On September 9, 2025 at 10 a.m. PT, Apple will once again transform its glass spaceship into a megachurch of consumer longing, inviting the faithful to witness what it calls the “Awe-dropping” keynote. The name alone is a corporate sleight of hand: awe as in wonder, drop as in your rent money, and keynote as in the ritual sacrifice of common sense.
Headlining this season’s sermon is the iPhone 17 lineup, a four-phone extravaganza featuring the ultra-thin iPhone 17 Air—rumored to sport a 6.6-inch display, 120 Hz ProMotion, and all the moral weight of a croissant. The redesign ditches the camera bump in favor of a Pixel-style bar, which is Apple’s way of admitting Samsung had one good idea. Also on stage: iOS 26’s new “Liquid Glass” aesthetic, a phrase that sounds less like software and more like a limited-edition vape flavor.
And of course, the broader three-year roadmap: 2025’s slim Air, 2026’s foldable iPhone, and 2027’s special 20th-anniversary iPhone, which will likely cost as much as a studio apartment and be marketed as the cure for aging.
The Church of the Slab
Apple has perfected the art of pretending each new iPhone is not just a slab of glass and aluminum but a rite of passage. The stage is minimalist, the lights are clinical, and Tim Cook appears not as CEO but as a secular priest of Cupertino, whispering phrases like “A17 Bionic” and “on-device privacy” as if they are gospel.
This year, the miracle is thinness. The iPhone 17 Air is “ultra-thin,” which means it is finally approaching the density of a Pringle. Apple will call it an engineering breakthrough. Consumers will call it “fragile.” Case manufacturers will call it “Christmas.”
The Camera Bar: Apple Discovers Geometry
For years, Apple insisted the camera bump was inevitable, a necessary evil in pursuit of world-class photography. Now, with a straight face, they’ve decided to replace it with a camera bar stretched across the back. Suddenly, the bump was a mistake. Suddenly, the bar is elegance.
The keynote will sell this as “balanced design,” as though moving the wart to the forehead somehow cures acne. Expect a montage of people pretending to photograph sunsets while actually recording their lattes.
Liquid Glass: Because Transparency Is Branding
The crown jewel of iOS 26 is the so-called “Liquid Glass” design language. Apple says it’s sleek, translucent, modern. The rest of us know it’s just another iteration of buttons getting shinier until they eventually vanish entirely. By iOS 30, the phone will be so smooth and clear you won’t know whether you’re holding it or hallucinating it.
Apple insists Liquid Glass “brings fluidity and dimensionality to everyday tasks.” Translation: your notifications now look like expensive jellybeans.
Apple Intelligence: AI, But Make It Privacy
Apple has lagged in the AI hype race, so now it will rebrand Siri with Apple Intelligence. The pitch: everything is on-device, encrypted, safe, and non-creepy. Unlike other companies, Apple doesn’t want your data; it just wants you to believe that privacy is a feature, not a basic human right.
Siri, now powered by generative models, will be marketed as more conversational, more helpful, more personal. In practice, Siri will still mishear your alarm request and set “Play Mariah Carey at 4 a.m.” instead of “Wake me at 4 a.m.” But hey—at least the hallucination happened privately.
The Roadmap to 2027: Fold Me Once
The keynote won’t just sell this year’s phone. It will sell the future. The leaked roadmap is clear:
- 2025: The slim “Air.”
- 2026: A foldable iPhone, which Apple will claim is revolutionary even though Samsung has been folding phones like origami since the Obama years.
- 2027: The 20th-anniversary iPhone, a device that will be pitched as both nostalgic and forward-looking, as if Steve Jobs’ ghost himself carved it from the bones of innovation.
By spacing out these milestones, Apple ensures the hype cycle is perpetual. Even if the iPhone 17 is just a thinner slab, consumers will whisper: “Wait until the foldable.” And when the foldable disappoints, they’ll murmur: “Wait until the anniversary edition.” It’s less roadmap than emotional hostage negotiation.
The Accessories Side Quest
No Apple keynote is complete without accessories. Expect the Apple Watch Series 11, a third-gen Watch Ultra for people who cosplay as mountaineers, and the AirPods Pro 3, which will be marketed as “the most personal audio experience ever” until the next update drops.
Also: new colors. This year’s hype shade is a Pro-only orange, destined to clash with every case but still trigger lines around Apple Stores. Apple understands that color is currency. Add a new shade and you don’t just sell phones—you sell the illusion of personality.
The Audience: Clapping as Reflex
The keynote audience always claps at the wrong moments: when Apple announces a new chip name, when Tim Cook says “on-device,” when a presenter unveils a new charging animation. It’s Pavlovian. Apple could reveal the iPhone 17 comes with a slightly longer charging cable, and the audience would erupt like it was the moon landing.
This isn’t just fandom. It’s ritual. The applause is less about what was announced and more about reaffirming membership in the church of Cupertino.
Critics as Prophets of Fatigue
Every cycle, critics warn of iPhone fatigue. They write columns about how the magic is gone, how innovation has slowed, how Apple is out of ideas. And every year, the sales numbers laugh in their faces. Because fatigue is irrelevant. The upgrade treadmill is not fueled by need—it’s fueled by envy.
Nobody upgrades because their phone is broken. They upgrade because their neighbor’s isn’t. The keynote isn’t about specs. It’s about social survival.
The Super-Cycle Sales Pitch
The real trick of this keynote will be convincing the world that 2025 is the beginning of a “super-cycle.” Apple has used this term before, but this time they’ll mean it: thinner phones, foldables, anniversary nostalgia. It’s not just a product—it’s an epoch.
And consumers, already conditioned to mark time in iPhone releases, will nod. Years don’t start with January anymore. They start with keynote day.
The Cynicism of Awe
The phrase “awe-dropping” is, in itself, a confession. Apple knows awe has become harder to conjure. Phones are slabs. Upgrades are incremental. Features are iterative. The awe is not in the product anymore—it’s in the theater.
We clap not because the phone is miraculous, but because we want to believe miracles still happen in glass auditoriums under California sunlight.
The Haunting Close
On September 9, the iPhone 17 will be unveiled. It will be thinner. It will have a camera bar. It will glow with Liquid Glass. Siri will promise to be smarter. Colors will shimmer. Accessories will sparkle. And millions of us will watch, tweet, and sigh.
We’ll mutter that it’s the same slab as last year. We’ll swear we don’t need it. We’ll sneer at the hype.
And then, quietly, inevitably, we’ll buy it.
Because the most haunting truth of the iPhone era is this: we don’t upgrade for the phone. We upgrade for the feeling that awe still exists, even if we have to rent it for 24 months at 0% APR.