I Listened to, Then Watched Gavin Newsom Talk About His Book on ‘The Adam Friedland Show’ Podcast That Became Meme

Before the episode airs, my editor sends me the teaser clip. Gavin Newsom and Adam Friedland are both suited up — Gavin’s is paired with a crisp white button-down and Adam’s a t-shirt. They’re sitting in front of a backdrop of limewash navy blue walls and wood paneling, in midcentury modern orange chairs with a small white table between them. Both are “legscrossmaxxing like crazy,” as one YouTube commenter later quips.

“You’re hot, dude. You’re hot,” Adam says. He taps the book that’s sitting on the table. “Why did you write this book? Follow up — this is how I became the hottest, biggest pimp.”

For the uninitiated, Adam Friedland is a thirty-eight year old self-described “nightclub comedian,” who was the third-wheel co-host of the podcast “Cum Town” before spinning off and starting ‘The Adam Friedland Show’ in 2022.

‘Cum Town’ was apolitical, a variety comedy show with riffing dude energy. It was associated with the “dirtbag left” of the 2010s — the show’s hosts often went on Chapo Trap House and vice versa. The show threaded the needle: it cared about universal healthcare, but didn’t care about being politically correct. The goal was never political —as cohost Stavros Halkias said, “People were stupid enough to give us money, and we’re trapped doing it.” In 2022, the band broke up, and all three had an audience to direct toward new ventures. Adam now hosts a parody of a late-night talk show — still called a podcast, but now on YouTube as these things go these days — which former ‘Cum Town’ cohost Nick Mullen directed until 2025.

Presidential elections tend to demonstrate the power of a new medium. TV famously introduced the world to a sweaty Richard Nixon. The Huffington Post-era blogosphere nurtured the performed authenticity of a young Barack Obama, who curses us with his Spotify playlist to this day. Facebook, optimizing for outrage, surfaced the American id in Donald’s Trump 2016 victory. In 2024, Trump did it again, swanning around the welcoming tide pools of the podcast ecosystem that had sprung up around captive audiences during COVID. The night of his victory, longtime ally, U.F.C CEO Dana White, thanked the Nelk Boys, Theo Von, Bussin’ With the Boys and of course, “the mighty and powerful Joe Rogan.”

So when Gavin Newsom wants to not announce his run for the presidency, he goes on the show of the guy who used to host a podcast called ‘Cum Town.’ Presumably, Newsom is here to try and shore up the left flank of his party for the 2028 election. And Adam Friedland is “nice enough” to have him on.

Listening

I put in headphones and pull up the show on Apple podcasts–GOV. GAVIN NEWSOM Talks California, ICE, New Book–while fixing lunch. A few of Adam Friedland’s other recent guests, stylized in caps: JEFF GARLIN, JON FAVREAU, FKA TWIGS, and CLAVICULAR.

You listen to a podcast when you’re trying to kill some time and your hands are occupied; you go on a podcast when you have something to sell. The premise of this podcast appearance is that Gavin Newsom has written a memoir. It’s called Young Man in a Hurry: A Memoir of Discovery. To decode that in American political speak, this means he’s about to announce his bid for president.

Gavin Newsom has a reputation for being so slick he’d slip off a suede couch. The memoir seems to be his attempt to address this notion. He claims that this was actually all just a defensive posture. That he built up the man, “the gel,” “the blue suit,” “the politician,” as a protective shield. He just really, really wanted us to like him. And he understands now (I assume, has been advised by his political consultants) that to connect he has to tell us his “why.”

He gets personal, telling us about his struggles with dyslexia, and the death of his mother. He keeps reminding us that his memoir is after all, “A Memoir of Discovery.”

As Gavin understands it, his “why” is “fighting injustice.” He recasts his father, Bill Newsom, who grew up with the Getty family and ultimately became their consigliero, as “an activist judge.” (The Getty kids used to call his dad, Gavin’s grandpa, “Boss” Newsom, Gavin says. “So sick,” Adam squeals to someone off camera.) He invokes the spirits of his maternal grandparents — communists whose FBI files he read as research for the book. “It’s like that movie, Reds, right?” Adam asks. “My great-grandmother was a suffragette!” Gavin responds. In that response, I can hear Gavin’s cogs turning. He comes from a long line of “activists” who believed in “social justice.” This is his way of breadcrumbing who he assumes the audience is — invoking his family’s history to steal some lefty valor, while evading the right-wing accusations (“dirty communist”) that he knows will be coming. To seal the deal, he says he believes in “striking out against injustice” and the “spirit” of the ‘60s. This vague moral authority is his “why.” Honestly, it sounds like he’s convinced himself it is.

As a Professional Journalist (a nagging lady), I have to take a moment to remind you of Gavin Newsom’s record: He vetoed a bill that would regulate AI. He said he supported universal healthcare in California, but backpedaled; he’s taken hundreds of thousands of dollars from health insurance companies. This year, he’s signed a budget that will take healthcare away from undocumented Californians. His policies on encampments further criminalize homelessness and poverty. Since polling data has come out showing how support for Israel effectively killed Kamala Harris’s 2024 bid, Newsom denied taking money from AIPAC, even though he said in January that he was “crystal clear in my love for Israel.” Based on his actions, it seems Gavin Newsom cares about two things above all else: his image, and his donors. Sometimes they conflict.

This laundry list is a form of inoculation that I have, but don’t take for granted. It’s hard to hold onto any of this when listening, and as a person writing about this episode, I’m listening more intently than I imagine the average listener would be. Newsom skates from story to story, some land, some don’t. But it’s passive, and I have to struggle to give it my full attention. I can’t pause, like I would if I were reading an article to check a fact. I don’t even have the visual cues of the interviewer — a raised eyebrow, a snarled lip — to give me a sense of how it’s landing. A skilled political interviewer is trained to push back (and even this isn’t always enough; audio doesn’t lend itself well to examining arguments), but a podcast-host-slash-comedian is just trying to have a funny conversation. The medium personalizes, essentially allowing a listener to forget that they’re hearing an interview with the sitting governor of the state of California. I’m alone in a room with Governor Gavin Newsom, eating lunch, and Adam isn’t holding his feet to the fire.

Occasionally, something especially egregious pulls me out of it — like when Newsom says about the recent ICE killings, “No bullshit. Why aren’t people more pissed off? Why aren’t they more outraged? Why did they go to work the next day?” (Emphasis mine.) Or when he says, “The insider trading is gross, man.” (Stock-trading ban for members of Congress bill killer Nancy Pelosi is a champion of his, not to mention a longtime family friend.)

All Adam says in response is, “How long was Feinstein there, 700 years?” alluding to the fact that she was likely unfit to serve at the end of her career. Newsom pivots, ”It was hard to watch, man.”

It dawns on me listening that Newsom seems to think that any sort of consistent political vision is empty sloganeering — he frames Medicare for All, MAGA, and Lyndon B. Johnson’s Great Society as one and the same. In fact, I think he shares this lack of ideology with Trump, but Trump is savvy enough to pretend. He describes this year’s State of the Union Address as “derivative. The show is not as interesting.” On one level, he’s implying Trump’s artifice. On another, he wants to be the new bombshell who enters the villa.

On social media, Newsom positions himself as a fighter — “Punch a bully in the mouth,” he says to Adam. “Fight fire with fire.” The medium dictates his message. In a filter bubble world, his team knows that not everyone will see everything.

In many cultures, teasing is a love language. It’s hard not to read it that way here. Adam makes fun of Gavin for trying to do the “8 Mile thing” going back to his roots. He makes fun of him for pretending to be an uncool loser in school. “Why are you doing this?” Adam asks, “You’re doing like Jewish comedy with this book.” During the rapid-fire round, Adam asks, “Who is the best San Francisco football star who later played at USC and won the Heisman Trophy and then played for the Buffalo Bills, ran for 2,000 yards in one season, was in The Naked Gun, and then was falsely accused of—” Gavin starts laughing: “Man, I ain’t going to OJ.” Adam: “That’s your GOAT, bro.” I suppose this refers to a recent, odd incident where Newsom played Fortnite in an OJ skin. I’m normal, so I didn’t know what that meant until researching for this piece. The general thrust is this: Taking a roast in stride only ever makes someone look better.

Newsom’s playing the new media PR circuit — building national name recognition through appearances on any and every platform — Katie Couric’s show (now a podcast), as well as Ben Shapiro’s. On Newsom’s own podcast (Tagline, “It’s time to have honest discussions with people that agree AND disagree with us.”), he performs an openness to ideas, inviting the likes of Steve Bannon and the MeidasTouch guy. On social media, Newsom positions himself as a fighter — “Punch a bully in the mouth,” he says to Adam. “Fight fire with fire.” The medium dictates his message. In a filter bubble world, his team knows that not everyone will see everything.

Even if Newsom comes off as the weird dad who’s trying to fit in, that’s pretty much good enough. I’m willing to bet his team will count that as a win. Like Adam says, “The cooler guy wins every time,” and Newsom is starting from a serious deficit.

When Adam teases the last question (“What is the thing you, like, want to accomplish politically?”), Newsom groans, worrying aloud. That’s the one that gets politicians in trouble, he says. “I’m not doing yellow journalism,” Adam retorts. “I’m hanging out with my handsome new friend.”

Watching

It’s a lot easier to remember how I feel about Gavin Newsom when I queue up the video on YouTube. I have a constant visual cue now, at least. As my mom says, he looks like the mayor of Gotham City. 

Adam Friedland’s set is an intentional replica of “The Dick Cavett Show,” which ran from 1968 through the mid-90s. Adam’s early episodes have the grainy texture of VHS. He’s sitting with an iPad —his interview “prep” materials, I assume, loaded onto it.

The episode starts with extended rambling — actually, I don’t know if the episode ever starts, really. Audio, video, and television used to be processed on tape or film — a commodity that was expensive, and not to be wasted. Broadcast television and radio were beholden to the clock — the “behind the scene” moment where the set settled was the moment before a show broadcast live to millions of viewers and listeners. The moment before something started was expensive and constrained by the technology of distribution. It also suggested that something was happening that we couldn’t see. I’ve noticed in the digital age a fetish for the peek behind the curtain. It shows up in everything from movies, like Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) to TV shows, like the 2021 adaptation of Ingmar Bergman’s “Scenes from a Marriage.” The video podcast lingers on that moment before the cameras roll, before the broadcast casts. Arguably, the whole episode is the scene behind the scenes. And what it’s telling us is, hey, Gavin’s actually a person. He’s hanging. He wants to be in the dream blunt rotation (but no, never smoked weed, even at the Grateful Dead concert. An almost charming, anachronistic answer to the Presidential Question about the sesh). 

Adam starts whining, asking Newsom to make the presidential announcement on the pod so that he can clip it. “I was nice enough to have you on,” he says. “Even if you take it back, just say psych I’m not running for president. I’ll get a clip, it’ll go viral.” This is a joke. It’s laced with irony, a winking awareness of the desperation for views and securing the bag.

Arguably, the whole episode is the scene behind the scenes. And what it’s telling us is, hey, Gavin’s actually a person. He’s hanging. He wants to be in the dream blunt rotation (but no, never smoked weed, even at the Grateful Dead concert.)

Then the episode is punctuated by an ad, read by Adam. It’s for PrizePicks (“America’s #1 Sports Picks App”). PrizePicks operates in a legal grey area, but effectively allows for sports betting. It’s a gambling ad. 

The right-wing has been developing its alternative media apparatus for about three decades now — any savvy watcher of media can draw a line between the shock jocks of the ‘90s AM radio band and the Rogan of today. There’s a consistency to their brand — the outsider, not beholden to the gatekeeping corporate liberal media, and also, the entrepreneur who believes in capitalism and can comfortably build a name and amass a fortune. 

But any content creator on “the left” (namely, anyone within a spectrum of progressive politics who has a left-leaning audience) is in a contorted position: to monetize, a creator needs to be comfortable both with grabbing attention (say, by having on big name guests like politician Gavin Newsom) and selling that audience to advertisers in turn. Irony serves as a shield from an unsettling truth. Brace Belden of the “TrueAnon” podcast puts it best: “Everyone’s just a squirrel trying to get a nut.” I take this to mean that on the internet, everyone’s for sale and trying to sell you something. (Brace seems to be the most aware and self-lacerating about this fact, but TrueAnon does not do ads or let politicians go on their podcast.) I’d argue that irony serves as cover for internet personalities with left-leaning audiences, allowing them to perform their politics while still monetizing. 

And it trickles down into our sensibilities: why did I feel the need, for example, to cloak legitimate grievances about Gavin Newsom in irony earlier? Ironic distance begins to take on a life of its own, the sugar coating on the bitter pill that is the state of our world.

At best, we get a Ziwe, who’s actually really good at making a politician look like an asshole. And there’s a sense of schadenfreude in seeing them exposed. But it’s a blip on the radar, and unfortunately, her talents are also put to selling Crocs.

At worst, irony is a breeding ground for right-wing grift: Vice and Proud Boys co-founder Gavin McInnes cloaked his politics in irony for years before dropping the farce. Adam Friedland’s ex-girlfriend, Dasha Nekrasova, is one half of the Red Scare podcast duo, which has fully gone MAGA. In 2023, she declared, “extremism is sexy.” 

The lengths to which Adam Friedland has gone in the past to “get a nut” clearly doesn’t sit right with him. “I was on a moronic podcast, and I was a nebbishy heel,” he said to Norm Finkelstein last year on the pod, deadpan but with a layer of humorous desperation underneath. “People called me a bug, and I had to tell my parents that that’s how I made money.” But it’s arguably less corrosive than giving a likely candidate in the next U.S. presidential election a platform to hang out with us. 

Scrolling

The final way to engage with this episode is the way most people will probably encounter it — by scrolling on their feed of choice. Shortform videos are the discovery mechanism for podcasts, the way Adam Friedland and most creators these days find a captive audience to monetize. 

I follow “The Adam Friedland Show” on Instagram, and start getting his content in my feed. I check out the state of Newsom’s instagram. Nestled between his appearances on Katie Couric and his own podcast, he’s reposted the clips from his appearance on Adam’s show.

In one of the clips, Adam asks Gavin Newsom what he’d say to a guy from Dayton, Ohio, who thinks that California is a “poop-covered hobo-infested hellscape.” Newsom breathlessly breezes through his pre-prepared speech about the greatness of California — ”First and foremost, draws innovators and entrepreneursinAIRoboticsQuantum. It’s the most diverse state and we’re livingandadvancingtogetheracrossourdifferences. California’s daring across a spectrumofissuesonclimatechangesocialpolicyracialpoliciesandonsocialjustice.”   

In response, Friedland tells him that the average person wouldn’t understand any of what he just said. He tells him to just say that California is “mad nice” and has “hot girls.” 

“Why do I have political consultants,” Newsom responds, laughing stiltedly. I suppose the joke is that Newsom is a buttoned-up politician whose tie is choking him out, that he needs to come back down to earth, and he’s clearly too stupid to understand how to do that on his own. But I don’t know where the line between joke and reality is anymore.

I start thinking about political media as a spiral: Newsom writes a book to do a podcast interview that gets clipped, circulated, and analyzed. All of this generates more content to circulate, more takes on social media that cycle on and on. The feed is a spiral unbound by time and space, shattering and fragmenting our conceptions of joke and non joke, real and unreal. The culture jamming of the ‘90s — subverting mass media to comment about our capitalist culture — is a futile effort. We are in the era of post-meaning. Everything is meme. Everything is nihilism. The effects are unknowable, but we’ve reached full saturation. But out of the digital primordial soup, something always coheres. We just can’t be sure what that is yet.