Part 1
The Blue Wave Club
I keep falling, falling, falling. I’m in the ocean now. Above me, the two demons, invincible figures, the dark forces, who moments earlier dragged me through the dirt as I kicked and screamed and pleaded, look down on me.
Waves, crashing all through my eardrums. A dim blue light in the dark distance, on shore, the only chance I have for survival. If I can just get to it.
Then I wake up. I keep having these recurring dreams of falling into the ocean. Sometimes it feels like I’m being pushed. Other times, I’m in a car, falling off a cliff and sinking down. It’s why I can’t swim in the ocean. I fear very little in life, but the ocean. Especially at night, it’s a black void. In nightmares, it’s hell.
Sometimes the dreams begin earlier. I’m driving down the coast, presumably Malibu, big cliffs that drop into darkness. The ocean is beyond. Crazy how it looks when you’re driving towards it at night. Endless. Even more so than when you’re sitting at the beach on a sunny day, gazing out at the horizon. At night it unsettles your perception. Like you’re in a rocket ship flying through space and the only thing ahead of you is black. Man, I know it’s cliche to say thoughts like these make you realize how small and insignificant you are but it’s said so often because we humans — even Sagan like humans — can’t comprehend this shit so we settle for basic sayings.
I keep driving. Winding through curves, trying to keep my eyes on the road, but the ocean keeps grabbing my attention. Now I’m right next to it. The land has cut off, no room for even the narrowest beach mansion. I can hear the waves crashing onto the rocks. Then: my car is in the ocean. Not sure how I got here. But here I am. I’m oddly calm, as the car sinks slowly down, water rushing in through the car’s open windows. Fully submerged now, I must realize drowning in your car is a terrible way to go so I get to action. I swim out the window and up to the air above. There’s that blue light on shore. I kick and punch but it’s clear this is futile. Panic only makes the death worse. Might as well let go…
Pure peace.
I know a lot about fear. I make a living off it. My books on self-help and getting over fears have sold millions. I tour the world giving speeches. My niche is that I’m young, I dress well, and I’m an expert at leveraging social media. I’m a younger, more urban Tony Robbins. I’m a go-to expert on overcoming fear and manifesting a better life. My target market is other young men, who for whatever reason haven’t made it like I made it. They’re discouraged, frustrated, hopeless. I mean, I get it. Times are tough, and the traditional advice of working hard doesn’t work anymore. Enter manifestations, affirmations, believe in oneself, getting over fears, etc.
I wrote about fear in my self help book NO FEAR: Living Dangerously with a Purpose.
First, it’s important to understand what fear is and why we experience it. Scientifically and historically, fear is described as an emotion that’s triggered by a perceived threat. It’s our body’s way of protecting us from danger.
Take the ocean, for example. It’s huge, dark and mysterious. Research what you need to know about the ocean in order to feel more comfortable with it. If you’re afraid of sharks, (an irrational fear, but can represent an underlying fear of something) learn about them so you can be less scared when you go for a swim in the ocean.
When we’re faced with a situation or thing that we perceive as dangerous, our brain sends out signals to our nervous system, which in turn causes our body to release stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol. These hormones prepare our body for fight-or-flight by increasing our heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing.
But fuck all that jazz. This is what fear is: it’s a weakness leaving the body. You overcome this fear, you come out from the other side stronger. You fear women? Face that shit, bro, and you’ll be sleeping with a new chick every night. Fear success? Attack that career ladder like it’s a deer in the woods and you’re armed with a fucking AK-47.
What I tell my audience is basically Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes repackaged for modern times.
“Always do what you’re afraid to do.”
The grift is this: I’m them, my target audience. But they don’t know me. The real me. The grift is that you make your life seem a lot better than it is and then you sell that life to others. Telling people you too can live the perfect life without revealing how the sausage is made, without telling them that it’s all bullshit, is the grift. Truth is, I’m no better than anyone. I just got lucky.
I have a meeting at a new member’s only club in Malibu. The Blue Wave Club. It’s one of those clubs where you pay a few grand a year so that you can come eat and take meetings. An exclusive Starbucks. This agent wants to meet with me, thinks I can turn my Youtube reach into some bigger deals. I don’t really need them, an agent, but I’ll take a listen. Funny, a few years back I would’ve been desperate to land an agent. I would’ve sent dozens of query letters a week, cold emailed a few with a sample of my manuscript attached. Now they call me. Funny how that works.
I drop off my kid at her private school and jump on the 101 near the Studio City home I share with my wife. She’s successful in her own lane. She makes lifestyle content of the perfect life: baking vegan cookies in our beautiful, well lit kitchen; yoga videos in our leafy and lush backyard. She then turns this content into brand deals. A Target line of yoga pants. Her own organic salad dressing. She’s why I’m taking this meeting. Her agency has been trying to sign me for years. Now the wife thinks I’m getting a bit too comfortable, a bit too lazy. She’s making me take this meeting.
“Have you even wondered why we haven’t had sex in a month? You’re getting fat. And have you even been working?”
I looked up from my phone for a second. She was in the mirror of the master bathroom. I look down at my belly. Hmm, she’s right. I had a secret. Something so terrible I could never tell her. She’d divorce me in a heart-beat. I was gorging on burgers at least twice a week. It was an addiction. It started a few months back. I was starving, driving down Ventura, when I saw it, the In & Out sign. It had been years since I had red meat, let alone a cheeseburger. No, no way I said out loud, directed to my brain, who was saying, go for it. Enough with this vegan shit. She makes you eat vegan every night. The kid eats vegan. We only order vegan. I mean, I’m not complaining, LA is full of great vegan. But you know what else is LA full of? Burgers. Smash burgers, classic burgers, shit, yes, even vegan burgers. But you don’t want those, you want these. Juicy red meat. Perfectly grilled. Go easy on the fries and you’ll never get caught.
I nearly crashed making a sharp left into the drive-through. Then twice, three times, maybe even four times a week I would tour LA and its many burger spots.
The Newcomers:
Burgers Never Say Die, Trophies, Burger She Wrote, Love Hour, Shake Shack
The Classics:
Tommy’s, In & Out, The Apple Pan, Astro, Lucky Boy, Hi-Life
Shit, even fast food:
Mcdonald’s, Wendy’s, Jack in the Box, 5 guys
“I’m going to set you up with a meeting with my team.”
“No, come on. I don’t need their help.”
“Why are you so against having a team helping you with your career? You’d be three times more successful if you just got help. You’re getting too comfortable and lazy. People are fickle, Danny. They move on very fast. To the next influencer.”
“Fine.” I said, and went back to researching new burger spots on my phone.
A black van screeches up to my car. It smacks me out of my daydreams. I put up my hands, mumble, I’m going the speed limit, you dick. He’s still on my tail. Or she, I can’t really make them out. I say fuck this and peel off. My electric car is no match for the old van. They’re far behind me in seconds. What an asshole. We’re driving down a narrow-lane highway, cliffs and ocean surrounding us. One of us could’ve flown off a cliff. What was that guy’s deal?
I pull up to the valet at The Blue Wave Club. It’s on a small parcel of land right on the ocean. I can see a few yards of sand tucked right beneath it. The club is designed like an old beach shack with a modern, minimalist twist. Slanted roof, wood and cement and floor to ceiling windows. There’s a big neon wave art piece at the entrance. The parking lot even has a slipway leading to the water, so if members wanted to drive a boat into the sea. I figure nobody uses it, but it’s on-brand. Inside, past the polite hostess, who I tell the member I’m there to meet, there’s a full jazz band playing near the bar. It’s 10AM. Sensing my awe, the hostess says, “We have jazz bands all day and night.” I’m impressed, I’m not going to lie. She leads me past the indoor dining room and out to the vast terrace overlooking the ocean. I sit under yet another huge wave neon sign, what I realize now is the club’s branding. The hostess says my host for today called and is arriving a few minutes late. Would I like some coffee or a food menu? I really want to try their burger but it’s too early so I order an oat milk latte and settle in, glancing around my surroundings. I notice a few Hollywood faces. Even through the meetings and chatter, there’s a serene silence to it all. I close my eyes behind my sunglasses and get a weird rush of déjà vu. Have I been here before?
A hand on my shoulder jolts me.
“Did I scare you, sorry.” It’s Richard, who I’m here to meet.
“No, I just closed my eyes for a second. It’s peaceful here.”
“Yes,” Richard says, sitting down. “I love it. Did you know that I’m a partner here? Did Emily mention that? So I live in West Hollywood but force myself to drive out here. How was your drive?”
“Oh, fucking crazy LA drivers. Some guy nearly drove me off a cliff.”
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Was shaken up a bit. So you’re a partner here?”
“It’s a money pit, but it has its advantages. Access to anyone and everyone, as you can see,” Richard says. Then in true Hollywood fashion gets straight to business. He can make my life easier; his team can use my audience to expand; his team can turn my Youtube into Hollywood deals, maybe a day time hosting gig — have I ever thought of something like that?
“Of being a daytime TV host?” I look at him incredulously. “I mean, no, not really.”
“Well, you can. You have it. So does Emily.”
I nod as he goes into a spiel of having my wife and I join forces for a TV show of some sorts. People love husband and wife teams, he tells me.
“So what do you think?” He finally asks.
All I can concentrate on is the faint jazz playing, and a rush of waves in my ear. I don’t feel like I’m there. Like I’m present.
He senses this. “Danny, are you okay?”
“Tell you the truth, Richard —”
“Call me Rich.”
“I’m in a weird place in my life. Weird place in my career. What is all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“This place.”
“It’s The Blue Wave Club.”
“No, I mean, this place. Los Angeles. What are we doing here? What’s the point of all this?”
Richard is visually taken aback. Of course, the answer is money. But he doesn’t flat out and say this.
“Danny, you help people. You help young men. In a way that’s not as controversial, as say, some of these so called alpha bros. Motivational. Not just for pimple-popping incels in their mom’s basements. You know how to get to the root of a young man’s problems without making it weird. You have a gift, like Steve Harvey. An edge that’s still commercial and mainstream. I want to harness that.”
“It’s all algorithms and manipulation.”
“What do you mean? I’m confused.”
“I’m a fraud, Richard.” There, it finally comes out. Richard looks at me a little amused. We’re all frauds, Danny. I know that’s what he’s thinking.
“What does it matter? Aren’t we all playing an image?”
“I hate my image. You want to know the truth?” Richard looks around, a bit uncomfortable. He’s not used to this. Sure, ego trips and nervous breakdowns are common in Hollywood, but someone about to reveal a secret about them, without their publicist around? This is uncharted for Richard. “I stole a lottery ticket.”
“Excuse me?”
