After pummelling his opponent in a bout sponsored by Truth Social on the White House South Lawn last Sunday, UFC fighter Josh Hokut extolled President Donald Trump for "having the balls to put some shit like this on."

Over 4,000 people watched Hokut and 13 others duke it out at UFC Freedom 250, a $60 million production celebrating America's 250th anniversary and Donald Trump's 80th birthday. Onlookers sat under the Claw, a 92-foot-tall, 600-ton steel arch and encircled the octagon festooned with logos for the event's sponsors: Monster Energy, Meta, Starlink, Polymarket, and the Saudi entertainment festival Riyadh Season. (After a few rounds of fights, the signage for munitions manufacturer Anduril Industries was appropriately splattered with blood.)

Seated closest to the action was the first family and Trump's nearest and dearest — donors who had given at least $1 million; David Ellison, whose Paramount+ streamed the fight exclusively; and technocrats such as Meta's Mark Zuckerberg and venture capitalist Marc Andreessen. Military servicemembers helped fill the stands, too, though troops on TV "MUST MEET CURRENT WAIST-HEIGHT RATIO," according to a memo reported by the Washington Post. The administration's message: only those sufficiently jacked can attend the state-sponsored cage match.

The White House touted the fight, originally scheduled for July 4, as "one of the greatest and most historic sporting events in history." It was a semiotician's fever dream — a branded, chest-thumping caricature of American carnage, carnivalism, and capitalism. For some fighters, paid in stablecoins from Trump family-backed World Liberty Financial, and for fans, paid in jumbotron bloodshed and Bud Light-backed brotherhood, there was also an American berserk form of catharsis.

"There's only one person more incredible than the Incredible Hok, and that's my lord and savior Jesus Christ," Hokut continued in his victory speech. Then he said he was going to have sex with another fighter's mom. "Lastly, Michelle Obama is a man."

A few hundred yards away on the Ellipse, along with 85,000 gathered for the Fan Fest watch party, I couldn't hear Hokut's last line ("Am I right, America?") over the cheers.

By then, the crowd had been reveling in the humidity and the José Cuervo for more than seven hours.

They paraded in at 3:00 p.m., wearing Uncle Sam hats, rhinestoned minidresses, and t-shirts sporting their favorite fighters and slogans like "I'm Voting for a Convicted Criminal," "I'm Just Here for the Wieners," and "I ❤️ Hot Moms."

Men — many of whom were shirtless, as if they were ready to spinkick anyone who cut them in the energy drink line — outnumbered women at least five to one. One standing by the Boy Scouts Memorial fountain bit into a dumpling and smiled as pork juice squirted onto his chest. "Freedom!" he said. Some did pushups on the lawn to get a pump before posing for a picture at the Total Wireless Weigh-In fan experience. (At the actual weigh-in on Saturday, Hokut appeared to vomit on himself.)

Among those going pecs out for the president was Gaige Dengler, a 22-year-old Chipotle worker from Maryland, who took up mixed martial arts a few years ago to work through his anger. "Therapy wasn't really working," he said.

"I'm punching these dudes super hard in the face. I'm getting punched hard in the face. And afterward, they hug me, and they're like, 'Dude, good job.' It's the most supported and respected I've ever felt."

Dengler, who brought his uncle along on Sunday, he said, was seeking the same kind of camaraderie on the South Lawn. "It's a great opportunity for America to kind of unify again. It's kind of like a renewal for America."

Tommy Bui, a 28-year-old who works in hospitality and who was dressed in a black suit with a gold koi fish brooch affixed to his lapel, told me at the Topps trading card booth that he has lost $200,000 to "predatory" sportsbetting apps and casino games over the last few years. Bui wagered $1,000 on the White House fights. When I met Bui, he was chatting with Benjamin Tran, 27, who had recently sworn off betting apps because he wants to have a family soon.

Nearby, a US Navy mechanic from Kentucky told me he was there for "beer, girls, and the White House."

There were plenty of all three and much more to find sprawled across the Ellipse's 50 acres. For much of the afternoon, Fan Fest was a testament to Americans' insatiable capacity to stand in line — to ride the Nothing Stops Ram mechanical bull; to listen to a Ram Truck rev its engine really loudly; to create fighter characters at the Meta booth; to relieve oneself in the Crypto.com Ram Trucks porta-potty village; to take selfies with the Budweiser Clydesdales or models donning Monster Energy sports bras; to test one's fighting strength at the Bud Light Power Punch, or the Exodus UFC Striking Challenge, or Nitro Circus Power Slap.

I took a few minutes to cool off at the one attraction I managed to find with no line, the Budweiser History Museum. I was dizzy and discombobulated by the uncanny slurry of tech conference, NASCAR tailgate, Trump rally, West Village pop-up shop, prayer circle, and backyard barbecue. Thousands of others seemed to feel the same, lying on the grass, napping, or checking their phones as they waited for night to fall.

The jumbotrons played several AI-generated ads that reminded us that "America is winning" and that we're pioneering patriots at a world-historic event. One compared the night's fighters to the soldiers who'd stormed Normandy, the men and women who'd marched on Selma, and the firefighters who entered the Twin Towers on 9/11. (Earlier in the week, Secretary of State Marco Rubio likened the cage match to the moon landing.) The Army's Down Range band performed covers of "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Man, I Feel Like a Woman." There was a live taping of Logan Paul's podcast. At one point, Paul's cohost Mike Majlak announced, "If you got a small dick, you're smart. We've got some smart motherfuckers out there in the crowd."

Night fell, people took their seats on the lawn, and the broadcast began. Trump and UFC CEO Dana White walked out of the Oval Office and down the aisle to their seats, a fitting start to the culmination of the president and the league's yearslong courtship. Then fighters delivered knockout after knockout until 1:00 a.m., giving each other black eyes and concussions and taking questions from Joe Rogan in the Monster Strawberry Lemonade Unleash the Beast post-bout Q&As. The crowd hooted at hooks and screamed for more every time someone was thrown onto the floor. When the night was still young, and the gnats weren't yet dancing in the klieg lights, a young man, wearing American flag shorteralls and clutching a beer snake as long as George Washington's scabbard as he crossed the Delaware, took in the scene and offered his friends a benediction. "I ain't no snitch,' he said, "but Blake just shat his pants."

"What this fight is really all about, and why we're doing it at the White House, is it's the 250th birthday of America," White told The Hollywood Reporter before the event. "From the first fight of the night until the main event, we will tell the story of America." The story that UFC Freedom 250 ultimately told was a synecdoche of Donald Trump's America, where excess is branded as excellence, where the bag is up for grabs if you bend the knee, where everything from redwood forest fires to wars and annexations across the gulf stream waters can be bet on, where there is nothing the country won't do for a good episode of TV.

Zak Jason is the executive editor of Business Insider's Discourse team.

Brian Rezendes anticipates his retirement years will be filled with AI agents, algorithms, and APIs — along with the occasional vacation with his wife.

Rezendes, a former pool business owner, retired in April from a retail job in rural North Dakota. Like many retirees, the 64-year-old envisioned his post-work years as a time to relax, travel, and stay active. He did not expect to be neck-deep in conversations with chatbots, vibe coding websites, or building YouTube channels. Though he'd always been interested in technology, he rarely delved into the deeper plumbing behind it until a few years ago, when he became immersed in AI. Nowadays, he spends almost all of his time building apps… until the real world comes calling.

"My wife gets a little bit jealous when I spend too much time on the computer," Rezendes says.

Retirement has gone digital. In recent interviews, 15 retired Americans admitted they and their friends are glued to their screens, perhaps to a fault. Hours they could have spent tidying up the house went toward learning the best AI tools and, as three tech-savvy baby boomers put it, "staying current." Some post-career Americans who moved abroad said tech is all the rage in their beachfront expat communities. Retirement communities have swapped watercoloring for AI education. Starting an AI-powered business replaced the golf course. ChatGPT is the new nurse's assistant. Robots are some older Americans' new best friends.

Dee Humphrey is among them. The 73-year-old in Schenectady, New York, has used a companion robot called ElliQ for over three years. And while she's waiting for a new version to arrive, she's been having "withdrawals because I can't do anything with her."

The new reality of retirement isn't all screen addiction. Some of this development has been a boon for older people navigating a new phase of life. In Austin, Edward Perry, 72, said that he used AI after a terminal cancer diagnosis to "help me with living as rich and full a life in what time I have," including managing his health and finding ways to be more present in his family's lives.

"As I'm getting older, I have more aches and pains, but with utilizing these new technologies, I'm going to be able to do more and more," Rezendes says.

Many others acknowledged the risks of getting too hooked on tech. Most knew that relying too heavily on AI meant losing agency and receiving potentially faulty information. Others said being too invested in tech could mean less time staying active. Some noted that after decades of work, these were their years to relax, but they couldn't bring themselves to close their MacBooks.

If Gen Z is the first generation to grow up on the internet, baby boomers are learning how to be the first generation to retire on it.

Unexpected and omnipresent

For those in retirement, screen time of all types has been increasing. Surveys show that adults 65 and over almost doubled their YouTube consumption on TV from 2023 to 2025, and older Americans spend over four hours a day in front of screens. Brittne Kakulla, senior research advisor for AARP Research, says the group's Tech Trends survey found smartphone ownership among adults aged 50-plus skyrocketed from 55% in 2016 to 90% in 2025. Perhaps more striking was the number of older people trying out AI. Use nearly doubled from 2024 to 2025, from 18% to 30%, and many more said they are interested in experimenting.

Nearly all older tech superusers I spoke to were surprised by the amount the tools had become integrated into their retirements. Jan Friedlander, 81, used online databases in her real estate career, but only became hooked on tech a few years ago after she left her job. As she battled cancer and macular degeneration, she used AI to guide her treatment, and soon found herself relying on it to research clothing, plan vacations, and more. As she became more prompt-savvy, she felt confident enough to start teaching her peers.

"I've always had a curiosity about things that would come along that were new," Friedlander says.

She also began facilitating AI classes in Denver for those 50 and over with her friend Pat Smith, 73. Smith, who has a more technical background in consulting and pharmaceuticals, says the classes have attracted many "eager retiree students." Smith also sees both sides of the AI boom. On the positive side, she submitted her lab work to ChatGPT after having a reaction to an antibiotic, prompting her to follow up with her doctor and allergist. But she also bemoans the disappearance of human customer service and the online portalization of medical care. To combat the AI creep, Smith has monitored her tech usage, maintained a regular exercise schedule, and worked on mosaics.

"I have friends who are losing their mobility, moving into assisted living, and have gotten terminal diagnoses, and I know that's all around the corner," Smith says. "I'm hoping I get some more time to do what I've been enjoying the last few years."

Working with tech

While cutting-edge tools have become a retirement fascination for some, many older Americans are unexpectedly working into their later years and, by extension, learning new tech tricks. For my 80 Over 80 series, I spoke with dozens of workers in their 80s, many of whom couldn't afford to retire and now had jobs that required AI. At 72, Marcia Sweet's home is fully synced with robot vacuums and smart lights, and she runs a tech support business in Bradenton, Florida. She can't afford to stop working, as the extra money goes toward financing her eventual long-term care, and she hopes AI can supercharge her business.

"I'm still like a little kid with a toy about technology, with the same kind of excitement," Sweet says. "I'm kind of addicted."

Other older workers used tech to pivot later in their careers. A decade ago, Laura Noren, now 61, was weary of her career as a registered nurse, so she opted for an unexpected route — IT classes at a local college in Michigan. The learning curve was massive, as most of her 18-year-old classmates grew up steeped in tech. She later supplemented these classes with online courses on programming languages and databases.

"I envisioned myself retiring at 60 and no later than 62. My husband and I would be fully retired and never work again, moving into a condo and doing plenty of traveling," Noren says. Instead, "he left his job earlier than planned as a corrections officer, and I was managed out of my company. We had to change our plans."

The courses didn't necessarily prepare her for her current job as an Amazon Flex driver, which gives her the flexibility to care for her "technophobic" 84-year-old mother with memory issues. But her skills have come in handy when teaching her mother how to add phone contacts to favorites or avoid scams, and Noren hopes to find work down the line that better suits her skills. She still hopes to have some version of the retirement she envisioned years ago, but expects tech to play a bigger role.

Others who returned to school in their later years said they've integrated age tech into their lives for peace of mind. When Mark Bayer, 63, decided to retire from his community banking career at 60, he thought, "I will never have to sit through another damn Zoom meeting again, and I'll be the happiest person in the world." To his surprise, he began teaching English as a second language over Zoom and reenrolled in college to be "exposed to new ideas from younger minds." Bayer, who lives in Pennsylvania, expected his classmates to debate and brainstorm ideas off the top of their heads, but they all went to ChatGPT instead. Initially, he was dumbfounded. But when he saw the list of ideas for a group discussion, it exceeded what he would've come up with.

Ignoring AI, he says he realized, "is a way to say I'm done learning anything new, which is self-limiting."

There have been downsides: He's noticed that disconnecting from tech has become harder. He admits that if he gets a call while mowing the lawn, he will stop to pick it up. His wife is the same way, sometimes scrolling Instagram for hours without noticing. He hasn't quite erased the idea that face-to-face interaction has some merit, though.

A robot-enabled retirement

Many new high-tech tools are being built to help older Americans remain healthier and safer in their homes and assisted living communities. Chia-Lin Simmons, CEO of medical alert devices company LogicMark, tells me that technology in caregiving has become a necessity rather than a luxury, with the potential to predict falls and detect Alzheimer's early. AI is being trained to track behavioral patterns and health outcomes, though it sometimes falls short at triaging calls and often erases the human element, isolating older Americans who need the company most.

Some boomers are ready for this Jetsons-like future. Take Michelle Murphy, 64, who is pursuing an MBA with a concentration in AI. A photographer and instructional designer in Michigan, Murphy says her focus in her 60s has been pivoting to a new career— retirement isn't a good fit, she says. Down the line, she isn't opposed to using robotic healthcare workers to avoid assisted care, though she's keen on not becoming overly reliant on tech due to privacy concerns. For now, her goal is to get her coffee pot to start automatically.

"If there's an automation that can help me do the things I need to do, mow the grass for me, pick up heavy things, whatever it is, I'm totally on board with that," Murphy says.

There is a big market in making the idea of robot-assisted care a reality. Investment in age tech has boomed, particularly in products that make caregiving easier, like smart home automation devices, companion robots, and motion sensors. AARP predicts that by 2030, the age-tech market will be worth $120 billion. And given the rise, many hope age tech can alleviate some of the burden for younger generations.

"We've got 63 million family caregivers, 70% of them in paid jobs, and we're very familiar with childcare, but elder care is not well understood," said Diane Ty, managing director of the Milken Institute Future of Aging. "That's what's breaking the backs of so many workers right now."

Plenty of people and investors I spoke to also hope AI and other age tech can slow cognitive decline. However, various studies have shown that AI assistants contribute to reduced cognitive engagement and skill atrophy, meaning in some ways, relying too much on AI works counter to what these super-users may think.

80 is the new 25

As I wrote last year, America's octogenarians have been embracing tech in surprising ways. Frank Engelman, 82, has created apps, runs a YouTube channel, and writes a Substack about tech education. Luis Bautista, 82, told me he was using AI to write a book and start a business that he one day wants to pitch to Y Combinator. Phyllis Scalettar, 80, began an AI education and consulting firm. Karen Shapiro, 80, said this month that she uses AI for everything from planning vacations to Italy to managing finances — "tech will make life less confining and more enjoyable as we age," she says.

Study after study shows loneliness continues to grow among older Americans. According to AARP, 40% reported feeling lonely last year, up from 35% in 2018. Tech may be partly to blame, as an increasing number of older Americans are addicted to their phones — one survey found that 40% of the over 2,000 respondents ages 59 to 77 felt discomfort when pulled away from their devices.

For a lot of Americans, however, tech is a way to make the most of their golden years and to stay healthy for longer.

Marvin Honig, 88, takes AI courses, set up NotebookLM files for his St. Petersburg, Florida, condominium board, and use advanced tech to manage trust accounts for former law clients. Perhaps this could've been expected from an early tech adopter who received tech support from a young Michael Dell. Still, seeing many of his neighbors using all sorts of tech was perhaps not on his bingo card, and many of his interactions now revolve around tech recommendations and support. Like many older techies, the tech wave has also allowed him to luxuriate in the disconnected part of his life, from visiting museums and restaurants to attending in-person community events — he gets there using his Tesla's self-driving feature.

After having her first child, Lindsay Thomas went back to her full-time, in-office job. When a second kid came in 2024, Thomas says she knew she didn't want to juggle everything again, so she negotiated a part-time, remote version of her communications role in medical research — working anywhere from 2 to 40 hours a month — and started picking up freelance work on the side.

Now, when a kid gets sick and Thomas is up all night — something that would have made her "spiral," when she worked in the office —she knows she'll be at home with flexibility to schedule her day. If Thomas hadn't had the option to freelance, she says, she would have chosen to stay home with the second kid — even though she hadn't envisioned herself as a stay-at-home mom. "There are costs to everything," she says of leaving her full-time gig. "The cost to our family, the cost to the stress levels, to mental health, to going back to doing that and knowing what it was gonna feel like for all of us, especially with an older child involved," she tells me, "that was just a cost we didn't want to absorb."

After making employment gains during the height of the pandemic, women have begun a downhill slide out of the workforce. The number of working mothers of young children between 25 to 44 fell nearly 3% from January and June of last year, hitting its lowest rate in more than three years, according to a Washington Post report. In December, 91,000 women older than 20 dropped out of the workforce. The number of men over 20 employed jumped by 10,000 that month, according to an analysis of federal jobs data from the National Women's Law Center.

AI is also affecting America's gender imbalance in the workforce. A March report from Anthropic found that those who work in roles with a high exposure to AI automation are 16% more likely to be female, putting women more at risk for layoffs.

An uptick in return to office mandates is also disproportionately pushing women to choose whether they'll be able to stay in a job that requires a commute as they also balance after school pickup and domestic responsibilities. And a wave of mass layoffs has upended employment security, workplace loyalty, and the job hunt.

Women make 85% of what men make at work on average and take on twice as much of the domestic labor and caregiving tasks at home. "The real friction is we just haven't built systems that allow people to integrate their work and their lives and and their desires and what do they want their life to look like," says Brea Starmer, CEO of staffing firm Lions and Tigers, which focuses on fractional workers. "For anyone that doesn't fit this very specific narrow look and feel and mold, there is just not a lot of options." In a bleak job market, freelancing is one way working parents can claw back power. And as AI adoption transforms company needs and could shift the number of workers and hours needed to work, employers are starting to see more value in hiring part-time and contract workers.

There's autonomy in ditching the full-time gig; but it often means making a choice between several imperfect paths.

The pandemic showed that flexible, remote work benefitted parents, particularly women. As of 2023, 74% of mothers worked, up from 72% in 2019, according to the Institute for Women's Policy Research. But many CEOs who are calling workers back to the office have metaphorically shrugged at the costs to women. A survey from the freelance platform Upwork found that more than half of executives reported losing a disproportionate number of women after implementing RTO policies. Turnover among female employees at these companies is 82%, higher than those that allow for remote work. Nearly a third of women freelancers said RTO was a direct factor in leaving their full-time jobs. Forty-two percent of women who voluntarily left the workforce in 2025 cited caregiving and childcare costs as the main reason their choice, and these women were more likely than those who stayed employed to work at companies that did not offer flexible schedules, according to a survey from Catalyst, a nonprofit focused on women's progress.

But as many employers don't adapt to the needs of families, they're seeing the benefits in hiring freelance workers. Another survey of about 350 business leaders conducted by Upwork last fall found that 77% said AI was increasing the need for them to hire fractional, freelance workers with specialized skills. "What we historically saw was that business leaders were maybe a little more hesitant to embrace these kinds of non-traditional work models," says Gabby Burlacu, senior manager at the Upwork Research Institute. Now, "business leaders are far more open to working with the most skilled talent that they can, especially the most AI-enabled talent, because they're all trying to figure out: How are we going to unlock the value of this technology?"

It's hard to say how many people, and particularly women, are working in freelance roles. Upwork doesn't track gender of the freelancers on its platform, but tells me that in a recent report, 44% of knowledge freelancer workers were women, compared to 41% of people working similar jobs in full-time roles, among those they surveyed. Freelance marketplace Fiverr tells me there's been growth in areas like voiceover, user-generated content creation, and spokesperson or modeling projects specifically seeking female talent. In 2022, 9.8 million people were self-employed, according to the US Bureau of Economic Analysis. Other analyses of the freelance workforce estimate that as many as 75 million people participate in some capacity.

Working freelance has given women more flexible schedules and eased childcare costs, but that can also mean taking on even more unpaid household and caregiving labor.

Jaime Hollander previously commuted three to four hours a day roundtrip into Manhattan. She freelanced on the side, and split the care of two kids with her husband equally. Her mindset shifted after her father died in 2019. "You have those moments of reckoning where you're like, this can't be all that there is,'" she tells me. So, she cut back on work and shortly after quit her job. She focused on freelance marketing and copyrighting. The challenge with being a full-time freelancer, she tells me, is that the shift threw her into becoming "the default parent," on call for all of her kids' needs throughout the day. "If something has to get done between 7 and 7, I will do it," she tells me. "Sometimes, it's really challenging."

Paid parental leave has become more common, but just 40% of companies in the US offered it as of 2023, according to a survey from Society for Human Resources Management. A short period of leave tied only to the birth of a child doesn't answer for the flexibility working parents need as their kids age — there are sick days, potential disability diagnoses, and more hands-on needs at schools. "It's not just about retaining women in those early years," Neha Ruch, author of "The Power Pause: How to Plan a Career Break After Kids — and Come Back Stronger Than Ever." She says "there is recalibration happening" in the workforce, where more women may take fractional work, part-time roles, or freelance gigs. For companies, retaining women workers requires "thinking about parenting through the longitudinal experience of early parenthood," Ruch says, "going all the way up to college admissions and how and the demands that are made within the system on parents' time, and how we can make those work in the ecosystem of the professional space as well."

Many of the working parents I spoke to for this story chose the freelance or part-time route not upon having a kid, but as they grew up and demands of their families changed. When Erin Bartholomew's son was born, her husband stayed home to care for him. A few years later, she took her turn, wanting to have that hands-on time while her son was still young. She re-entered the workforce after a year into a remote job, logging on at 6 a.m. in Oregon to work in marketing for an East Coast company. But Bartholomew was laid off last year in 2024. Instead of searching for a similar role, she started her own marketing consultancy "It's so night and day," Bartholomew tells me. "It's allowed that balance that my husband and I really wanted."

As some women find flexibility in freelancing, others will be left out. Those who work in offices with 9-to-5 in-person mandates, or in education, retail, and healthcare roles, can't always make their own schedule. Parents who are the sole provider of income and health insurance for families often can't make ends meet working part-time. Others are pushed to stay at home with kids because the costs of childcare outpace their salaries. Leaving a full-time job can also disrupt a career trajectory toward leadership, and mean lost contributions to retirement accounts like 401(k)s. If companies don't adapt their schedules and remote work policies or future-proof roles for AI, many women will be forced to change how they think about their careers and priorities. They might not see going part-time or leaving a job as a choice they want to make, but something they have no choice in.

Amanda Hoover is a senior correspondent at Business Insider covering the tech industry. She writes about the biggest tech companies and trends.

People love to complain about baby boomers, including that they have a lot of stuff. They're hoarding all the houses, they're keeping all the money, they're materialists who have accumulated an exorbitant amount of possessions. There are a couple of problems with these gripes: For one, no generation is a monolith, and everybody amasses things over the course of their lives, so back off. But more importantly, youths and slightly-beyond-youths, the stuff pileup is actually to your benefit.

The golden age of boomer estate sales is upon us, and while you probably don't want all the wedding china that's about to flood the market, there's a lot of other neat stuff you can pick up. Think knickknacks for Gen Z maximalists, midcentury modern decor, and so much silver that one estate seller says the weighing it all makes her team "feel like drug dealers." Over the next couple of decades, baby boomers' stuff has to go somewhere, and that rehoming process is increasingly taking place at estate sales.

"I call it the tsunami of stuff," says Julie Hall, the director of the American Society of Estate Liquidators. "It's cresting."

There are … a lot of baby boomers. America's over-65 population reached 55.8 million in 2020, and an additional 42.4 million are in the 55-64 age group (which, yes, catches some Gen Xers). This adds up to nearly 100 million people who have amassed a large amount of possessions — stuff they bought, stuff they got from their own parents, stuff their kids stuck them with.

"They kept everything," says Sarah Hersh, one of the owners of Ben Hersh Estate Sales in New Jersey. Boomers were the first American generation to come up in an era of mass production and blatant consumerism, and many of the things they bought were built to last. "When we go into these houses of the boomer generation, they're packed to the rafters with stuff from the mid-century to current."

Many elders would prefer to keep all of this stuff in the family, but their kids, grandkids, nieces, and nephews don't want to inherit much, or simply don't have the space. Enter the estate sale — pop-up limited-time museums of a person's life, where everything on the premises is for sale.

"Boomers were an era of collectors. They believed in entertaining, and they believed their possessions had value, so they were proud to amass large collections of things to display to the world," Hersh says. "We don't really live like that anymore, but those things make for excellent inventory for resellers and the new younger generation of consumers who are into that vibe."

Gen Z likes the appeal of sustainability, plus they're into "cottagecore" and "grandmacore" aesthetics. Millennials and Gen X want midcentury modern and utilitarian pieces.

I recognize estate sales can sound a bit morbid at first, but not all offloadings come after a funeral. There are actually four Ds to estate sales: downsizing, divorce, decorating, and, yes, death. That latter one may give you the heebie jeebies, but as the saying goes, you can't take it with you, and there are plenty of people willing to scoop up the stuff you've left behind.

Janelle Stone, a high-end estate liquidator, operates out of what she calls the "mecca of estate sales" — Dallas — and sees her line of work as a goldmine. After decades of minimalism in fashion and design, maximalism is back. She's started buying plate hangers to put dishes on display again and marvels at 20-something shoppers grabbing various tchotchkes. Furs have gone "insane," she says, and the same goes for vintage fashion. Customers will wait in line for two hours for a Herend porcelain starfish they've scoped out online prior to the sale. "You're never going to completely clear a house, but it's pretty amazing," she says. "People know what they want, and they come and buy."

It's a huge moment for sterling, given the increase in the price of silver, which hit an all-time high of over $120 per ounce at the start of the year. (It's since come back down but is still in the $85 range.) Stone tells me it's affected how they price it — they can't be as aggressive, because nobody can afford to pay $16,000 for an eight-piece silverware set, and the smelters are so inundated they might not even take it. Hence the drug dealer analogy: "We have to weigh it out. I mean, we look like drug dealers with our gram scales and baggies everywhere," she says.

Hersh, in New Jersey, concurs on the popularity of sterling silver and vintage clothes, and adds that vintage collectibles, jewelry, toys, and electronics are also a big draw.

Not everything is flying off the estate sale shelves. Hersh says midcentury modern furniture still sells, but "it's not as strong as it was." Few buyers are into china, etched crystal, and glass. The big brown furniture that's long sat in baby boomers' and the silent generation's homes often goes unwanted.

"A general rule of thumb is the bigger and heavier and darker a piece is, the more likely it's going to remain there and not be sold," Hall says. Younger generations tend to prefer smaller, portable pieces. Hersh tells me clear glass isn't a popular seller "no matter what you do."

I recently witnessed this for myself at an estate sale in Long Island, New York. It was a lazy Sunday, so I showed up during the last hour of a five-hour sale. The first thing I noticed when I walked into the kitchen was two sets of china, one of which looked very similar to the set my mother has. Around the corner was a big brown hutch filled with stacks of crystal and clear glassware, and there was more in the basement. My main thought was we should shut down Ikea immediately and never buy new dishes or glasses again.

The internet has changed and accelerated the scale of the estate industry, just as it has every other part of the economy. Everyone can look up what everything costs, so sellers have to do their research and can't simply guesstimate a fair price anymore. Sellers often post what's available online ahead of time, so buyers can pinpoint exactly what they want before they show up in person.

And then there are the resellers — technology has given birth to a plethora of resale platforms, from eBay to Depop to Whatnot, and droves of people eager to turn flipping used stuff into a side hustle or even a full-time gig. Most of the estate sellers and aficionados I spoke to for this story had tales about this development. Hersh tells me resellers are "vicious," and on certain sales, flipped me up the first 50 people in line. "They are like elbowing each other out of spaces to get to stuff," she says.

Hall points out that the resellers are generally a positive for estate sales — after all, the goal is to get rid of everything in the house, and who cares if someone plans to put it on eBay for triple the price. But they can be pushy, asking for deals. "Resellers sometimes want more of a bargain, and a lot of times we cannot give it to them on the first day," she says. "It's not for the faint of heart."

Maddy Brannon, an estate sale influencer based in Washington, DC, says she prefers to hit up estate sales later in the day so she doesn't have to duke it out with the pros. She stumbled into the market when she and her husband were looking to furnish their home, and now she uses her experience to pass along useful tips to the noobs.

"You don't need to be the first person at the estate sale unless you saw something on the listing you absolutely have to have," she says. She's not sure if it's the "Disney World effect" or what, but people worry about long lines and feel like they must be first in at all costs. Plus, later in the day, you're more likely to get a discount.

Brannon's other pieces of advice included going during the week to avoid crowds and making sure you understand the rules of getting in — for some sales, waiting in line isn't enough. Instead, the executor will call you in by name or number. And don't shop off the "hold" table, where shoppers place items they want to buy. "People get really upset about that," she says.

There's genuinely something quite nice to all of this, albeit awkward. We spend our lives accumulating things and, over time, getting attached to them. Getting rid of them can be emotionally fraught, especially if we'd hoped our loved ones would want them or believed they'd hold more value than they do. For many people, it's a hard pill to swallow that their kids don't want their prized tea set, but acknowledging that is also permission to let it go.

There's a peculiar sense of intimacy to estate sales — you walk through someone's home, touch their things, look through their drawers, and get to make up stories about them based on their possessions. The golden age of estate sales isn't just about the "goldmine" of inventory or the "vicious" hustle of the resale market, it's about the way we experience life through tangible items — and how those things can live multiple lives, even ones we're not involved in.

So next time you see an estate sale nearby because your boomer neighbors are finally selling their family home and moving to a condo in Florida, instead of begrudging that it took so long, pop over to see if you can pick up a vintage Le Creuset.

Emily Stewart is a senior correspondent at Business Insider, writing about business and the economy.

Last July, four high-ranking tech executives — all of them involved with artificial intelligence — were sworn into the US Army Reserves with the rank of lieutenant colonel. They were part of a new unit called Detachment 201, also known as the Executive Innovation Corps. The Pentagon has introduced many initiatives to deepen relationships with Silicon Valley. But making officers out of multimillionaire executives with no military experience served as a strong symbol of a new era in which venture capitalists and technologists see themselves as essential to the defense of the nation.

The tech industry, which once prided itself on its libertarian- and counterculture-inflected antiwar ideals, has emphatically re-enlisted in the American military project. Drawn by patriotism and lucrative government contracts, numerous tech companies — from established giants like Google and SpaceX to military-minded startups in Southern California — have started working for the defense establishment, from supplying the Department of Homeland Security to building AI-powered drones and autonomous weapons to be used in Ukraine, Gaza, and Iran. Anduril, a leading munitions startup, just announced a Pentagon contract that may be worth up to $20 billion.

No company has driven tech's transformation from keyboard to warrior like Palantir, a data and analytics firm cofounded by Peter Thiel, which has a current market cap of $360 billion. Palantir's financial network and its alumni are responsible for bringing numerous defense-tech startups into being. And it helped brush away the tech industry's reticence to be involved in war-making.

Now, a growing canon of books by and about Palantirians is helping to crystallize, and proselytize, tech's new hawkishness. Last year, Karp and his Palantir colleague Nicholas W. Zamiska published "The Technological Republic: Hard Power, Soft Belief, and the Future of the West," which outlined their austere vision for a militarized republic secured by Silicon Valley technologies and led by highly skilled engineers. Last fall, New York Times Magazine contributor Michael Steinberger published an authorized biography, "The Philosopher in the Valley: Alex Karp, Palantir, and the Rise of the Surveillance State." Now, Shyam Sankar, Palantir's chief technology officer and one of the four techies-turned-officers, has published "Mobilize: How to Reboot the American Industrial Base and Stop World War III." Cowritten with his colleague Madeline Hart, "Mobilize" claims that the US government needs to urgently boost military production — with the help of Silicon Valley — in order to head off a conflict with China, which the authors think will attempt to capture Taiwan in 2027.

From these books, and from a battery of public statements by Karp and his cofounders, a distinctive worldview emerges — an unapologetically nationalistic attitude that has total contempt for one's enemies in politics and business and that sees constant, world-rending conflict in our future. This belief system was developed by a group of people who exhibit a profound wish to live in interesting times, to be the shield defending America in a world of constant threats. You might call it Palantirianism.

Birthed from the 20-year-long global war on terror, which coincided with the tech boom, Palantirianism holds that America's adversaries don't negotiate for peace. They surrender entirely — or, as Karp has said, they will be too "scared" to challenge the US in the first place because they fear immediate destruction. Palantirians' catchword is "deterrence" — derived not from fear of mutual nuclear annihilation or diplomacy but by developing overwhelming AI-based firepower. "The preconditions for a durable peace often come only from a credible threat of war," Karp writes in "The Technological Republic."

Under Palantirianism, the military-industrial complex that President Dwight Eisenhower famously warned about is good for the world — but it would be far better with the tech industry's participation and leadership. "Eisenhower wasn't warning about the existence of the military-industrial complex; he was warning about its potential for undue influence, a distinction often lost," write Sankar and Hart. In their view, bringing together Silicon Valley and the Pentagon is not a step toward undue influence for America's tech billionaires. It's exactly what the country requires: "American capitalism and the American military need each other," they write. "Reuniting the American industrial base, commercial and defense, is an existential issue."

Palantirians see securing American military hegemony as the national priority. Karp, who once called himself a "neo-Marxist" and a Democratic Party supporter before drifting rightward, told his biographer that national security is the only issue that matters to him, and that the tech industry's workers should devote themselves to the same. "A generation of programmers remains ready to dedicate their working lives to sating the needs of capitalist culture, and to enrich itself, but declines to ask more fundamental questions about what ought to be built and for what purpose," he writes. The answer for Karp, the high priest of Palantirianism, is obvious: What ought to be built is what makes people safer. What makes people safer is empowering the military, police, and intelligence services. That is his vision of the common good.

His vision is now transforming the tech industry, the military, and how we look at national security. "We have made the mistake of allowing a technocratic ruling class to form and take hold in this country without asking for anything quite substantial in return. What should the public demand for abandoning the threat of revolt?" Karp writes, sounding like the Marxist of his youth. "Free email is not enough."

Palantir grew out of a program at PayPal — where Thiel was CEO — to fight financial fraud in its system. The company itself was later founded in 2003 with an explicit mission: defending the West, which its founders see as imperiled. "A moment of reckoning has arrived for the West," Karp writes early in his book. It's not always clear what those threats are (or even what constitutes "the West"). In the conservative tech mogul's imaginarium, wokeness and DEI seem to be as dangerous to the American public as a revanchist Russia. Karp frequently refers to an organized "assault on religion," without elaborating except to say that it "left us vulnerable as a society."

With seed money from the CIA's In-Q-Tel venture capital firm — which the agency established to help incubate national-security startups — Palantir slowly grew to become the go-to analytics platform for much of the military and intelligence establishment. It wasn't an easy ride: The company was in the red for more than 20 years, and it sued the US Army, claiming that it had boxed out Palantir by violating its own procurement rules. Palantir won the lawsuit, cultivated numerous government and military insiders (who were sometimes given its software for free), and now runs a software platform, known as Project Maven, that's used across the US military and NATO. It has other software tools that have been used by corporations, police departments, hospitals, and the federal government when it was tackling the COVID-19 pandemic.

Maven started as software to analyze drone video feeds, with a $10 million contract going to Google. After Google employees protested working for the Pentagon and Google dropped the project, Palantir, working alongside other tech companies, picked it up and ran with it. Maven eventually became "an all-purpose AI operating system" integrating vast data sources into a dashboard that intelligence analysts have said makes their work much easier, even saving lives in the field. Maven is now used in conjunction with other systems, such as Anthropic's Claude chatbot, which sits on top of Palantir's platform. The Washington Post reported that Claude was used to rapidly generate thousands of targets for the ongoing US-Israeli bombing campaign in Iran. The US military is investigating whether AI was used to target the bombing of a school that killed at least 100 Iranian children. In a sign of how Maven has the potential to take humans out of the loop, Sankar and Hart note in their book that "machine-to-machine connections were enabled to allow Maven to communicate with weapons systems and send confirmed targets directly to artillery."

With its martial mission, Palantir isn't like many software companies. Most employees have one of three job titles: deployment strategist, product development engineer, or forward-deployed engineer. The latter group is software engineers sent to work directly with clients — whether in Manhattan or Kabul — to customize Palantir's tools and troubleshoot on the fly.

Leading this motley "artists colony" is Karp, who has a Ph.D. from Goethe University, enjoys cross-country skiing with his Norwegian ex-commando bodyguards, practices tai chi, and retains four Austrian assistants with whom he speaks in German. An ex-Israeli intelligence officer serves as "a kind of fixer" for Karp, who describes to his biographer a lifelong feeling of personal vulnerability.

Karp once had a policy of never spending more than $1 million for a home; that was before he received a $1.1 billion pay package in 2020. Now he owns a private jet and lavish properties all over the country, most of them in ski areas. Recently, he spent $120 million on a Benedictine monastery in Colorado.

He calls himself "a fluorescent praying mantis." With his many-limbed mannerisms and braggadocious quips, Karp has turned himself into a mascot for Palantir's culture. "Always energetic and upbeat around the office," he's known for launching into impromptu talks with employees that become an "orgy of free association," Steinberger writes. He can be "a little bit incoherent," but also exhibits "crazy charisma."

In public, his mad-mogul image can play well, generating viral clips of his vows to drone enemies with "fentanyl-laced urine." TV producers began to love him because "he was reliably unfiltered, thanks in part to his practice of getting hopped-up on Mexican Coke beforehand."

The son of a white Jewish father and a Black mother, Karp's identity has been a core throughline in his life and career. As a child, Karp was bullied at school, contributing to a sense of fear and personal instability.

"You're a racially amorphous, far-left Jewish kid who's also dyslexic — would you not come up with the idea that you're fucked?" Karp says to Steinberger. In this context, Karp's sense of identity was hopelessly complicated and a potential social liability.

Karp didn't tell his Palantir colleagues that he was Black until 2019, but he presented differently in his youth. He went to college at Haverford, where he "was active in black student affairs, and his social life mainly revolved around Haverford's black community," Steinberger writes. He organized a conference at Yale about racism on college campuses and wore a Palestinian keffiyeh in a yearbook photo. One of his close friends from the time said, "He was much more of a Black man then than he is now."

After college, Karp enrolled at Stanford Law School, which he almost immediately regarded as a mistake. He became friends with another disenchanted classmate, Thiel, who at the time was already a deeply ideological veteran of campus culture wars.

After Stanford, Karp moved to Germany to pursue a doctorate in sociology at Goethe University. Karp would later say that Jurgen Habermas, one of Germany's postwar intellectual giants, was for a time his dissertation advisor, which Habermas has denied. According to letters examined by Steinberger, Habermas tried to steer Karp toward an English-language degree in another subject. "Your topic would require a literary approach to a topic that often overwhelms the linguistic sensibility of us native speakers — and yours, you won't blame me, even more so," Habermas wrote to Karp.

Karp didn't listen. He went on to finish his dissertation — an examination of how aggression is used as a tool of social integration — which he wrote in German under the supervision of Karola Brede, who had previously studied under Habermas. With Brede, Karp cowrote an academic article — the only one he published — a consideration of "eliminationist" anti-Semitism and Daniel Goldhagen's book "Hitler's Willing Executioners."

In the years since, Karp has embraced his Jewishness while expressing reluctance to claim his Black identity. The story of his parents' relationship became for him a kind of cautionary tale of how identity politics run amok.

"My father wanted to marry a Black woman," says Ben Karp, Alex's brother. "Dating Leah was a powerful way of signaling his progressivism," Steinberger notes. Leah Jaynes liked that Bob Karp was Jewish, and Karp liked that she was Black. They eventually divorced, after which Bob Karp remarried and adopted biracial children. Bob's new family didn't sit well with his sons. "Alex's realization, years later, that racial and ethnic identity had been foundational to his parents' relationship was part of the reason he developed a visceral dislike of identity politics," writes Steinberger. "He felt as if he had been the product of virtue signaling, and it bothered him."

Steinberger depicts Karp's personal reckoning over his parentage as part of what moved him to the right. In 2015, he told company employees that he didn't like Trump. According to "The Philosopher in the Valley," Karp once told a friend that he wouldn't mind pushing Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu out of a helicopter. The company has gone on to work for ICE and other government agencies executing hardline Trump policies.

Two global events contributed to Karp's political metamorphosis: COVID and Hamas' attack against Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. During the pandemic, Karp stocked up on canned food and bullets, and loved his time in isolation. "While the pandemic was wretched for most people, Karp found it blissful," writes Steinberger. Plenty of time for cross-country skiing.

After Palantir returned from remote work, Karp's proclamations became more extreme. He started calling Palantir "a prepper company" and reveling in its role in doling out violence to enemies of the West.

Oct. 7 reanimated Karp's sense of personal vulnerability and his commitment to Israel. Having once celebrated the virtues of debate with his friend and political opposite Peter Thiel, he told Palantirians that the company wouldn't tolerate any disagreement over its work for the country. Palantir took out a full page ad in The New York Times declaring, "Palantir Stands With Israel."

Under Karp's never-apologize-never-explain leadership, Palantir has become a leading bogeyman for opponents of the surveillance state. New York City is now speckled with posters denouncing the company as the "enemy." Former Treasury Secretary Robert Reich recently called Palantir "America's most dangerous corporation."

The truth is more tangled. By its own claim, Palantir proudly stands for American militarism, abets the surveillance state, and has catalyzed a shift in the tech industry toward supporting the security services. But influential as Palantir is, the company makes software — tools to implement government policy. It does not directly collect data or conduct surveillance. It sucks up that information from clients, including authoritarian states, making the job of war-making or repression potentially much easier. There are numerous firms beyond Palantir — including the big five "prime" defense contractors — engaged in this kind of work.

Palantirianism — a belief system that is now being spread through venture capital investments in startups like Anduril, Saronic, and Shield AI, and tech's close alliance with the Trump administration — is far more influential than Palantir itself. People "want to know they are safe, and safe means that the other person is scared," Karp said at an appearance at the Ronald Reagan Defense Forum. This is the simple core belief that now animates the defense tech industry and swaths of the Silicon Valley elite. (Elon Musk is a Karp fan.)

By 2025, Karp was writing in shareholder letters that the West owed its success to its primacy at "applying organized violence" — a notion of which he evidently approved. He started talking about how certain cultures were "regressive and harmful" compared to others.

"We have been building products for a world that is violent, disjointed, and irrational, a world in which you have to show strength," Karp said during an earnings call. People "have to pick sides." Some people "are violent and not conformant with morality."

For many years, Karp said that fascism was his greatest fear. He wanted nothing more than to stem the rise of the far right in America. Yet Karp's company has provided direct assistance to what many observers have described as the most authoritarian president in US history. He did all this with the help of his close friend Peter Thiel, Palantir's chairman, an early Trump supporter who decades ago said that he had tired of electoral democracy. Steinberger summed up the contradiction: "With Trump restored to power, it appeared that authoritarianism had triumphed in the United States and that Palantir, which Karp had always touted as a bulwark of the liberal international order, would henceforth be serving the agenda of a president who was contemptuous of America's political tradition."

Although Karp has matured, in his biographer's view, into a "statesman CEO," he is still driven by spleen. Throughout "The Philosopher in the Valley," he repeatedly complains that his college alma mater hasn't invited him to give a speech or cultivated him as a donor. Karp seems to detests Haverford with a similar passion that he applies to terrorists and student protesters. "I eventually came to realize that he needed enemies," Steinberger writes of Karp. That need, it turns out, has implications for us all.

Jacob Silverman is a contributing writer for Business Insider. He is the author, most recently, of "Gilded Rage: Elon Musk and the Radicalization of Silicon Valley."