pplpod

pplpod

Download on the App Store

pplpod episodes

  • Toys R Us: How Amazon and a Debt-Fueled Buyout Killed a Toy Giant

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    In the summer of 2024, Toys R Us released a promo made with OpenAI's Sora that showed founder Charles Lazarus as a boy dreaming up a toy empire beside a cartoon giraffe. Viewers found it creepy, and the synthetic memory suits a brand that now lives on as licensed intellectual property. This episode tells the full story, starting in April 1948, when Lazarus opened a baby furniture store called Children's Supermart in Washington, D.C. In 1957 he saw that parents buy a crib once but buy toys for years, and he opened the first Toys R Us in Rockville, Maryland.

    The chain became the center of childhood retail, from Star Wars figures to Cabbage Patch Kids to Nintendo. Then came two fatal decisions: a ten year exclusive deal that handed online sales to Amazon, and a 2005 private equity buyout, financed with borrowed money, that loaded the company with $5 billion in debt. By June 2018 every remaining American store was closed and 64,000 employees were out of work.

    • The backward R in the logo was a deliberate choice to mimic a child's handwriting, and mascot Geoffrey began in the 1950s as a print character named Dr. G. Raffe.
    • The $35 million Times Square flagship opened in 2001 with an indoor Ferris wheel, an animatronic T. rex, and a life-size Barbie dream house.
    • After failing to deliver online orders for Christmas 1999, the company outsourced e-commerce to Amazon, later sued for breach of contract, and won $51 million in 2009.
    • Bain Capital, KKR, and Vornado bought the chain for $6.6 billion, leaving it to pay $400 million a year in interest while stores went without upkeep.
    • WHP Global acquired the brand in 2021 and has placed it inside Macy's stores, at American Dream and the Mall of America, and in new markets across Latin America.
    21 min
  • The Great Diamond Hoax of 1872: Two Prospectors Who Fooled Tiffany

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    John Slack died in 1896 as a coffin maker in White Oaks, New Mexico, keeping quiet about one of the boldest swindles in American history. In the early 1870s he and his cousin Philip Arnold walked into San Francisco banking offices with a handful of garnets and flawed diamonds, played the part of ignorant country prospectors, and let the financiers believe they were the ones taking advantage. With the expedition money, the cousins sailed to London, bought cheap uncut South African diamonds, and had Charles Lewis Tiffany appraise them at $150,000.

    This episode follows the con from that appraisal to a remote sandstone outcrop near Diamond Peak, Colorado, where the pair pressed European gems into mud, crevices, and anthills. Investors bought them out for $660,000, formed a company with a former Union general on board, and had federal mining law amended to protect a field that did not exist. Then a government geologist looked at the dirt.

    • The first stones were pyrope garnets and chrome diopsides, indicator minerals that made a diamond find look geologically plausible to anyone who knew mining.
    • Tiffany was a master of cut and polished gems but had little experience with rough stones, and his word silenced every later doubt among the investors.
    • Mining consultant Henry Janin inspected the salted ground in June 1872 and declared it wonderfully rich, with a stake in the company riding on his answer.
    • Backers included George B. McClellan and a Rothschild, and Congressman Benjamin F. Butler, paid with a thousand shares, pushed language covering valuable mineral deposits into the General Mining Act of 1872.
    • Geologist Clarence King exposed the fraud in November 1872 after finding diamonds, rubies, and emeralds lying together in sandstone, some still bearing lapidary marks. Arnold died in a shootout in 1878.
    23 min
  • The Tontine: The Last Survivor Bet That Built Early Wall Street

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    The last survivor pact from old mystery novels and sitcoms is a real financial instrument with a long record. In a tontine, investors pay a lump sum into a trust that pays annual interest to the group. When a member dies, that share is divided among the living, so payouts climb for each survivor until the last one dies and the trust dissolves. The idea takes its name from Lorenzo de Tonti, a Neapolitan banker who pitched it to the French government in 1653 and was turned down. The first working tontine opened in the Dutch city of Kampen in 1670.

    This episode follows the scheme from Louis XIV's war chest to toll bridges, the first home of the New York Stock Exchange, and an American insurance scandal that made the word toxic for a century. It also explains why the concept is returning under new names, as longer lives strain retirement savings and regulators in Europe and the United States open the door to longevity risk sharing pools.

    • Charlotte Barbier put 300 livres into Louis XIV's 1689 tontine and outlived her cohort, collecting 73,000 livres in her final year before dying in 1726 at age 96.
    • Investors learned to name five year old girls as nominees, since a child who had survived early disease was the best statistical bet for a long life.
    • Richmond Bridge over the Thames was financed by a tontine in 1777, and its tolls ended when the last surviving investor died.
    • Henry Baldwin Hyde's Equitable Life began selling tontine policies in 1868, and the industry sold roughly nine million of them, with forfeiture clauses that wiped out savers who missed a single payment until the 1905 Armstrong investigation.
    • In Francophone Africa and parts of Asia, the word now describes rotating community savings pools in which members take turns receiving the kitty and no one profits from a death.
    31 min
  • The Cullinan Diamond: Mailed in a Cardboard Box to the King

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    On January 26, 1905, surface manager Frederick Wells pried a 3,106 carat crystal out of a mine wall in South Africa with his pocket knife, just 18 feet below the surface. The Cullinan was three times the size of the previous record holder, the Excelsior, and it had formed hundreds of kilometers down in the mantle before a kimberlite eruption carried it up intact. This episode traces how a stone of that size was moved, sold, and cut. Detectives guarded an empty safe aboard the RMS Kenilworth Castle while the real diamond traveled to London by registered mail.

    For two years no private buyer would take the risk of an uncut stone. Then Louis Botha's Transvaal government bought it for 150,000 pounds in 1907 and gave it to King Edward VII, a calculated gift from a colony Britain had just defeated in the Boer War. In Amsterdam, Joseph Asscher spent days scoring a groove, struck his blade, and watched the steel knife snap before a second blow split the stone cleanly.

    • Prime Minister Henry Campbell-Bannerman advised the king to refuse the gift, while Winston Churchill lobbied for it and received a replica of the rough stone as thanks.
    • Abraham Asscher carried the diamond to Amsterdam in his coat pocket by train and ferry while the Royal Navy escorted an empty box across the North Sea.
    • The popular story that Joseph Asscher fainted after the cut is disputed by historian Ian Balfour and by Asscher's nephew Louis, who said no Asscher would faint over any diamond.
    • The rough yielded nine major stones and 96 minor brilliants, including the 530.2 carat Cullinan I in the Sovereign's Sceptre and the 317.4 carat Cullinan II in the Imperial State Crown.
    • Four of the rough stone's eight surfaces were flat cleavage faces, evidence that the Cullinan was itself a fragment broken from a larger crystal that may still lie underground.
    24 min
  • Al Capone: Undone by a Tax Bill and an Untreated Disease

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    Al Capone ended his criminal career plucking a banjo in an Alcatraz prison band. This episode strips away the Scarface myth to follow the real chronology: a barber's son born in Brooklyn in 1899, expelled at 14 for striking a teacher, schooled in extortion as a bouncer at Frankie Yale's Harvard Inn, and slashed three times across the face by Frank Galluccio. He hated the nickname that followed, hid his left side from photographers, and asked his inner circle to call him Snorky instead.

    Invited to Chicago by Johnny Torrio in 1919, Capone inherited the whole operation at 26 after Torrio was ambushed and retired. He ruled through dynamite and bought officials while courting the public with jazz patronage and a Depression soup kitchen. The St. Valentine's Day Massacre shattered that image, and the federal government answered with accountants instead of bullets. Convicted of tax evasion in 1931, he was already carrying the untreated syphilis that would destroy his mind.

    • Capone gave $250,000 to the campaign of Mayor William Hale Thompson, and his men bombed polling places with hand grenades during the 1928 Pineapple Primary.
    • Rival Joe Aiello offered the chef at Capone's favorite restaurant up to $35,000 to lace his soup with prussic acid. The chef confessed instead.
    • On February 14, 1929, gunmen dressed as police lined seven of Bugs Moran's men against a garage wall and shot them, and the newspaper photos made Capone public enemy number one.
    • A 1927 Supreme Court ruling made illegal income taxable, and Capone's own lawyer handed prosecutors a letter admitting income for 1928 and 1929, which Judge James Herbert Wilkerson admitted as a confession.
    • Paroled in 1939, Capone received penicillin in 1942, too late to reverse the damage. He died in 1947, while successor Frank Nitti kept the Chicago Outfit quiet and profitable.
    24 min
  • Tally Sticks: The Wooden Money That Burned Down Parliament

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    The word stockholder once meant something literal: the person who held the longer half of a split wooden stick. This episode follows the tally stick from prehistoric notched bones to the medieval English Exchequer, where a length of squared hazelwood became an unforgeable receipt. Notches were cut across the stick to record a debt, then the wood was split lengthwise through the marks. The lender kept the stock, the borrower kept the shorter foil, and because no two pieces of wood splinter the same way, only the original halves would ever fit together again.

    Around 1100, King Henry I brought the system into the Exchequer to record tax payments, and the sticks began to circulate as money. Kings issued tallies against taxes they had not yet collected, and tallies later helped capitalize the Bank of England. The story ends in 1834, when officials fed six centuries of obsolete sticks into furnaces beneath the House of Lords and set the Palace of Westminster ablaze.

    • The Lebombo bone, a baboon fibula with 29 notches found in Eswatini, dates back roughly 43,000 to 44,000 years and ranks among the oldest known counting tools.
    • Exchequer cuts were standardized by the body and the farm: a palm's thickness meant 1,000 pounds, a thumb's breadth 100 pounds, a little finger 20 pounds, and a swollen barley grain one pound.
    • Merchants accepted tax tallies as payment at a slight discount, turning wooden receipts into a circulating currency and letting the Crown spend against future revenue.
    • In 1697 investors bought one million pounds of Bank of England stock using 800,000 pounds in tally sticks and 200,000 pounds in paper notes.
    • Article 1333 of the 1804 Napoleonic Code recognized tallies as legal proof, and Charles Dickens mocked the 1834 fire in 1855 as a monument to bureaucratic routine.
    23 min
  • The Infomercial: From a 1949 Blender Pitch to Presidential Campaigns

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    The infomercial is easy to dismiss as late night filler, but it began as a discovery about dead airtime. In 1949, a 30-minute pitch for the Vitamix blender aired after midnight on WOR-TV in New York and drew more than 130 telephone orders within an hour. The FCC soon capped commercial minutes per hour, and marketers spent the 1970s hunting for loopholes, from album ads padded with long song clips to a station in Tijuana, Mexico, whose signal covered San Diego. When the limits were lifted for television in 1984, overnight hours that stations once spent off the air became prime real estate.

    This episode traces how direct response marketers turned those hours into an industry measured by cost per acquisition, why the bonus offer overrides a buyer's hesitation, and how the format spread to computer makers, televangelists, and politicians. It also covers the regulators who pushed back, the research showing these purchases are often planned, and the comedians who made the genre a target.

    • Singer Peter Lemongello sold over 1.8 million copies of his album Love 76 through long television ads that counted his singing as entertainment.
    • In 1985 Ray Lindstrom and a partner bought 2,700 hours of cable time for $8 million and generated $21 million in sales.
    • In 2009 Fox replaced its Saturday morning children's block with paid programming called Weekend Marketplace.
    • A week before the 2008 election, Barack Obama's campaign aired a 30-minute program simultaneously on seven networks and drew over 33 million viewers.
    • The United Kingdom banned advertisement magazines in 1963 and did not allow paid long-form ads on television until 2009.
    25 min
  • Supreme: How a Lafayette Street Skate Shop Became a Billion Dollar Brand

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    In April 1994, James Jebbia opened Supreme on Lafayette Street in Lower Manhattan with the clothing racks pushed to the walls so local kids could skate straight in off the street. The staff were downtown skaters such as Justin Pierce and Harold Hunter, the atmosphere was deliberately intimidating to outsiders, and the red box logo borrowed the look of artist Barbara Kruger's anti-capitalist work. That credibility could not be manufactured, and it became the foundation for everything that followed.

    This episode explains the system Supreme built on top of it: small, limited batches released every Thursday, a model that removed markdowns and trained customers to wait on the brand. It covers the collaborations that put the logo on arcade cabinets, porcelain, Ziploc bags, and a Louis Vuitton collection shown at Paris Fashion Week in 2017, then turns to lawsuits, counterfeit trademarks abroad, and what happens when conglomerates buy a business built on scarcity.

    • A 2020 pack of red Supreme Oreos retailed for $3 and was listed on eBay within a week for more than $91,000.
    • When Supreme sued Leah McSweeney's Married to the Mob over a parody shirt in 2013, Barbara Kruger dismissed everyone involved as totally uncool jokers.
    • Because Supreme had not registered its trademark in Italy, so-called legal fakes opened stores in Europe, and in 2018 Samsung announced a partnership with one of them by mistake.
    • VF Corporation bought Supreme in November 2020 for $2.1 billion in cash, then sold it to EssilorLuxottica in July 2024 for $1.5 billion.
    • Supreme won the Council of Fashion Designers of America menswear award in 2018 and reported $538 million in revenue in 2024.
    23 min
  • The 2008 Financial Crisis: How Subprime Mortgages Froze the World

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    The 2008 financial crisis erased $11 trillion in household wealth, yet half of the poorest American families saw no decline, because they had no investments to lose. This episode starts decades before the crash, with the 1999 repeal of key parts of the Glass-Steagall Act, a political push for affordable housing, and cheap money from the Federal Reserve. Lenders sold adjustable rate subprime mortgages with low teaser rates, and Wall Street bundled them into mortgage-backed securities whose top slices carried AAA ratings.

    The models behind those ratings assumed that American home prices would never fall everywhere at once. When rates rose from 2004 to 2006 and payments reset, defaults spread, and the securities and the credit default swaps written on them turned toxic. Banks stopped lending to one another, governments answered with rescues on a scale never seen before, and the question of who paid for it all still shapes public trust in finance.

    • Bear Stearns was sold to JPMorgan Chase in March 2008, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were seized on September 7, and Lehman Brothers filed the largest bankruptcy in U.S. history on September 15.
    • The TED spread, a gauge of how much banks distrust each other, spiked to a record 4.65 percent.
    • Congress created the $700 billion Troubled Asset Relief Program, and central banks bought $2.5 trillion in debt and troubled assets in the fourth quarter of 2008 alone.
    • Some 8.7 million American jobs were lost, unemployment peaked at 10 percent in October 2009, and the Dow fell 53 percent from its peak.
    • Of 47 bankers jailed worldwide, more than half were in Iceland, while the United States imprisoned one: Kareem Serageldin of Credit Suisse, sentenced to 30 months.
    22 min
  • Spindletop: The Texas Gusher That Launched the Oil Age and Gulf Oil

    Got something to say to this podcast? Send a voicemail, and you might hear yourself on the next episode!

    In the late 1800s, a Beaumont brick maker and Sunday school teacher named Pattillo Higgins led his class up a small hill called Sour Spring Mound, dropped a lit match, and watched the ground catch fire. He was convinced a salt dome beneath the hill had trapped oil and gas, though geologists insisted the Gulf Coast held none. In 1892 he formed the Gladys City Oil, Gas, and Manufacturing Company, only to see pressurized quicksand swallow his equipment at about 300 feet. Broke and mocked, he left his own venture in 1896 and recruited salt dome expert Captain Anthony F. Lucas.

    This episode follows Lucas as he runs out of money, turns to Pittsburgh financiers John H. Galey, James M. Guffey, and Andrew Mellon, and accepts a one-eighth share while Higgins gets nothing. With the Hamill brothers drilling, the crew improvised its way through sand and gas until January 10, 1901, when the well blew. The boom that followed remade Beaumont, broke Standard Oil's grip, and ended with Mellon owning the prize.

    • To beat the quicksand and gas pressure, the crew devised an improvised check valve and pumped mud down the hole, the origin of drilling mud.
    • Caroline Lucas urged the crew to keep drilling to the 1,200 feet their contract required rather than stop at a thin oil sand.
    • The Lucas gusher shot oil 150 feet into the air at 100,000 barrels a day and took nine days to cap with a Christmas tree valve.
    • Beaumont grew from 10,000 people to 50,000, and by the end of 1902 more than 500 oil companies and nearly 300 wells crowded the hill.
    • A 20-year contract to sell Shell 25,000 barrels a day at 25 cents each sank the company once output fell, and Mellon reorganized it as Gulf Oil in 1907.
    24 min

About pplpod

From the publisher's feed

pplpod is a podcast about people, places and lots of other stuff. Each episode takes a deep dive into the lives, choices, and legacies of fascinating figures from history, culture,…