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Tucker Carlson is, for now, off the air and lying low. But his rapid slide from would-be journalist to venomous demagogue is the story of a generation of political commentators who found that inducing madness in the American public was better than the drudgery of working a job outside the conservative hothouses.

First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic:

The coming Biden blowout We’ve had a cheaper, more potent Ozempic alternative for decades. John Mulaney’s Baby J takes apart a likable comedian. MAGA is ripping itself apart.

Pushing the Needle

Tucker Carlson has been fired, and you’ve probably already read a bushel of stories about his dismissal, his career, and his influence. Today, I want to share with you a more personal reflection. (Full disclosure: Carlson took a bizarre swipe at me toward the end of his time at Fox.) I always thought of Carlson as one of the worst things to happen to millions of Americans, and particularly to the working class. As Margaret Sullivan recently wrote, “Despite his smarmy demeanor, and aging prep-school appearance,” Carlson became “a twisted kind of working-class hero.”

Not to me. I grew up working-class, and I admit that I never much cared for Carlson, a son of remarkable privilege and wealth, even before he became this creepy version of himself. I am about a decade older than Carlson, and when he began his career in the 1990s, I was a young academic and a Republican who’d worked in a city hall, a state legislature, and the U.S. Senate (as well as a number of other less glamorous jobs). Perhaps I should have liked him more because of his obvious desire to be taken seriously as an intellectual, but maybe that was also the problem: Carlson was too obvious, too effortful. I was already a fan of people such as George Will and Charles Krauthammer, and I didn’t need a young, bow-tied, lightweight imitator.

But still, I read his writing in conservative magazines, and that of others in his cohort. After all, back in those days, they were my tribe. But the early ’90s, I believe, is where things went wrong for this generation of young conservatives. Privileged, highly educated, stung by Bill Clinton’s win—and, soon, bored—they decided that they were all slated for greater things in public life. The dull slog of high-paying professional jobs was not for them, not if it meant living outside the media or political ecosystems of New York and Washington.

A 1995 New York Times Magazine profile of this group, some of them soon to be Carlson’s co-workers, was full of red flags, but it was Laura Ingraham, whose show now packages hot bile in dry ice, who presaged what Fox’s prime-time lineup would look like. After a late dinner party in Washington, she took the Times writer for a drive:

“You think we’re nuts, don’t you?” muttered Laura Ingraham, a former clerk for Clarence Thomas and now an attorney at the Washington offices of the power firm of Skadden, Arps. Ingraham, who is also a frequent guest on CNN, had had it with a particularly long-winded argument over some review in The New Republic. It could have been worse. They could have been the dweebs and nerds that liberals imagine young conservatives to be.

Or, more accurately, they could have been the dweebs and nerds they themselves feared they were. And in time, they realized that the way to dump their day jobs for better gigs in radio and television was to become more and more extreme—and to sell their act to an audience that was nothing like them or the people at D.C. dinner parties. They would have their due, even if they had to poison the brains of ordinary Americans to get it.

Carlson joined this attention-seeking conservative generation and tried on various personas. At one point, he had a show on MSNBC that was canceled after a year. I never saw it. I do remember Carlson as the co-host of Crossfire; I didn’t think he did a very good job representing thoughtful conservatives, and he ended up getting pantsed live on national television by Jon Stewart. He was soon let go from CNN.

When Carlson got his own show on Fox News in 2016, however, I noticed.

This new Tucker Carlson decided to throw off the pretense of intellectualism. (According to The New York Times, he was “determined to avoid his fate at CNN and MSNBC.”) He understood what Fox viewers wanted, and he took the old Tucker—the one who claimed to care about truth and journalistic responsibility—and drove him to a farm upstate where he could run free with the other journalists. The guy who returned alone in his car to the studio in Manhattan was a stone-cold, cynical demagogue. By God, no one was going to fire that guy.

What concerned me was not that Carlson was selling political fentanyl; that’s Fox’s business model. It was that Carlson, unlike many people in his audience, knew better. He jammed the needle right into the arms of the Fox audience, spewing populist nonsense while running away from his own hyper-privileged background. I suppose I found this especially grating because for years I’ve lived in Rhode Island, almost within sight of the spires of Carlson’s pricey prep school, by the Newport beaches. (This area also produced Michael Flynn and Sean Spicer, but please don’t judge us—it’s actually lovely here.)

Every night, Carlson encouraged American citizens to join him in his angry nihilism, telling his fans that America and its institutions were hopelessly corrupt, and that they were essentially living in a failed state. He and his fellow Fox hosts, meanwhile, presented themselves as the guardians of the real America, crowing in ostensible solidarity with an audience that, as we would later learn from the Dominion lawsuit, they regarded with both contempt and fear.

An especially hateful aspect of Carlson’s rants is that they often targeted the institutions and norms—colleges, the U.S. military, capitalism itself—that help so many Americans get a chance at a better life. No matter the issue, Carlson was able to find some resentful, angry, us-versus-them angle, tacking effortlessly from sounding like a pompous theocrat one day to a founding member of Code Pink the next. If you were trying to undermine a nation and dissolve its hopes for the future, you could hardly design a better vehicle than Tucker Carlson Tonight.

But give him credit: He was committed to the bit. A man who has never known a day of hard work in his life was soon posing in flannel and work pants in a remarkably pristine “workshop,” and inviting some of the worst people in American life to come to his redoubt to complain about how much America seems to irrationally hate Vladimir Putin, violent seditionists, and, by extension somehow, poor ordinary Joes such as Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson.

Carlson is emblematic of the entire conservative movement now, and especially the media millionaires who serve as its chief propagandists. The conservative world has become a kind of needle skyscraper with a tiny number of wealthy, superbly educated right-wing media and political elites in the penthouses, looking down at an expanse of angry Americans whose rage they themselves helped create. As one Fox staffer said in a text to the former CNN host Brian Stelter shortly after the January 6 insurrection, “What have we done?”

If only Carlson and others were capable of asking themselves the same question.

Related:

Tucker Carlson’s final moments on Fox were as dangerous as they were absurd. Will Tucker Carlson become Alex Jones?

Today’s News

The Walt Disney Company is suing Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, alleging that he has weaponized government power against the company. As part of their ongoing debt-ceiling standoff with the Biden administration, House Republicans are pushing for work requirements for some of the millions of Americans receiving food stamps and Medicaid benefits. Volodymyr Zelensky held his first conversation with Xi Jinping since Russia invaded Ukraine. China has declared itself to be neutral in the conflict.

Dispatches

Up for Debate: The singer, actor, and civil-rights hero Harry Belafonte understood persuasion, Conor Friedersdorf writes.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Evening Read

Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Getty.

How I Got Bamboo-zled by Baby Clothes

By Sarah Zhang

To be pregnant for the first time is to be the world’s most anxious, needy, and ignorant consumer all at once. Good luck buying a pile of stuff whose uses are still hypothetical to you! What, for instance, is the best sleep sack? When I was four months pregnant and still barely aware of the existence of sleep sacks, a mom giving recommendations handed me one made of bamboo. “Feel—soooo soft,” she said. I reached out to caress, and it really was soooo soft. This was my introduction to the cult of bamboo.

Read the full article.

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Culture Break

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Read. The Odyssey of Phillis Wheatley, a new biography of the poet that shows how she used poetry to criticize slavery.

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Play our daily crossword.

P.S.

I am, strangely, revisiting some childhood memories while redecorating my home office. (I’ve posted some pictures on Twitter.) For many years, I had something of a standard academic’s home office: a lot of books and maps, a bit of conference swag here and there. But I’ve decided in my dotage to bring in some color from the 1960s, including a framed collection of Batman cards (the kind that came with that dusty-pink stick of gum), a Star Trek wall intercom, and an original poster from the Japanese sci-fi classic Destroy All Monsters, starring Godzilla and a cast of his buddies. While I was hanging the movie poster, I wondered: Why do we love those Godzilla movies? They’re terrible. Are we just nostalgic—as I sometimes am—for the old, velvet-draped movie palaces full of kids? I think it’s something more.

If you’ve never seen the original Godzilla, it’s actually kind of terrifying. It’s way too intense for young kids; I can’t remember when I first saw it on television, but it scared the pants off me. The stuff that came later, with the cheesy music and the cartoonish overacting by the guys in the rubber kaiju outfits, were versions that kids and adults could watch together. They answered all of your toughest kid questions: What if Godzilla fought aliens? (I am a King Ghidorah fan.) What if Godzilla duked it out with … King Kong? (I thought Godzilla was robbed in that one.) I love scary monster movies, but now and then, you want more monsters and fewer scares. Maybe the analogy here is Heath Ledger and Cesar Romero: Both are great Jokers, but sometimes, you’d like to enjoy the character with a shade fewer homicides. Being able to enjoy both is, perhaps, one of the subtle rewards of growing up.

— Tom

Katherine Hu contributed to this newsletter.

In the late 1980s, the fortunes of Nick Navarro, the sheriff of Broward County, Florida, were on the rise. Elected in 1984 and on his way to nearly tripling his agency’s budget, he was also demonstrating a flair for dealing with the media—“P. T. Barnum with a Cuban accent,” said one South Florida defense lawyer. Navarro and his office starred in the inaugural season of Cops, the pioneering Fox reality-TV series, and made national news by clashing with the rap star Luther Campbell—including having him arrested—for sexually explicit lyrics on albums by Campbell’s 2 Live Crew.

Navarro’s relations with the media weren’t universally cordial, however, and spawned a constitutional challenge that may now have profound implications for another publicity-loving Florida politician, Governor Ron DeSantis: It exposes one of DeSantis’s most recent high-profile gambits as a brazen violation of the First Amendment.

On November 17, 1988, a Fort Lauderdale daily, The Broward Review, ran a front-page article that Sheriff Navarro found especially vexing. It was headlined “Navarro Failed to Act on Corruption Warnings,” with the subhead “Broward Sheriff didn’t pursue reports that a Bahamian cocaine trafficker was bribing his deputies.”

The story was the latest in a series the Review had run criticizing the Broward sheriff’s office, the county’s largest law-enforcement agency, and Navarro was fed up. The morning it appeared, he ordered a halt to the 20-year business relationship between the sheriff’s office and the Review, which, along with covering local business and law, had been the chief publishing venue for required public notices of sheriff’s sales and forfeitures. This revenue amounted to thousands of dollars each year—not a fortune, but enough to matter to a small daily.

[From the July/August 2020 issue: The dark soul of the sunshine state]

I was the editor in chief of the Review (later renamed the Broward Daily Business Review) and its sister papers in Miami and West Palm Beach, which were owned by American Lawyer Media, the legal publisher created and run by the journalist and entrepreneur Steven Brill. When I told Brill what Navarro had done, he conferred with his friend Floyd Abrams—the First Amendment litigator who had represented The New York Times in the Pentagon Papers case—and we did the traditional American thing: We sued.

We won in 1990, after a two-day trial in the U.S. District Court in Miami. We were upheld unanimously on appeal to the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta. Navarro’s appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court was rebuffed.

We won because what Navarro did was plainly illegal. He had used the power of his public office to punish my newspaper for exercising its First Amendment rights.

The parallels between Navarro’s actions and those of the current governor are unmistakable. DeSantis has spearheaded the successful move to withdraw something of value from the Walt Disney Company—its 50-year control of the special taxing district that essentially governs a 25,000-acre Central Florida spread including Disney World—in reprisal for Disney’s vocal criticism of Florida’s Parental Rights in Education Act, assailed as homophobic. With DeSantis, as with Navarro, public authorities withheld a public benefit as punishment for exercising a core constitutional right, and yesterday Disney finally sued.

Even in 1988, the law in this area was neither subtle nor oblique. Brill told me he got the idea of suing the sheriff from his recollections of a class in constitutional law taught by Thomas I. Emerson, a legendary First Amendment scholar at Yale, and Abrams was able to rely on fresh precedent: a 1986 case out of Mississippi—upheld by the Fifth Circuit—that was almost precisely on point. There, the federal court ordered a local governing board to restore public-notice advertising it had yanked from a local newspaper in retaliation for the paper’s criticism of its performance.

The principle wasn’t new even then. In a 1972 U.S. Supreme Court case brought by a fired community-college teacher, Associate Justice Potter Stewart wrote the majority opinion: “For at least a quarter-century, this Court has made clear that even though a person has no ‘right’ to a valuable governmental benefit and even though the government may deny him the benefit for any number of reasons, there are some reasons upon which the government may not rely. It may not deny a benefit to a person on a basis that infringes his constitutionally protected interests—especially, his interest in freedom of speech.”

The main difference between the Navarro case and the DeSantis-versus-Disney affair was Navarro’s refusal to admit to his motives. In deposition, Navarro acknowledged that he had learned of the November 17 article from an aide on the morning it ran, while he was vacationing in the Bahamas. Still, he claimed to have ordered the severing of the business relationship out of concern that the Review’s circulation was too low, even though he could cite no circulation numbers or indications that sales picked up after ads began running elsewhere. (During a break in Navarro’s deposition, the Review’s lead counsel, Abrams, said to me, “Now we know what his defense is—a fabrication.”) Elsewhere, Navarro offered further justifications for what he’d done, telling one Review reporter he ran into in a convenience store, “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Unlike Navarro, however, there’s no fabrication or ambiguity when it comes to the recent actions of Florida Governor DeSantis and state lawmakers. DeSantis has proudly denounced Disney for its “wokeness,” in particular its public opposition to the “Don’t Say Gay” law, which severely restricts classroom instruction related to sexual orientation and gender. “I think they crossed the line,” DeSantis said of Disney last spring. “We’re going to make sure we’re fighting back when people are threatening our parents and threatening our kids.”

In a tweet a few weeks later, DeSantis elaborated: “You’re a corporation based in Burbank, California, and you’re going to martial your economic might to attack the parents of my state?” he wrote. “We view that as a provocation, and we’re going to fight back against that.”

The result was a bill, passed by the legislature, to strip Disney of authorization granted in 1967 that allowed it to administer the expanse outside Orlando where Disney World is located.

The money is of a different order of magnitude, but at their core, the anti-Disney moves are illegal for the same reason Sheriff Navarro’s advertising cutoff was illegal: They are governmental actions that punish a private person or entity for exercising constitutional rights.

[From the May 2023 issue: How did America’s weirdest, most freedom-obsessed state fall for an authoritarian governor?]

As Abrams wrote to me, “Florida didn’t have to make any deal with Disney in the first place. It was free to seek to change the terms of it or even abandon it for all sorts of reasons except one: that Disney exercised its First Amendment right to speak out on an issue of public policy. Just as Sheriff Navarro was barred by the First Amendment from cancelling a commercial relationship with a publication because it had criticized him, Gov. DeSantis violated the First Amendment by stripping Disney of a benefit because of its public position on anti-gay rights legislation.”

Likewise, the First Amendment scholar Erwin Chemerinsky, the dean of UC Berkeley’s law school, wrote in an email to me, “The law is clear that retaliation against a person—that includes a corporation—for its speech violates the First Amendment. Gov. DeSantis and the Florida legislature have done exactly that, and said that is what they were doing, in its reprisal against Disney.”

Navarro lost his race for a third term as sheriff and left office in 1993. At the time, some commentators blamed his media notoriety, especially his dustup with 2 Live Crew, for his defeat. (Navarro passed away in 2011.) The Broward Review case seems to have played no role in his downfall. Indeed it did little beyond winning my paper $23,000 in damages and our lawyers hundreds of thousands of dollars in fees.

It would, however, be a delicious sort of irony if the ruling—a response to Navarro’s petulant and vindictive actions—now resurfaces as his most enduring contribution to the rule of law, and affirms anew one of our country’s most basic principles.  

A few years ago, Billy Raymond Counterman was convicted of stalking. Now his case is before the Supreme Court—where, bafflingly, the justices spent oral arguments last week exploring how to define a “true threat,” something Counterman was never convicted of making. Threats and stalking are entirely different crimes, with entirely different elements and constitutional implications. If the Court goes ahead and issues a ruling about threats, as it seems poised to do, it could inadvertently weaken stalking laws around the country. A set of imaginary facts could lead to serious real-world harm.

How did we get here? At some point around 2014, Counterman apparently became obsessed with Coles Whalen, a singer-songwriter in Denver. He seems to have suffered from delusions that the two were in a relationship, despite never having met. Over the course of two years, Counterman sent her hundreds of direct messages on Facebook. Some were aggressive. Some were creepy, as when he asked if he’d seen her driving a white Jeep, a car she had once owned. Many were simply confusing or mundane, such as when he said he would bring her tomatoes from his garden, sent a frog emoji, or asked Whalen, a complete stranger, “I am going to the store would you like anything?” Whalen repeatedly blocked him, but Counterman just created new accounts. The messages would not stop.

[Timothy Zick: Making true threats is a crime]

Whalen eventually went to the police. Prosecutors initially charged Counterman with both making threats and stalking, but dropped the threats charge before trial. This was smart: The stalking charge was a much better fit for what Counterman had done. One of the most common techniques stalkers use is “life invasion,” the persistent and unwanted intrusion into the daily routines of their victims. Life invasion can be profoundly traumatic even when it doesn’t involve overt threats—in part because the willingness of a total stranger to force their way into your life raises the implicit question of what else they will do. Whalen testified that she began having panic attacks, terrified that Counterman would show up at her concerts. Her performing career stalled, and she found another job. The jury concluded that, in this case, it was reasonable for Whalen to experience “serious emotional distress” as a result of Counterman’s relentless stream of messages. He was convicted and sentenced to prison.

Here is where the case took a strange turn. On appeal, Counterman’s lawyers argued that his stalking conviction was unconstitutional. Counterman hadn’t intended to scare Whalen, they claimed, and so his messages to Whalen did not rise to the level of true threats. Given that he hadn’t been convicted of making threats in the first place, this was a bit like a driver challenging a speeding ticket on the grounds that he wasn’t drunk. And yet Colorado reached for its Breathalyzer. Instead of simply pointing out that the stalking statute didn’t require them to prove that he had threatened anyone, the state’s lawyers engaged with the debate on Counterman’s terms. Focusing on a handful of messages, including “Fuck off permanently” and “Die. Don’t need you,” they contended that Counterman had indeed threatened Whalen. They argued that what mattered was what he had said, taken in context, not his subjective intent. The Colorado Court of Appeals agreed, rejecting Counterman’s appeal but implicitly affirming his framing of the case.

And so, by the time Counterman’s appeal reached the Supreme Court, the underlying facts had been reimagined. Now the case was packaged as a chance to finally weigh in on a long-running dispute in First Amendment law. Everyone agrees that free speech doesn’t include the right to threaten someone, but views differ on what makes a threat a threat. Is it an objective question of how a reasonable person would react to what was said? Or is it subjective, turning on whether the speaker intended to terrify?

It’s the kind of subtle distinction that lawyers, judges, and academics love to sweat over, which may help explain why nobody seemed to notice how far the case had drifted from what had actually happened. Indeed, the Court and many constitutional lawyers had been waiting for years for such a case. Counterman’s lawyer, John Elwood, had pressed for the subjective theory in a 2015 case, Elonis v. United States, which The New York Times described at the time as an opportunity for the Court to determine “how the First Amendment applies to social media.” In the end, however, the Court decided the case on statutory grounds, leaving the First Amendment question for another day.

[Read: Does a true threat require a guilty mind?]

In the media, Counterman was billed as a chance for the Court to revisit Elonis, and the significant differences between the cases got swept aside. Both concerned disturbing messages on Facebook, but whereas Anthony Elonis publicly posted a handful of violent screeds to his Facebook page, visible to his friends, Counterman sent hundreds upon hundreds of private messages to a single stranger who repeatedly blocked him.

Before the oral argument, we filed an amicus brief, along with fellow First Amendment scholar Eugene Volokh, urging the Court not to treat Counterman as a true-threats case. Ultimately, however, the arguments proceeded as if in another universe—one in which Counterman had actually been charged, prosecuted, and convicted for making threats. At one point, Justice Neil Gorsuch asked whether Colorado could have had an easier time if it had “pursued the defendant for stalking and secured a conviction for that.” The answer to that question is definitively yes, because that is in fact what happened. But, apparently committed to arguing about true threats, Colorado Attorney General Phil Weiser went along with the conceit that that’s what the case was about. By this point, the lawyers, the justices, and the other amicus briefs seemed to have lost sight of where this case had actually started.

This is not merely an academic or theoretical concern. How the Court characterizes Counterman’s behavior could have a significant effect on future stalking cases. Courts have for the most part rejected First Amendment challenges to stalking laws so long as they are narrowly defined to criminalize repeated, unwanted communication that is directed at a specific individual, and that causes that person significant emotional distress. But Counterman could change that. When lower courts apply Supreme Court precedent, they often look at the facts of the case to see how it applies to the one they’re deciding. If the Court accepts Counterman’s legal theory, lower courts will see a case in which a stalking conviction was overturned because it didn’t meet the criteria for true threats. The practical effect could be to dramatically raise the constitutional bar for protecting cyberstalking victims.  

This would be a tragic outcome. Stalking laws were passed precisely to protect victims, mostly women, from menacing behavior even when their tormentor made no explicit threats. California enacted the United States’ first stalking law in 1990 after the actress Rebecca Schaeffer was shot and killed by an obsessive fan who had stalked her for years. Soon after, in unrelated incidents, four other California women were killed by stalkers. In every case, the killers had stalked their victims relentlessly, and in every case, law enforcement had been powerless to help until it was too late. Since then, all 50 states as well as the federal government have enacted laws against stalking.

Studies show that many stalkers do not expressly threaten their victims. To prevent the law from intervening unless a stalker says a particular set of words would be to misunderstand the harm that stalking laws seek to prevent. And it would leave millions of victims a year without the ability to seek protection.

This outcome is still hypothetical, of course. The Court can easily avoid it by resisting the urge to graft a constitutional ruling onto a completely mismatched set of facts. Billy Raymond Counterman couldn’t distinguish between reality and fantasy. Hopefully the Court is up to the challenge.

Even as the whole of Silicon Valley grapples with historic inflation, a bank crash, and mass layoffs, Google’s woes stand apart. The explosion of ChatGPT and artificial intelligence more broadly has produced something of an existential crisis for the company, a “code red” moment for the business. “Am I concerned? Yes,” Sundar Pichai, Google’s CEO, told The New York Times. But Google employees are encountering another problem: “They took away the dried mango,” says a project manager at Google’s San Francisco office, whom I agreed not to name to protect the employee from reprisal. At least at that office, the project manager said, workers are seeing less of long-cherished food items—not just the mango, but also the Maui-onion chips and the fun-size bags of M&Ms.

Cost-cutting measures have gutted some of Google’s famous perks. In a company-wide email last month, Chief Financial Officer Ruth Porat announced rollbacks on certain in-office amenities, including company-sponsored fitness classes, massages, and the availability of so-called microkitchens: pantries stocked with everything from low-calorie pork rinds to spicy Brazilian flower buds. These perks have long been an inextricable part of Google’s culture, even in an industry flush with nap pods and coffee bars—a way to recruit top talent and keep coders happy during long days in the office. “The idea was ‘We’re going to make it so wonderful to be here that you never need to leave,’” Peter Cappelli, a professor of management at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, told me. “Are they giving up on that idea?”

Google told me they’re still committed to perks, and indeed, the free meals are still around. “As we’ve consistently said, we set a high bar for industry-leading perks, benefits and office amenities, and will continue that into the future,” Google spokesperson Ryan Lamont said in an email. But the cutbacks are seemingly coming at an inopportune time: If there was ever a moment when Google needed to recruit top talent, it’s now. Although overall demand for software engineers has slowed, money and jobs are still flocking to a buzzy new breed of generative AI. OpenAI, after all, makes a point of matching Google’s daily meals and handing out “fresh-baked cookies.” Google’s new attitude toward perks may be an admission of what was true all along: Perks are perks—just expendable add-ons. They’re nice to have in the good times but hardly essential in the bad.

The world of HR has long claimed that happy workers are productive workers, but Google treated that idea like a mantra, creating offices that were less like cubicle-packed grids and more like adult playgrounds (complete with in-office slides and rock-climbing walls). As part of what the company refers to as “Googley extras,” it has given employees free yoga and pilates classes, fully comped team trips, and even once-a-week eyebrow shaping. Other big companies, and even start-ups flush with venture-capital cash, realized that to have a shot at competing for talent, they’d need to start subsidizing the same sort of lifestyle. Massages and macchiatos were just the start: Apple has hosted private concerts with artists such as Stevie Wonder and Maroon 5; Dropcam, a start-up Google bought in 2014 (whose tech it has recently decided to phase out), reportedly offered each employee a free helicopter ride, piloted by the CEO, to a destination of their choosing. Others, such as WeWork, simply handed out tequila around the clock.

The Googley extras aren’t gone, by any means, but they’re no longer guaranteed. Google’s infamous shuttle buses, known to clog San Francisco streets as they ferry employees to and from the office, are running less frequently, and traditional laptops have become a privilege reserved for employees in engineering roles. Everyone else must now make do with slightly wimpier netbooks. Part of this reduction in amenities has to do with the new reality of hybrid work, which has itself become a perk. It makes sense to trim the shuttle-bus schedule if fewer people are taking the bus to work every day. Same goes for the reported reduction in in-office muffins, although understanding the rationale behind the crackdown doesn’t necessarily make it sting any less.

It’s not just Google, either. “My sense is that [perks] are being pulled back broadly,” Cappelli said. “So many public companies feel that they have to look like they’re belt-tightening for investors.” After just a year, Salesforce has abandoned its “Trailblazer Ranch,” a 75-acre retreat meant to host guided nature walks, group cooking classes, sessions for meditation, and “art journaling.” Over at Meta, already a year out from its decision to cancel free laundry and dry-cleaning services, employees are expressing similar frustrations over snacks.

Still, it all cuts a little deeper at Google. That’s in part because Google has taken such care to cement its reputation as the best place in the world to work, the plushest employer in a sea of plush. As any Google employee will insist, the lunches were never as good at Apple or Microsoft. The message is perhaps symbolic as much as practical. Muffins are not a real financial concern for Alphabet, Google’s $1.3 trillion parent company, which could very much still cash in on the new AI boom. But for the company’s workers, it’s not the muffins themselves, but their absence, that may end up having the greatest impact. “The way it is conveyed to people matters as much as the perks themselves,” Cappelli said. If an abundance of perks signals care and intention, what might a lack of perks represent? “You’re sending the opposite signal: ‘We don’t really care about you so much, and that’s why we’re taking it away.’”

Flashy perks helped produce an illusion of safety that couldn’t last. Surface-level penny-pinching is ultimately about assuring investors that costs are under control; employees’ annoyance is just part of the bargain. You’ll know your employer really means business when it lays off your whole team. And if Google is willing to cut down on some of its most visible perks just as generative AI threatens to upend its business, then maybe it’s not too concerned about OpenAI outdoing it in the snack department. The end of muffins and dried-mango slices amounts to a gesture more than anything else—a way of reminding current employees that these are lean times, and they should start acting like it.