I Tried To Become A Liberal Tech Bro In San Francisco
And succeeded.
When I was in my late teens I read a very influential book (I know, since when do I read) called Zero To One by Peter Thiel.
It had a profound effect on my young entrepreneurial mind. It used terms like Venture Capitalists, SAFEs, Pre-Seed… a bunch of nerd vernacular that meant “I should be shoved in a locker.”
But still, I was curious. I was in my country club bubble in NC. All I knew was launching 300-yard tee shots… and then sipping sweet tea in the clubhouse with retirees who loved to tell me to “get a job.”
I knew I had to investigate the Bay Area further. But the odds were stacked against me. I was skipping college, I had no connections, and even worse… I was a Republican.
Not a typical I-want-low-taxes Republican (even though I certainly do). I was a deport-every-last-person-who-bothers-me Republican. I wore the red hat with the big bold lettering. I would never fit in.
Or so I thought.
I realized I had forgotten one critical variable that transcends politics, geography, and degrees:
I am tall and handsome.
SFO IS THE BEST AIRPORT IN THE COUNTRY
I landed at SFO, and the first thing I noticed was the giant gender-neutral bathrooms the size of gymnasiums in the terminal, next to a huge wall about some dude named Harvey Milk (who I assume created oat milk).
I immediately used the woke bathrooms and I have to admit… they were magnificent.
They were clean, spacious, and had the “vacant/occupied” color-coded signs you only see in countries with functioning governments. It was like a private suite.
I’m used to the actual ghetto— Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport. Where every man shares the same urinal and you get into fistfights on the underground train.
“Next station is concourse F. F as in Food Stamps.”
I ignored the pride flags on every corner at SFO and the people who looked androgynous (they all looked like Rachel Maddow). I didn’t even notice most of it because I was too busy marinating in the quiet, spotless, and futuristic environment. It was a harmonious experience, with every person locked in with AirPods on and thick glasses.
The airport was pristine.
THE HOMELESS SCAM
Everyone talks about the homeless people in San Francisco. It’s all they yap about on Fox News.
Here’s an important piece of info you conservatives need to get into your head.
CRIME DOESN’T CLIMB
Repeat that a few more times until it sinks in. Gravity is the ultimate gatekeeper.
The homeless or “unhoused” (I call them the unbathed) cannot physically keep their shopping carts parked on a 45-degree incline. Physics is not on their side. If they try to set up a tent, they slide right back down the slope into the Tenderloin.
So when I picked my apartment on Lombard Street (home of the famous “Crooked Hillary Street” on Russian Hill), I knew I was safe.
I decided to rename the neighborhood Russian Mountain because the first time I walked up the block, my calves were on fire.
That burn is the feeling of safety. If I’m struggling to walk up it in loafers, I know a guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans doesn’t stand a chance.
THE DISGUISE
To survive in the wild, a predator must blend in with the prey.
In New York or London, you wear a suit to signal power. A suit says, “I am important, libtard.”
In San Francisco, wearing a suit is a sign of mental illness. It implies you are a lawyer or, even worse, someone who actually goes to the office.
To become a “Tech Bro,” you must look like you pulled an all-nighter because you were too busy coding while also k-holing in your beanbag chair.
So, to fit in, I went straight over to the Patagonia store near Fisherman’s Wharf. I got myself a nice jacket that had a giant Patagonia logo stamped on the front. Hell yeah.
There was one small issue. I still didn’t look like a coder. I looked like my usual Trust Fund Man self, but wearing a Patagonia. I looked as if Gavin Newsom went hiking for a campaign ad.
(I should run for governor, actually. I have the hair for it.)
So to fix the problem, I went over to the New Balance store and told the clerk: “Hi, I am looking for the sneakers Steve Jobs wore.”
She (he?) immediately went to the back and brought out a perfect pair of the grey V6 990s.
I laced them up. I looked down. They were just like the kind of shoes you wear when recovering from hip surgery.
I became a divorced dad who lives in Palo Alto.
I was in business.
THE BATTERY
So I had the apartment. I had the look. The only thing missing was the actual company.
I didn’t need a business plan. I needed a VC.
So I went to the one place in San Francisco where I actually feel at home: The Battery.
I walked up to the brick building on Battery Street. The desk didn’t even check my membership. They saw the shoes, my new fleece, and simply nodded. They knew I was a “Founder.”
I walked out of The Library (too loud, I don’t want to listen to any piano) and headed straight for The Garden.
I sat down next to a guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in three weeks. He was wearing a $600 hoodie that looked like he'd found it on the side of the road. He was furiously snapping pics for the ‘gram (even though you apparently aren’t allowed to take pictures at the Battery— but you don’t follow rules in SF).
He looked up at me. He saw my jacket. He saw my chunky, orthopedic foam shoes.
“Seed round?” he asked.
He didn’t even say hello. He just assumed I was stressed about a funding round.
“Series A,” I lied. “We’re oversubscribed, but I’m trying to squeeze in one more strategic partner.”
His eyes widened. I had said the magic words.
“I’m with Sequoia,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
It was that easy. I was in.
I took a sip of the $24 Sancerre he bought me and decided to see how far I could push this.
“I have to be transparent,” I said, leaning in. “This isn’t a typical Valley play. We’re building for... Middle America.”
I waited for him to throw his drink in my face.
Instead, he just nodded.
“Smart,” he whispered. “Untapped market.”
He didn’t care about politics. He just cared about the exit.
He handed me his card.
I looked at it. It just said Vice President.
“Impressive, very nice,” I said. “But wait, I thought you were with Sequoia?”
He winked and took a long drag of his vape.
“You actually bought that?” he said. “I can’t work with those guys. Too safe.”
He wasn’t a corporate drone. He was over everything.
Just like me.
“It’s getting late,” I told him, checking my Apple Watch. “I have a dinner with Elon at the French Laundry.”
“I gotta bounce too, I’m meeting some chicks at Balboa. Text me on Signal. Let’s play a pickleball match this week.”
I walked out of The Battery and got into the Waymo. The fog was rolling in. I put in my AirPods and played “California Love” by Tupac.
I had come here to mock them. But as I rode back to my apartment on Russian Mountain, I realized the terrifying truth:
I love it here.
I adjusted my jacket. I checked my step count.
Maybe I should launch a startup. How hard can it be?
How about a Trump video game?
TFM
