How to Become a Professional Writer — Immediate Money

By Wane

I hadn’t realized how much I like some men — some — until I started watching The Rubin Report on YouTube.

There’s something about the way Dave moves, when he says “The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions,” and outlines the importance of having multifaceted, nuanced political dialogues. I feel a stir. Not particularly sexual, that stir, more of a feeling in my skull, a comfort — a sensation with a counterpart thought, “I am happy,” I’ll think. Dave makes me happy. The Young Turks, particularly Cenk, were holding him back.

What changed everything, when I knew that he had as much respect for me as I do for him, was when I pitched him an idea for an episode which, without him ever responding to me, he used: Interview Sam Harris again, I said. Talk about Donald Trump, I said.

I emailed him a congratulations for the episode, which garnered many thousands of views, and told him I think it would be wise for him and me to meet up. I told him what I’d be wearing and told him what I’d like him to wear, making sure he knew that I wouldn’t be too upset if he wore something else. I knew I’d wear my JG Wentworth button-down and my thin, shiny black leather dress belt, though. I’d planned my outfit some months in advance.

I feel I can be honest here.

He did not respond — he’s married and I suspected that his husband had access to his business email, I mean the amount of work that goes into running a show like his is pretty baffling to imagine, he couldn’t do it all alone. I’d made it clear, though, that I’d arrive in California in mid-December for our meetup.

It was raining when my plane landed. The pilot said: welcome to sunny Los Angeles and a good number of us laughed. The Greek-looking man behind me said “That’s not funny,” and I was too overwhelmed, life seemed too warm and sublime and excitable, something about entropy, to get upset at the man’s sourness.

When I knocked on Dave’s door, I realized that no one was home so I did what I was trained to do in the secret service and broke in and sat in his newly built garage stage. I sat on one of those sucker-red chairs and imagined I was talking to Sam Harris myself:

“Welcome to sunny Los Angeles, Sam.”

“Ha, thanks W., good to be here.”

“So, Sam, I hear you have an interest in superintelligent machines?”

“I do indeed. They frighten the hell out of me.”

Around then the door to the studio opened. A man was standing there, silhouetted by the natural Los Angeles light (I’d turned the lights off in the room).

“Dave?” I said. “Dave, is that you?”

But it wasn’t Dave. It was one of his close associates, a man named Henry. He turned on the lights and asked why I’d had them off. I told him it’s easier for me to think when it’s dark. He said he was sorry that I’d had to break in and that Dave was on vacation somewhere. I told him that I was, honestly, very disappointed.

“Sorry to disappoint, everything’s been chaotic as all hell around here lately.”

But I told him that I understand, I wasn’t going to let myself stay upset. He’s a fairly tall guy, probably about 6 foot 2 inches, maybe 200 pounds, sturdy looking fellow. He said that he was very happy with the suggestions I’d been sending in to the show and it was he who used that email more than anyone else.

He invited me out to a very nice, chic Los Angeles bar and restaurant and we had a pretty good meal, something ethical and clean tasting. I had a number of vodka cranberries and he laughed at my stories. His stories were pretty funny too. There was one about his mother and how she’d supported him throughout his adult life both emotionally and financially, when needed, and it resonated deeply with me as I too have a mother who has helped me financially.