It was a March Wednesday in 2019 and I was sitting in a green room in the San Fernando Valley. Across from me, a middle-aged man tapped at his phone. His face was tan and indistinct. In his lap he was holding a pile of red folders. We were both, it seemed, waiting for Joe Rogan.
Rogan's podcast, on which I was scheduled to appear, was supposed to go live at noon. Already it was 12:10.
