I’m producing a comedy show in San Francisco on March 26. Link for tickets.

I was sitting at a bar in the SoMa neighborhood sipping Diet Coke and eating $2 chicken wings. I had my joke notebook open and I was scribbling down ideas for punchlines.

Less than 24 hours prior, down the street from this bar, a fatal shooting occurred. Me and the rest of the comics were unbothered; the only bars that allow open mic nights are ones struggling to get people through the door. The shooting, while tragic, is the only reason we are allowed to tell jokes here.

The comics around me are familiar faces. Burnt out tech bros, cancer survivors, alcoholics, all participating in a nightly humiliation ritual hoping to get a few laughs.

And then a really attractive girl in her mid twenties walks in. She signs up to do a set and hovers around the rest of the us. I almost feel bad for her, she’s sticking out like a sore thumb. There are 12 guys, one fat lesbian, and this chick at the mic.

I go up, tell my jokes and get between 0-3 laughs. But I’m unbothered. I’ve done this 100s of times and this set is nothing more than a data point.

The hot girl goes up next and starts talking about her dad. From what I could gather, it’s deeply personal. She does a long lead up into a joke about an immigrant parent being frugal, and while funny, it was highly predictable. And unfortunately, predictable jokes don’t get laughs.

You could tell how hard she worked on the jokes, how she told her friends these same lines at the bar and they all fell out of their chairs laughing. “You gotta do an open mic girl, you would kill it”. But it didn’t kill. Not because she isn’t funny, but because open mics just kinda suck. She ends her set and sits back down.

As usual, one of the drunk comics complements her set, hits on her, and stumbles out of the bar when turned down.

Her face wore a look of embarrassment, she was unable to make this group of societal losers laugh. In that moment I felt a great deal of empathy. She wanted to try out something new, she’s probably the funniest out her friends, and she got 0 laughs at this mic.

And the truth is that she probably is quite funny, and she could be really good at comedy. It’s just that the comedy is set up in a bad way. It’s set up in a way that doesn’t encourage newcomers, but rather puts them down. Even more so if they don’t fit the “comic” look. It’s tribal, in the worst way possible.

And the problem with hot girls is that people laugh at their jokes even when they aren’t funny. Open mics are the mirror opposite, nobody laughs at your jokes even if they are.

So next time you go to an open mic and see someone that doesn’t belong there. Go watch their set and fake laugh as realistically as you can. Because all they need is a little bit of encouragement, because then, they may try again next week.

That’s my daily reminder to myself as a comic: I’m not funny, just persistent.

-raj

Fast forward to college at UCSB and every weekend was filled with copious volume of spirits mixed with cranberry, orange, or pineapple juice. I gained 30 pounds, made dozens of bad decisions, lost the 30 pounds, and graduated with my diploma (only to gain the weight back shortly after).

Alcohol is deeply intertwined with American life. How often do we step back to evaluate our relationship with the substance?

Humans have been drinking fermented alcohol for thousands of years, and instead of going into the boring archaeological facts, here is a except from esquire that sums up why our naughty habit has persevered:

“Scientists have even gone so far as to confirm that drinking alcohol while eating food makes you take in more calories than if you just did one after the other. Mixing booze and food is such a good survival strategy that the only monkeys who fucked enough to pass on their genes were the ones who drank. And yes, there’s hard scientific evidence to support that claim.”

You don’t have a drinking problem… it’s just evolution!

I did dry January this year to step back from alcohol and I’ve returned with a few observations that I think you all may find interesting. I realized that my friends are pretty sick, and it’s quite fun to hang out with them sober (shocking I know).

I lost a little bit of weight and had more time to do my hobbies.

But I did piss people off. It kinda sucks to turn down a drink.

“Aw come on, just have one with me, I won’t tell anyone”.

“Dude it’s messed up, I drove all this way to hang out and you’re not even gonna drink”.

I can hear my old high school gym teacher “If they peer pressure you to drink, they aren’t your real friends”. While a perfectly valid thing to say to a 17 year old version of me, I don’t think it applies to 24 year old me. The friends that tried to pressure me are awesome, despite whatever my gym teacher may think about them.

What is it then? Why do we want to drink alcohol with our friends?

It’s because our lives are remarkably boring. And drinking together is the cheapest way to share an experience with someone. Let’s be honest with ourselves now. What have you, done that’s been interesting in the last 4 weeks? (This is mostly targeted at men within the same age range as me. I think women tend to do more interesting stuff than us)

And while we as guys should be going to pottery classes, trivia nights, and pot lucks. Most of us, don’t. We sit at home, watch Shane Gillis’s podcast, and occasionally go to the gym. The weekend drink with the childhood friend, or the beer after work is really the only activity that many guys have to look forward to.

I have interests outside of work, even still, I’ve often found myself doing nothing except for working and grabbing drinks with friends.

And honestly, subtracting drinks after work for a 20 something guy whose social life is hanging by the thread of miller high life, can be a real vibe killer. Cause I think we live in a new era, one where loneliness is more painful than dying early.

Mark Zuckerberg has engineered the perfect social cravings machine that’s a few swipes and taps away from us at all times.

Its created a new kind of social behavior that allows us to feel connected to others while being alone. The temporary relief it gives us is much different from true human connection. It’s the fools gold of feeling a sense of belonging.

But eventually our brains realize that the trick of trojan horse. And we look up from our screens realizing that we are truly alone.

If you can find ways to meaningfully connect with other people without alcohol, you’re superman.

But if beers with friends are your outing of choice, I wouldn’t call you Lex Luthor.

-Raj

But this article isn’t about Epstein. It’s actually about the markets. Because Pam Bondi was right, the Dow is at an all time high. But here is why it doesn’t matter. Any why American capital markets may have sucked the soul of Gen Z.

My parents moved here on H1B visas from India. Despite the lack of an engineering degree, they performed well in the valley. They raised me well, put me through college and are on track to retire comfortably. Silicon Valley was the force that put food on the table and clothes on my back.

At the dinner table, my mom often told me that no matter what, I must stay in the Bay Area, because that’s where the opportunity is.

Sorry mom, I disagree. The Technology industry seems markedly different from The Bay Area in 2007 (that’s when they moved here) and I’m not sure it’s for the better.

The hyperscalers have produced immense value, and those who were along for the ride reaped the benefits. My parents began investing in the markets with their employer matched 401k accounts in 2008. One heck of a bull run.

They bought a home in 2014, and locked in their ZIRP era interest rate in 2021. My mom bounced around the semiconductor industry while my dad ran his own software consulting business. They often crib about how their peers have done better than them financially. Failing to recognize that they would have accumulated a fraction of the wealth they now have if they hadn’t gotten on a plane to the Bay Area.

It would be foolish of me to think putting my head down and grinding like they did. Will yield the same results.

Let’s go through a bit of a thought experiment. The average salary of a engineer in the Bay Area is $150k (This is an incredibly random number, there is a ton of variance in the amount of money people make). Rent + Student Loans + Taxes + Keeping up with the Jones’ allows people to save no more than 10% of their gross income. That 150k salary is $8,460 monthly net after deductions, let’s say you save 20% of it or about $1700 a month. Out of the $1,700 lets say you save $700 cash and $1000 in investments.

12k a year invested in an ETF that grows at 8% has the below projected growth scenarios:

After 30 Years: You would have approximately $2,265,664.

After 40 Years: You would have approximately $5,181,130.

After 50 Years: You would have approximately $11,475,403.

That sounds like a lot of money. And it is. But I don’t think it’ll buy the same lifestyle that it bought my parents. The first thing I’d like to note is the above numbers don’t take into account the silent henchman of the American Economy: Inflation. Here are the same numbers adjusted for inflation:

30 Years: ~$673,000 in today’s purchasing power (vs. the $2.2M nominal figure).

40 Years: ~$1,140,000 in today’s purchasing power (vs. the $5.1M nominal figure).

50 Years: ~$1,832,000 in today’s purchasing power (vs. the $11.4M nominal figure).

Pardon my French but that’s kind of a dogshit return compared to our earlier numbers. While inflation is a big problem, the modern technology brother faces other roadblocks to his financially free life in the suburban Bay Area: housing costs.

A day will come where you are sick of your landlord, and you will cough up a 20% down payment on a 2.2 million dollar home in San Mateo county (that’s the median price, you are by no means balling out) and now your investment accounts don’t look so hot. But now, you’re stressed out, because a 1.8 million dollar home means a $13,000 monthly payment. I don’t even want to get into how expensive you kid’s daycare is or the $100 a month you spend on Tesla Autopilot.

Good thing you got promoted! But wait now that you make 350k the amount of tax you pay on every marginal dollar earned is much larger. Making money now feels like pushing a rock up a hill. And the company you work for, their stock has traded sideways for the last 5 years so your RSU’s are functionally just cash, defenseless against inflation.

We aren’t doomed. We live great lives. The middle class technology brother has a chushy job can take 2 international trips a year, live in a cool apartment, and maybe even buy a large home in the Sacramento metro area. That’s a good life!

The important thing to remember is that the DOW being at an all time is actually pretty bad for young people. We are forced to buy into the market when it’s at it’s peak. Our generation investing in these frothy markets is analogous to buying an overpriced labubu on Ebay. While this isn’t ideal, most people don’t think they have a choice.

The moral of the story is this. If you decide to become a technology brother, make sure you like technology. Because it’s unlikely that the markets are gonna 10x again by the time we’re all ready to buy homes. And if you go into a career with unrealistic expectations, it’s probably gonna suck your soul out.

We are the first generation that isn’t gonna do as well as our parents. And that is probably ok. Because there is a lot more to life than an annualized rate of return.

-raj

      as we passed Market Street we saw row after row of bent over bodies, predictably hunched, almost permanently. we could see how theirs spines had changed shape over time.

                 we cannot walk on the streets anymore. constantly there are people bumbling around unconsciously with no attention. but that's the way it is. how do we stop them?

their car swerves. the driver seemingly has no control. why do people drive when out of it. it's not safe. 

                                they wake up and are immediately hungry. they need it. they want it badly. oh but it feels so good. 

                       last weekend we were at the beach. it's a bit of a blur. we explored the land and indulged in relaxation. but I cannot seem to remember what the water looks like. 

                                                   years passed but not much happened. we held onto our few memories dearly. life came in and out of focus. but as time went on, more often it was out. 

      I can't remember when we started. it's been so long, what was life without it. 

                         we need it to function. we remember no other way. it is a part of life. 

addiction is real. it’s a drug. use your screen wisely.

- Ajay

Going into 12th grade I dreamt of going to Princeton. The campus was majestic, historic, and like Hogwarts. It seemed like an idyllic place. I didn’t really think about the East Coast winters, but that was something to be considered after I got in. As Princeton was my dream school, I applied for early admission. The deadline to apply was at the end of October and was the first college application deadline. It was the highest priority because it was due first, and because it was Princeton. Thus, I worked on my Princeton essay first. And golly was it my worst college essay. I got rejected from Princeton. No fear though, the next set of applications was due in December, and I fared much better. Looking back, it seems obvious that my first essay would be my worst. It was my first at bat. And I needed a few warm-up swings.

Over the last few months I’ve been trying to write an important essay that is foundational to what I’ve been working on. I have the essay formulated in my head, I’ve been marinating on it for a while, but when it comes time to write it, I go blank or write something and immediately scratch it out. I need the essay to be great.

Luckily, a few weeks back, I was reminded of my college essays and the post-Princeton improvement. I needed to warm up. Get the writing muscles going. So I’m going to take a few practice swings before I need to hit a home run. I hope this one wasn’t a miss.

- Ajay

10 Lessons From Year 1 of Bicoastal

1. Post on the Internet

I need to get better at this, but I’ve finally realized how important it is to share what you’ve been working on with others. Bicoastal led to me writing for SLAM for a few months. I now work out of their space full time, building my consumer device: iShiver. I wouldn’t be where I am today unless I put stuff out on the internet and a few cool people happened to read it. I’m not declaring victory; the challenges that I face today are far greater than those I faced a year ago. But I think the opportunity to solve problems of my choosing is a blessing.

Posting online today is the Gen Z equivalent of walking into the CEO’s office with a collared shirt and asking for a job in the 1960s. Pull yourself up from your bootstraps, go post a TikTok.

2. Don’t Run Out of Money

Obviously.

3. Don’t Make Money the Goal

The goal isn’t money. The goal is to believe in yourself to be able to make money. This way a layoff, a bad month, or a spike in expenses won’t shake your foundation as hard. 

Full disclosure: I haven't reached this state of financial nirvana. 

4. Reread Great Books

People have been dissecting, digesting, and regurgitating the Bible, Quran, Torah, Bhagwat Geeta, and the Guru Granth Sahib for millennia. If you like a book, why not reread it at least once?

5. Move the F*ck of your Parents House

I literally don’t care how much money you’re gonna save on rent. 

6. Take risks. Don’t take mistakes and failure personally. 

You’re gonna mess up. Hard. And then you’re gonna think, “I should have listened to the haters and never taken this risk to begin with”. Fight that urge and double down. 

It’s usually just an obstacle that while inconvenient now will feel insignificant in a few months.

7. Cherish Good Friendships

If you’re gonna move out of your parents' house then you need to find people who will become your new support system. Once you find them you must treat them like family and nurture the relationship like a fragile plant that you’ve planted in your garden. Be a good friend, even when it’s inconvenient to do so. 

8. Try New Things

I’ve been going to a lot more art-related events. Like painting, origami, and so forth. I also go to events where I don’t know a ton of people. It’s been unnatural for me, but refreshingly and rewarding. 

9. You’re Gonna Become Old

Don’t delay your dreams. Just do it now. I’m turning 24 this year. There isn’t that much time left to take risks and turn your life into the adventure that you’ve always dreamed of. 

Go sign up for the marathon. Book that flight. Send that cold email. Or talk to that stranger at the party. Because sooner or later, you’re gonna be 45 and living in San Ramon and it’s gonna suck. 

10. Things Take Longer Than You Expect

Doing anything worthwhile requires time, care, and passion. You have to forget about the rewards and focus on the craft for a long time. Then maybe— just maybe— will you reap the fruits of your labor. 

11. Don’t Take Advice From Anyone

Advice is free. And people love to give it (including myself). Don’t listen to them. Heck, don’t even listen to me. Go experiment, collect data, and develop conclusions on your own. Most people don’t know what they are doing. Experimentation is the only way to find answers.

What’s next for me. I really have no idea. Working on iShiver, while immensely rewarding, isn’t paying the bills. The clock is ticking, but in a good way. I need to figure out how to make iShiver work or table it and move onto the next thing. I can’t tell you exactly where I’ll be next year, but that’s the beauty of life.

Subscribe to say updated.

-Rajveer

I’ve been trying my best (most of the time at least) and it feels amazing.

I’m of the belief that work is at the center of the human experience. It’s what gives us purpose and an identity. A common rebuttal to my viewpoint is, “I’m not passionate about my job, and thus it doesn’t give me purpose”.

I’d push back and argue that your job isn’t the same as your life’s work. What is it that you do after work that nobody cares about but you? You make no money from it, people think it’s silly, but you still do it? That’s your work.

I’m blessed that I’ve had a few opportunities in my life to work on things that are all encompassing. I felt this way in college trying build back up our silly little comedy club, in grad school trying to become an internet famous comedian, and now building a consumer device.

But the truth is that it hasn’t worked out (monetarily) yet. None of my passsion projects have made me enough money to go full time on them. And that’s fine (for now). All I can do is try my best every day until it works out.

But it can be really scary. Because there is no obvious path to success and criticism is in high supply.

“Why would you even work on that? It makes much more sense to do _______ instead”

And honestly the critics do have a point. The thing you’re working on has a likelihood of failure, especially if your only goal is money. But these logicians often fail to recognize the second order impacts of working on things that you enjoy.

Maybe working on your passion will lead you to a new, better, and monetizable idea. Maybe it’ll lead you to a group of people that you can call your tribe. And maybe it will teach you the most valuable skill of them all: the ability to think clearly.

I’m currently a broke boy working on something that makes me happy– a device that helps people build their cold shower habit.

I’m spending the next few months at slam.co trying to figure out how to make some money doing this. And one thing’s for sure. I’m gonna try my fucking best. Every day. Until I have something to show for it.

If you want to support my product, you can pre-order a unit here.

I’m also looking for early fans of my device, people whose eyes light up when I show them a prototype. If you know someone that loves cold showers you should connect us.

Until next time,

Raj

The barista is standing there beaming at me.

As I reach the counter they energetically exclaim: “Good morning! What can I get for you today?”

I’m a bit taken aback by their energy, it’s 6 AM.

I look at the menu taking my time to decide. “Drip coffee”, I say. They reply, “Nice! I just brewed a fresh batch.” They grab the coffee for me and ring me up. As I turn to go, they call out “Have a splendid day!”

They’re grinning ear to ear, so I ask, “Why are you so happy?”

“I’m happy that I woke up this morning,” they say. “I didn’t expect to.”

I’m bewildered. “Did you think you were going to die?”

“Yes. I don’t have much time left; it’s terminal.”

I don’t know what to say. What do you say to a stranger who just told you they’re going to die?

“Oh shoot, I’m so sorry,” I finally managed.

“Don’t be,” they reply. “I’m still alive and there’s still life to live.”

My impulse gets the better of me, and I blurt out the question that’s been burning in my head: “So what are you doing here?”

“I’m living my life.”

loosely inspired by The Egg by Andy Weir

- Ajay

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I turned off my Hindi because I was no longer in India as I walked off the plane. I was exhausted; I didn’t sleep much in Bombay. And the 1.5-hour nap on the plane made me somehow feel worse. At baggage claim, I saw the crate of Alphonso mangoes I brought from Bombay. They only grow in coastal Maharashtra from March to June. I have fond memories of devouring the mangoes in my grandparents’ dining room as a young child, getting the pulp all over my face, wishing I could enjoy these year-round. I was half worried I’d break the law checking a crate of tropical fruits on my flight. But they came out of the conveyor belt with no problem. I picked up the cardboard crate of mangoes by the slack in the rope that was trying the box shut. I felt a dull pain as the thin rope dug into my fingers. At the departure gate, I hopped into an SUV. In the cab, on an onramp onto Sheikh Zayed Road, I see a panoramic view of the Dubai skyline. It’s Majestic.

Next thing I know, I’m in a hotel suite with the extended family of the groom. It was honestly kind of awkward. I was offered a drink, which I reluctantly accepted. I then found myself in a room with a bunch of other young people, who were practicing a dance that they had to perform in front of the guests. They were all from Bombay. I was the odd one out.

Muskaan (remember from this blog) and I decided to leave around 1 AM. Me and her brother got in a taxi to her parent's apartment where me and my family were staying for the night.

I’m sharing a room with my parents, and I wake up to the sound of my dad taking a call at 8 AM. It’s pissing me off to my core because I slept at 4 AM. And as I listen to the call I become even more annoyed as I realize it could have been an email.

But Dad makes it up to me by taking me out to breakfast. We lounge around the apartment, my family and Muskaans, eating those mangoes I brought, a salad that Muskaan's dad made, and nibbling on some viral Dubai chocolate. At a Lebanese restaurant a few hours later, I gorged on plates of kabobs, grilled fish, tzatziki, hummus, and baklava. I love Middle Eastern food. It’s the right mix of spice, rich texture, and unique flavors.

The end of the Lebanese lunch marked the start of the wedding for me. My parents and I went to the front desk to check-in, and I learned that the family (who paid for all the guests’ hotel rooms) has not only booked one room for our family, but rather 2 rooms, one for me and another for my parents. I felt like royalty, this was my first time having a hotel room all to myself.

Later that day I had an interview set with a robotics startup. The call was scheduled for 10 AM Pacific time, which ended up being 930 PM Dubai time. I had my Indian clothes set on my bed, ready to head to the “Sufi Night”, the opening wedding function. I was wearing my underwear and a polo shirt sitting on a desk, explaining to a white lady why I’m passionate about the intersection between hardware and software. I end the call, let out a deep sigh, and put on a pair of white pants. I’m nervous, this is a fashion risk for me.

I went to the roof of the hotel, where the function was occurring, and the venue was fantastic. You could see the entirety of the Dubai skyline all the way from the Burj al-Arab to the Bhurj Khalifa.

At the Sufi function, Dad introduced me to his friend, and the topic of where I studied came up. I responded: UC Berkeley. For context, I went to UC Santa Barbara for my undergrad and Berkeley for grad school. I thus feel like I have the god given the right to choose between the two when I’m asked about my education, based on whether I’m trying to seem intelligent or cool. Given that this 60-year-old Indian man likely doesn’t know about my undergraduate Alma Mater, I decided to answer “UC Berkeley”. To which he responded. Wow, impressive beta. To which I humbly deflected while having my ego boosted 10xp points. But my Dad had to follow up with, “No he went to UC Santa Barbara, he only did grad school at Berkeley”. Nice way to be a wet blanket Dad.

For namesake, I went to the Dubai Mall and Burj Khalifa the following morning. When I returned to the hotel, I hurried to the “Welcome Lunch” where I wore my white pants again. I got some henna done (don’t worry it was manly).

That same night was the Sangeet, which is typically a function before the wedding ceremony meant to welcome the guests. There was an open bar, and I met another American (of Indian Descent) guy, and accidentally got too drunk. But can you blame me?

I woke up bright and early the next morning, had a cup of instant coffee in my room, and quickly got ready. My mom introduced me to a girl at breakfast who works at an AI startup in the Netherlands. My knee-jerk reaction was to ask her why she didn’t move to the AI Mecca: San Francisco. To which she responded with how much she hates America and how it’s unsafe and doesn’t align with her values. I stood up in disgust and started doing the pledge of allegiance in protest (kidding). I think the reality of life in America is a middle ground between my views and hers. This anti-American sentiment seemed to be a common theme in upper-class Indian circles. They still prefer a life abroad, just one in Europe now. Don’t get me wrong, Europe has a lot of pros, but in my eyes isn’t the right choice for many immigrants. I wonder if they’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion, or if my eyeglasses are just foggy with American optimism. Only time will tell.

After breakfast, we headed to the Gurdwara (Sikh Temple) for the official wedding ceremony. We loaded into buses and I sat next to Muskaan, and we played 20 questions. It was the most bogus game ever. The word I had to guess was Orange. I asked if it was a place, and she said kind of– she was referring to Orange County. I asked if it was a thing, and she said kind of– she was referring to the fruit. Then I asked if was a person– she said yes again, referring to Donald Trump.

I was happy to be off the bus and away from her antics. The ceremony was nice. I played 20 questions again on the way back, this time with Muskaan’s brother.

I slept for 6 hours in the hotel room and woke up in a panic, I quickly showered, put on my suit, and headed downstairs to the ballroom for the wedding reception. Indian weddings are like a bender college weekend, you just see the same people over and over again but in different venues in different outfits. But the key difference is that the food is much better.

They were making Keema Pav at the reception, the best appetizer I’ve had in my entire life. Not much else to say, everyone was tired and hungover from the prior events, this night was just a good way to send everyone off. I went to my room early that night (2AM), voraciously dodging invitations to the “after party”.

I woke up early to make my flight the next morning. I bumped into the afterparty people on their way to their breakfast McDonald's run. I got a cappuccino at the hotel cafe, while the bellboy hailed me a cab.

And that’s it. That’s everything that happened at the Big Fat Zubai Wedding.

-Raj

Some Photos:

I’m standing at a booth by immigration, entering my passport number and a slew of other details onto an index card-sized form, and the red, white, and blue are coursing through my veins.

I can almost feel Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson’s hands on my shoulders as I, an American, fill out this form.

Then I get in front of an immigration officer who shares my skin color. He had asked the Norwegian lady in line before me the purpose of her trip to India. He omits this question when it’s my turn and stamps my five-year tourist visa without a word. As the sliding doors to the airport opened, the heat and humidity hit me like a truck. I seek refuge in the Uber and marvel at how alive this city feels, even at 4 a.m.

I go up the elevator of my Uncle's apartment building and knock on my uncle’s front door. He was extremely surprised to see me; I was supposed to skip out on this trip. I sleep for a few hours and wake up to a cup of tea, handed to me by the maid who has known me since I was a child. While this might sound incredibly douchey, the reality of (upper-middle-class) Indian life is comfort. You truly don’t have to lift a finger unless you want to. I sip the tea and motivate myself to take a shower.

Bombay isn’t best described as a collection of tourist attractions, scenic outlooks, or historical landmarks. It’s better described as a collection of moments — moments you really can't experience anywhere else.

Let me set the scene:

My aunt is the principal of a school in suburban Mumbai. She takes me on a tour that reminds me of my childhood. Kids aged 5-15 wearing collared white shirts, with the school’s emblem on the breast pocket, a standard pair of khakis, and a brown belt. She walks me through the corridors, and people bow to her.

“Good morning Principal Ma’am.”

She shows me the patch of land where they hold soccer practice. It doesn’t have green grass but is the largest patch of open land I’ve seen in this mind-bogglingly dense city for quite some time. Then we go up to the roof where there’s a basketball court. The best part is that while playing, you’d have the backdrop of the city around you.

Sitting in an authentic Maharashtrian restaurant, crammed into the tightly packed AC section, I tell the waiter to bring me vada pav. His acknowledgment is nothing more than a subtle nod.

Sitting in a Mercedes SUV, heading to a Japanese restaurant, stuck in traffic I turn left and see an auto rickshaw. The driver next to us is watching a YouTube video unbothered by the chaotic traffic. A woman in a burka is sitting in the back of the rickshaw, trying to keep her kids from jumping out. A stark juxtaposition of the wealth inequality and variance in the quality of life that this city offers.

Inside the Japanese restaurant, I see high ceilings, young families, and Bollywood-adjacent celebrities. I look at the menu, divide the prices by 80, and raise my eyebrows at how expensive everything is. The AC is perfect — it feels like I’m sitting in a crisp 67-degree room, a miracle given that it’s 103°F outside. I’d expect nothing less from Gauri Khan’s (Shah Rukh Khan's Wife) restaurant.

At the Mumbai Cricket Association Club, I sit at a table overlooking an amateur cricket match. We order coffee; mine arrives premixed with milk and sugar. In India, unless you specifically say you want black coffee, they’ll assume you want milk and sugar by default.

At a café in Bandra — think the West Village of Manhattan, Bombay-ified — I sit with my two cousins.

Around us are people who look even more Bollywood-adjacent, but if you ask them, they’ll probably tell you they aren’t in the movies. They work for their dad’s steel, textile, or import-export business (nepotism is big in this city).

There is a Sikh family celebrating a birthday at a table next to us. The Sikh/Punjabi people in Bombay look and sound like my parents and grandparents. And it makes sense.

My grandparents fled Pakistan after the Partition. Sikh families from Islamabad, Rawalpindi, Lahore — they all had to leave and find new lives elsewhere. The Sikh families of Bombay, like mine, are three-generation natives of this city on the bay: descendants of grandfathers who arrived seeking a better life.

Now, it’s time to leave.

Time to go to a new city — the crown jewel of the Gulf.

It’s time to go to Zubai.

-Raj

Let’s get into it huh? Yet again I escaped San Francisco, this time for a big fat Indian wedding; the groom’s name is Jayveer and the bride Harleen. My dad is good friends with Jayveer’s dad. Thus we went. I hadn’t planned on going, it seemed excessive to fly across the country and take time off work to attend my dad’s friend’s son’s wedding. But due to my unemployment and my dad’s heavy persuasion I ended up on a flight to Dubai.

I love traveling with my new American Passport, I imagine this is what it feels like to be a white guy in public. Me and dad ripped a few beers at the priority pass lounge in SFO. Mom was in a good mood because she had just bought a gucci bag from the airport store. The vibes were good.

I sat downstairs in economy, while mom and dad were up in business. The air hostess was nice and seemed ethnically ambiguous. I made a mental note to go talk to her in between her rounds.

We exchanged smiles and I decided to go up to that middle area. I met an Indian guy, forgot his name, and started chatting with him. He explained that his job was to kick people out of slums and build condos in Mumbai. Sick: I love late-stage capitalism. Mr. Reverse Robin Hood was already friends with the hostesses, so it was easy to talk. I accidentally got a bit buzzed. Altitude plus an 8-mile run earlier didn’t help. The air hostesses were nice, but one was very anti-America which I found quite amusing.

“I would never live in America, it’s a 3rd world country with a Gucci belt around it”, she exclaimed.

(in my head) Bitch you live in Dubai.

Anyways. Their stuck-up manager kicked us out and told us to go back to our seats, which we did. I tried to lie down, cause there was an empty seat next to me, and I managed to get some sleep.

I woke up feeling awful, like I was gonna hurl, I lunged out of my seat (bad idea) and made my way back to the middle area where I asked for some water.

I started seeing stars in my vision and the next thing I knew I was on the floor.

Yeah, I fainted. So embarrassing ik.

I woke up and they gave me water, some dried mangoes, and nuts. I felt much better after that. The buzzkill boss lady asked me if I was traveling alone or with others. I said my parents are up in business, but there is absolutely no reason to tell them anything I am 100% fine and ok.

She didn’t seem to pay much attention to what I was saying and quickly hurried off.

I stashed the extra pack of nuts in my pocket but there was nowhere to hide the shame of being the dumbass that passed out on a flight. I could feel the judgment radiating off the cabin crew. In their minds, I was just another idiot kid who got too drunk and passed out over the Arctic. But I promise I wasn’t drunk. I was just dehydrated– which was because of the alcohol– but still, I didn’t pass out due to drunkenness. Those little cups of water that they give you don’t do the trick.

I get off the flight in Zubai and the look on my mom’s face immediately informs me of the fact that the buzzkill manager lady told her exactly what happened. I launched into a whole dehydration-and-fatigue defense — which, for the record, I 100% stand by.

Ok but Dubai isn’t the final destination for this leg of the trip, we still have to get on a connecting flight to Bombay.

When voluntary payroll saving replaced pensions in the late eighties, a new dynamic took hold across every income tier. Public markets and tax-advantaged accounts created an escalator for anyone who could defer pay, but left everyone else stranded on the ground floor. High earners cashed in on pretax contributions and employer matches to accelerate gains, the middle tier treaded water against market swings, and those without access watched their relative standing slip as asset-driven wealth outpaced wage growth. The moment 401k culture went mainstream, each strata’s fortunes diverged: those on the escalator rose faster, those off it stayed put, and the gap between them widened. If you worry about inequality, funding this flywheel with your own savings is like preaching climate action while pumping CO2 into the air.

Even on the escalator the math keeps everyone in line. A typical corporate employee defers six to eight percent, just like colleagues in the next cube. Forty years later the whole cohort retires with balances in the same ballpark and withdraws four percent a year. Nobody leaps a wealth bracket because nobody invested meaningfully more than their neighbor. You stay “fine,” never rich, because relative wealth never budged.

Meanwhile that river of default dollars into the index distorts the very market it is meant to harness. Passive funds now command more than half of U.S. equity assets, up from 12% at the turn of the millennium. Every fortnight new cash buys the biggest tickers simply because they are biggest. Big Tech turns gravity-proof, smaller innovators starve, and price discovery - the moral backbone of capitalism - fails.

So yes, keep contributing if your conscience can swallow it, but stop pretending the 401k is a ladder out of your class or a neutral tool of progress. It is a machine built to preserve the pecking order and to inflate whatever logo already dominates the market. If true wealth mobility, social justice, or capitalism matter to you, look beyond autopilot. Earn more, invest differently, and challenge the way the world works.

-Ajay

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In a world where everyone’s glued to their phones or rushing from one place to the next, the idea of meeting someone spontaneously - like in an elevator or at the coffee shop - seems almost laughable. Nobody really chats anymore. Everyone’s either working from home or busy scrolling through Instagram on their commute, and those chance encounters that used to define everyday life feel fewer and further between.

But here’s the thing: those moments still exist, just in a different form. Take the guy I always see at my local coffee shop. I don’t know his name. Hell, we’ve probably exchanged a total of five words in the last three months, but we see each other. Every morning, we nod in mutual recognition as we wait in line for our overpriced caffeine fix. He’s the guy who orders an almond milk latte with extra foam - definitely not someone I’d hang out with outside of this ritual, but I still look forward to seeing him. It’s like a tiny human connection that happens without any real effort.

Then there’s the girl who walks her dog through Tompkins Square Park every morning. We pass each other almost every day, and while I pet her golden doodle Ross, we exchange a “what’s up?” or a “how’s it going?” We then both go about our business, but we’re familiar. I don’t know her name, but I know her dog's name and I see them often. I’m not going to invite her to dinner, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy these little interactions. There’s something comforting in seeing the same people regularly, even if you’ll never get to know them beyond those brief exchanges.

These types of encounters might not lead to lifelong friendships, but they add a little something to your day. They make life feel more human. They’re the flowers in the garden - the tiny bursts of joy in an otherwise monotonous routine. Sure, it’s a little weird that we see each other so often, yet have never exchanged names, but I kind of love that about it. It’s not forced, it’s just life.

And that’s what I love about New York - especially the East Village. It’s a place where these random, almost invisible, connections can thrive. People come and go, sharing space for just a moment before moving on with their lives. It's real, it’s raw, and it’s human.

So next time you’re out and about, take a second. Look around, smile at the person next to you. You might not become best friends, but you’ll add another story to your day. And who knows? Maybe they’ll be the next person you nod to every morning at your favorite coffee shop.

-Ajay

It’s far different than going out on a weekend because everyone who is out on a weekday afternoon– is living a different life. Most of the American population has to be at work from 9-5. Remote workers presumably have to be at their desks from 9-5. The homeless and unemployed are roaming the streets, which is expected. But there is one group whose existence has surprised me.

As I stroll through suburban San Francisco I often see women pushing strollers and wearing baby carries. As they come into my field of view, I see the face of a girl who, a vast majority of the time, looks the same age as me (I’m 23). I scratch my head in confusion, three kids at 23?

But then it hits me, they are nannies or Au Pairs. I did some research on Hinge and found that a common occupation for women my age is “Au Pair” or “Nanny”. I’ve also met multiple women who nanny for rich families (I'm not sexist I'm sure male nannies exist but I have only met women nannies pls don't get mad thx). This is completely anecdotal I know, but let’s roll with it.

Reddit has some interesting anecdotes about ultra-wealthy nanny employers. People who nanny for rich families give advice to newcomers into the industry. They rave about how insufferable old money can be, and how the children of wealthy people treat money like “water coming out of the tap”. Here are some interesting quotes from r/Nanny:

“New money is usually ok, old money generational wealth where they have never lived a normal life are usually insufferable.”

“If the salary is enough for you to put up with insufferable people that are totally out of touch and don’t respect what you’re doing or really care about their children all that much then you may be able to make it work.”

It got me thinking a lot about outsourcing the care of your children. I have some thoughts on the topic and what it says about our society and how it’s evolving. I did a tad bit of research, and found out that childcare is expensive to begin with; private nannies seem to be the most expensive version of it.

According to the DOL, childcare can cost between 8.9% and 16.0% of a median US family’s income.

As per a Care.com survey, the median cost of a nanny can be $827 a week.

I think first and foremost the demand for nannies is a leading indicator of the major wealth divide in San Francisco. Most people my age are concerned with the cost of housing, food, and the mounting debt on their student loans.

The fact that a small subset of people exist who can afford to spend up to 6 figures on a caregiver is a shocking contrast from the reality of the average American.

And honestly, the popularity of private nannies is a dystopian reality that should irk the general public more than other services provided to the rich. Like I honestly don’t care if rich people buy fancy clothes, cars, or homes. I believe in free markets and the money that they spend on these goods probably has a net positive impact on the economy.

But when rich people are able to hire caregivers outright, it likely drives up the cost of childcare for the rest of the population by snatching up the limited caregivers. And rising childcare costs disincentivize people from having children to begin with. And that’s how we end up with people like Elon who bark at the public about our demographic crisis, while his kids all probably have access to the best care that money can buy.

Childcare is a complex issue, and I’m not an expert– just a guy with opinions. But I think the high cost of childcare for middle-class families juxtaposed with private nannies for the rich is a kind of dystopian reality. It’s an indicator of a growing divide between the haves and the have-nots.

And this is worse than the yachts, beach houses, or the private jets; because now, you might be priced out of… having a family.

-Raj

Tony and Kaitlyn are two of the first friends I made in college. During orientation in 2019, Tony and I sat in a crowded room, aggressively refreshing our screens to select classes for our first quarter. A few weeks later, Tony, a third friend, and I were drinking vodka out of a thermos I’d brought from home. “It’s gonna last us the whole quarter,” I foolishly claimed. That night, our third friend invited two girls to hang with us. One of those girls was Kaitlyn, and Tony took quite a liking to her. Ice cream was painfully awkward for me as the fifth wheel, but in hindsight, it was a small price to pay to meet two of my closest friends.

Years passed, and I have fond memories of knocking out homework in Tony’s apartment while Kaitlyn gave us weird looks as we yelled about the Navier-Stokes equation or the coefficient of static friction. We all took ski trips together, weekend getaways to SF and LA, worked on cool engineering projects, and eventually walked across the stage together at graduation.

That’s a long-winded way of saying that I was pretty excited to catch up.

I slept through the plane journey, and the Espinosa family sent a car for me to the airport. Their driver Kevin picked me up and asked where I was coming in from, and I responded, “San Francisco”. He told me his son is majoring in Computer Science, to which I responded that he is cooked and should think about entering the trades. Kidding, I gave him the cookie-cutter advice about how he should just build things and put them out and the days of grinding LinkedIn for a job are over. I hate when people ask me for advice, I am grossly underqualified to give any but too proud to admit it.

Quick pid - stop at Tony’s parents, then off to the Venetian Resort. Tony’s parents are some sort of platinum, sapphire, and various other rare earth metals status members of the Venetian resort; instead of waiting in the check-in line like plebs, we took these side doors into a VIP area where a guy in a suit vest asked me if I needed anything. I looked at my watch (11:15AM), held back the urge to say vodka soda, and said cappuccino instead.

I’m on a fashion journey, so I filled my suitcase more adventurously than I normally would. I looked up a YouTube video on ironing clothes (my mom usually does this step) and pressed the wrinkles out of my white shirt.

This is pre-ironing don’t come at me

I sent a fit check picture to some friends back home, and they rejected the outfit, but I vetoed their opinion. Looking at my outfit in the elevator in the mirror reinvigorated my confidence, and I felt good walking into Tony and Kaitlyn’s room.

Wait no it wasn’t a room, it was a penthouse. Like the one from The Hangover (Mike Tyson's tiger could have fit in the bathroom comfortably).

Pre-drinks at the room were always a joyful 45 minutes for all 3 nights of the trip. Me and Aiden would show up on time, none of the girls would be ready, and we would have between 1 and 3 drinks with Tony. Then the rest of the group would slowly trickle in, and we would have more drinks and snacks. The contrast between the drinks and snacks did a great job of encapsulating the extremes of the American Economy. We were drinking 18-year-old scotch, while eating Doritos, Ruffles, and Nutter Butters. It’s always important to stay grounded.

At dinner, I caught up with my college friends ate sushi, and did Sake bombs; the table went through the typical ritual.

Sake Sake Sake!

Bomb Bomb Bomb!

As a turban-wearing man, my anxiety went through the roof because I was taught to avoid yelling the word 'bomb' in a public place. I kept my eyes on the sushi and ate through the anxiety.

One of my favorite meals was lunch with four of my closest college friends; being boys we talked about index funds, 401k vs Roth IRA, and the financialization of the American Economy and its impact on the true value of goods and services. The girls smartly decided to sit separately from us. These are the only pictures that survived, you can kinda see us in the background. I wonder what the girls chatted about.

Dinner was at a steakhouse, where they blow-torched the steak in front of us. I didn’t realize this was steak cooking’s standard operating procedure. As a safety measure, I put on my eye protection as I always do when heavy machinery is in use nearby.

At the club, I usually sigh at the abomination of the line at the front door and get anxious about the inflated cover charge that’s in my near future. This time around, thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Espinosa and the various rare earth metal status, we walked around the line, into a new queue with just our group.

They check us in, stamp us twice, and I put my hands to the side instinctively ready for a little pat down the guard laughs. He fist-bumps me, and goes, “First time at a table”. “Yeah”, I respond in a bewildered tone. Then he gives me a pat on the back, motions me forward, and gives me a look that roughly translates into, “Do all the drugs you want in there dawg”. I don’t do drugs, but good to know.

I hate to be cliche, but getting a table at the club in Vegas was the best experience ever. Elevated platforms are currency in a nightclub, the higher up you are, the better. We were at the same altitude as headlining DJ Zedd! Maybe even a little higher.

There were two bottles of Vodka on our table, I grabbed a glass scooped some ice into it, and felt a tug behind my left shoulder. As I turned, a lady wearing laced leggings, grabbed the glass out of my hand almost angrily. Confused, I tried to form a sentence. She explained that she was working our table and would love to make me my drink. "Fantastic", I replied; this experience was a stark contrast with having to flag down a disgruntled bartender for a $20 drink. Minutes later I was back on the edge of the balcony, looking out onto the crowd, sipping my drink, and evaluating the economics of nightclubs. But as the nice lady made me more vodka sodas, the economy slipped out of my conscious thoughts, I let loose, enjoyed the music, and built anticipation for Zedd, the main performer of the night, to come out.

I’m back home now. And this weekend seems like a fever dream. A reunited group of college friends, tearing things up in Sin City. I often sit at my desk and start snickering, remembering random moments from this trip.

These snickers are a reminder that doing fun things with your friends is what life is all about. Making memories with the people closest to me scratches a primal itch; After all, humans were meant to live in tribes.

As I dive deeper and deeper into my twenties, I realize that building and maintaining a great tribe around you is what life is all about. Most readers of Bicoastal are friends and family. If you want to hang out, comment on this post, or shoot me a text.

Let's hang more, it’ll be fun.

-Raj

I met this comedian girl some time ago, she was new to the Bay Area, and we started talking at an open mic. I’d look forward to going to that one mic that we met at, just in the off chance that I’d get to exchange a couple sentences with her at the bar. We eventually saw more and more of each other and became friends.

I started to have feelings for her, and finally worked up the courage to ask her to grab a drink on the weekend. I had a plan for how I was gonna do it, I would go up to her when she was writing jokes alone at the bar, like she does every Wednesday. If my endeavour went south, the only audience member would be the uninterested bartender.

“Hey! How’s it going?

“Good”

“We should, hang out, maybe grab drink Friday night?”, I suggested.

“Yeah, I’m down!”, she respond.

“Cool Cool”, I responded nonchalantly (My heart was beating out of my chest).

“I should probably get your number then?”, I said.

“Oh yeah duh, here you go”, she said as she pulled out her phone.

The day rolled around, I put on my favorite collared shirt and brushed the cobwebs off the bottle of cologne I’d gotten as a gift years ago and spritzed my self a few times.

We were at a hip bar and it was awkward at first, we usually hang out in a group, this is the first time we hung out alone. “

I’m not even sure if this is a date, maybe she just thinks of me as a friend?” I think to myself.

A few drinks later the conversation between her and I was flowing like melted chocolate; as she laughed at my jokes I realized how close together we were sitting, how pretty she was, and how my brain was twitching with a slurry of serotonin and dopamine. She put her hand on top of mine, squeezed it, and said she’s gonna run to the bathroom. I could have fainted in that moment, I felt so good.

“It’s definitely a date”, I think to myself.

I gulped down my beer and made friends with the guys next to me. We got a round together, then got another, then another. Eventually, I flipped my wrist and peeked at my watch. A different chemical was released this time (cortisol), as I realized she’d been gone for quite long. I started to worry and was concerned for her safety. I swiveled my head left and right trying to spot her silky brown hair, hazel eyes, and knitted green sweater amongst the crowd. I finally saw her– but she was talking to another guy.

My brain swiftly drained the dopamine and serotonin, replacing it with more of that bitter cortisol. This new chemical didn’t feel so good, and to make matters worse my high blood alcohol concentration was somehow amplifying my emotions. Maybe he’s just a creep that’s bothering her, I thought to myself. Just as I finish my thought I saw her smiling– now laughing at whatever this guy, who is almost foot taller than me, is saying. Now her hand is on his chest and his arm around her waist.

That unpleasant chemical from earlier is arriving to my grey matter in truckloads, my heart is beating faster and I’m losing my composure. I jerk my head in a different direction to save whatever is left of my self esteem. It hasn’t even been a half hour, and my brain has ceased to produce that euphoric mixture of dopamine and serotonin. Now, it’s this molasses of cortisol that’s making me queasy. I reach for my beer, ignoring the obvious repercussions of more alcohol in my system.

She comes back after what feels like an eternity.

“Hey sorry I’ve been gone for so long. That guy is really cute, do you wanna come hang with him and his friends?”, she naively asks.

“Uh, I’d love to but I’m feeling kind of sick. Do you think it’s alright if I head home?” I asked.

“Yeah of course, don’t worry about me, I’ll make sure to get home safe”, she replied and quickly scurried away.

“It’s fine, she’s not my girlfriend”, I try to reassure myself.

“She can talk to whoever she wants”

“And this is definitely not a date”

I wake up the next morning with a massive headache. I wanted to lay in bed and feel bad for myself, eat a greasy breakfast, and doom scroll. It can be weirdly comforting to complain about a bad hand the universe has dealt you. Unfortunately I don’t have time for that this morning as I’d promised my friend that we’d go on a long run.

I put on my running shorts and ran through Golden Gate Park, knowing I could channel my sadness into something productive. As we were running, endorphins rushed through my body, and every time I thought about the night prior I found myself running faster.

My legs and lungs hurt, but in a much more pleasant way than my brain did last night. It was a weird hack, like I could just channel my emotions into this run. It felt good, because it made me feel like I had power over my emotions; I didn’t have to let my sadness win, I could just convert how I was feeling into adrenaline.

I almost passed out. I ran 15 miles at a pace faster than I’d ever run before, while hungover, dehydrated, and under-rested. All by leveraging some stupid emotions from the night before.

I came home, sat on my living room table, and realized something. The shoes on my feet, the clothes on my back, and every other tool at my disposal are rounding errors when compared to those pesky chemicals in my brain.

I realized that if our brain has a strong enough will to do something, it’ll whip our bodies into compliance.

-Raj

"Percocets, molly, Percocets,

Chase a check, never chase a b****." - Future