Bryan Johnson’s bizarre biohacker NYC ‘Don’t Die’ Summit

Bryan Johnson wants to live forever. And for just $349 per ticket and your Saturday afternoon, he promises to share the secrets of his age-defying body with us ordinary folk.

The Silicon Valley mogul is infamous for going to extreme lengths and spending $2m a year to stop himself aging. From injecting his son’s plasma into his bloodstream to taking nearly 100 supplements a day, there’s seemingly nothing he won’t try, apparently “on behalf of all humanity.”

Now Johnson is selling the dream of eternal youth to wannabe immortals, who showed up in their hundreds at the Javits Center on Saturday for New York’s first Don’t Die Summit.

Though I’ve personally come to terms with my own mortality, I decided to join them.

I was handed an agenda at the door that commanded me to “rage, rage against the dying of the light” (a quote from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas) and join the “war with death and its causes” — which was apparently being waged in a small corner of the venue’s basement. 

But first upon arrival one must traverse Longevity Park, which is dubbed “longevity Disneyland” by organizers, but looks more like a Silicon Valley science fair.

A couple dozen booths peddled age-defying technologies, from caps that beam red light into your scalp to stimulate hair growth to a hyperbaric oxygen therapy capsule meant to promote plasma production.

A man dressed as the grim reaper roved about, taunting the wannabe immortals as they checked out the devices. It was unclear if he was paid to be there or simply a troll.

“Bryan Johnson, what he does and the way he does it, it’s so beautiful, sincere, a little cultish. It has all those ingredients. It has a great narrative,” Alina Bairamova, a creative director who attended the event out of curiosity, observed.

Some were die-hard longevity junkies. Erin, a 40-year-old product designer, told me she invested $1,500 on a red light therapy device to promote skin growth and installed an infrared sauna, purported to improve heart health, in her home.

She also uses a device that stimulates her vagus nerve to reduce stress and takes a cocktail of supplements, including the malaria drug methylene blue, which, according to some studies, might slow aging.

She was disappointed that Longevity Park felt like one big ad: “I’m very interested in longevity and wellness, but there was a lot of ‘buy buy buy,’ rather than trying out products.”

Others were skeptical observers, like Nia, a 70-year-old wellness nurse from the Bronx, who believes that we are mind, body, and spirit — but that Johnson is spending too much time fixated on the body component.

“There’s a spirituality that’s lacking in being so regimented,” she said. “They say that discipline is freedom, but coming here today and looking at all the vendors, I feel like there’s something missing in the essence of life.”

Further on inside, Johnson, 47, donned cargo pants and little else on the main stage, where he hosted two info sessions: “Life System and Habits to Build Your Future Self” and “Roast My [Longevity] Protocol.”

Johnson’s own excruciating daily protocol begins at 4:30am when he does red light therapy, shocks his vagus nerve and eats multiple pounds of vegetables in a single sitting, with two meals by 9AM.

Much like the technology he peddles, Johnson himself looks a little futuristic — sculpted, curated, and yet somehow sterile.

He appears almost AI-generated, a far cry from the chubby-faced techie who sold his company, Braintree Venmo, to PayPal in 2013 for $800 million.

To look at him, his quest for immortality seems just as much a quest for aesthetics.

“Longevity at its core right now is narcissism central, unfortunately. That’s just where we are as longevity experts,” Kunal Sood, a philanthropist who hosts summits about wellness at the UN, told me.

“Right now, we are going after the lowest hanging fruit, which is that you will look beautiful and you will live forever.”

Catered lunch was samplers from Johnson’s ultra-clean diet, like adobo steak with kale, quinoa, and roasted veggies. Instead, I opted to try Johnson’s Blueprint line of diet supplements which were, naturally, available for purchase at Longevity Park.

His Longevity Mix, a florescent pink, blood orange flavored powder, promises to deliver “everything your body needs in one powerful drink.” Added to water, it tastes like a bitter, blander Gatorade.

Johnson’s brand also sells “Snake Oil” [!] branded extra virgin olive oil for anti-inflammation, mushroom powder for energy, and blood tests that claim to tell you how your lung, heart, brain, liver, and other organs are aging, all for $325.

During the “Roast My Protocol” session, the two Canada Goose-clad twenty-something guys sitting next to me started packing their bags for Longevity Park at the first mention of women’s health.

At one point, attendees were invited to ask Johnson questions, but via an online form.

One asked how to sleep properly with a newborn. Johnson, a father of three, laid out one option as having the baby in your room with you and the other, presumably more preferable, as “letting them cry it out.”

“[Babies] understand much more than we think they do,” he said, before bragging that he and his 19-year-old son, Talmadge, maintain “immaculate sleep hygiene” in their own household. 

Johnson sleeps alone in a cold, dark room with a pillow between his knees to optimize his “sleep posture.” He also identifies as a “professional sleeper.”

Another attendee asked, “Is jerking off before bed good for sleep?” He declined to answer because his mother was in the room — uncharacteristic for Johnson, who usually isn’t one to shy away from phallic conversation with family. 

He famously icked his X audience in January when he posted data comparing how many erections he gets throughout the night with his 19-year-old son. How exactly they measure that is unclear.

“His [nighttime erection] duration is two minutes longer than mine,” Johnson wrote. “Raise children to stand tall, be firm, and be upright.” 

As he pursues immortality, Johnson has taken a myopic interest in genital preservation.

He has electrically shocked his Johnson in pursuit of “erections of an 18-year-old” (he rates the experience as 9 out of 10 pain) and has injected his junk with Botox, apparently to add a whopping centimeter of length and improve his erection firmness.

Making himself an ageless guinea pig costs $2 million annually  — subsidized by his tech fortune and his Blueprint business, which appears to be selling solutions to problems he has implanted in the minds of his customers.

The question remains: If Johnson really manages to stave off death via natural causes, doesn’t he tempt fate to deal him some other tragic demise, say getting hit by a bus?

Summit-goers were invited to test how their biological age compares to their chronological age on the spot, by measuring their height to weight ratio, push-up ability, leg strength, and waist size, among other stats.

Johnson claims he ages at a rate of 0.64 biological years per calendar year. “My birthday happens every 19 months,” he said in an Instagram post.

He claims to have the heart of a 37-year-old, the skin of a 28-year-old, and the lung capacity of an 18-year-old. And, of course, the erection age of a 20-year-old.

Communication coach Dimitry Wolf has been into biohacking for seven years, and has dabbled in methods like ice bathing, standing on nail boards to stimulate the nervous system, and taking Johnson’s Blueprint supplements.

But Wolf, 38, tested as 40 in biological age, noting that he scored zero on leg power, which is “a point of growth” for him. He described the summit as “one of the most useful experiences” he’s had.

Bizarrely, an entire half-hour of the day, however, was dedicated to “sing alongs” to throwback hits inclusing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”.

There was also a 30 minute “dance party,” during which Johnson paraded shirtless on stage with the grim reaper, who later answered “maybe” when I asked him whether Johnson will escape death.

A small, amped-up, and sober subset of attendees swarmed the stage as a security guard held the line.

Regina Kravitz, a 72-year-old personal trainer, is into all things longevity, including red light therapy and supplement IV drips, and was glad to see that Johnson is getting the younger generation to take ownership of their health before it’s too late.

“Most people here are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s,” she said. “This isn’t something my generation was thinking about [when we were their age], so I’m happy to see he’s created that movement.”

But Kravitz believes the promise of immortality is a step too far: “You grow old, but you don’t have to age. I’m very much in tune with that philosophy, but I don’t know about ‘don’t die.’ How about ‘Die well. Be graceful.’”

Of course, anyone who can make Americans introspect about their health deserves some credit. But our fascination with Johnson’s quest for immortality is apparent proof that we are a culture that is allergic to moderation.