Agent Orange

The hum of the studio lighting at the Comedy Mothership provides a stark contrast to the gritty, asphalt-streaked memories of Dave Landau. Sitting across from Joe Rogan, Landau carries the weary but sharp energy of a man who has survived his own demolition. The conversation begins not with comedy, but with Detroit, a city that serves as a living metaphor for Landau’s own life—a place of grand architecture, sudden decay, and a slow, painful resurrection. As Landau adjusts his Shinola watch, he notes the irony of wearing a piece of luxury crafted in a city once known as the 'Paris of the Midwest,' now famous for five-hundred-dollar houses and urban farms that struggle to survive in crack-heavy neighborhoods. This setting serves as the foundation for a story about what happens when the structures we rely on, whether they are civic, familial, or biological, begin to crumble. The Rust and Resurrection of the Motor City The fall of Detroit is not just a historical footnote for Landau; it is the atmospheric pressure under which he was raised. He and Rogan discuss the mid-century peak of the city, when it was the third richest on the planet, before corporate decisions moved the lifeblood of the American Dream overseas. Landau recalls the tension of the United Auto Workers (UAW) strikes and the subsequent flight to Mexico, leaving behind a city built for seven million people with only a fraction remaining. The logistics of the modern city make no sense to the casual observer. High-end condos sit adjacent to abandoned husks of apartment buildings, and hipsters starting urban farms often find themselves at odds with a local population that has little interest in artisanal plums. This environment fostered a specific type of cynicism and resilience in Landau, an understanding that systems are fragile and that institutional loyalty—whether to a car company or a government—is often a one-way street. This disillusionment is deeply personal. Landau recounts the story of his father, a Vietnam War veteran who returned home only to be abandoned by the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA). His father contracted soft tissue sarcoma from Agent Orange exposure, a claim the government denied for decades. Landau describes the agonizing sight of his father, once a tough-as-nails baseball coach, going through life with a medical halo drilled into his skull, still trying to find the humor in the situation. The financial devastation of medical bills wiped out a four-million-dollar fortune, leaving the family with nothing while the VA argued over paperwork. This betrayal shaped Landau’s worldview, placing him firmly outside the traditional political spectrum. He views both the left and the right through a lens of skepticism, informed by a father who fought for a country that refused to pay for his funeral. The Chemical Maze: From SSRIs to the Golden Triangle The conversation shifts toward the internal architecture of the mind and the pharmaceutical interventions meant to stabilize it. Landau reveals he has been on Zoloft for a decade, a prescription he initially accepted after his mother’s suicide. His description of the withdrawal process—brain zaps, stuttering, and a sense of cognitive misfiring—highlights the hidden cost of long-term SSRI use. Rogan and Landau explore the 'dirty secret' of the connection between psychiatric drugs and mass shootings, a topic Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has vowed to investigate. They discuss how the pharmaceutical industry’s financial influence over the media prevents a genuine national conversation about whether these drugs, intended to help, are occasionally inducing the very violent impulses they are meant to suppress. For Landau, the struggle to wean off the medication is a fight to reclaim a brain that has been chemically tethered for a third of his life. This exploration of chemicals extends to the illicit market. Rogan and Landau trace the origins of the opioid crisis, from the Golden Triangle in Southeast Asia to the Sackler family and the Purdue Pharma marketing machine. They discuss how prohibition serves only to prop up organized crime, creating a vacuum filled by the cartels and fentanyl. Landau shares a chilling statistic: every eleven seconds, someone in America overdoses on fentanyl. He reflects on his own brush with the needle, describing the 'majestic' and 'calming' euphoria of heroin that lures users into a deadly commitment. He recalls a friend who died in his parents' kitchen, his head wedged between the fridge and the stove—a grim image that serves as a reminder of the drug’s ultimate price. The narrative is not one of moral failing, but of a systemic failure to address the human need for escape in a landscape of dwindling hope. Shadows of the Underworld and the Hustle Landau’s youth in Detroit was colored by the legends of the Purple Gang, a Jewish-Irish mob so ruthless that even Al Capone feared them. He recounts stories of bootleggers driving Model Ts across the frozen river to Canada, some of which still rest at the bottom of the Detroit River. This heritage of organized crime is woven into the city’s identity, from White Boy Rick to the corruption of Mayor Coleman Young. Landau’s own proximity to this world was often absurd. He tells the story of 'Water Dog,' a professional pool player and heroin addict who could run hundreds of balls with perfect accuracy while 'heroined out of his mind.' Rogan adds his own experiences from his days on NewsRadio, recalling how he nearly bought heroin in South Central LA just to help a desperate pool player get into a tournament. This 'hustle' mentality was a prerequisite for survival. Landau describes his early years as a series of arrests—thirteen in total—starting on the very day he got his driver's license. The story of his first arrest is a comedy of errors: a high-speed chase in a Buick Regal through a neighbor’s rose bushes, ending in a collision with an oak tree that sent a trunk full of family reunion supplies flying across the street. When he woke from the concussion, his father didn't offer a hug; he offered a second knockout punch. This period of 'wanting to be a thug' in the shadow of 8 Mile was a chaotic prelude to his eventually finding a more productive outlet for his energy. The transition from a cell to a stage was not immediate, but it was inevitable for someone whose primary coping mechanism was always a sharp tongue. The Turning Point: Finding the Light in Second City The climax of Landau’s narrative comes when he is institutionalized at a mental health facility. It was here, sharing a room with a teenager who believed he was a werewolf, that Landau hit a literal and figurative floor. After being attacked by his 'lycanthropic' roommate and witnessing the administration of 'booty juice' (a potent sedative used to quell violent patients), Landau realized that his life was a sequence of 'I'll never drink again' promises that he never intended to keep. The realization that he was a 'severe alcoholic' rather than just a troubled kid was the first step toward a genuine recovery. He spent forty-five days in rehab, an experience that finally broke the cycle of arrests and chemical dependency that had defined his teens and twenties. The resolution of Landau's story is found in the redemptive power of the arts. A high school teacher, recognizing his disruptive energy was actually a talent for performance, pointed him toward The Second City in Detroit. This recommendation changed the trajectory of his life. He began studying alongside future stars like Sam Richardson and Keegan-Michael Key, learning to channel his anger and depression into sketches and stand-up. Comedy became the lens through which he could process the trauma of his father’s death and his own brushes with the law. He moved from being the most arrested kid in the suburbs to a respected voice in the national comedy scene, eventually authoring his memoir, Party of One: A Fuzzy Memoir. The lesson learned from Landau’s journey is one of radical accountability mixed with an understanding of environmental influence. He reflects on how society often fails to identify 'comedic' behavior as a legitimate career path, instead labeling funny, defiant kids as losers. His survival is a testament to the fact that while genetics and geography can set the stage for tragedy, they do not have to write the final act. Today, Landau sits on the stage of the Mothership, not as a victim of Detroit or the VA, but as a master of his own narrative. His story serves as a trusted guide for anyone lost in the rust, proving that even a city—or a man—in total collapse can be rebuilt if the foundation remains solid.