to take off after Trump, who had been leading the effort to de-legitimize him by questioning his place of birth. Earlier in the week, the State of Hawaii had released Obama’s “long-form” birth certificate, confirming, if anyone believed otherwise, that he had been born in a hospital in Honolulu. In his speech, Obama joked that he was now ready to go “a step further” and release his “birth video.” What the crowd at the Hilton saw was a clip from
The Lion King.
Obama knew that Trump was in the ballroom, seated at a table hosted by the
Washington Post
Company. The onslaught was prolonged.
“I know that he’s taken some flack lately—no one is prouder to put this birth-certificate matter to rest than The Donald,” Obama said, as many hundreds of eyes turned to Trump. “And that’s because he can finally get back to focusing on the issues that matter, like: Did we fake the moon landing? What really happened in Roswell? And where are Biggie and Tupac?”
Trump’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his jaw, pursed his lips. He was intensely displeased. Not for him the custom of smiling and taking it on the chin. This was easy to see. (I was just a couple of tables away.)
“All kidding aside, obviously, we all know about your credentials and breadth of experience,” Obama said, thrusting the shiv deeper. “For example—no, seriously—just recently, in an episode of
Celebrity Apprentice,
at the steakhouse the men’s cooking team did not impress the judges from Omaha Steaks. And there was a lot of blame to go around. But you, Mr. Trump, recognized that the real problem was a lack of leadership. So ultimately you didn’t blame Lil Jon or Meat Loaf. You fired Gary Busey. And these are the kinds of decisions that would keep me up at night. Well handled, sir!”
Seth Meyers, the comedian on duty that night, also came up with Trump material. His most memorable one-liner was: “Donald Trump has been saying he would run for President as a Republican. Which is surprising since I just assumed that he was running as a joke.”
Again, I cannot be sure that this was the decisive night that resentment and jealousy turned to determined planning. Trump has denied it. Besides, no one paid much attention. The Trump moment at the dinner was eclipsed within hours when Obama announced that a team of Navy SEALs had killed Osama bin Laden.
This election season is surely the most preposterous and disheartening that we have experienced in decades. And Donald Trump’s demagoguery, and his undeniable success in winning many more votes than anyone might have imagined, is the central reason. It is well worth going back to Mark Singer’s profile to experience what it was to observe and think about the man when the stakes were so much lower and he was little more than my beloved city’s semi-harmless buffoon.
—David Remnick
It’s the fall of 1996. I’ve been a staff writer at
The New Yorker
since 1974, I’ve worked for a number of editors, and at this point Tina Brown is the editor. Those proverbial tales of adversarial relationships between writers and editors?—I’ve managed to avoid all that. I like Tina. She and I have a clear working understanding. I’ve just spent four years writing a book that was supposed to have taken me a year and a half, during which I haven’t been available to write many pieces for the magazine. So our understanding is that in Tina’s office, in her desk, there is a special drawer. In that drawer is a jar. In that jar are my testicles.
One morning my phone rings—Tina: “Trump! Donald Trump! I’ve just had breakfast with him at the Plaza. You’re going to write a profile of him. You’re absolutely going to love him. He’s totally full of shit, you’ll love him! I’ve told him he’ll love you. You’re doing it!”
Which indicates that I am doing it.
I get to work. This takes several months. I go places with Trump. I try to understand his ways of doing business—the nuts and bolts,
The Lion King.
Obama knew that Trump was in the ballroom, seated at a table hosted by the
Washington Post
Company. The onslaught was prolonged.
“I know that he’s taken some flack lately—no one is prouder to put this birth-certificate matter to rest than The Donald,” Obama said, as many hundreds of eyes turned to Trump. “And that’s because he can finally get back to focusing on the issues that matter, like: Did we fake the moon landing? What really happened in Roswell? And where are Biggie and Tupac?”
Trump’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his jaw, pursed his lips. He was intensely displeased. Not for him the custom of smiling and taking it on the chin. This was easy to see. (I was just a couple of tables away.)
“All kidding aside, obviously, we all know about your credentials and breadth of experience,” Obama said, thrusting the shiv deeper. “For example—no, seriously—just recently, in an episode of
Celebrity Apprentice,
at the steakhouse the men’s cooking team did not impress the judges from Omaha Steaks. And there was a lot of blame to go around. But you, Mr. Trump, recognized that the real problem was a lack of leadership. So ultimately you didn’t blame Lil Jon or Meat Loaf. You fired Gary Busey. And these are the kinds of decisions that would keep me up at night. Well handled, sir!”
Seth Meyers, the comedian on duty that night, also came up with Trump material. His most memorable one-liner was: “Donald Trump has been saying he would run for President as a Republican. Which is surprising since I just assumed that he was running as a joke.”
Again, I cannot be sure that this was the decisive night that resentment and jealousy turned to determined planning. Trump has denied it. Besides, no one paid much attention. The Trump moment at the dinner was eclipsed within hours when Obama announced that a team of Navy SEALs had killed Osama bin Laden.
This election season is surely the most preposterous and disheartening that we have experienced in decades. And Donald Trump’s demagoguery, and his undeniable success in winning many more votes than anyone might have imagined, is the central reason. It is well worth going back to Mark Singer’s profile to experience what it was to observe and think about the man when the stakes were so much lower and he was little more than my beloved city’s semi-harmless buffoon.
—David Remnick
It’s the fall of 1996. I’ve been a staff writer at
The New Yorker
since 1974, I’ve worked for a number of editors, and at this point Tina Brown is the editor. Those proverbial tales of adversarial relationships between writers and editors?—I’ve managed to avoid all that. I like Tina. She and I have a clear working understanding. I’ve just spent four years writing a book that was supposed to have taken me a year and a half, during which I haven’t been available to write many pieces for the magazine. So our understanding is that in Tina’s office, in her desk, there is a special drawer. In that drawer is a jar. In that jar are my testicles.
One morning my phone rings—Tina: “Trump! Donald Trump! I’ve just had breakfast with him at the Plaza. You’re going to write a profile of him. You’re absolutely going to love him. He’s totally full of shit, you’ll love him! I’ve told him he’ll love you. You’re doing it!”
Which indicates that I am doing it.
I get to work. This takes several months. I go places with Trump. I try to understand his ways of doing business—the nuts and bolts,
Similar Books
