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By David A. Kaplan
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There's rich, there's filthy rich--and then there's Woodside. In Silicon Valley, there are dozens of affluent towns where the overlords of tech build their megalo-mansions and try to prove that there's no such thing as too-conspicuous construction. Palo Alto and Portola Valley, Atherton and Los Altos Hills--these are among the well-known places that the Siliconillionaires call home when they're not at work counting stock options or sporting about the globe in their Gulfstream 5s.
But if you really want to know the Valley, you have to visit its seat of power--bucolic Woodside, the symbol of an era's accumulation of ineffable wealth, the Beverly Hills of high tech. This little enclave, 30 miles south of San Francisco, is tucked into the fogbound redwoods, astride the San Andreas Fault, where no property's too modest to have an electronic gate at the driveway. You'd think Patton was invading. Has it occurred to anybody that intruders can defeat the purpose of these hulking barriers by... just walking around them?
Woodside: it's sedate, it's rural, and the ponies practically outnumber the people. More than any well-hoofed community around the Valley, Woodside tries to say, "We're loaded, but we're not telling." For instance, there are the pickup trucks. "Why does Woodside have lots of rich people driving pickup trucks?" asks Larry Ellison, the CEO of Oracle, who's moving to town next year. Ellison already understands the narcissism. "Late-model, clean pickup trucks with leather seats, they've got cachet, as in: 'I'm not a materialistic person and I can prove it--I drive a pickup truck.' Trouble is, for me, I need a back seat for my kids, my briefcase, my topcoat and, you know, the $4 million in cash that people think I drive around with." So Ellison drives a Jeep--that is, unless he's driving his McLaren, Acura NSX or Bentley turbo convertible.
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Houses are an entirely different matter than wheels. Everybody seems to want a bigger, better, cooler, hotter one than the next guy's. And the prices are pornographic. Average cost for a home in 1998: $1,514,065. There's faux-chateau, faux-maritime, faux-Tara and authentic late-20th-century American Dermatologist. Zoning for most homes is three to five acres, and always has been. This is how Woodside stays rural and also how it keeps the middle-class riffraff out. Just try buying a small spread. "Fabulous half-acre lot with beautiful heritage trees, winding paths take you back in time to lovely garden parties and tree climbing," reads a typical real-estate ad. "Offered at just $847,950. Two-bedroom house included."
The nouveaus here have more than they can possibly spend in a lifetime, but they're trying anyway; if you can't take it with you, you might as well spend it on $18-a-pound ostrich salami at the upscale market. Didn't the French have a revolution over something like this? The ex-wife of one Oracle engineer has 48 rack feet of clothing. The Valley's best foodery, Draeger's, carries not just specialty meats, but an orgy of cigars and brandy, a locked cabinet of tiny $1,500-a-bottle balsamic vinegar infused with truffle, and more brands of olive oil than shampoo. The proprietor, of course, lives in Woodside, eking out a respectable living off the tekkies. Let the plebes eat, well, Oscar Mayer. Woodside 94062 keeps its money quiet, but within the place, everybody's keeping count.
If the Valley were a nation, its economy would rank among the world's 12 largest. Depending on yesterday's stock close, roughly 250,000 millionaires live there, give or take an ostrich salami; by one count, the Valley on average produces 64 new ones every 24 hours. Unemployment is a virtual zero, wages are the highest in the United States. If you can spell "IPO" on a keyboard, there's probably work available. The meek didn't inherit the earth--the geeks did. The Forbes 400 now includes more engineers than movie moguls. Glossy magazines are as likely to profile Jerry Yang of Yahoo! as Tom Cruise. Boys used to dream of growing up to be Babe Ruth or, in the bygone age of Milken, to become Masters of the Universe. Today, they want to start an Internet company and retire before 30.
Gordon Gekko may seem like a bad memory from another go-go decade, and the Digital '90s may appear to reflect a less vulgar world view. But you need to tour Woodside to get a real glimpse of what the Valley is becoming. Mike Markkula, the reclusive cofounder of Apple Computer, is busily putting up a chateau that's 7,840 square feet, not including a parking garage for 20 motorcars. Problem, though, is that Markkula initially wanted twice that much space--maybe something large enough that the Sojourner spacecraft could see it. Markkula said he needed the space because of the towering redwoods. "If you put a small house in that location," he explained to the planning commission, "it looks funny." Woodside said no way. Markkula also argued he was entitled to a zoning variance since, after all, he was providing a "substantial public benefit" by setting up his caretaker's quarters as "affordable housing." That didn't work either.
Woodside has its own brand of class warfare. Some years ago, a councilwoman was mad that her neighbor's outdoor halogens were shining into her bedroom. She couldn't very well install her own curtains, so as a town elder, she drafted a law that lights couldn't be visible beyond the boundary of a homeowner's property. Then, the Woodside flatlanders (the ones with the flashy estates) joined in, complaining their western vistas were being marred by the lights in the hills. The proles up there replied they wanted all the lights down below switched off. Sanity prevailed when one resident pointed out that the laws of physics superseded those enacted by men.
Gordon Moore, cofounder of Intel and California's richest man, also has a home in Woodside. Gracious and unassuming, he and his $10 billion or so are what pass for normal. "I live in the unincorporated part of Woodside," notes the 70-year-old Moore, "so they can't tell me at town hall what color my roof has to be." Even he gets the Woodside psyche. So does T. J. Rodgers, the outspoken libertarian CEO of Cypress Semiconductor. He's got a beautiful house in the hills, complete with merlot winery and a sock drawer perfectly organized by color and size, each pair in its little square nest. T.J. makes confrontation a sport. His own dog bites him. When the Woodside building department refused to give him a certificate of occupancy because the ledge of the shower was two inches too high, T.J. refused to budge. Instead, he installed an additional nozzle and got it classified as a "Roman tub." It's OK for a tub to have a two-inch ledge, though you have to be pretty small to get much of a bath.
Steve Jobs of Apple has two places off Robles Drive--this is where Bill and Hillary stay while visiting Chelsea--and Jobs doesn't even live in Woodside (preferring his Tudor in Palo Alto). But Neil Young and Shirley Temple Black do. And Koko the Gorilla, world-renowned for her 500 words of sign language and very own Web site. Where else in America can you find a town with a computer icon, a music legend and a primate who can order latte no-fat, no-foam?
Or a junior-high curriculum that teaches basic skills in How to Be a Millionaire. Every year, the first math assignment for seventh graders is spending 1 million hypothetical dollars and plotting it on a spreadsheet. The rule is that you're limited to 15 purchases, so that you can buy only expensive stuff. One of them can be a house for up to $700,000 (forget about Woodside--this is how the kids learn to pronounce "San Jose"), two can be cars. No more than $25,000 can go to charity. Talk about practical education: Woodside is teaching its kids, the sons and daughters of the nation's leading entrepreneurs and venture capitalists, how to be smart shoppers!
Woodsiders know how to throw a party. IPO parties, dog parties, helicopter parties, divorce parties (rich husbands doing the divorcing refer to their new, pretty wives as "upgrades"), bar mitzvah parties, villa-warming parties, birthday parties for little kids that re-create entire children's stories in a backyard, Microsoft-bashing parties and parties just because you-have-an-extra-$50,000-to-spend-on-them parties. Barb Ellison, the richest divorcee in town, a woman who's bought out so many neighbors she no longer has to have any, puts on the party of parties every two years--organized, naturally, around her own name. There was Barbstock, then Barbarella and then Barbi Gras in 1998, which came with its very own professionally produced video invitation for each of the 300 guests. "An exotic adventure filled with spicy food, hot rhythm and daring pleasures!" Barb exhorts her friends in the two-minute tape. Did she mention the bare-breasted dancers, too? "When the sun goes down, the spirits awaken and you've got your pass to the Voodoo Lounge... Friends, I need your help to rid me of my biggest burden--my name and that damned doll!" Barb instructs her guests to "bring your own sacrificial voodoo Barbie doll. Decorate your voodoo Barbie, place it on our altar and our witch doctor will perform his magic." As she pokes her own doll, Barb says without a hint of humor, "Take revenge on a cheating spouse!"
Barb Ellison's parties are fun. However, if you really want a slice of life in Woodside today, you've got to attend its annual charity auction for the public elementary school. But don't expect to get in through your checkbook alone: you've got to be pals with the party police, otherwise known as the Woodside School Foundation. If you don't seem discreet, if you don't seem part of the club, they'll have you stopped in the parking lot and taken away by the sheriff.
I know, they tried with me. First, they invited me (as long as I paid for my $125 ticket), then they reneged at the last minute. There were concerns that I was going to write about where they keep their silver, how many kids they have, and, as a sarcastic message to me said, "Please come and abduct our children." The foundation then distributed a purported description of me to the security force--"glasses, beard, about 150 pounds." I found out about it only when I asked one of the cops why he was giving me the evil eye on Grand Auction Night 1998.
"We're supposed to be on the lookout for someone who looks just like you," he tells me, as I walk by. "And then I have to have him arrested. Let me know if you see him, OK?" It's a good thing I don't look just like me.
The school charity auction is the best party of the year. Here we are at the 1998 benefit, themed after "Casablanca." It will raise $439,000--$99,000 of which goes to pay for the event itself. On a starry Saturday night in May, a five-peaked big top has been pitched across the school's soccer field, fitting enough for the carnival of excess about to begin. Genuine Moroccan art and clothing serve as decor, courtesy of one of the parents who made a special trip to North Africa to get it. The menu: roasted top sirloin of lamb with charmoula, potato gratin and honey lemon gateau. Outside is an ersatz Moorish marketplace of baskets, fruits, beans and three huge pythons; right nearby is a cage of live chickens, leading someone to suggest they were some venture capitalist's idea of a Darwinian joke. If only they had replaced the 59 Mercedeses in the parking lot with camels, the "Casablanca" atmosphere would've been complete.
The big-bidder fat cats and hot dogs are all here--rock stars by any other name. Many of the men come in white dinner jackets and red turbans; the women appear to have raided the "I Dream of Jeannie" wardrobe department. A few people have their PalmPilots; more brandish their cell phones, which don't do much for the Mediterranean look. Scott Cook, cofounder of Intuit, makers of Quicken software, is dressed in a towering gold lame headdress topped with a feather. Normally quite modest, Cook this evening wears Halloween-colored harem pants and a skimpy red vest that reveals his bare chest; only the eyeglasses tucked in his waistband belie the look. John Doerr, the much-hyped venture capitalist behind Netscape, Amazon.com and other companies of the new Wild West, skips the costume and shows up in chino pants and baseball cap.
By contrast, his partner Brook Byers is the best-dressed sheik at the party. There are also Gettys, Quists and other Old Money among the 400 guests--the "Upstairs, Downstairs" crowd that's been in Woodside since the Coolidge administration and so resents the new, instant cyber-wealth. And at the center of the event there's blond and bejeweled Barb Ellison, the latest ex-wife of Larry Ellison--the Valley's most celebrated, mediagenic womanizing rogue, the anti-Gates, and the second richest person in the Golden State. Larry's completing an exotic $40 million samurai-style retreat in Woodside.
Larry Ellison didn't come tonight. But he'll be here in spirit. He's offering his boat as the grand prize of the auction. She's Item No. 18, Sakura, a 192-foot, five-deck aluminum-and-teak palace that can crisscross the Atlantic without refueling. For Larry, size matters and this is a pretty good vessel through which to display it. Sakura is longer than any pickup truck, and handles better. What would you pay for you and nine friends to spend seven days along the Riviera aboard "one of the world's finest and most elegant motor yachts," as the auction brochure breathlessly proclaims? Sakura comes with other smaller runabouts and a crew of 11.
Take your time deciding how much to bid on this one because there's other stuff to buy first. "Male Bonding"--a chance for 14 grown men to smoke cigars, eat meat and tell jokes--goes for $6,200 to Joe Lacob, another of Doerr's partners at Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers. Not to be outdone, Barb Ellison pays $6,600 for "Ladies Night Out," which includes a tattoo artist and a tarot reader. Byers's wife shells out $3,900 for a Lobster Feast flown in from Maine. (She should've been as generous when she tried to steal Barb Ellison's housekeeper away; the housekeeper knew better, being the only housekeeper in Woodside assisted by an outside cleaning service.) The Doerrs donate a party in their backyard--complete with three-legged races, a BBQ and "pool fun that includes a wet T-shirt relay and no-hands diving for pennies and a greased watermelon." Ski lodges, deluxe Broadway weekends, Super Bowl tickets, a week at NASA Space Camp--each goes for $3,000 to $8,000. The low bid of the night comes for a baby-sitting contract, proving that the law of supply-and-demand operates even at charity events: why buy a service your live-in house staff already provides?
The auctioneer announces that bidding for the boat will open at $10,000. Several paddles go up. "Fifteen! Twenty! Thirty thousand!" the auctioneer cries, taking bids from an engineer, a banker and a stupendously successful real-estate broker. Roger Sippl enters at $65,000, a virtual rounding error in his centimillionaire portfolio. Sippl, at 24, was a founder of Informix, which makes database software for large companies. The surprise of the evening comes at $70,000. That's when Bruce Thompson, the Woodside school principal, leaps in. "We must be paying him too much," says one mother. A "VC wife"--what they call a venture capitalist's spouse--bids $75,000. Sippl's in for 80, Thompson for 85. It's a two-tycoon race.
"Rog--er! Rog--er! Rog--er!" chant the couples at one table in the back, as if they were at a boxing match. (They haven't had this much fun since the prior autumn, when they got to watch Kleiner Perkins lose a big soapbox-derby race in nearby Menlo Park.)
Roger responds to the encouragement. He bids $90,000. The band whoops it up. Thompson and Sippl go back and forth in $5,000 bumps until Thompson wins at $125,000 and gets a standing ovation. Sippl still gets to go home with a "Five Star Family Campout" at Scott Cook's six-acre hideaway, which comes with use of the host's observatory. It's a bargain at $3,900. If the guests are better behaved than Barb Ellison's, maybe he'll let them see the superduper toilet in the guest bathroom. Cook saw one in Japan and was so impressed he arranged to ship one back to Woodside. The toilet, a conversation piece if ever a bathroom fixture could be one, was heated, padded and, best of all, had a remote control, just like on "Ally McBeal."
Meanwhile, everybody wants to know what stock options Thompson has lucked into for a vacation that will cost $12 per minute. One ridiculous story has it that Bill Gates was behind the bid, as a way of getting back at Ellison, who's made a vocation of making fun of Gates. Another rumor claims that Ellison put Thompson up to it, so nobody would actually get the boat. Since Woodside has just 5,225 residents, and since almost everyone with a big mouth has attended the auction, it takes all of about three minutes to figure out that Thompson was a surrogate for one J. Taylor Crandall. Not exactly a household name in Silicon Valley, but he's the guy who gives financial advice to the Bass family, some of whom also live in Woodside.
Crandall and his wife are incensed that their attempt to stay in the background has failed. On their behalf, Byers writes a nasty note to the gossip columnist of the local paper, asking why she named them. Like the rest of the Woodside aristocracy, the Crandalls like the revelry of money, yet are a tad ambivalent about showing it off. Five days later, the Woodside School Foundation even issues a statement that Crandall isn't the real buyer. Maybe he got around to reading the fine print in the auction catalog. It seems that Larry Ellison included only three hours of fuel per day. J. Taylor is on his own for the rest of the gas ($100 an hour), along with food, booze and dockage fees. But why worry? This is Silicon Valley--Valley of the Dollars. Either you've hit it big, or you believe you're just about to.
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