Billion Views, Big Macs, and the Weight of Change

So, things didn’t exactly calm down after the election like I’d hoped. Last week, I spent days in and out of bed, trying to muster the energy to write, only to give in to random naps instead. Domestic reacclimation has been...interesting. Walking into a grocery store for the first time in months, I felt like a stranger in my own life. Even corners of my own house seemed foreign, with kitchen shelves rearranged outside of my preference. My routine dissolved entirely. I forgot basic instincts — like closing the trunk after picking up my dry cleaning — only realizing my mistake after pulling over on the freeway, clothes coated in road dust.

One friend offered a parasite cleanse. Others sent wine and flowers. A birthday massage at the Montage, meant to ease the knots in my back and neck, left me worse off, releasing a year’s worth of tension and triggering a three-day migraine so severe I couldn’t eat, write, or even crack open the preordered copy of Didion & Babitz on my nightstand. Instead, I scrolled through my phone in a fog until an Instagram alert jolted me out of it: Congratulations On A Billion Views.

In just 90 days, my account had reached over a billion people — a number so absurd, my brain outright rejected it. Ironically, this was part of a conversation I’d had recently with a friend about Elon Musk’s fortune. She explained that numbers beyond a million are incomprehensible to the human mind. Now, here I was, proving her theory in real time, with a metric tracking reach, not wealth — unable to digest that magnitude mentally.

A billion views in 9 weeks. MSM, let that sink in.

With growing online visibility comes reward, yes, but also seething attack. At my new Laguna office — a rustic mid-century gem where sunlight warms the deck and the ocean sparkles through the front window — city officials arrived one evening just as we were setting up to go live after “dozens of complaints” accused me of running an illegal business. Mike explained that because I work in politics, I deal with plenty of incensed haters. After a brief inspection, they left without issuing a citation. Later, my assistant traced the visit to an online hate thread where coordinated efforts to disrupt my work had taken root. In a separate thread, different strangers wished unwanted pregnancies on my oldest son so my unconceived grandchildren could be aborted by future liberal partners he might pursue in NYC.

The depths of this obsession — this sick fixation with tearing me and those like me down — I still don’t understand. Compared to other online commentators, I’m not nearly as brash or controversial. But this is the reality of amplified messaging in a modern viral era, especially when it comes to abandoning the Left to defend the Right. It’s a loaded paradox: the more you grow, the louder (and crueler) the backlash.

I remind myself that Anthony Bourdain saw mass approval as an instant turn-off. Elon Musk recently called the need to be liked a “character flaw.” I don’t need to be liked — I just need the work to matter more than the noise. And so far, that’s working.

RFK Jr.’s nomination as Secretary of Health and Human Services last week felt substantial — symbolic of a turning tide. For his supporters, it was hard-fought validation: a man once censored and ridiculed by the media now poised to dismantle the very systems that sought to discredit him. Watching the announcement, I couldn’t help but think, “He’s exactly where he belongs.” Nineteen years of prayer finally answered. And now, hopefully, our children will reap the benefits. It was an emotional day.

Driving down PCH, stuck in traffic and fighting tears as the news came in, I was reminded of past chaos — juggling breaking news on the go, navigating carpool drop-offs and coastal stoplights during the Depp trial when it was just me doing it all. I was a menace on the road back then, but those frenzied moments always seemed to lead me to new points of clarity.

And yet, here we are now. Turns out, there is no post-election lull. Invitations continue to pour in and my end-of-year calendar is already packed with new and unique opportunities I didn’t foresee. The unexpected, I suppose, is here to stay.

That post-election chaotic energy spilled over into last week’s cable viewing, which touted old-fashioned fighting as must-watch late-night entertainment. First, with the Tyson/Paul fight — a sad spectacle that seemed engineered to end Tyson’s reign. He walked out defeated, bare-assed as he exited the frame (thanks Netflix), dismantled by a loudmouth Disney star, with defenses that looked as if they belonged to someone else. Legs of lead. What was that about? This wasn’t the Tyson we grew up with. Nor the Tyson we were rooting for.

Was it all fake? Skepticism started beforehand, with rumors of a “scripted” fight.

“A fake script for Friday night’s bout between Mike Tyson and Jake Paul went viral on social media, sending boxing fans into a frenzy one year after Paul was involved in another controversy for a fake script — according to The Daily Star — ahead of his fight with Tyson Fury.”

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Paul encountered a similar saga in February 2023 before his fight with Fury when former UFC fighter Mike Perry posted what appeared to resemble a script on social media detailing how the bout would unfold. Promoters later told The Sun the document was fake, before Fury defeated Paul by split decision, which wasn’t included in the alleged script.

The much-hyped showdown between 58-year-old Mike Tyson and internet provocateur Jake Paul was streamed by 60 million households on Netflix, proving (yet again) that orchestrated spectacle sells. After eight two-minute rounds, Jake walked away with the win, scoring a unanimous decision from the judges. Jake threw 278 punches and landed 78, while Tyson managed only 97 punches, landing just 18. Spectators on the internet were convinced it was all a ruse.

Magic Johnson called it “just sad.” He wrote on X, “I cut it off because I couldn’t watch anymore. It’s sad to see Mike Tyson like this because I went to every Tyson fight. This fight tonight was not great for boxing.”

Other media reactions flooded in immediately. Piers Morgan chimed in on X, declaring, “Prime @MikeTyson would have destroyed @jakepaul in 90 seconds. A 58-year-old Tyson went 8 rounds against a much fitter and very capable boxer half his age. Mock him all you like, but Mike’s got the heart of a lion, balls of steel, and will always be an absolute legend.”

Jake, to his credit, showed respect: “Who mocked him? He’s a f–king beast. All respect to the Baddest Ever. It was an honor to share the ring with him @MikeTyson.” Even Tyson himself weighed in, posting, “This is one of those situations when you lost but still won.”

Still, the payday raised eyebrows. Jake reportedly earned $40 million for the fight, while Tyson walked away with $20 million. The massive payouts sparked debate over whether the fight was legitimate competition or just another flashy exhibition.

Joe Rogan summed up the anticipation and letdown best. Before the fight, he posted: “I’m getting ready to watch this Tyson vs Jake Paul fight like I’m watching someone cast a spell that I hope actually works. And I don’t really believe in magic. But I want to believe.” Post-fight, his verdict was simple: “Magic isn’t real.”

Hours after, the internet erupted, accusing the fight of being an orchestrated humiliation — a $20 million setup.

Then came the UFC event on Saturday night, framed as a MAGA off-duty flaunt fest. Trump’s newly crowned elite entered the arena and filled the front row section: Tulsi Gabbard, Mike Johnson, RFK Jr., Dana White, Elon Musk, Kid Rock — all posing for selfies throughout the evening like starstruck teenage fans fawning over one another. Don Jr. set the tone earlier with a photo of him, his oldest son, and RFK Jr. boarding Trump Force One.

Vivek’s wife couldn’t stop yawning. Elon, either.

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What followed (in spite of obvious exhaustion) was a visual bro fest that unfolded on live TV: fist bumps under flashing lights, capped by RFK Jr. sitting on the plane at a table after the fight with Trump and Don Jr., looking noticeably uncomfortable, poised to devour two Big Macs, fries, and a Coke.

Now, I know I’m in the minority with my critique, but I’ll do it anyway. I thought it hovered oddly between camaraderie and fraternity hazing. I honestly feared Bobby was going to crush a Diet Coke can on his forehead in subsequent slides — he looked like some kind of health food hostage wanting to impress the cool kids by caving to their greasy junk food vices.

I knew the image was coming. But I fell asleep after Don Jr. teased, “Wait until you see us with 3 a.m. McDonald’s.”

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The Burger King

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As much as I appreciate a viral meme edged with satire, I couldn’t help but cringe a little when I woke up to it posted. Even for me — someone who unapologetically champions the return of brazen masculinity — the whole thing felt a bit too “bro-ish” for my liking. I suppose I was taken off guard by RFK being the subject of a Happy Meal hazing. I envisioned him injecting his own ethos into the MAGA fold, not surrendering instantly to theirs. They could certainly use some lessons in refined manners, and less aggression in insults. Sure, it's a photo meant as a joke, and the internet loved it. But it also signals a subtle surrender that made me slightly uneasy: smile for the camera, Bobby. Eat the Big Mac. Show you’re one of us.

Admittedly though, I have a bone to pick. My complaint now is the same as it was six months ago when asked what MAGA could do better: appeal to women, my reply every time. For months, I watched Trump and Kennedy court the podcast bros that none of the women in my circle tune into. They don’t have time to give away three hours of their day to men circuitously dissecting politics.

That’s where my daily story slides came in. After their kids were in bed, they could sit alone as an end of day luxury and click through 20-30 minutes of story slides to get informed and feel included. But it was never really an online focus for either campaign. In fact, it’s one thing Harris did consistently better — making women feel included.

This same gripe came to the forefront during election night when Danica Patrick posted a complaint on X that ended up a headline on Daily Mail. She had been with Trump on his plane earlier that morning and wondered why neither of us were included at the Mar-A-Lago viewing party when other (less followed) male media counterparts were. She had just finished up a week-long tour for Trump; I had just wrapped a year’s worth of flattering coverage. The result was ugly content. Updates, mostly from media guys on-site, had bad lighting and uninspiring details. We saw countless shots of Musk, Trump, and Dana White at a shared table on their phones. Yet no one honed in on the moment when Trump sidestepped a crowd to kiss Marla Maples on the cheek — a scene I would have spotlighted with Scorsese level cinematic style and affection.

This isn’t to say I’m the only one who can capture these moments. This isn’t me bitter over failed inclusion. I’d just take any woman’s POV over the majority of what’s out there. Haven’t we seen enough of Russell Brand ranting on stage about politics in a country he doesn’t inhabit, baptizing people in rivers in his underwear on his days off?

Aside from Tulsi, positioned now as MAGA’s token “guy’s girl,” the UFC scene was overwhelmingly directed to impress dudes. She held her own of course, but the optics were unmistakable. In the group shot, she was on the far edge of the frame, disproportionately so — a detail no woman behind the camera would’ve let slide. If anyone in the group is going to be hard to see, let it be one of the guys in overly stiff suits. Or Kid Rock, for God’s sake (who we’ve also seen and heard enough from).

The thing is, optics matter. They shape public perception. And in this early stage of shifting power dynamics, details count. MAGA, it seems, is still struggling to figure out how to incorporate women’s interests. In addition to fight club theatrics, we had Melissa Rein Lively making a loud display online last week, mocking conservative female loyalists: manically running around Palm Beach, chasing the role of press secretary with overly aggressive veneers, silicone, and expletives — all part of a successful PR stunt, she claims. But either way, not a great look for a new era of conservatism.

But I’m vain this way. If I’m going to be part of any party, I want it to look and feel a certain way. The road ahead demands balance — between visibility and privacy, unity and individuality. The billion views are a reminder of what’s possible. The resistance is a reminder of why it matters.

I do believe we voted the right guys (and gals) into office. Now it’s time to hold them accountable on the sidelines, starting with online visuals. I’m hoping the upcoming weeks are a bit more inspiring — mentally and aesthetically.

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