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Palo Alto's city workers may soon get a new perk: the ability to enroll their children in local schools.

The city and the Palo Alto Unified School District are currently discussing the idea of opening district schools to children of city employees, an idea that the district board of trustees is slated to discuss in March. It is one of numerous ideas that has been discussed in exact months by the school district's Enrollment Trends and Options Committee, which is charged with assessing options for boosting the district's declining enrollment.

According to state data, the school district's student population has dropped from 11,745 in 2020 to 10,754 in 2021 to 10,509 in 2022.

City Manager Ed Shikada described the new program during the Thursday morning meeting of the City/School Liaison Committee, which includes elected representatives from the City Council and the school board. He said he anticipates having city officials testify in support of this concept, which he said is "in the interest of both organizations and the community at large."

"If there are slots available, we have potential for city employees to fill those slots and, in so doing, increase or Improve the connection between our employees and the communities they serve," Shikada said. "As well as having the benefits, to the extent these employees are commuting to town, in having the flexibility to which schools their children would attend."

Deputy City Manager Chantal Cotton Gaines, who represents the city on the enrollment committee, said that the city has already surveyed its employees to see if they'd be interested in sending their children to local schools. Based on the survey responses, the city expects the program to add between 50 and 100 students to the school district.

The idea of adding children of city employees to local schools is part of a package of options that the enrollment committee has been considering. According to notes from its final meeting, which took place on Jan. 10, other options include expanding the district's boundaries, increasing its language immersion programs, adding learning centers at each site and having more "theme schools."

The district already has one "theme school" in the works, with Fletcher Middle School agreeing last fall to institute a focus on sustainability. With the new focus, Fletcher would be open to applications from students who would normally be assigned to Greene and Jane Lathrop Stanford schools, each of which has a higher student population than Fletcher.

School board member Todd Collins, who served on the enrollment committee, stressed that the number of new students that the new program for city employees would generate is relatively small.

"The main thing is that we realize that it's a very moderate number of people that we're talking about, which I think helps dimensionalize the conversation," Collins said.

 Fri, 17 Feb 2023 02:49:00 -0600 en text/html https://www.paloaltoonline.com/news/2023/02/17/palo-alto-schools-may-soon-welcome-children-of-city-employees Killexams : Blame Palo Alto

California can seem incoherent from top to bottom. From the south, there’s San Diego, a militarized pleasure dome that has quite effectively obscured obscene inequality with sunshine, sand, and SeaWorld. There’s Los Angeles, a gorgeous paragon of health and wellness famous for its exhaust fumes and smog, the world’s glorious entertainment capital where the most common thing to catch on TV is a news story about the rich and powerful caging as many poor people as they possibly can. There’s the Central Valley, hundreds of miles of farms so fertile that they produce more than half of America’s fruits and vegetables, resting atop a desert so perpetually drought-stricken that its denizens have been pumping the state’s groundwater dry just to keep up with demand. And then, of course, there’s the Bay Area—the coolest, queerest, most radical place in the country—and also one rapidly being made unlivable by tech bros, their tough-on-crime allies, and all of the money spewed in their wake.

There are other stops on that road trip, too, from Orange County and the country’s most beautiful beaches to Death Valley, Mount Whitney, and the country’s most extreme environments. But the most influential spot on the map is a small, wealthy enclave called Palo Alto: the economic, cultural, and spiritual hub of Silicon Valley. Indeed, from the story of this small town one can extrapolate much of the exact history of the world. Or so argues the journalist Malcolm Harris in his exact book, Palo Alto: A History of California, Capitalism, and the World.

Palo Alto: A History of California, Capitalism, and the World

by Malcolm Harris

Little, Brown, 720 pp., $36.00

It’s in Palo Alto that the gospel of optimization emerged alongside an unprecedented surveillance infrastructure, the dogma of meritocracy growing in parallel with the huge creation of wealth, power, and stress. At the heart of this history is what Harris recognizes as Silicon Valley’s singular capitalist innovation: foregrounding the individual to forestall class struggle, convincing or compelling those individuals not only to work till they drop, but to feel they have no choice—and, sometimes, to like it. So far, at least, Palo Alto has succeeded.

Harris would know. He was, after all, raised in Palo Alto. And though he has long since come east, he retains a desparate eye for the cultural and economic hallmarks and exports of his famous hometown. His first book, Kids These Days, tracked late capitalism’s grinding effects on Harris’s own generation. His latest, Palo Alto—an encyclopedic account of the history and impact of the town—feels like the culmination of his upbringing and career. It’s a stunning, Technicolor anvil of a book, starting before the founding of Stanford University and proceeding through the rise of the computer, the internet, suburbs, startups, and startup culture, ranging from wars of conquest to the Cold War to the war on terrorism to the tech industry’s war on privacy.

Palo Alto is far from the first history of the town, its residents, or its influence, but it is among the most capacious. Its strength lies in this very broadness, in the book’s determination to cover art and crime and drugs and economics and eugenics and robots and attempt to tie it all together as the story of modernity. To make sense of California, of our world, we must turn to this shining city by the bay.

When Harris was in the fourth grade, a substitute teacher in the town’s elementary school—Ohlone Elementary, named for the area’s Indigenous population—told him and his classmates an unvarnished truth: “You live in a bubble.” The students, who lived in well-manicured if unassuming suburban homes, in this temperate, vaguely countercultural-seeming city, conveniently located near some of the richest companies (and having one of the finest school systems) in the country, were confounded.

For this indiscretion, the substitute was fired and blacklisted. But the moment stuck with Harris. It prompted him to question Palo Alto’s own explanation for “why things were the way they were—why some people had big houses and others didn’t, why some people lived here and everyone else didn’t: They deserved it. Hard work and talent allowed some people to change the world single-handedly, and they earned whatever they got.” The kids in Palo Alto were at the forefront of a generation raised online and on meritocracy, a cohort that simultaneously had more access to information than ever before but also less time to explore than any previous crop of kids.

The myth really began to lose its luster a few years later, when a wave of suicides among Palo Alto High School students began. Hard work was supposed to lead to success. But Palo Alto’s young were working so hard that many took their own lives. In a characteristically chilling insight, Harris notes that the railroad many of his classmates used to kill themselves (stepping in front of the Caltrain) was also the railroad that brought a critical mass of Anglo settlers to California in the first place, setting the whole sick system in motion.

The man who built that railroad was Leland Stanford—a “notably unexceptional” figure Harris sees as a “slacker” who got very lucky. Born in Watervliet, New York, in 1824, young Stanford did as so many restless white men were doing in the mid–nineteenth century: He went west looking for an easy fortune, helping to displace (that is, enslave, expel, murder) Indigenous communities in the name of “improving” land that the settlers called “California.” California was booming, and, within a decade of landing in the new territory, Stanford—the dim front man for a quartet of ambitious merchants called “the Associates”—became governor. Later, capitalizing on the prestige of his single, undistinguished term in office, he became the president of a railroad line linking the resource-rich West Coast to East Coast money.

The railroads were built with federal largesse (a grant to the railroad barons of an amount of land whose total size was larger than Maryland’s) and exploited immigrant laborers. The result was an efficient system of transcontinental transportation, the creation of fabulously wealthy corporations and a tiny elite that ran them, and so much worker resentment directed at the barons that Stanford chose to relocate from a San Francisco mansion to an agricultural area to the south that was renamed for the region’s tall trees: Palo Alto.

In Palo Alto, Stanford came into his own and created a pseudo-feudal empire, at the heart of which was a horse farm. Not content merely to own horses (even the fastest horses), “Stanford the capitalist” embarked on “a serious scientific campaign regarding the improved performance of the laboring animal,” viewing horses as biological machines that could be perfected, made ever faster. The result was not a stable of super-horses but “a regimen of capitalist rationality” and an “exclusive focus on potential and speculative value” that Harris calls the “Palo Alto System.” It is the Palo Alto System that the rest of the book tracks, the unholy marriage of data and control in service of ever-greater profits.

Stanford, and especially his followers, were eager to put the Palo Alto System into practice, and they had just the place to do so: the university that the railroad baron had recently founded in his adopted hometown. Stanford University was established in 1885 to be a new type of school for new people in a newly colonized land, a training ground for the children of California on what was then the largest university campus in the United States.

The first students matriculated in 1891. Just two years later, Stanford was dead. The university’s president—the scientist David Starr Jordan—may or may not have then poisoned Stanford’s widow, Jane, in order to seize control. In any event, Stanford became Jordan’s school, and he turned it into a “home for high tech–research and development,” a “global headquarters of science” where administrators used the “science” of eugenics to recruit students and faculty. As early as 1909, Jordan and the head of his civil engineering department gave a exact alum access to the school’s high voltage laboratory, facilitating the creation of a long-range telegraphy company and ultimately making Stanford a hub for the burgeoning radio industry. Meanwhile, Jordan hired scholars like Lewis Terman, a social scientist who transformed primitive intelligence testing into a eugenic practice meant to weed out the evolutionarily fit from the rest (a technique that soon informed Stanford’s grading system). By the end of the Jordan era, Harris writes, the school excelled at producing both “mining engineers” and “intelligence prospectors,” investing in both young companies and young minds. Data and control in action.

Most influential of the Stanford men—and, indeed, the closest thing Palo Alto has to a main character—was the future U.S. President Herbert Hoover. One of the very first students to enroll at the college, Hoover was a middling scholar (he got zero A’s) but proved to be an excellent administrator (setting up a laundry service on campus and quickly subcontracting to other students to maximize his income). After graduation, he worked as a mining manager in colonized regions of Australia and China, went on to serve as U.S. commerce secretary, and ultimately became a catastrophic one-term president at the nadir of the Great Depression. Above all, Hoover was a zealous anti-communist. As a post-presidential roving public intellectual and political grandee, he threw himself projects like crushing unions (his California ranch was a site of significant labor unrest) and engineering post–World War II food aid to Germany to jump-start an economy friendly to powerful interests (he wanted workers “to be fed” but “not too much”). Among his most lasting legacies is the Hoover Institution, a reactionary think tank housed in a tower that looms—“phallic,” Harris notes—over Stanford.

During the Cold War, federal money flowed into Palo Alto, which grew rich making high-tech weapons and surveillance machinery. Stanford became an electronics laboratory and corporate landlord, with Lockheed Martin, Fairchild Semiconductor, and Hewlett-Packard conveniently taking up residence near campus (and near all those burgeoning engineers). The computer emerged from Palo Alto–based innovations: the vacuum tube, the silicon transistor, and the tech startup. A white, patriarchal, and conservative suburban culture emerged, too: engineer fathers taking the car to work to build missile systems, homemaker mothers carefully tending to single-family homes in restricted neighborhoods. Home prices skyrocketed. The wealth was built by (and on the backs of) subjugated Black migrants and Mexican and Asian immigrants, “just the way Hoover and his associates planned it.” Newcomers of color arriving in this rich corner of the Golden State were forced to find homes on the less desirable side of Highway 101, compete for dwindling agricultural jobs or nonunionized manufacturing jobs, and often settle for janitorial or other service positions.

At the same time, Palo Alto was expanding across the globe, with California companies like HP and Bank of America opening outposts in places like Böblingen, Germany, and Tokyo, respectively—two of the very sites the Allies had recently strategically bombed using Palo Alto tech. Elsewhere across the globe, colonized peoples were rising up, mirroring (and emerging in coordination with) resistance by marginalized peoples within the United States. The Black Panther Party—“the most important American communist party since the Popular Front”—exploded out of the Bay Area in the late 1960s, and student radicals (even at Stanford) protested incipient computer technology. Militants occupied Stanford’s Applied Electronics Lab for more than a week, bombed the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, and invaded the Stanford Research Institute in an attempt to destroy its data storage drums. The students believed, correctly, that the school’s data processing research was integral to the U.S. war machine (having been specifically tipped off that the Stanford Research Institute was modeling an offensive in Vietnam). Yet increasingly militarized police and technologically sophisticated militaries quelled rebellion at home and abroad.

Even as U.S. factories began fleeing offshore in the 1960s and 1970s, “Silicon Valley came into its own.” While manufacturing flatlined, the tech industry soared. “White working-class homeowners,” Harris writes, “began to identify as white and homeowners more than as members of the working class”—nowhere more so than in California, in Palo Alto most of all—and they united to snuff out the remnants of the New Deal, electing leaders who deregulated industry and finance, privatized services, decimated unions, and delivered tax cuts. This move was not just political but cultural; California’s hippies turned classwide struggle into individualized, existential melodrama. Tripping and consciousness-raising supplanted collective action.

Uniting the political and the cultural with aplomb, California’s business leaders picked an affable brand-ambassador for free-market capitalism and Golden State individualism: Ronald Reagan. Led by an auto dealership magnate named Holmes Tuttle, they encouraged Reagan to run for office and bought him national airtime to sing their gospel. His presidential administration (including several California industrialists and arms dealers) cut social services to increase defense spending, funneled money and fancy Palo Alto tech (phone-intercept equipment, anti-aircraft missiles, etc.) to repressive local elites around the world, and helped turn education (previously an accessible incubator for all that pesky student radicalism) into a private market, leading students “to think of themselves in the same terms, as a walking, talking set of investments.”

The Palo Alto System was ascendant, as rich kids (like Bill Gates) and countercultural hustlers (like Steve Jobs) invested wisely and created not only companies but an accompanying mythology. The computer became personal, the internet became privatized, and coffee and cocaine both became fuels imported from abroad for Silicon Valley workers (in the startups and on the streets) to seek ever greater efficiency. New companies—Cisco, Oracle, Sun Microsystems, Netscape, Amazon, Google—burst forth and disrupted and extracted more and more, their innovations enabled by families of refugees living in basements in an increasingly unaffordable Bay Area, by workers laboring for pennies in highly surveilled factories across the global south.

The bright young companies promised “a new phase of postindustrial American expansion,” and regulators hastened to get out of the way. The bonds linking tech and the state only tightened after 9/11, when “Silicon Valley’s self-styled anti-authoritarians” saw exciting new moneymaking opportunities in supplying private data to public authorities bent on control. Mere months after the World Trade Center fell, Oracle had established a division to design and sell “homeland security and disaster recovery solutions,” and even though CEO Larry Ellison did not succeed in winning a contract for a national biometric identification system, Oracle’s revenue nonetheless doubled during the George W. Bush years.

“Palo Alto and Silicon Valley and Stanford and tech and the internet stood for more than the latest electronics,” Harris writes. “They stood for getting fucking rich.” With hefty state contracts, low taxes, easy access to credit, and little meaningful regulation, Palo Alto’s princelings could borrow and invest and attain monopolistic domination in record time, consequences be damned.

From left: Jeff Bezos, Larry Page, and Sheryl Sandberg met with Vice President-elect Mike Pence and President-elect Donald Trump at a summit brokered by Peter Thiel in 2016.

DREW ANGERER/GETTY

As the book gets closer and closer to the present, Harris acknowledges, it becomes increasingly “difficult to narrativize the latest phase of Silicon Valley history.” The dot-com and housing bubbles burst, anger swelled in the streets, yet Palo Alto’s capitalists just kept doubling down, aided and abetted and funded at every step by the supposed adults in the White House and on Wall Street. “The process selected for and elevated certain kinds of people. This, frankly, is where the story gets dumb.”

In exact Silicon Valley history, the dumbest and most outlandish and most venal individuals have made out the best (at least for a while). Elizabeth Holmes and Sunny Balwani of Theranos, Travis Kalanick of Uber, Adam Neumann of WeWork—these were people so lacking in creativity or ingenuity or even basic technical expertise that they “made Steve Jobs look like Steve Wozniak.” And all this was before Elon Musk oopsied his way into buying Twitter and then promptly revealed himself to be such a stunningly incompetent manager that he effectively gutted one of the world’s most important and popular communications platforms in a matter of weeks. Before the most celebrated crypto-exchange was revealed to be a massive Ponzi scheme run by a privileged polycule of twentysomethings.

Donald Trump’s success was the dumbest of all, his 2016 run for the presidency lavished with support from such Silicon Valley power players as Bob and Rebekah Mercer and Peter Thiel. For Thiel, a Stanford-educated tech entrepreneur and far-right culture warrior, Trump was a speculative bet that paid off handsomely. The new administration contracted with Thiel’s data analysis firm, Palantir, to the tune of billions of dollars, and Thiel himself became the Trump White House’s liaison to Silicon Valley. Shortly after Trump’s election, Thiel helped to engineer a much-publicized meeting between the new president and Silicon Valley’s elite: Jeff Bezos, Tim Cook, Elon Musk, Larry Page, Sheryl Sandberg, Eric Schmidt, and a slew of other tech executives. “After this meeting, these firms grew willing and even eager to deal with the government directly,” Harris recounts. “Amazon, Google, and Microsoft pursued and won tens of billions in security contracts, edging into the territory of traditional prime contractors.”

The Trump meeting was “a culmination of the Palo Alto System,” Harris concludes. This regional economy represented the world’s highest concentration of capital, and now its leaders could claim their place “at the center of the capitalist world,” pledging allegiance to data and control.

The Palo Alto System has prevailed far beyond the corridors of power. The gospel of relentless optimization has encroached on every area of life. It’s why homeowners and car owners rent out their abodes and their vehicles as part-time servants, why laborers in Amazon warehouses and overburdened hospitals urinate in bottles rather than halting for even a minute, why writers and artists and academics without institutional homes have to tell themselves that just one more gig might lead to some stability. It’s why one high school student in Palo Alto (where the suicide rate between 2003 and 2015 was three times the state average) could write, “We are not teenagers. We are lifeless bodies in a system that breeds competition, hatred, and discourages teamwork and genuine learning.” Today, individuals race to monetize their every moment, their bodies, their minds, their identities, until they can squeeze productivity out of every spare second, until they can never stop.

Harris does not seek to close his big book with a wider solution or a cure. He calls for Stanford and Palo Alto to be disestablished, the plundered wealth and stolen land turned back over to the Ohlone. It’s a compelling idea, one that (as Harris notes) Indigenous activists and scholars have been demanding for a long time. In fact, in the months since Harris sent his manuscript off to be printed, the city of Oakland has announced it would return land to the Ohlone—but just five acres. As Harris acknowledges, it’s unlikely the Stanford board of trustees will allow any broader reparations of land.

In any case, as Harris makes clear, the Palo Alto System is much bigger than Palo Alto or even California. The regime of incessant investment and labor that Harris describes in fact is so dominant that it makes one wonder whether today’s culture can be directly traced to Palo Alto, or whether Palo Alto simply serves as a neat exemplar of that culture. If, as Harris writes in the epilogue, there “is just capitalism, an impersonal system that acts through people toward the increasing accumulation of capital,” then where exactly does the Palo Alto System enter the equation? And how distinct is the Palo Alto System from, say, what the historian Edward Baptist calls “the ‘whipping-machine’ system,” through which slaveholders literally beat consistent increases in productivity out of increasing numbers of enslaved Black people between 1800 and 1860? How distinct is it from the scientific management regimes long deployed by agents of imperialism, which sought to profit from and regulate native life to such an extent that—as the scholar Warwick Anderson has described—early–twentieth-century American agents even tried to dictate the manner in which Filipinos defecated? How distinct, in other words, is the Palo Alto System from empire, from capitalism itself?

Yet if Palo Alto is an imperfect frame for understanding a history as gargantuan as the one that Harris recounts, Palo Alto nonetheless manages to tell a story that is grand in its scope, startling in its specifics, and ingenious in the connections it draws. Ultimately, neither California nor the broader world is incoherent when viewed, clear-eyed, in the harsh light of history. By striving to extract profit at every conceivable opportunity, the pioneers and innovators have condemned us all, and the places where we live, to a trudge toward collapse.

 Sun, 05 Feb 2023 10:00:00 -0600 en-us text/html https://newrepublic.com/article/170273/blame-palo-alto-history-book-review Killexams : Palo Alto: Brace For Impact Ahead Of Earnings
Palo Alto Networks

hapabapa

Leading cybersecurity company Palo Alto Networks, Inc. (NASDAQ:PANW) is scheduled to report its FQ2'23 earnings results (for CQ ended January 2023) on February 21.

Savvy investors picked PANW's bottom in early January, following the risk-on sentiment that returned to tech stocks. Accordingly, PANW

Thu, 16 Feb 2023 14:24:00 -0600 en text/html https://seekingalpha.com/article/4579143-palo-alto-brace-for-impact-ahead-of-earnings Killexams : Prepare for Presidents Day service closures in Palo Alto

• Garbage pickup: Regular collection service will be maintained.

Transportation

• Caltrain: Caltrain will operate on a modified schedule on Monday. For more information, visit caltrain.com.

• SamTrans: SamTrans will operate on a regular, nonschool day schedule for the holiday. Bus routes that primarily serve local schools won't operate.  The administrative offices of the San Mateo County Transit District, which manages SamTrans, will be open for the holiday. The Customer Service Center will operate with normal hours, 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. For more information, visit samtrans.com.

• Santa Clara Valley Transportation Authority: The VTA will operate as usual, but the office will be closed. For more information, visit vta.org.

Schools

• Palo Alto Unified School District: Schools will be closed on Monday.

Federal, state offices

• U.S. Postal Service: Post offices will be closed. Regular mail will not be delivered.

 Fri, 17 Feb 2023 03:17:00 -0600 en text/html https://www.paloaltoonline.com/news/2023/02/17/prepare-for-presidents-day-service-closures-in-palo-alto Killexams : How Palo Alto has made America worse off No result found, try new keyword!The region’s ethos was meaningfully shaped by Stanford University, whose founding is responsible for molding it—and its principal city Palo Alto—into its own singular industry. Over the ... Mon, 13 Feb 2023 20:28:00 -0600 text/html https://www.fastcompany.com/90837770/palo-alto-malcolm-harris-book-capitalism-california-america Killexams : Palo Alto: Where California and capitalism's original sins meet

Fri, 17 Feb 2023 04:00:00 -0600 en text/html https://www.sfexaminer.com/culture/palo-alto-a-history-of-california-capitalism-and-the-world/article_3d9c8c7e-aca2-11ed-9d2a-6b06b2ce05ba.html Killexams : $1000 Invested In Palo Alto Networks 10 Years Ago Would Be Worth This Much Today

Palo Alto Networks PANW has outperformed the market over the past 10 years by 14.53% on an annualized basis producing an average annual return of 24.95%. Currently, Palo Alto Networks has a market capitalization of $51.10 billion.

Buying $1000 In PANW: If an investor had bought $1000 of PANW stock 10 years ago, it would be worth $9,247.45 today based on a price of $169.00 for PANW at the time of writing.

Palo Alto Networks's Performance Over Last 10 Years

Finally -- what's the point of all this? The key insight to take from this article is to note how much of a difference compounded returns can make in your cash growth over a period of time.

This article was generated by Benzinga's automated content engine and reviewed by an editor.

© 2023 Benzinga.com. Benzinga does not provide investment advice. All rights reserved.

 Fri, 17 Feb 2023 04:34:00 -0600 en text/html https://www.benzinga.com/news/earnings/23/02/30964342/1000-invested-in-palo-alto-networks-10-years-ago-would-be-worth-this-much-today Killexams : Palo Alto Networks Earnings Preview: ‘Strong’ Quarter Expected Amid SASE, Cloud Security Growth

Security News
Kyle Alspach

Partners report that major growth in their business with Palo Alto Networks continues despite the economic turbulence.

ARTICLE TITLE HERE

Wall Street analysts are expecting another quarter of “strong” financial results from cybersecurity giant Palo Alto Networks, as the company continues to distinguish itself from its traditional competitors in network security in areas such as secure access service edge (SASE) and cloud security.

Palo Alto Networks will report results for its fiscal second quarter of 2023, ended Jan. 31, on Tuesday.

[Related: 10 Hot XDR Security Companies You Should Watch In 2023]

For the company and its CEO Nikesh Arora, the expansion in exact years to acquire numerous startups and build out a broad security platform — covering key emerging areas such as SASE, cloud and application security, and extended detection and response (XDR) — would appear to be paying off in a big way as customers look to consolidate their security vendors during the current challenging economic conditions.

In an earnings preview note, KeyBanc analysts wrote that Palo Alto Networks’ “relative bookings strength, based on our checks, stands out” when compared to the “mixed” quarterly results that were recently shared by peer vendors Fortinet and Check Point.

“Of the three, we see Palo as best positioned in cloud/software security—SASE, endpoint, cloud security, analytics, application security,” the KeyBanc analysts wrote.

Notably, “all partners we spoke to were on or above plan on bookings and billings bases,” the analysts wrote.

Cleveland-based Advizex, No. 104 on the 2022 CRN Solution Provider 500, is expecting significant revenue growth from its Palo Alto Networks business this year, CTO Chris Miller said. That’s thanks both to the company’s flagship next-generation firewalls and the vendor’s newer solutions, such as zero trust network access (ZTNA), according to Miller.

ZTNA is considered a more-secure remote access solution compared to VPNs, and for Palo Alto Networks it’s available as part of the company’s Prisma SASE and Prisma Access offerings. The company offers endpoint detection and response (EDR) along with XDR and an “autonomous” security operations solution through its Cortex platform, meanwhile.

Shaul Eyal, managing director at Cowen, wrote in a note to investors that Palo Alto Networks’ “broad and deep product portfolio positions it well in a market characterized by vendor consolidation.” Additionally, the company’s prior-quarter results “demonstrated that the company is executing efficiently,” he wrote.

For Palo Alto Networks’ fiscal first quarter of 2023, which ended Oct. 31, 2022, revenue and earnings both beat Wall Street analyst forecasts, and the company raised its guidance. The results included revenue growth of 25 percent, year-over-year, to reach $1.56 billion.

Daniel Ives, managing director and senior equity research analyst at Wedbush Securities, also said in a note to investors that he is “expecting a strong quarter next week” from Palo Alto Networks.

“Despite an uncertain macro [environment] we are seeing strong deal activity across the board with cloud-influenced enterprise-wide deals the theme of the quarter,” Ives wrote.

Palo Alto Networks’ stock price closed at $169.28 a share in regular trading Friday, which is up nearly 20 percent from Jan. 3, the first day of trading in 2023, when its stock price opened at $141.32 a share.

Kyle Alspach

Kyle Alspach is a Senior Editor at CRN focused on cybersecurity. His coverage spans news, analysis and deep dives on the cybersecurity industry, with a focus on fast-growing segments such as cloud security, application security and identity security.  He can be reached at kalspach@thechannelcompany.com.

 Fri, 17 Feb 2023 09:40:00 -0600 en text/html https://www.crn.com/news/security/palo-alto-networks-earnings-preview-strong-quarter-expected-amid-sase-cloud-security-growth Killexams : The Silicon Valley Loop

Photo-Illustration: Intelligencer; Photos: Getty Images

It’s difficult to narrativize Silicon Valley history. Narratives usually have a rising and falling action. Conflicts build, peak, resolve. The end. How, then, to tell the story of Palo Alto, where the conflicts swell but never seem to crest? Here, Icarus dusts himself off and pivots to zeppelins.

Once again, the tech industry finds itself in a contrite low-altitude phase. Having benefited from a generally hot stock market and a specifically hot sector amid a pandemic turn to online spending, tech has suffered from the Fed’s rate hikes and a reversion to in-person goods and services. Leading public firms — from hard-drive and microchip manufacturers and phone-makers and software writers to payment processors and gig platforms and dating-app developers — took huge share-price hits, and waves of layoffs rippled through the techie labor pool. As Mark Zuckerberg noted in a tightly worded exact announcement that he was sacking 11,000 Meta workers, many people predicted that COVID-19 inaugurated “a permanent acceleration” of online growth “that would continue even after the pandemic ended.” Zuckerberg continued, “I did too, so I made the decision to significantly increase our investments. Unfortunately, this did not play out the way I expected.”

Promised savior technologies such as distributed ledgers, virtual reality, and automated driving failed to deliver, and the crypto wunderkind Sam Bankman-Fried has been confined to his family home in Palo Alto. Meanwhile, without the loose funding environment they expected, start-ups drowned in bunches like bags of puppies thrown over a bridge.

Tech’s go-to cautionary tales are about hubris, bad business plans, and overvalued, undercollateralized start-ups, yet these remain three of the region’s biggest exports. It’s one thing to fall for Bankman-Fried’s magic money box; it’s another thing to do so by the flickering light of tell-all TV shows about Uber, Theranos, and WeWork. Even during this latest downward readjustment, there’s no good reason to believe there will be structural changes or even a lot of individual consequences in Silicon Valley. Microsoft is simultaneously executing 10,000 layoffs and a $10 billion investment in the fledgling software company OpenAI, valuing the money-burning start-up at something like $60 million per employee. The emperor’s nakedness revealed, he shrugs his shoulders and gets back to ruling.

Silicon Valley’s favored downturn metaphor is the bubble. In a land of exciting inventions and instant fortunes, enthusiasm tends to get out of hand, pop, and return to manageable levels. But if the bubbles keep happening, then there must be a bubble machine of some sort, a structural reason why the tech industry tends toward effervescence. The right metaphor is not a bubble, actually; it’s a loop. To find out what’s going to result from tech’s current downturn, we should take a close look at the history, despite it being — in fact, because it is — difficult to narrativize. Let us then turn our attention to the so-called dot-com bubble.

In the second half of the 1990s, newly deregulated financial markets dropped piles of cash on fast-growing internet companies. After Silicon Valley tech stocks such as Apple, Genentech, Sun, Cisco, and especially Netscape returned on their boundless potential, savvy investors felt they had no choice but to jump on the next new thing as fast as possible, even when the new thing didn’t have an obvious road to making profits or revenue. The early web was a world of enthusiasts: Literary Kicks archived Beat literature. San Francisco’s fog got its own site, as did the band Megadeth. Legacy media institutions put up their sites only to find themselves sitting alongside Buzzweb.com and guys named Justin and Glenn and Jerry posting links to sites they liked.

It was unclear at the time where the line between the web’s overlords and users was going to go. Were these user sites the web’s content or its infrastructure? The internet already traveled through a series of bottlenecks from the operating system to the router and the modem to the servers and the browser. Each one of those steps was worth a lot of money. What was one more? Investors looked for new layers to sit on top of the web. One of those link sites from 1994 was called Jerry and David’s Guide to the World Wide Web after its curators, Jerry Yang and David Filo, Stanford electrical-engineering grad students and web enthusiasts. Their directory was getting a lot of traffic. Once people got online, they had to figure out where to go next, and that was Jerry and David’s layer. They renamed the site Yahoo and locked down a few million dollars from Sequoia Capital in the spring of ’95. A year later, the site’s IPO made them one of the first true dot-com success stories.

This “portal” layer was the most valuable spot on the web for an obvious reason: Users went through it no matter where they were going. Yahoo had to scrap it out with a handful of competitors, including the face of anticompetitive tech, Microsoft. Bill Gates wasn’t content to let competitors snap up doors between Windows users and content, so Microsoft used its operating-system revenue to support attacks on web competitors under the MSN banner. But thanks to big cash infusions from the market, some start-ups, including Yahoo, could compete with the big guys by acquiring other start-ups. That’s what Jerry and David did, buying a games company, a DIY-website company (GeoCities), a groups company, and a messenger company in quick succession. Microsoft kept pace, buying the free email site HoTMaiL in 1997 along with its user base. For start-ups like HoTMaiL — bought within 18 months of launch for an undisclosed amount, reportedly $400 million to 500 million — an acquisition could be just as good as an IPO. Investors were happy to finance the feeding frenzy by bidding stock prices up. Microsoft’s went from under $7 in 1995 to $58 by the end of the decade. Yahoo’s skyrocketed over $110, a classic example of what the Federal Reserve chair, Alan Greenspan, famously called “irrational exuberance.” Obviously something in the market wasn’t working normally, but was that a problem?

The question wasn’t whether there was a connection between internet stocks and what Greenspan called the “real economy” — the economy of production, jobs, and commodity prices — but rather what the precise nature of the relationship was. Greenspan’s worry was that a popping asset bubble could take it all down. Whether it actually would in the midst of the “portal wars” in 1996 was an open question. Maybe the hit would just go to fancy investors and their stock-optioned coders; part of the appeal to these companies was that they didn’t have many workers to lay off anyway.

“You’re either a zero or a one. Alive or dead,” says the Tim Robbins version of Bill Gates in the 2001 Palo Alto cyberthriller Antitrust, describing both the Valley’s business climate and its killing-spree competitive ethos. For investors, that meant they priced firms not based on expected returns per se but on the odds that they would become ones rather than zeros. Venture capitalists always played that way with a few big winners picking up the slack (and then some) for a bunch of losers. The Clinton administration did what it could to encourage the boom in the late 1990s, including imposing a bipartisan cut to the capital-gains tax in 1997.

Climbing stocks gave big fish the jaws to nibble start-ups the way VCs might or even to consume them whole. A lot of founders got rich off-loading what were more or less duds to incumbents. In 1999, computer manufacturer Compaq paid over $300 million for the city directory site Zip2, scoring Zip2 co-founder Elon Musk his first fortune. But Zip2 couldn’t save Compaq’s search engine and portal AltaVista, which quickly lost ground to the superior Google and was forced to cancel a planned spinoff IPO the following year. Mark Cuban sold his IPO’d but still money-losing Broadcast.com to Yahoo in 1999 for more than $5.5 billion in stock. As the New York Times noted at the time, only speculative tech firms could afford to make bets like that. “Internet companies simply cannot be bought by established companies where stocks are valued on profits, not promise,” wrote journalists Saul Hansell and Laura M. Holson. “Thus Broadcast.com is out of reach for such logical buyers as CBS or Walt Disney. But it is an easy bite for Yahoo, which can simply exchange its highly valued stock for that of Broadcast.com.” Yahoo could also afford to downsize Broadcast.com a short couple of years later, taking a bath on the buy. Yahoo eventually got Zip2, too, buying the ad company Overture in 2003, only four months after that firm scooped up all of AltaVista for the bargain-basement price of $140 million.

The era’s winners defined themselves not so much by inventing the best websites — a lot of people had similar ideas — but by hedging and cashing out at the right time. Paul Graham sold his web-storefront software company Viaweb to Yahoo for around $50 million in Yahoo stock and had the sense to liquidate his award quickly. “By 1998, Yahoo was the beneficiary of a de facto Ponzi scheme,” he wrote later. “Investors were excited about the internet. One reason they were excited was Yahoo’s revenue growth. So they invested in new internet start-ups. The start-ups then used the money to buy ads on Yahoo to get traffic. Which caused yet more revenue growth for Yahoo, and further convinced investors the internet was worth investing in.” Jerry and David’s Guide to the World Wide Web was not a sustainable growth engine for the global economy.

The Y2K bubble was overdetermined; it had more causes than it needed. One was that technology hedge funds bid up stock prices with a plan to jump out at the high and leave less sophisticated capital holding the heavy bag. That strategy worked well enough, and the funds mostly came out of the experience surprisingly whole. But if the failure of Pets.com brought investors to their senses and tanked the NASDAQ, then perhaps the coked-up sock-puppy mascot did some good, stopping people before they threw more money down the dog-food-delivery garbage chute. In the period after the pop, many in Silicon Valley talked like dreamers awakened. Analysts wrote off whole e-commerce sectors as folly. In a 2001 interview about his case study of the grocery-delivery site Webvan, Harvard Business School professor John Deighton said that direct-to-consumer internet advertising was here to stay, but “home-delivered groceries? Never.” There was no way to compete with supermarket efficiencies. Deighton’s prediction was — not to belabor the point — wrong. But whereas the conventional narrative was that dot-coms drowned themselves in wasteful spending, Deighton did see that it was the relation between the internet and the real economy that needed to change. As it turned out, it wasn’t the internet that had to do most of the changing.

The real problem with the delivery dot-coms was that the people running them didn’t understand their historical context. In 2013, Peter Relan, the founding head of technology at Webvan, published a post on TechCrunch discussing why the company failed and how the next round of delivery start-ups could avoid the same fate. Webvan’s strategy, he wrote, was to offer “the quality and selection of Whole Foods, the pricing of Safeway, and the convenience of home delivery.” But according to Relan, the company shouldn’t have invested in so much infrastructure. Webvan built high-tech distribution systems from scratch: giant networks of new algorithms, miles of conveyor belts, fleets of custom trucks with PalmPilot-wielding delivery drivers. At its short peak, Webvan had a billion-dollar contract with Bechtel to build new distribution facilities around the country. This was the utopian vision of e-commerce, one in which the web’s efficiencies generated gains for everyone involved: investors, workers, and customers alike, all financed by forward-thinking financiers who would reap their rewards in the better world soon to come.

Webvan’s idealism now seems less quaint than alien. In a 2000 report to the Securities and Exchange Commission, Webvan bragged that all its couriers “are Webvan employees … The courier training lasts two weeks and includes 36 hours of classroom training, 12 hours of driving training and 28 hours of on the job training … Webvan’s couriers receive a competitive compensation package, including cash and stock options.” Commentators pegged Webvan’s delivery-labor costs at $30 an hour, or over $50 in 2023 money. Of the company’s 4,476 reported employees on January 1, 2001, 3,705 worked out of the “real” operating facilities spread over nearly 1.5 million square feet of rented urban-warehouse space across seven metropolitan regions. The company filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in the summer of 2001 after losing hundreds of millions of dollars the year before.

Webvan successfully lured workers out of grocery and meatpacking unions with stock options, and it used the same overvalued stock to devour the Amazon-funded competitor HomeGrocer. The firm’s model was haphazard, though not in the way that seems obvious. Big investments in fixed capital and labor training were the key to decades of American prosperity, but that was a different era. Just as capitalists came to understand that they weren’t going to win the Cold War with high wages, no dot-com was going to win its particular race by handing out stock to delivery drivers. Pets.com was making a similar push to expand its in-house warehousing-and-distribution system when the firm’s bubble burst. Industry leaders had to put the win-win-win tech-economy fantasies aside — that’s not what the internet was for. After their capitalist predecessors spilled blood around the world to get them out from under obligations to anyone except their shareholders, these fluffy web companies were being too responsible. It was all fine and good to issue press releases about how the web was going to Improve life for everyone, but you weren’t supposed to actually spend billions of dollars investing in that image. “Move fast and build things” wasn’t going to cut it; what Silicon Valley needed was a reversion to Reagan.

When the dot-com bubble popped, it left a layer of winners: the middlemen at the big financial institutions, the bottom-feeders and big firms that cleaned up after, and the founders who happened to sell at the right time. Caught up in the frenzy, most large firms were stuck writing off at least one overvalued internet acquisition, effectively giving away millions of dollars to a cohort of web entrepreneurs based on the misperception that those dudes came up with important, useful stuff. But when their buyers wrote off the purchases, these men (they were mostly men) didn’t adjust their self-image downward. After all, they still had the money.

As the internet bubble reinflated faster than the first time, these men became semi-professional and then fully professional mentors to the next generation. Ramesh Balwani, for example, joined the web-auction start-up CommerceBid in 1999, right before it sold to bankruptcy-bound Commerce One for a couple hundred million dollars, of which Balwani was entitled to a substantial chunk. He went on to mentor (and date) a young Stanford student named Elizabeth Holmes as she dropped out of school to launch her paradigm-shifting diagnostics company, Theranos. Early Yahoo investor Masayoshi Son took WeWork co-founder Adam Neumann under his wing, pumping billions into the office-leasing concept and convincing Neumann to always think bigger and faster.

Dot-com winners often found ways to spread their next bets, institutionalizing their dubious wisdom. After his Yahoo play, Son’s holding company, SoftBank, became one of the tech industry’s key early-investment vehicles. Netscape vets Marc Andreessen and Ben Horowitz formalized their angel investing into the venture-capital firm Andreessen Horowitz, which raises and deploys capital in multibillion-dollar rounds. Some even pioneered new financing models in which hanging out was as important as paying up. In 2005, Graham of Viaweb and some colleagues from that Yahoo deal opened Y Combinator, an accelerator that traded advice, connections, and a little cash to start-ups in return for shares. Theirs was the best-organized institution — angel investing as a for-profit university — but there were more casual setups, too. The fictional prototype is Erlich Bachman, the extroverted bullshit artist at the center of Mike Judge’s HBO clown-era Palo Alto satire, Silicon Valley. Bachman sold his web start-up of unclear utility to Frontier Airlines and spun his winnings into his own accelerator: a moderately sized Palo Alto house in which he rents rooms in exchange for equity in start-ups. In the real Silicon Valley, having let the market convince them of their own brilliance, these medium-fry millionaires looked for the next big thing, the one that would bump them up by a zero or three. Some of them found it.

Chris Sacca was a lawyer at Google — Forbes described his early work as “going undercover to scout locations with low taxes and cheap electricity for Google’s new data centers and then creating nondescript holding companies to buy up the land” — when, in 2007, he quit and found a more important job: proprietor of the “Jam Tub.” Attached to his new house in the California skiing town of Truckee, Sacca’s hot tub was a semi-formal gathering place for tech founders to chill, work on their next brilliant ideas, and maybe rustle up some seed money. Sacca’s $25,000 check to his former co-worker Evan Williams for an early investment in his microblogging start-up Twittr gave him the juice, and his early support for successful companies such as Kickstarter, Twilio, and Instagram turned him into one of the era’s top venture capitalists. For a while, you could catch Sacca in his trademark cowboy shirts next to Broadcast.com founder Mark Cuban on Shark Tank, where Sacca was a recurring guest “shark,” the two of them helping define what a 21st-century capitalist looks like. Still, Sacca counts the Jam Tub as his best investment: “I borrow the cash for a three-bedroom house and get a lifetime’s worth of pals and a hugely successful business in return? Best trade ever.”

Like many in the Jam Tub crew, Garrett Camp and Travis Kalanick suddenly had rich-guy problems. Both sold their web companies for millions in 2007 — Camp’s random-content portal StumbleUpon to eBay and Kalanick’s P2P firm Red Swoosh to Akamai — and the young dudes turned their attention to having a good time. Kalanick was the Jam king, spending full days submerged in Truckee, according to Tub lore. But as newly rich entrepreneurs, they ran up against novel frustrations. Camp couldn’t figure out a good transportation solution for hitting the town in San Francisco, for example, and after paying $800 for a black car on New Year’s Eve, he figured there had to be a better way.

The original plan for UberCab was for an elite members-only service leveraging the GPS-enabled smartphones that affluent consumers started to carry around, allowing them to summon a cab on demand. “Faster and cheaper than a limo but nicer and safer than a taxicab” was the pitch, and the membership model and high price ensured a “respectable clientele.” Camp bootstrapped the earliest work and talked Kalanick into joining. Worst-case scenario, they told potential investors, it would be a solution for tech-forward rich people in San Francisco — which is to say, them. Running a luxury service for wealthy Bay Area smartphone users was not a bad way to attract capital, and they assembled a crew of VCs and angels with investments ranging from $5,000 to just over $500,000, the biggest check from a guy who scored on StumbleUpon. Sacca threw in $300,000, cementing his reputation and fortune.

It didn’t matter that StumbleUpon and Red Swoosh weren’t ultimately worth anything to the companies that purchased them; what mattered was that the founders had made money for their investors, which made them Silicon Valley successful.

In evolutionary biology, there’s a term called carcinization. It describes the tendency of all sorts of crustaceans to evolve crablike bodies. The shelled core and spindly articulated legs are apparently an excellent way to adapt to the sea floor, and various species keep stumbling upon it, evolving to look like relatives even when they’re not. Silicon Valley’s 21st-century firms underwent their own type of rapid carcinization, flattening into “platforms” suspended on rows of contractor-pin legs. At first, the Uber guys clearly did not understand what they had, and neither did a parallel group of guys building their biggest competitor, Lyft. The two were made for disparate use cases — the Lyft founders admired the efficiency of ride sharing in Zimbabwe, which made full use of empty seats, while the Uber dudes wanted to pay less for a limo — but they converged on the same model. Like the winningest firms of the dot-com era, they tended toward monopoly plays, searching for social layers to disrupt with computers. When it comes to a given niche, that meant whoever could show the most and fastest growth could attract the most and fastest capital, which turbocharged growth, which attracted more capital, and so on. Competitive start-ups didn’t have to make profits, but they did have to scale, and immediately.

Market pressures compelled Uber to plow every bit of income (and then some) into growth over profit. The firm subsidized riders and drivers, changing the model from “Better than a cab, cheaper than a limo” to “Cheaper than a cab, so don’t take a cab ever again.” It was burning billions of investor dollars, faster than any start-up in history, but already the drivers felt betrayed. Inexorably, as the rideshare companies broke the cab cartels, they pushed down wages for working drivers. This was one of the first large battles in what was, in retrospect, a struggle over the nature of work. Uber automated as much of the recruitment, sign-up, and onboarding processes as possible — forget training. These gig workers were barely even contractors. In terms of their relation to the company, they were more like users. By cutting the ribbons holding together suites of labor laws, the lean crabs freed workers to “create demand for their labor at the expense of their incomes,” as economic historian Aaron Benanav puts it.

It’s a mistake, then, to think of Uber’s carcinized business strategy as driven by its scandal-prone leader, Kalanick, and his bad personality. Nor can we dump all the fault on the Jam Tub and the “Party like it’s 1999” brosphere it represents. There are larger forces at play. When author Brad Stone asked Kalanick why the company raised over $10 billion in the previous two years alone, the billionaire’s answer comes off more as resigned than pumped: “If you didn’t do it, it would be a strategic disadvantage, especially when you’re operating globally,” he told Stone. “It’s not my preference for how to build a company, but it’s required when that money is available.” That last part is worth repeating: It’s required when that money is available. If Uber didn’t take $3.5 billion from Mohammed bin Salman and the Saudi kingdom’s sovereign-wealth fund, the royals would have put it in Lyft, and then maybe no one would want to invest in Uber, and then it would all be over. These companies didn’t choose to become crabs — that’s not how evolution works.

Staying in the game was much more important than any imminent prospect of profitability, and platforms courted big bucks from Russian oligarchs, Emirati sheikhs, and cosmopolitan capitalists of every stripe. Even Canada’s Public Sector Pension Investment Board put $500 million on Lyft. Early investors were rewarded as new investors inflated the stock value and made them look smart. The region sprouted a whole crop of paper billionaires. Yet the Uber IPO flopped, and though the stock price has fluctuated in the years since, the public has not been as enthusiastic as the VCs were. The firm has continued losing money, still slugging it out for a monopoly spot that might turn the numbers around. But Uber has a market capitalization of over $40 billion at the time of this writing, and investors brag about when they bought in. Not bad for a company that hasn’t come close to making a dollar in profit.

Compared with past cohorts of successful Silicon Valley tech founders, the crab-platform leaders made Steve Jobs look like Steve Wozniak. Not only did they not build anything substantial — most of them didn’t have the technical expertise to know where to begin — they also didn’t even come up with anything new. Still, investors pumped novel magnitudes of value through these platforms, allowing them to pursue money-losing strategies indefinitely and hold out for monopoly positions. Since the start-ups were little more than fantasies before their first six- or seven-figure infusions, early investors in the top crabs got extraordinary hauls. VCs couldn’t afford not to take chances on hare-brained schemes. “Airbnb for X” and “Uber for Y” pitches proliferated. What is the lesson there? Whatever it was, capitalists took it.

Despite how narratively convenient it would have been, Silicon Valley didn’t sober up in the years following the bust, and neither did the investors who inflated the bubble in the first place. Post-pop heavyweights like Amazon and Google picked up the broken pieces and made the best of them. The “dot-com bubble” sounds like the name of a great cautionary tale, but any capitalist who kept taking their investment cues from the collapse of Pets.com missed out on a lot of money. The growth that leading firms have accomplished since then has almost fully obscured the turn of the century on the stock chart, reducing it to mere first-night jitters. We are now a couple of cycles past, and today’s youngest tech founders weren’t even born yet when Pets.com tanked. As for who’s a success, that’s measured in money, and the money can’t remember how it got there either.

One of the firms in the inaugural class at Viaweb founder Graham’s Y Combinator was a location-sharing app called Loopt. Founded by an archetypal Stanford-sophomore dropout, Loopt was quick out of the gate, nabbing a $5 million Series A led by VC big shots Sequoia Capital. In 2006, Graham called Loopt “probably the most promising of all the start-ups we’ve funded so far” — a list that included Reddit and Scribd. But despite racking up tens of millions in investments, Loopt was overtaken by Foursquare and, in 2012, sold itself to the prepaid-debit-card company Green Dot for over $40 million. Green Dot, which had no need for Loopt, promptly scrapped the project and put the team to work on a banking app. This is what Silicon Valley calls a success, though industry observer Erick Schonfeld described the deal as “Sequoia taking care of its own,” since the VC firm owned a large stake in both companies.

Y Combinator took care of its own, too, and after the acquisition, Graham approached the 27-year-old Loopt founder about becoming his successor at YC. “I decided I was going to partly take a mid-career sabbatical, race cars, fighter planes, travel the world, all that kind of stuff,” Sam Altman said later about his thinking at the time, “but I didn’t want to totally disengage from working, and I would try to invest for a while.” Altman took over for Graham in 2014, and he ran the accelerator to great heights before leaving in 2015 to focus on the artificial intelligence project he co-founded with Zip2’s Elon Musk: OpenAI. Loopt, indeed.

The fundamental moralistic assumption that, over the medium term, the market punishes hubris and rewards prudence is simply not true. Yesterday’s lucky fools are now wise billionaires not because they learned responsibility but because, having sussed out the general shape of the world that capital is accumulating into, they doubled down. The true moral of the dot-com bubble was “Go big fast, keep labor and fixed capital costs low, time your exit.” For this cohort of wealthy tech guys, the same one that’s responsible for a disproportionate share of early-stage private-capital allocation today, the inescapable structural-historic lesson of the dot-com bubble was “Do the dot-com bubble again.”

 Thu, 16 Feb 2023 12:17:00 -0600 Malcolm Harris en-us text/html https://nymag.com/intelligencer/2023/02/the-silicon-valley-loop-malcolm-harriss-palo-alto.html Killexams : Single family residence sells for $2 million in Palo Alto
3880 El Centro Street - Google Street View
3880 El Centro Street – Google Street View

A 1,724-square-foot house built in 1930 has changed hands. The property located in the 3800 block of El Centro Street in Palo Alto was sold on Jan. 27, 2023 for $2,004,000, or $1,162 per square foot. The property features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a garage, and one parking space. It sits on a 9,375-square-foot lot, which also has a pool.

These nearby houses have also recently been purchased:

  • On La Para Avenue, Palo Alto, in June 2022, a 1,881-square-foot home was sold for $3,250,000, a price per square foot of $1,728. The home has 3 bedrooms and 1 bathrooms.
  • A 1,487-square-foot home on the 800 block of La Para Avenue in Palo Alto sold in September 2022 for $2,430,000, a price per square foot of $1,634. The home has 2 bedrooms and 1 bathrooms.
  • In October 2022, a 3,411-square-foot home on La Para Avenue in Palo Alto sold for $5,700,000, a price per square foot of $1,671. The home has 6 bedrooms and 5 bathrooms.
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This article was generated by the Bay Area News Group Bot, software that analyzes home sales or other data and creates an article based on a template created by humans. Our real estate data comes from public records that have been registered and digitized by local county offices. You can report errors or bugs to content@bayareanewsgroup.com.

 Thu, 16 Feb 2023 04:31:00 -0600 Bay Area Home Report en-US text/html https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2023/02/16/single-family-residence-sells-for-2-million-in-palo-alto/ ACE exam dump and training guide direct download
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