Sean “Diddy” Combs (Pt. 1): A Nightclub Shooting, a Fatal Stampede, and the Cost of Doing Business
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Find a shoe for every you at your DSW store or DSW.com. This episode you're about to hear on Sean Combs was originally released in 2023 before the news of Sean Combs' recent federal indictment.

It was written and recorded not only before the indictment, which came in 2024, but also before the subsequent settlement with Cassie Ventura by Sean Combs and the eventual videotape detailing Sean Combs' abuse of Miss Ventura. This ditty episode was intended to be a story about Sean Combs' upbringing, the stampede that left nine people dead, the nightclub shooting, etc.,

but it has become an unintentional part one of what will be multiple Sean Diddy Combs episodes here in Disgraceland, detailing his story as it unfolds in relative real time. So here is that part one as it was originally released. Part two will drop on January 7th, 2024. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Sean "Diddy" Combs are insane. He was the promoter for a charity basketball game where nine people were crushed to death during a stampede. He allegedly delivered a savage beatdown to a record executive.

He fled the scene of a shooting at a Manhattan nightclub in the Lincoln Navigator that ran 11 red lights before it was pulled over by the NYPD. He was subsequently charged with illegal possession of a gun and bribery, charges that threatened to send him to prison for 15 years.

He did all these things while simultaneously building one of the most dominant empires in hip-hop, a record label and a brand that commanded top dollar and defined the commercial apex of the genre in the mid to late 1990s. And when it came to defining himself, the game-changing music mogul went by many names. Puff Daddy, Puffy, P. Diddy.

Personally, I'm partial to Diddy, so that's what I'm going to say, because Diddy made great music. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Sock Hop Bop MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Independent Women Part 1 by Destiny's Child.

And why would I play you that specific slice of "I bought it, cheese, could I afford it?" Because that was the number one song in America on January 29th, 2001. And that was the day that Sean "Diddy" Combs, one of the most powerful players in the game of hip-hop, went on trial for his involvement in a nightclub shooting that left three people injured.

On this episode, a stampede, a beatdown, a nightclub shooting. I bought it cheese and Sean Diddy Combs. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. $5,000 a day, every day. That's what Sean Diddy Combs has to pay Sting in perpetuity, forever.

Again, every single day, forever, Sean Diddy Combs has to pay Sting $5,000. $5,000 a day, every day, forever. Because in 1997, back when Diddy was still calling himself Puff Daddy, he used a sample of and the melody from Every Breath You Take, a song by the rock group The Police for his own song, I'll Be Missing You.

"Every Breath You Take" is one of the biggest songs of all time, and Diddy used it without getting permission from the songwriter, which, as the Beastie Boys can tell you, is an expensive way to do business.

The guy who wrote "Every Breath You Take," of course, is Sting, a guy who likes to be compensated not only for the songs he writes, but for when those songs are used by other artists. Which is why today and tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, Diddy wakes up, puts on his pants one leg at a time like the rest of us, and wires 5K to good old Gordo.

or however Diddy sends his money. Maybe Venmo's it, I don't know. But in all seriousness, I'm betting his management takes care of it. However it's done, $5,000 a day. So let's do the math. That's $35,000 a week, $150,000 a month, $1,825,000 a year. All because Diddy chose to sample first and ask questions later.

Hold up. I'm being told that Diddy said he was just joking when he threw out the $5,000 a day number on Twitter. So let's use another number, a number that Sting threw out there during an interview a few years back with my man Charlamagne Tha God. $2,000 a day. That's what Sting said it was. Two grand a day.

There have been 9,715 days between May 7th, 1997, the day the Puff Daddy single, I'll Be Missing You, was released, and today, December 12th, 2023. 9,715 days. Multiply that number by $2,000 a day, and even by Sting's more conservative estimate, he has earned $19,430,000 in the last 26 years from Diddy alone.

And you know who doesn't care? Diddy. It's the cost of doing business, the cost you gotta pay if you wanna be the boss. And as any successful boss knows, you gotta bet big to win big. Diddy is a music producer and a rapper, but he's a businessman first. And every move he makes, pardon the pun, is calculated to make him even richer. He has drive, determination, and swag. Three things that he got from his father, a father he never knew.

Melvin Combs, he was a hustler, bought kilos from original American gangster Frank Lucas and chopped them up with Willie Abraham's crew. Willie was a magnet for the feds. Melvin kept hustling under the watchful eyes of G-men, but at a certain point, you can only hustle so far. You can only go so deep. There's always a floor you hit. Even in the deep end, there's always a limit. And when you reach that limit, when you hit that floor, it can all end real quick.

Melvin's floor came at him fast, a speeding bullet, point blank, while he was sitting in a parked car in Harlem. That was 1972. Diddy was just three years old when his father was murdered. Even though he barely knew him, the memory of Melvin Combs inspired Diddy to be a good son. A son who worked harder, who made better choices. A son who was like his father in spirit, even if he didn't fall into the same line of work.

Diddy wasn't a hustler, at least not in the way his father would understand. He was an entrepreneur and an entertainer, but not just any entrepreneur and not just any entertainer. A music mogul like David Geffen, only bigger. Diddy didn't want to be Frank Lucas. Diddy wanted to be Frank Sinatra, the Black Sinatra. And if you're that big, you take risks. Comes with the territory.

He'd take melodies and songs from guys like Sting. The risk is worth it. The proof is in the numbers. The bottom line. By 1999, two years after Diddy released the Sting sampling song "I'll Be Missing You" in memory of his musical partner in crime, The Notorious B.I.G., Diddy's label, Bad Boy Records, was a juggernaut. $250 to $300 million a year in business, depending on who you asked. 400 employees.

Diddy's own worth was 35 mil. He had a clothing line, a chain of restaurants, a magazine for upscale urbanites, two Bentleys worth 300K each, and a pad in the Hamptons.

Go ask Frank Sinatra's ghost. He'll tell you. Two grand a day to guys like this is nothing. Chump change. The real money is in the wrists. It's the only way you get the huge payoff. Frankie knew wrists, and Frankie caught heat for some of those wrists. But old blue eyes never caught heat like this. Not like Diddy.

Frank Sinatra never hurtled himself into the backseat of a Lincoln Navigator around 3 in the morning. The sound of gunshots that had been fired inside a packed nightclub still ringing in his ears. Complete and total holy fuck panic. Abject confusion, outright terror, catching that heat like a cheap fluorescent burning bright above your head. December 27th, 1999, Midtown Manhattan.

As soon as Diddy was inside the SUV, he slammed his door shut and the driver mashed his foot on the gas pedal. The navigator tore down West 43rd. The driver had to swerve to avoid hitting a police cruiser with its dome light flashing. Diddy looked over at Jennifer Lopez sitting next to him, then to his driver and his bodyguard up front. The expressions on their faces told him this was very real. This was actually happening.

The Navigator jumped the curb, hugged a corner, and suddenly they were on 8th Avenue heading north. The tires squealed and the engine gargled as they picked up speed, and they blew past a red light, and then another, each one a blur. Just like what happened in the club was a blur. Diddy and Jayla sequestered well behind the velvet robe and VIP'd with Diddy's new protege, Shine. The kid wasn't Biggie, but then again, nobody was.

The music was loud, the champagne was popping. Some guy hovering on the outskirts of VIP was running his mouth. That was nothing new. Guys were always running their mouths. This mouth running turned into an argument though, or so it seemed. It was hard to tell at this hour, at this volume. The place was so loud you could hardly think. Not that anyone was thinking, especially not when the glint of gunmetal caught someone's eye and then the muzzle flash lit up the VIP corner like an M-80 in a shoebox.

The shots pierced the already deafening hum in the room. One blast, then another, and another. They fired off in no time. The sound of screams followed in an instant. The pulse of hysteria. Bodies pushing and shoving to make it through the eternity that stretched out in front of them in the exit. The door, the front door, just up ahead. A few more steps. Just keep moving. Just push on through.

That scene from the club played over and over in Diddy's head as the Lincoln Navigator ran another red light. Police sirens howled in the near distance. Diddy and J-Lo huddled in the back seat and feared the worst. What the hell had just happened? The fuck were they gonna do now? And where was Shine? The sirens were even closer now, and the road ahead was closing in on them, like they were back inside the club, fighting to push themselves out but coming up short, gasping for air.

The driver pulled the Navigator over to the side of the road, and within seconds, NYPD officers surrounded the vehicle. All four passengers rolled their windows down, and they were told to step outside. When they did, they were all frisked. J-Lo, Diddy, Diddy's driver, and Diddy's bodyguard. The cops didn't find anything, but then they searched the Navigator.

It was there, on the floor beneath one of the seats, that they found a handgun. And it was then that Diddy found the floor of his own personal deep end.

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Hey, discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly after-party bonus episode, where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after-party bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails, and DMs,

and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpod at gmail.com or at disgracelandpod on the socials, and join the conversation every Thursday in our after-party bonus episode.

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Having fun was child's play. Adults played to win. If you weren't winning, you were losing. In his business, the music business, the entertainment business was a game, and it most certainly was. Then you won that game, just like Patrick Ewing, or actually Derek Jeter is a better example. You worked hard, harder than everyone else playing that same game, and you never stopped.

1991. For budding concert promoter and A&R man Sean Diddy Combs, there was always work to be done. There was a venue to lock down, handbills to print, tickets to sell, and there were ears to bend, palms to grease, security to hire. Working not to work, but working to win. That was the only reason Sean Diddy Combs was in this game to begin with.

Working hard came naturally to Diddy, even back when he was just 21 years old, calling himself Puff Daddy. A quick study who shot up from intern to VP of A&R at Uptown Records, the place he first met a rapper by the name of The Notorious B.I.G. and helped shepherd Mary J. Blige to stardom. All the while working side hustles as time permitted. That hustle, that drive and determination, it was in his blood.

He knew the drill. A plan was necessary to win. Whether the game was his father's game, which was drugs, or the game was Diddy's game, which was music, the strategy was the same. Come up with a plan. Execute the plan. Learn from any mistakes so that the next time you don't just win again, you win more. But in December of 1991, the charity basketball game Diddy was helping to promote at City College in New York wasn't feeling like a win.

because nothing was going according to his plan. People arrived at the gymnasium in droves. Thousands of them. 5,000 to be exact. Problem was, the venue only held 2,700. They weren't there for our guy Diddy here. Few even knew who Diddy was at the time. They came for the A-list hip-hop celebrities participating in the ballgame. Boyz II Men, Run DMC, Big Daddy Kane,

People came regardless of whether or not they bought tickets. And the line stretched all the way down 138th Street. People standing out in the cold. The whole situation pissed them off.

Their anger grew as people began jumping the line, many of them without tickets. People holding tickets began to panic, thinking that the event had been oversold, that just because they had a ticket in their hand didn't mean that they'd be able to get in. So tensions rose, blood boiled, and the orderly line that had held together for over an hour began to fall apart. People argued, they pushed and shoved, and eventually this mass of pissed off, impatient people said, "'Fuck it,' and stormed the building."

They tore the front doors right off their hinges. A crush of human bodies entered the lobby like a river pouring from a busted dam. Diddy and his co-promoter, Heavy D, of Heavy D and the Boys, thought they had planned properly for this event. 60 plus NYPD officers out on the sidewalk, another 40 private security guards on detail inside the venue, and 20 members of the Nation of Islam known as the X-Men who were tasked with watching the lobby.

The space between the outside doors and the inside door is at the bottom of a stairway that entered the gymnasium. But no number of cops or guards or X-Men could make sense of the blur of bodies running for the gym. They swarmed through the lobby and then down the stairs. The doors at the bottom of the stairs that led into the gym were shut tight, and those doors only opened inward. So the crush of human bodies at the bottom of the stairs made it impossible for anyone to actually get inside the gym where the game was about to begin.

Bodies squeezed up against other bodies, flesh on flesh. There was nowhere to go. No moving forward, no moving backward. People were trapped, screaming, chests compressed, unable to breathe. They gasped for air. Some fainted. Bodies hit the floor, trampled underfoot. By the time the crush eased up enough to allow the doors to swing open, nine people had been trampled or crushed to death, and another 29 were injured.

And with New York's collective blame being leveled on him, the promoter, Diddy's burgeoning career in the entertainment business was in serious jeopardy. He didn't need the families of the victims to tell him this. He went to bed every night and woke up every morning with the City College stampede on his mind. It was something he had to deal with. A weight, a burden, a tragic mistake from which he had to learn.

He also knew that whatever hardship or pain he experienced as a result of the tragedy paled in comparison to the pain that the families were continuing to go through. A pain from which there was no way out. Through. That was the only way out. Through. Diddy may have inherited his strong work ethic from his father, but he was not Melvin Combs. He wasn't going to sit here and wait for the inevitable bullet. He was going to navigate away from failure and toward the next success.

His bosses at Uptown Records didn't blame him for City College. They knew that he had planned to the best of his ability and despite those best laid plans, shit happened. No, what concerned Uptown as the years went by was Diddy's full throttle drive. He was a threat. So in 1993, he was fired. Diddy chalked it up as another lesson, not as a loss.

He walked and took his friend, the notorious B.I.G., with him. Biggie was all he had. He didn't even have an office. He formed Bad Boy out of his mom's house in Mount Vernon. In the next year, 1994, Bad Boy released Biggie's debut album, executive produced by Diddy. "Ready to Die" had an undeniably slick commercial sound matched with raw lyrical prowess.

and the combination did gangbusters business. Certified gold in just two months. Overnight, the Midas touch of Diddy and Bad Boy were in high demand. Diddy didn't sit back and count the green. He kept working a minimum of 14 hours a day, some days as much as 20 hours. Bet big to win big. It wasn't just about the money. It was about the hustle.

Music vet Clive Davis knew this. Clive himself was a stone-cold music biz champ who, like Diddy, made it his goal to win despite being fired by CBS Records, and who also formed his own label in the wake of that rejection. Clive's label, Arista Records, was on an upswing in the 90s, cementing a partnership with LaFace Records to corner the urban music market.

But Clive wanted more, an even bigger win. He wanted Diddy and Bad Boy, and it would cost him. 40 million up, Clive didn't hesitate. Three years later, after Biggie's life after death double LP, after Diddy's debut, after the huge success of I'll Be Missing You, Diddy doubled down. He went to Clive and asked for another 50 million advance on future earnings. Clive paid, and Diddy went to work.

The next year, 1999, six years after he was fired from Uptown and eight years after the City College stampede deep into the holiday season on December 27th, Diddy was still working. And he was working hard, but not on concert promotion, not on music production, not on mergers and acquisitions. He was working the room.

Holding court in the VIP section of Club New York in midtown Manhattan, as the music pounded, bodies grinded on the dance floor and champagne flowed. J-Lo on his arm, Protégé shined by his side, and Benjamins in the bank. But things were changing. The new millennium was on the horizon. The notorious B.I.G. was dead, and Diddy was a cheeseball hack. At least, that's what people were saying.

His second solo album, Forever, did well on the charts, but laid bare the fact that Diddy's strengths weren't the same strengths possessed by his close confidant, Biggie Smalls, rest in peace. Diddy read all about it and heard all about it too. In the papers, the press, and out in the streets, in the club. All the love and all the hate. All the accolades and all the trash talk. Even here, in a space that should have been safe. A space cordoned off for winners only.

It was like Big said, man. Mo' money, mo' problems. Problems like this fucking guy over here picking a fight just because Diddy was Diddy. But why? Because Diddy worked? Because he made money? Because he was a quote, cheeseball hack? It was all confusing.

So was what happened next. The guns coming out, the shots ringing loud, one woman screaming as blood spurted from her nose. The smoke from a 9mm spiraled into the air and caught the light of a strobe. There was no time to think, only time to react, to move, to work. And right now, working meant heading for the nearest exit and praying to God

God that whatever just happened, it was a simple mistake that could be explained and overcome on this long and bumpy road to victory. We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

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The line of hopeful spectators standing outside the state Supreme Court in Manhattan wasn't moving. Rubberneckers, eager to snag one of the few remaining seats in the courtroom's gallery, were beginning to realize that they had little chance of that happening. Inside, the courtroom was packed with people, all of them focused on one man straight ahead. Diddy shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the defense's desk, nerves at ten but otherwise dressed to the nines.

custom suit, necktie, and cufflinks as slick and shiny as one of his signature char-topping beats. The charges before him were serious. Four counts of illegal possession of a gun, one count of bribery. The consequences for those charges were equally dire. Fifteen years in prison. Fifteen years in which he couldn't do the thing he lived to do, work.

Not working meant not making things, and not making things meant not delivering things. And not delivering things meant that Diddy would be in breach of Bad Boy's contract with Arista. And then everything would fall apart for real, and fall apart for good. Guys like Clive Davis would shake their heads and keep on winning. Sean Diddy Combs would lose. That is, if the jury found him guilty.

There were 60 witnesses in total at Diddy's trial for his involvement in the December 1999 shooting at Club New York. Many of them said they'd seen the same thing, a fight between a man and members of Diddy's entourage. Insults were traded. A wad of cash was tossed at Diddy's face as a sign of disrespect. Then the gunshots went off.

Three witnesses said they saw Diddy at the club with a gun that evening. Some, including the woman who was shot in the nose, said that Diddy and Shine were the ones who fired the weapons. The handgun that the NYPD found underneath the seat of the Lincoln Navigator, the car that ran 11 red lights as it carried J-Lo, Diddy, Diddy's bodyguard, and Diddy's driver away from the scene, that car that they found that gun in, that gun wasn't used in the shooting, but it wasn't a good look.

Neither was the other handgun the cops found in the middle of a Manhattan street. Old-fashioned police work had sussed that one out. Someone had tossed it from the navigator's window as it made its getaway. To the prosecution, where there was smoke, there was fire. Or rather, where there was a discarded handgun on the escape route that Diddy's navigator took, there was probable cause. And then, there was the case of Diddy's driver.

He testified that he watched Diddy stick a gun in his waistband as they entered the club that night. According to the prosecution, soon after they were taken into police custody, Diddy asked his driver to take the fall for the gun found in the Navigator in exchange for 50 grand and a diamond ring. Diddy denied it all. The weapon, the guilt, the bribery. He said, and I quote, I do not own a gun. I do not carry a gun.

And it was true. There was no hard evidence to put a gun in his hand that evening. He just had to stick to his story. Not just the story of what happened that night, but the story of his life. The story of a mogul, of a man who was David Geffen and then some. The story of the black Frank Sinatra, guilty by association only. The story of a hitmaker, an era definer, an empire builder. The story of a winner.

Diddy was convinced that he would be vindicated. But even so, even if he did beat the charges, he wouldn't be able to put this whole thing behind him. Not right away, anyway.

Just like the City College Stampede still wasn't behind him. That tragedy continued to haunt him not only in his mind, but in the court system, where a judge had recently ruled that he was in fact responsible for the events in December 1991 that led to the death of nine people and the families of those victims had named Diddy in multiple ongoing lawsuits.

Just like he was now being named in $1.4 billion worth of civil lawsuits filed by the victims of the City New York nightclub shooting. But Diddy had confidence. He had swag. He knew this was only a test. A test of his resilience. The cost of doing business. He would emerge victorious. Not because he could see into the future. Because he'd done this before. April 15th, 1999. Manhattan.

Interscope Records executive Steve Stout was rattled. He'd just hung up the phone in his office on the sixth floor. Or rather, the caller on the other end of the line hung up first. That caller was Diddy. And Diddy was pissed. Diddy was pissed before Stout even answered. He had a bone to pick with the Interscope exec.

He called while the music video for Nas' new single "Hate Me Now" was playing live on MTV for the first time. A video in which Diddy appeared crucified on a cross, a crowd of thorns on his head. After shooting the video and before its world premiere on television, Diddy had a change of heart. He felt the crucifixion scene was disrespectful and sacrilegious. Yeah, you think?

Diddy was one of the richest and most powerful music men in the world, true, but comparing himself to the Son of God was going a little too far, even for him. He asked Stout, not only president of Black Music at Interscope, but also Nas' manager, to cut the offending scene out of the video before it was beamed into the houses of millions of Americans.

Interscope, on the other hand, had spent an additional $14,000 just to put Diddy in the video in the first place. At this point, his personal convictions were beside the point. The video had been signed, sealed, and delivered. Plus, this was the music business. Controversy was part and parcel of the whole operation, so the cut never happened.

And when the video aired on MTV, which in 1999 was the unchallenged arbiter for all that was cool and commercially viable in music, Diddy, along with the rest of the country, watched himself strike a Jesus Christ pose like a real fucking herb. He couldn't believe it. What in the actual fuck?

What in the actual fuck was a question that may have been bouncing around Steve Stout's head after Diddy's phone call? He was still processing the whole thing when his phone rang again. This time, it was someone at Bad Boy. They told Stout to get ready. Diddy was on his way over, and he was pissed. According to Stout, minutes later, the door to his office flew open. Diddy allegedly walked in, posse in tow.

He didn't say a word. He just went straight up to where Stout was sitting at his desk and decked the Interscope Exec in the face. Diddy then grabbed Stout's office phone and proceeded to beat Stout with it, over and over. Each smash hit, driving Stout closer and closer to the ground until he was cowering on the floor, balled up in the fetal position, knees pulled to his stomach, his hands over his head.

One of the guys Diddy brought with him picked up a chair and slammed it down on Stout's battered body. Another kicked him over and over, and then it stopped. Stout could taste the blood in his mouth. His jaw and his head pounded with pain. He couldn't move his arm. He opened his eyes from down on the floor and watched as Diddy flipped over his desk, rallied his crew, and left.

The details of the alleged beatdown of Interscope executive Steve Stout by Sean Diddy Combs come from Steve Stout. Though Diddy turned himself in the next day, and though there was a security camera with footage of Diddy and his crew entering Interscope's six-floor offices, sources close to him denied the attack ever happened.

Diddy has never gone into details about what happened, but he later admitted that he apologized to Stout saying, "I basically just played myself. I let my emotions get the best of me and I just made a mistake." One reason Diddy didn't go into details is because just a few months later, he and Stout came to a gentleman's agreement in the ordeal which put $500,000 in Stout's pocket. For his role, Diddy was sentenced to anger management class for one day.

One day, a slap on the wrist, a minor loss. But in the eyes of a winner, it wasn't a loss at all. It was actually a win. It was all part of the game, a game of wrists. Diddy was nothing if not a successful boss. And as any good boss will tell you, bet big, win big.

March 16th, 2001, 6:10 PM. The judge asked the defendant to rise. Diddy stood up straight, his wrinkled suit telegraphing the wrong message.

that he was nervous and that he was defeated, which was far from the truth. Diddy had faith in himself. He had confidence in his ability to perform in this game, the game of business, the game of life. From an early age, he had been determined to change that game.

First with his good friend Christopher Wallace, aka The Notorious B.I.G., and then with his label and his own solo career. His so-called family, a collective of producers and MCs and singers who put their stamp on mid-to-late 90s hip-hop and popular culture. A stamp that left its mark on superstars from Mariah to Aretha, Busta Rhymes and LL Cool J and JLo and Mase.

He had the drive, the determination, and the swag of his father, Melvin Combs, a man who, despite being murdered when Diddy was only three, taught his son lessons about the deep end, about the floor, lessons about one's story, how you tell it, and how you stick to it.

And so, after a long seven weeks on trial, Diddy stood in front of the judge and a jury of his peers, not with fear, but with confidence. With the kind of faith that only an ingenious game player and a true game changer can possess. And with that confidence, he received the jury's verdict. The foreman spoke, not guilty. Not guilty of all four counts of illegal possession of a gun. Not guilty of one count of bribery.

But Diddy's protege, Shine, would not be so lucky. On the same day, he was found guilty of assault, reckless endangerment, and criminal possession of an illegal weapon. He was sentenced to 10 years in prison. In June 2011, a full decade after he was acquitted of all charges, Diddy settled the civil lawsuit with the three victims from the Club New York shooting.

According to the New York Post, which interviewed the nightclub's owner, the woman who was shot in the face received $1.8 million and the other two victims received $500,000 and 50,000 respectively. If those numbers are accurate, that's $2,350,000. That's more than Diddy paid to Interscope Steve Stout. And though actual numbers are not known, likely more than he paid for his responsibility in the City College Stampede back in 1991.

But all those numbers pale in comparison to the reported $2,000 a day he continues to dole out to sting for using every breath you take without permission. The $19,430,000 he has invested in that sample to this date. These payouts are all drops in the proverbial bucket. The real money, as David Geffen or Frank Sinatra or Diddy will tell you, is in the risks. It's the only way you get the huge payoff.

the only thing separating you from being a winner and from being a total disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com.

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