouse wrote more than a dozen Broadway musicals, as well as film scores and "Those Were the Days," the theme song for the sitcom "All in the Family."
Strouse turned out such popular — and catchy — show tunes as "Tomorrow," the optimistic anthem from "Annie," and the equally cheerful "Put on a Happy Face" from "Bye Bye Birdie," his first Broadway success.
"I work every day. Activity — it's a life force," the New York-born composer told The Associated Press during an interview on the eve of his 80th birthday in 2008. "When you enjoy doing what you're doing, which I do very much, I have something to get up for."
Deep into his 90s, he visited tours of his shows and met casts. Jenn Thompson, who appeared in the first 'Annie' as Pepper and directed a touring version in 2024, recalls Strouse coming to auditions and shedding a tear when a young girl sang 'Tomorrow.'
'He was tearing up and he put his hand on mine,' she recalled. 'And he leaned in to me and very quietly said, 'That was you. That used to be you.' And I thought I would die. I thought my heart would drop out of my shoes.'
'By Bye Birdie' lifts him up
His Broadway career began in 1960 with 'Bye Bye Birdie,' which Strouse wrote with lyricist Lee Adams and librettist Michael Stewart. 'Birdie,' which starred Dick Van Dyke and Chita Rivera, told the tale of an Elvis Presley-like crooner named Conrad Birdie being drafted into the Army and its effect on one small Ohio town.
Strouse not only wrote the music, but he played piano at auditions while Edward Padula, the show's neophyte producer, tried to attract financial backers for a production that would cost $185,000.
'We never stopped giving auditions — and people never gave money at all. The idea of using rock 'n' roll — everybody was so turned off,' Strouse said.
Finally, Padula found Texas oilman L. Slade Brown. When he heard the score, he said, in a Texas twang, 'I like those songs,' pushed Strouse aside and picked out the tune of 'Put on a Happy Face' on the piano.
Brown then said, 'How much do you fellas need?' and wrote out a check for $75,000 to cover the start of rehearsals. 'Suddenly, the world turned Technicolor,' Strouse remembered.
The popularity of 'Birdie' spawned a film (with Van Dyke, Janet Leigh and Ann-Margret) in 1963 and a television adaptation with Jason Alexander and Vanessa Williams in 1995.
He helped others shine
Strouse and Adams gave several non-musical theater stars, including Sammy Davis Jr. and Lauren Bacall, stage successes.
For 'Golden Boy' (1964), based on the Clifford Odets play, Strouse and Adams had to get Davis' OK for everything. 'His agents would not let him sign the contract until he approved every word and note that Lee and I wrote,' the composer told the AP. 'Which meant that we had to, at great expense to the producer, follow Sammy all over the world. ... We spent three years of our lives, a week or so each month, out in Las Vegas, playing songs for him.'
'Applause' (1970) was adapted from the Mary Orr short story that became the cinema classic 'All About Eve.' It was Bacall's musical-theater debut, and the actress won a Tony for her performance, as did Strouse and Adams for their score.
But it was 'Annie' (1977) that proved to be Strouse's most durable — and long-running — Broadway hit (over 2,300 performances). Chronicling the Depression-era adventures of the celebrated comic strip character Little Orphan Annie, the musical featured lyrics by Martin Charnin and a book by Thomas Meehan.
It starred Andrea McArdle as the red-haired moppet and Dorothy Loudon, who won a Tony for her riotous portrayal of mean Miss Hannigan, who ran the orphanage. The musical contained gems such as 'You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile' and 'It's the Hard Knock Life.'
The 1982 film version, which featured Carol Burnett in Loudon's role, was not nearly as popular or well-received. A stage sequel called 'Annie Warbucks' ran off-Broadway in 1993. The show was revived on Broadway in 2012 and made into a film starring Quvenzhané Wallis in 2014. NBC put a version on network TV in 2021 called 'Annie Live!'
Jay-Z was a fan
Strouse and Charnin, who both won Grammy Awards for the 'Annie' cast album, found shards of their work included in Jay-Z's 1998 Grammy-winning album 'Vol. 2... Hard Knock Life.'
'Tomorrow' has been heard on soundtracks from 'Shrek 2″ to 'Dave' to 'You've Got Mail.' In 2016, Lukas Graham used parts of the chorus from 'Annie' for his 'Mama Said' hit.
Strouse had his share of flops, too, including two shows — 'A Broadway Musical' (1978) and 'Dance a Little Closer,' a 1983 musical written with Alan Jay Lerner, that closed after one performance. Among his other less-than-successful musicals were 'All-American' (1962), starring Ray Bolger, 'It's a Bird... It's a Plane... It's Superman' (1966), directed by Harold Prince, and 'Bring Back Birdie' (1981), a sequel to 'Bye Bye Birdie.'
Yet even his flops contained impressive music, particularly 'Rags' (1986), with lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, and 'I and Albert' (1972), a musical about Queen Victoria that had a three-month run in London and was one of Strouse's personal favorites. 'All-American' also had a memorable ballad, 'Once Upon a Time.'
Among Strouse's film scores were the music for 'Bonnie and Clyde' (1967) and 'The Night They Raided Minsky's' (1968).
One of Strouse last musicals was 'Minsky's.' A love story set against the backdrop of the fabled burlesque empire, it was the brainchild of English director Mike Ockrent, who died of leukemia in 1999 before the project was completed. By then, Strouse and lyricist Susan Birkenhead had written some dozen songs.
'Minsky's' languished until Birkenhead ran into director-choreographer Casey Nicholaw, who asked Bob Martin, star and one of the authors of 'The Drowsy Chaperone,' to write a new book. It opened in Los Angeles in 2009 but never made it to Broadway.
How he got his start
Strouse always wanted to be a composer and studied very seriously — first in the late 1940s at the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, New York, with composer Aaron Copland at the Tanglewood Music Center in Massachusetts and with composer, conductor and music professor Nadia Boulanger in Paris.
Theater beckoned when he and Adams got a chance in the early 1950s to write songs for weekly revues at an Adirondacks summer camp called Green Mansions. Such camps were the training ground for dozens of performers and writers.
'I would write a song and I would orchestrate it and copy the parts,' he said in the AP interview. 'And rehearsal was the next day at nine, so at four in the morning, I am crossing the lake with the parts still wet. I just loved it. I never was happier.'
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Business Insider
3 hours ago
- Business Insider
Zyn and hustling in Las Vegas
Quiet on set, people!" said Brock Pierce, the former child actor who grew up to be a prominent cryptocurrency entrepreneur. A hundred or so people sat in various states of conversation and intoxication at a Las Vegas Maggiano's that DNA Fund, a Pierce-founded venture, had rented out for several days during the official Bitcoin 2025 Conference last week. We had just heard a bizarre speech from New York City's mayor, Eric Adams, who said Pierce and his colleagues in crypto were "pioneers" like Betsy Ross, who became a historical icon for stitching the first American flag featuring stars and stripes. "So although the rockets' red glare and bombs burst in air, they proved through the night that our flag is still there," said Adams. "That is who you are. You are the best." Adams promised to start a crypto council for New York and to issue bitcoin bonds. He talked about how there's illegality with credit cards and fraud with the stock market. "Let's stop the bullshit and let's open doors," he said. As Pierce again called for quiet on set, the volume of the banquet room chatter came down only slightly, as the assembled guests — crypto hustlers, bitcoin true believers, fintech founders, and a few journalists — realized that the end of the restaurant's main dining room had been quickly turned into a set for "CryptoKnights," the "Shark Tank"-for-web3 show that Pierce hosts alongside the former "Entourage" star Adrian Grenier on Amazon Prime. At Maggiano's, Pierce had assembled a panel of judges: Grenier was absent, but there were familiar reality-show archetypes in the form of a beautiful woman and a well-muscled Chad alongside Pierce, who was outfitted in a feathered panama hat. Soon they began filming. An aspiring crypto entrepreneur made his pitch — a way to earn yield on bitcoin — but after a few minutes of back-and-forth, Pierce and the judges shot him down. His product was only a concept. Not ready for prime time. After the show, attendees enjoyed a three-course Maggiano's meal of family-style Italian staples. Pierce, a former business partner of Steve Bannon whose recent headlines tend to center on lawsuits over a hotel in Puerto Rico and his friendship with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's son Yair, held court in a corner of the restaurant where Adams was also entertaining guests. Earlier that day, Pierce had hosted a fundraising luncheon with Adams, "Lunch With America's Bitcoin Mayor." With some 35,000 attendees, the Bitcoin Conference at the Venetian hotel is the world's largest gathering in crypto. At the conference, officially put on by Bitcoin Magazine, the parties and side meetings like DNA Fund's romps at Maggiano's could be just as consequential as the main event, and they sometimes featured the same speakers. Adams, the Ohio gubernatorial candidate Vivek Ramaswamy, the anti-death guru Bryan Johnson, and the recently pardoned crypto executive Arthur Hayes all did double duty, appearing at the Venetian and at the Maggiano's confab down the road. For entrepreneurs like Pierce, where life is a constant montage of networking, dealmaking, and self-publicizing via social media, it was just another day. DNA House has hosted events around the world, trailing large crypto gatherings in Toronto and the United Arab Emirates. And for many of his guests, gorging on wagyu beef stuffed shells and truffle mac and cheese, it was much the same: another alcohol-soaked party in a week filled with them, as the bitcoin faithful celebrated their ascendant political power. More than anything, Bitcoin 2025 was a victory celebration for an industry that pushed all its chips in behind Donald Trump and the Republican Party during the 2024 election cycle and won handsomely. The first day, which was dubbed Code and Country, was so replete with Republican politicians, Trump staffers, and chest-thumping executives that it might've been mistaken for CPAC. Sponsored by America250, an ostensibly nonpartisan 501(c)(3) charged with planning the events making up the government's official 250th birthday celebration, the Code and Country program ended up revealing a lot about bitcoin's evolving position in American politics. Bitcoin's adherents still tout foundational ideas like decentralization and a libertarian exit from society, but the MAGA and big-money tilt are unmistakable. As I saw on full and often surreal display over three days and nights in Vegas, the immediate future of bitcoin lies in the cryptocurrency industry's tight alignment with Trump, and its growth is now dependent on its adoption by large corporations, union retirement funds, the federal government, and a handful of billionaires racing to acquire as much of the stuff as they can. Bitcoiners have always leaned right — challenging the state's monopoly on issuing money can do that — but it was a broadly libertarian right that included latter-day digital goldbugs, hard-money obsessives, anti-state sovereign citizens, and cypherpunks seeking some kind of supranational independence protected by the mathematical magic of encryption. The US president was not envisioned to be among this crew, and Trump famously denounced bitcoin as a "scam" during his first term. But bitcoin's role in the world has changed dramatically in the 16-plus years since the pseudonymous Satoshi Nakamoto published a proposal for a peer-to-peer currency. Whole industries and vast political and criminal networks have grown up around bitcoin. During the conference, the value of a single token reached an all-time high of more than $111,000. For the Republican Party, bitcoin has become a proxy for freedom and a way of activating a motivated donor base that has already yielded major electoral gains. As real money flooded into bitcoin, the cypherpunks were superseded by venture capitalists, money launderers, authoritarian tech billionaires, and a broad swath of the MAGA movement that saw bitcoin's general anti-government orientation as consistent with Trumpian populism. Many of them also saw it as a way to get rich. But the transformation of bitcoin's $2 trillion political economy has mostly left everyday retail traders behind. Even as bitcoin has soared in value, trading volume on exchanges has plummeted since its 2021 highs. It remains little used as a currency, with El Salvador, the one country to officially adopt bitcoin as a currency, scaling back its project. In the 2024 election cycle, bitcoin's overwhelming partisan shift became impossible to ignore when the crypto industry raised more than $200 million to support Trump and a slate of largely Republican candidates. In return, the industry has seen the dismantling of crypto crime task forces across federal agencies; the loosening of financial regulation; the pardoning of the Silk Road drug market's founder, Ross Ulbricht; a reshuffling at the Securities and Exchange Commission; the veritable dismantlement of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau; an end to most federal lawsuits and prosecutions against major crypto companies and individuals; the establishment of a national crypto stockpile that has the potential to buoy token prices; and, perhaps more surprisingly, the emergence of President Donald Trump as the country's most powerful crypto entrepreneur. It's a dizzying turnabout for an industry that, last year, described itself as constantly on the defensive against a Democratic administration and regulatory state that it thought was bent on destroying it. Now, the main headache for many crypto CEOs isn't former SEC Chair Gary Gensler or Sen. Elizabeth Warren. Instead they must contend with the president himself, who, with his growing portfolio of crypto companies, has brought some unwelcome attention to an industry trying to force through Congress a friendly regulatory framework for dollar-pegged stablecoins — another business in which Trump has lately become involved. Still, the Trumpian drama is worth it when the president has promised to give them the regulatory regime they want. Trump has pardoned a number of financial fraudsters and crypto executives, some of whom were feted in Vegas. In Vegas, especially on the opening Code and Country day, the general feeling was of a gray-market industry being welcomed into the light and handed unprecedented influence. The sheer influx of Republican politicians spoke to that, with pro-crypto stalwarts like Sen. Cynthia Lummis, Rep. Tom Emmer, Sen. Marsha Blackburn, Sen. Jim Justice, and Rep. Byron Donalds among many party notables appearing on panels. Eric Trump and Donald Trump Jr. had their turns on the main stage ("I truly believe we're just at the beginning. Opportunity abounds," said Trump Jr.), as did the White House crypto and AI czar David Sacks, the Trump advisor and campaign cochair Chris LaCivita, and the White House crypto advisor Bo Hines. On Wednesday, Vice President JD Vance, a former venture capitalist, gave the day's opening keynote to a full crowd that began assembling at 5:30 a.m. "Thanks in particular for what you did for me and the president," said Vance, explaining that the crypto industry's support was "part of the reason I'm standing here." He added: "With President Trump, crypto finally has a champion and an ally in the White House." "The innovators in this room are making people's lives better. You deserve respect and support from your government, not bureaucrats trying to tear you down," said Vance, to vigorous applause. Bitcoin-themed Trump apparel was everywhere. Vendors sold Trump 2028 hats and posters of a hardened-looking Trump covered in bitcoin iconography. With crypto having just come in from the political cold, there was an undertone of subversion to it all. Someone wore a T-shirt that read "Everything I love to do is illegal." Another wore an ivory white suit decorated with the word TEXIT, in support of a Texas secession movement. A company called BitcoinOS was offering a lottery to win a foreign passport — probably from Portugal, though it wasn't yet decided. A number of accountants and financial advisors on the conference floor peddled tax-mitigation strategies, with the sign from Tax Network USA offering the brazen solicitation: "Ask Us About Tax Avoidance." As Trump opened his second administration by pardoning convicted fraudsters while several SEC cases were put on hold, some crypto billionaires found it safe to visit the United States. The Bitcoin 2025 conference featured an appearance by one of those crypto entrepreneurs who had recently benefited from the SEC declining to pursue a multibillion-dollar fraud case it had prepared against him. Tron's founder, Justin Sun, a Chinese crypto billionaire, became the biggest investor in Trump's World Liberty Financial and the largest purchaser of the $Trump meme coin, which earned him a gold watch at Trump's recent gala for the top 220 owners of his token. A peripatetic executive who lives in Hong Kong and claims citizenship from St. Kitts & Nevis (he's also the prime minister of an unrecognized country called Liberland), Sun hadn't been seen in the US in years. But there he was at Bitcoin 2025, where he was applauded on the main stage and photographed with industry figures. Equally feted was Paolo Ardoino, the CEO of Tether, the world's largest stablecoin company, which operated in Hong Kong and the Caribbean for years before recently moving its headquarters to crypto-and-MAGA-friendly El Salvador. Ardoino gave a keynote speech and participated in a fireside chat on the main stage with Brandon Lutnick, the Cantor Fitzgerald executive who handles Tether's accounts, a position he inherited from his father, Howard Lutnick, Trump's commerce secretary. "This year is your first time in the US," said Brandon Lutnick, more than once. Ardoino nodded. No one bothered to mention why Ardoino, who's 41, had never been to the States: His company had already reached multiple settlements with US regulators, and Ardoino and his colleagues were reportedly being investigated by the Department of Justice on suspicion of violating sanctions and anti-money-laundering rules, along with possible bank fraud (Ardoino said last year that he didn't think Tether was under criminal investigation). Before Trump's reelection, setting foot in the United States might have been a quick way for Ardoino to earn an interview with the FBI. Now, he and Sun were sought-after celebrities. It wasn't just crypto's quasi-outlaw kingpins who were embracing a newfound freedom. Several speakers said that they had expected to be in jail this year — for what reasons, they didn't specify. The implication was less that they were operating on the margins of the law than that they were victims of government oppression — which only Trump could stop. "Tyler, I think you mentioned that a year before that you thought it was much more likely that you'd be in the jailhouse than the White House," the cryptocurrency billionaire Cameron Winklevoss told his twin brother during a panel with David Sacks. "I think the president appreciated that," said Sacks. "He similarly was facing lawfare a year ago, when his political enemies were trying to put him in prison for 700 years. I think he really understood the plight of the crypto community because they were being subjected to the same kind of unfair persecution that he was." That night, America250 hosted a party at a pool club in the Resorts World Las Vegas complex. Companies like Exodus, Frax, Kraken, Coinbase, and Justin Sun's Tron were listed as sponsors. As guests walked in, a disembodied gloved hand reached through a black curtain, offering a complimentary flute of Champagne. The open bar provided generous pours, and the bathroom attendants had free Zyn. Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, the legendary hip-hop group, came out for a performance. Rosie Rios, the chair of America250 who, on a conference panel that day, described herself as a "fiscal conservative," bobbed her head as they rapped about blunts and rum. The goldbug Peter Schiff, who, while facing tax and money laundering investigations over his private bank in Puerto Rico, has made a sideline out of media appearances sparring with bitcoiners, sat on a couch surrounded by a retinue of young women. Bottles of iced Moët rested on tables in poolside cabanas. (Schiff, who sued the IRS, has accused government authorities of conspiring to frame his bank.) Bone Thugs transitioned into their song "1st of Tha Month" — a gold-charting, mid-'90s anthem celebrating the date when welfare checks arrive — as a group of women in cow costumes marched out carrying glowing signs that read "Steak 'n Shake" and "Accepts BTC." Above the stage, a large screen lit up with the Steak 'n Shake logo. A half-dozen suited Steak 'n Shake representatives looked on approvingly from behind a velvet rope. This sort of hallucinatory marketing stunt — part of Steak 'n Shake's ongoing MAGA/ MAHA pivot, as the fast-food chain embraces beef tallow and bitcoin — was essentially standard fare for a week filled with constant offers, giveaways, pop culture callouts, and promises of easy riches and financial liberation. Everyone was hustling, selling, promising the world. "Earn Bitcoin While You Sleep," went a pitch from a mining company handing out branded fedoras. "Unlock Passive Income." The built environment, including some people's clothing and the napkins on tables, seemed overrun with QR codes. There was always another bitcoin raffle to enter or party to seek out, and the difference between what was legitimate and what wasn't could be a matter of interpretation. The next night, at a wood-paneled bar on the 66th floor of the Conrad hotel, a crypto mining company called Digital Shovel threw a party with Maxim, the old lad mag. The names of both brands were printed across a blue curtain, in front of which guests and models hired from a local agency took photos. Asked about the role of Maxim in this venture, Scot Johnson, the president and CEO of Digital Shovel, told a group of journalists that he had rented the brand name for the evening. Later, I ended up at a party for the Taproot Wizards, a kind of low-fi, deliberately unserious group of coiners who wish to "make bitcoin magical again." Walking into the psychedelically lit Discoshow venue at the Linq Hotel, I was handed a shiny silver wizard hat and cape, which I duly put on. A bearded man in full mage garb held out his hand, offering what looked like a brown capsule. "Take it," he said. "What is it?" I asked. "It's drugs." "Can I know which kind?" "It's mushrooms." I took it and enjoyed what seemed like the suspiciously familiar taste of a brown M&M. Inside, the bar served free cocktails and cans of Liquid Death water. A few dozen people milled about in wizard clothes, the place emanating a "D&D fans throw a party" vibe. A handful of folks danced to a DJ set in a room so covered in screens and glowing panels that there was a seizure warning by the entrance. There was goofiness and some networking-free fun. No one seemed to be talking about bitcoin. And unfortunately, it was just an M&M. In Vegas, the future of bitcoin was corporate. "Bitcoin treasury companies," publicly traded corporations that are essentially holding vehicles for accumulating bitcoin, were all the rage, as several CEOs took turns paying tribute to Michael Saylor, the tech executive who has borrowed billions of dollars to turn turn his enterprise software company MicroStrategy into one of the world's largest holders of bitcoin. Saylor has encouraged other companies to adopt his "playbook," and GameStop and Trump Media recently announced that they would follow suit. Nakamoto, the company whose name sat atop most Bitcoin 2025 conference branding and signage, is a bitcoin treasury company headed by David Bailey, the principal figure behind the conference. In panel presentations, CEOs described future markets in which most companies would have bitcoin on their books, if not being explicitly devoted to it. Financial institutions and individual investors could then buy shares in those companies, like MicroStrategy and Metaplanet, which are publicly traded, and benefit from those companies' bitcoin exposure, broadening the circle of prosperity. A similar philosophy undergirded the growing adoption of ETFs, Wall Street funds that provide investors exposure to bitcoin without making customers go through the trouble of purchasing actual bitcoins. (These financial firms, in turn, benefit from the fees they reap from managing investments in ETFs, bitcoin treasury companies, and other crypto-based financial products.) "At the end of the day, it's a game and we're all going to win together," said Fold CEO Will Reeves, whose company had recently begun building its bitcoin treasury. "We're going to be the biggest companies in the world," said Simon Gerovich, the president of Metaplanet. Saylor, the silver-haired 60-year-old executive whose self-described "religious" embrace of bitcoin has catalyzed this corporate treasury movement, was one of the conference's chief draws. His keynote, on the event's third and final day, was standing-room only. Wearing all black except for a silver bitcoin pendant that hung below his throat, Saylor emerged to rock-star-level applause. Speaking in his typically craggy voice, he preached a post-cypherpunk prosperity gospel under the unassuming title "21 Ways to Wealth." Acknowledging that he was used to speaking to top corporate executives and politicians, Saylor said he was happy to now be speaking to the people, bringing them the digital fire of Prometheus. "Satoshi gave you an idea worth half of everything on earth," said Saylor. "The greatest idea in the history of the human race." Scrolling through 21 instructive axioms — "master artificial intelligence," "domicile where sovereignty respects your freedom" — each accompanied by an AI-generated image, Saylor told his audience not to "chase your own good ideas." Only one pursuit mattered. Everyone listening should sell or mortgage everything they have, take out loans upon loans, and use it all to buy as much bitcoin as they could as quickly as possible. "Raise and reinvest capital relentlessly — velocity compounds wealth," read one slide. Saylor described how a dentist whose practice brought in a couple of hundred thousand dollars in annual revenue could theoretically — through a series of corporate maneuvers, loans, share sales, and lines of credit — become a bitcoin billionaire. Why aspire to be merely rich when you could be the "first billionaire dentist on your block," he said. A constant on the bitcoin media circuit, Saylor talks in comically overwrought tones about bitcoin's power and perfection. He exhibits the personal commitment and persuasive abilities of the leader of a sophisticated multi-level marketing scheme. Over the past few years, Saylor has raised billions of dollars in debt to make periodic bitcoin purchases, MicroStrategy's stock has soared, and his once criticized thesis of constant corporate bitcoin accumulation is on the verge of being widely imitated. (Last year, Saylor agreed to pay $40 million to settle a tax fraud lawsuit filed by the Washington, DC, attorney general.) "This is a race to capitalize on bitcoin," Saylor said, sounding far more zero-sum than the we're-all-going-to-win CEOs who had praised him hours earlier. "He who has the most bitcoin at the end of the game wins." The crowd cheered. Ross Ulbricht, the speaker who followed Saylor, had attained practically mythological status among diehard bitcoiners. One of the first major dark web drug markets and a transformational event in bitcoin's history, the Silk Road provided it a clear use case: buying drugs online. As one former Silk Road customer turned crypto industry professional once told me, the Silk Road was the greatest onboarding event in bitcoin history. For years after Ulbricht received multiple life sentences without parole, coiners had lobbied for his release, until Trump pardoned him on January 21 of this year. After an introductory video chronicling his years in prison followed by shots of him surfing, swimming, and diving into waterfalls, Ulbricht came out to warm applause. But the crowd had thinned since Saylor's commanding speech — some chairs sat empty — and would get thinner as Ulbricht went on. He tried to rouse the audience with a cry of "Freedom!" and a raised fist. "I'm so, so thankful that we elected him and he is who he is," Ulbricht said of Trump. "He's a man of integrity." However foundational Ulbricht had been to bitcoin's early growth, the movement seemed to have passed him by. In his speech, he acknowledged starting the Silk Road but said almost nothing about why he went to prison, the drug war, or the flawed criminal justice system (some Silk Road investigators were prosecuted for stealing evidence). There were some general appeals to principle, but it was a stilted, overlong presentation by a figurehead who seemed to have been far more appreciated when he was locked up out of view. Ulbricht offered a stem-winding anecdote about renting a secluded cabin, where he planned to grow magic mushrooms for his nascent drug market. He found the cabin covered in seven wasp nests. The wasps reflected some of Ulbricht's most treasured principles — freedom and decentralization. But they lacked another, unity, which made it easy for him to destroy each nest in turn. What kind of unity Ulbricht was looking for wasn't clear. No one seemed as jazzed about Ulbricht's stoic devotion to decentralization as they did about Saylor promising to share the everlasting cyberfire of half the world's wealth. The conference's closing keynote — an appearance by the bitcoin political cause celebre, on the 10th anniversary of his being sentenced to a lifetime in prison — ended with tepid applause and a rush to the exits. In a week of politically infused celebrations, this was supposed to be Ulbricht's moment. There had been a special lunch for him that day, one of many fundraisers since his release. The conference included the auctioning of his prison art and the jumpsuit he wore on the day of his release. "Free Ross," a mantra that had been printed on stickers handed out at every bitcoin event for a decade, had won. But bitcoin's top political prisoner, its once occluded hero, had bored a crowd with abstract talk of freedom and insects. That night, I went to another bitcoin-related party at a nightclub in the Venetian. A healthcare recruiter in her late 40s named Jen, who lived in Atlanta, told me about converting her retirement account to bitcoin tokens and shares in bitcoin ETFs. A DJ played some recent hits while a mix of middle-aged coiners and Gen Z club kids swayed and pawed at each other's bodies. Some women in gravity-defying dresses danced on an elevated bar while velvet ropes denoted exclusive areas, where tables could run a couple of thousand dollars. "I've had such a hard time orange-pilling my friends," she told me. But her bitcoin investments had gone up 140% in the past year. Wasn't that proof of something? She asked if I had done the same. I gave a halting answer about not investing in what I write about and not really having much of a retirement account anyway. She looked at me as if I were from another planet before her face adopted a look of profound concern. "You have to do it." I said I would. Jacob Silverman


San Francisco Chronicle
5 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Peckham or Sarajevo? Bosnian brothers spark joy with replica van from iconic British sitcom
SARAJEVO, Bosnia-Herzegovina (AP) — There is an unmistakable air of Peckham these days in Bosnia's capital, Sarajevo, as the legendary yellow three-wheeled van from the BBC's long-running sitcom 'Only Fools and Horses' cruises the city streets. The little Reliant Regal was the trademark of the stars of the series — the irresistible Trotter brothers from Peckham, a working-class neighborhood in London. In Bosnia, a replica belongs to the Fatic brothers, local businessmen who are crazy about the show. The Fatics are dealers in home appliances, running a successful company with dozens of employees and a huge shop on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Building the business, however, has resembled the ups and downs of the Peckham market traders Del Boy and Rodney Trotter, they say. 'We are definitely the local version of the series,' Tarik Fatic, the younger of the brothers, told The Associated Press. 'We were always dealing in something, we would buy whatever we can and then sell it." The enormously popular BBC sitcom, which began in 1981, follows the lives of the Trotter brothers and their far-from-straightforward path from rags to riches. Over the course of seven series and several Christmas specials, the Trotters tried various get-rich-quick schemes, buying low-quality or sometimes black-market goods and selling them at the market. Many in Bosnia and in the wider Balkans easily identify with the Trotters' endless wheeling and dealing. In the region that went through a series of wars in the 1990s, where the economy was shattered and remains deeply corrupt, the Trotter ways of survival are simple reality. Just like the Trotter brothers, 'we always tried to make profit and regardless of how many times we failed, we just moved on," Tarik Fatic said. Also from a working-class family, and growing up in a country that was devastated in the bloody 1992-95 ethnic conflict, the brothers tried trading in food, poultry and clothes before settling on home appliances. They are aware there are no guarantees their current success will last. 'The market (in Bosnia) is still disorganized and unstable,' Tarik Fatic, 33, said. 'Not a day passes without the two (Del Boy and Rodney) crossing my mind.' Known here as Mucke, which actually means something like wheeling and dealing, 'Only Fools and Horses' became hugely popular throughout what was still Yugoslavia from the 1980s onwards. Murals with images of main characters have been painted on the walls; many cafes were named after the series, while visiting actors were greeted with frenzy. The Reliant Regal was made by a British company, famous for its eccentric vehicles, that went out of business in 2002. In Sarajevo, people wave, take pictures with their phones, honk their horns when they see the yellow van in the streets. The Fatic brothers imported it from Manchester six months ago after a long search. It took a while to register the unusual vehicle, said Mirnes Fatic, 38. 'It is a very nice feeling. It's a joy every time I go for a ride in the city,' he said, admitting that it also was "a great advertising move." And it's not just the van. The Fatic brothers have also named their company after the series — Only Fools and Horses Brothers Mucke. There have been some doubts how clients and banks would react but it turned out really well, Mirnes added. 'We hope and believe that this time next year, we will be millionaires," he smiled, using the famous phrase from the show.


San Francisco Chronicle
12 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Evan Engram embraces Sean Payton's 'Joker' role but says it's something he has to earn in Denver
ENGLEWOOD, Colo. (AP) — Don't call Evan Engram the 'Joker' just yet. The ninth-year tight end has embraced coach Sean Payton's vision of him as a versatile player who can create mismatches for Denver's offense, led by second-year QB Bo Nix. When he signed a two-year, $23 million deal in the spring, Engram took to X and posted a GIF of the late Heath Ledger's Oscar-winning performance as the Joker in 'The Dark Knight.' On Thursday, however, Engram said he still needs to earn the moniker. 'That is a cool thing to just embrace," Engram said. "Sean talks about it a lot. It was a big part of the pitch coming here. The fans are great here, so (the social media post) was just embracing that narrative a little bit. I definitely see that it is something that has to be earned with the way I work and the way that I learn the offense to gain the trust of Sean, Bo and the rest of the coaches and players. "I think we have a bunch of Jokers on this team, honestly, that can have a great role on this offense. It is definitely something that I like to embrace, but it is also something that I am going to earn, too.' Actually, Engram is probably the only member of the Broncos offense who fits Payton's description of the Joker. Last year, Payton described the Joker as 'either a running back or tight end with exceptional ball skills and then you can work matchups. We've had that at the running back (position). Reggie Bush was the Joker, Darren Sproles and Alvin Kamara. Those were all unique players, not just in the running game, but they had passing game skill sets that allowed you to do multiple things.' Payton was hoping tight end Greg Dulcich would turn into his Joker last season, but his propensity to drop passes squelched that notion and led to his release. So, Payton entered free agency this year intent on landing the traditional hallmark of his offense, and he did so when Engram signed with the Broncos after three seasons in Jacksonville and five with the New York Giants. Before Engram agreed to Denver's offer, Payton and the rest of the Broncos' brain trust had to sweat through Engram's subsequent visit with the AFC West rival Los Angeles Chargers. 'Free agency is a crazy roller coaster,' said Engram, who was the 23rd overall pick by the Giants in 2017. 'I took a visit to LA. It's a great organization there, as well. I had a great visit with them, but the best place for me and my family was here in Denver. Just with the offense, the history here, the way the organization takes care of its players.' On Thursday, the final day of organized team activities open to the media, Engram ran routes with receivers, not tight ends, and he stood out for his fluidity and his jersey number. Asked why he chose No. 1, Engram said it was his number in high school. At Mississippi he wore No. 17, a number he revived with the Jaguars. So when the Broncos sent him a list of available numbers after he signed, he relayed the list to his family members, who all concurred he should wear No. 1 again. 'It's a cool thing just to reconnect to the glory days of high school football,' Engram said. Dobbins to Denver? The Broncos could be adding a veteran running back to their roster. Free agent J.K. Dobbins plans to visit Denver a week ahead of the team's mandatory minincamp. 'We'll have a chance to visit with him and then we'll see where it goes,' Payton said. 'We really like the group right now that we're working with. It's just another opportunity to possibly bring in another good football player to help us win." The Broncos drafted R.J. Harvey out of Central Florida in the second round of the NFL draft in April. He is viewed as a potential three-down back and leads a relatively young group of rushers that includes second-year pros Blake Watson and Audric Estime, third-year player Jaleel McLaughlin and fourth-year pro Tyler Badie. Dobbins gained a career-best 905 yards on 195 carries and tied his career high with nine rushing touchdowns last year with the Chargers despite missing four games with a sprained knee. If he signs, Dobbins could become a big contributor in the Broncos' backfield. The former second-round pick by the Baltimore Ravens has an extensive injury history, including an ACL tear in 2021 and a torn Achilles tendon in 2023.