By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, March 10, 2016
San Jose, Calif.
— Silicon Valley is a strange place: Everyone is young, everyone is rich, and
everyone seems like they’ll always be young and they’ve always been rich. If
you’re coming from Manhattan or Atlanta or Houston, you feel like you’ve landed
in the future, but only a little bit, maybe six months. What’s new everywhere
else is, as a great poet once put it, “so five minutes ago.”
That is the immortal line from Clueless, a 1995 teen-movie adaptation of Emma. If you don’t think that 1995 is ancient history, check out
these 2016 teenagers
trying to figure out Windows 95. Yes, you are older than you thought. But
nobody here is going to call you clueless — not to your face, anyway. Everybody
is rich, everybody is youthful, and everybody is nice. Granted, there’s a
certain undercurrent suggesting that this is the same kind of Children of the Corn nice and
well-scrubbed that you experience in Minneapolis — you do get that vibe, that
they might cut you into tiny pieces of man-sashimi, dunk you in gluten-free soy
sauce, and eat you with sustainably grown fair-trade bamboo chopsticks in their
Snaidero kitchens while listening to an unreleased Devendra Banhart track.
But that pretty much never happens.
What does happen is that the technology businesses for
which this community is famous invent and build cool stuff in a process that
throws off millionaires and billionaires by the ton. The interesting thing is
that technology’s nouveaux riches out here in California building the 21st
century have reached way back to the East Coast in the first half of the 20th
century for guidance on building a new rich-guy culture.
I served for many happy years as the editor of the Main Line Times in Lower Merion, Pa.,
one of the last bastions of the old WASP blue-blood culture. Sure, people
played polo and owned steeplechase horses, but there was a surviving strain of
that old Puritan modesty that informed the local culture. The ancient Main
Liners who would, despite their inherited millions, have been embarrassed to
show up at the Cricket Club driving anything flashier than a Ford (“The old
guard thought Lincolns were for Jews and Cadillacs for Italians,” as one old
lion of the country club explained to me) were at the beginning of the 20th
century still rolling their eyes at all the Mercedes and BMWs rolling down
Lancaster Avenue. You might have $40 million in the trust fund, but you still
were expected to volunteer at the library and the PTA and to buy most of your
clothes at Lord & Taylor. (And there’s nothing wrong with Sears, for that
matter.) Ask one of those old Main Liners who Gianni Versace is, and they’d
have guessed he ran a pizza parlor. (And they’d have said, “pizza parlor,”
too.)
Who would have guessed that the new WASPs would be so
heavily Asian?
The new West Coast money culture is shaping up to look a
great deal like the old East Coast money culture. Young men making their first
few millions run the risk of being mocked by their colleagues for having a
“red-car year” if they go out and buy a Ferrari, and showy rich guys such as
Yuri Milner are savagely mocked for building fake French chateaus at $100
million a pop. (Larry Ellison’s acquisition of a Hawaiian island at $600
million, on the other hand, wasn’t mocked as a rich-guy extravagance but
soberly greeted as an announcement of his intention to evolve into a full-blown
Bond villain.) If anything, there’s a bit of protest-too-much modesty, young
millionaires complaining that they really can’t afford to live here. It’s a
strange kind of Puritanism, to be sure: You can buy a $150,000 Tesla, sure, but
not a Rolls Royce. It is difficult to imagine Sergey Brin gold-leafing his name
onto a jet in meter-high lettering. You don’t see a lot of Kiton suits in
Mountain View.
It’s not that there isn’t conspicuous consumption here.
There is, and it takes the same form as that of the great old capitalists
slandered by the envious and the small as “robber barons,” which is to say:
good works. You don’t advertise how rich you are out here with a flashy watch
or an absurd Italian sports car, but by what you give away.
The commitment to philanthropy here is in fact
remarkable. It isn’t just billionaires giving away a few millions they won’t
miss — although, let’s not sneer at those mere millions, either — but an entire
civic culture built around the assumption that successful people will invest
both money and time in doing good on a large scale. That philanthropy is shaped
by the tech industry’s expectations of high return on investment, and the
business of measuring philanthropic effectiveness has taken off as a field of
enterprise in itself. Of course there are carping critics, the antediluvian
types at the New York Times who
insist that these billionaire captains of industry should be fighting for the
politically managed redistribution of wealth rather than working to make
private philanthropy more effective — and that completely misses the point.
There are not in fact very many self-professed libertarians out here, but the
reflexive belief that government should be, or is going to be, the primary
actor running the show when it comes to building a better world simply isn’t an
operating assumption among the famous founders and venture capitalists who
shape the culture of Silicon Valley.
But at less rarefied levels, that familiar, unthinking
California progressivism remains regnant. People really do believe that if
there isn’t a large, expensive, expansive, federally run welfare state
providing cradle-to-grave succor and free false teeth, then we will descend,
inevitably, into something somewhere between Oliver Twist and Fury Road.
One of the great fictions we’ve perpetrated on ourselves
is the belief that we ultimately face a choice between Ayn Rand and Thomas
Hobbes: an atomistic, individualistic, capitalistic ethic that rejects the philanthropic
impulse categorically vs. Leviathan, an almighty potentate to which we owe
allegiance because the alternative is bellum
omnium contra omnes, a life that is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and
short.
In fact, the opposite is closer to the truth: When you
have a thriving free-market economy throwing off great gushing rivers of
profit, the most successful people begin to look for satisfaction in something
other than 22-bedroom beachfront estates. Donald Trump and his gold-plated
bathroom fixtures are a relic of a dead culture — and good riddance to it.
Pope Francis, who as an economist is one hell of a
theologian, insists that we can have capitalism if we will care for the people,
which gets it exactly backward: We can care for the poor if we have capitalism.
The mandate that we feed the poor presupposes that we have something to feed
them. Production necessarily precedes consumption, which means that it
necessarily precedes redistribution.
It is strange, and more than a little perverse, that this
part of California is one of the nation’s great hotbeds of progressive
anti-capitalism, and that is remains in thrall to the superstition that a
society in which markets are allowed to operate freely and capital is permitted
(and encouraged!) to find its best use must also be a society that is cruel,
callous, indifferent to the poor and the vulnerable, selfish, and vulgar. The
good people of the San Francisco area live smack dab in the middle of what must
surely be the world’s greatest living example that the truth is exactly the
opposite.
Class war? That is so five decades ago.
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