California tech founder's vampiric SF event is a shameless cash grab Features reporter Ariana Bindman on the Don’t Die Summit, Bryan Johnson’s anti-aging event in San Francisco
Bryan Johnson, founder of Kernel, speaking at a web summit in 2017. Patricia de Melo Moreira/AFP via Getty
It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon near Fisherman’s Wharf, and I’m watching a man gleefully swallow a tiny, pill-shaped robot with a video camera attached to it like it’s candy.
As it passes through his gullet and enters his stomach, giving us an exclusive inside look, spectators gasp, pulling out their phones to record it on the big screen behind him. This isn’t a corporate circus act or modern day sideshow — it’s just one of the many product demos taking place at the “Don’t Die Summit,” an expensive, state-of-the-art conference in San Francisco that’s supposedly showing us all how to cheat death with the help of the Bay Area’s latest biotechnology.
Helmed by an eccentric entrepreneur and tech founder, perhaps best known for infusing himself with the blood of his children, Bryan Johnson’s summit is, more or less, a shrine to him and his company, Blueprint. Online, he’s made a name for himself as an anti-death crusader, becoming the subject of countless parodies and literally positioning himself as a post-industrial symbol of the perfect man. After all, when he’s not injecting his hips with hundreds of millions of stem cells to achieve the joints of an 18-year-old, he’s often holding some sort of serum, promoting his wide variety of powder-based “foods” or subjecting himself to yet another form of cutting-edge shockwave therapy.
Generally speaking, many of the companies at his summit claim to do the same thing: They measure your blood, breath or DNA to identify which diseases you’re most predisposed to while telling you your body’s “true age.” And, for the most part, the people I spoke with were ardent believers who genuinely want to live longer, happier, healthier lives. But I couldn’t help but feel like this gathering — and the companies behind it — were stuck in the shadow of Elizabeth Holmes’ Theranos, the ghost of Silicon Valley’s fraudulent past.
Regardless, I wanted to know more about the conference and whether there was some truth to the products it peddled.
When I arrive around noon, I immediately realize that this event is not for the average American. $399 and $599 VIP passes for the event already sold out, along with $179 and $299 general admission tickets, according to its website. Inside, an EDM remix of Rihanna’s “We Found Love” blasts overhead while attendees wearing Chanel and Miu Miu nibble on tiny chicken skewers. Everyone here is impossibly slim, stylish and positively glowing. I feel like a sewer rat.
Nearby, a man with an impeccable jawline pours Blueprint brand protein shakes into little cardboard cups. Next to him, there’s another booth handing out shots of “Snake Oil” – Johnson’s extra virgin olive oil that sells in packs of two for $64. The words “Don’t Die,” which are printed on T-shirts and badges and signs, begin to feel more and more like the subliminal billboards in John Carpenter’s sci-fi horror film, “They Live.” Everything, it seems, is just a marketing platform for Johnson’s company, his philosophy, himself. Buy, buy, buy, the event not-so-secretly whispers to me.
As I reach for a cucumber and mint drink lamely called “Patrick Bateman,” I’m interrupted by a man shouting “I’M GONNA LIVE FOREVER!” from the main stage. Out of curiosity, I peer into the area, where I’m confronted by an ocean of fleece Patagonia jackets and puffer vests. I immediately turn around and decide to check out some of the demos instead.
While I wander past them, I see some attendees wearing mysterious white and red devices attached to their arms. Intrigued, I follow them to a booth called Generation Lab, where employees in beige jackets apply them directly to people’s skin.
Alina Su, Generation Lab’s co-founder, approaches me in black gloves while her co-worker jerks around a trash bag presumably full of used, bloody tests behind us. I watch it warily. The way the technology works is simple, she explains: the device is needle-less and uses a special pressurized system to draw blood, ultimately identifying which medicines and supplements your body needs to slow down the aging process. The company claims to have “discovered the roadmap to longevity,” and their tests — which allegedly tell you the true age of your organs — run at $499 per year, she explained.
“Longevity is not really about living forever, it’s about living healthy longer,” she says, describing it as a check-engine light for people’s bodies. Many of her customers are 25-80 years old, and some are A-list celebrities and NFL athletes, she says.
Svetlana Ivanova, a software engineer at One Medical Group who appeared to buy one of the tests, says she’s taking initiative because she’s frustrated with primary care providers. They don’t give her details about her health, she says, and don’t seem to care if she appears physically well – this frustration is understandable, given that doctors continue to dismiss women’s pain and treat them like second-class citizens, according to research. Ultimately, in Ivanova’s perspective, longevity isn’t just about living longer, it’s about being healthier, taking control of your body, and being a productive citizen well into old age.
Arnaud Auger, a marathon runner and self-described biohacker swabbing his cheeks at Nucleus’ booth, seems to believe in this new frontier, too. He also says that taking control of his health literally saved his life.
At 29, he was obese, prediabetic and suicidal, he said. But now, at 36, he’s happy and thriving thanks to the many trackers on his body that consistently monitor him. This, combined with taking various lab tests, has helped him reclaim his physical and mental health.
Though some DNA tests have cost him $500, it was worth it. “If you think about it, in San Francisco, like, if I go on two dates at restaurants, that would be the cost,” he explained.
Around the corner, I walk past a group of people waiting in line to try on a ghoulish-looking mask that supposedly analyzes your breath to determine your biological age. Aayush Naik, an Apple software engineer who tried it out, seemed skeptical about its supposed benefits, and said that it’s best to take it with a “grain of salt.” He also seemed annoyed that he had to wait in line for so long.
But Ram Kakarlamudi, who co-founded Avici, a crypto exchange company, was all in. He told me he spent $500 to $800 a month on Blueprint’s plant-based foods, which improved his physical health and self-confidence. “You feel so good about it after you try it for a couple weeks,” he said.
After two hours, though, the event began to feel like a bizarre, bad trip. The words “plasma” and “longevity” and “DNA” ring in my ears. All around me, people walk around with cups full of unseasoned lentils and blood-sucking devices attached to their arms. I was still reeling from seeing a guy eat a robot like a “Flintstones” gummy. I desperately wanted to go home.
Suddenly, I see a group of people gathered in the distance. When I come closer, I realize they’re encircling Johnson himself. Standing in the middle, like a messianic figure in a silver chain and scuffed white trainers, he speaks with a soft, steady cadence while gazing into people’s eyes and posing for photos. His followers crane their necks, leaning in to hear his every word. Up close, his skin is smooth and waxy. In many ways, he reminds me of Ash, or Bishop, the soft-spoken androids from the Alien franchise.
I’m not able to make out what he’s telling them, but that’s not really important, because his presence, and his summit, already says it all: Death is our foe, and you, too, can maybe defeat it — but only if you open your wallet first.
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