{"id":115046,"date":"2024-08-19T17:05:15","date_gmt":"2024-08-19T15:05:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/?p=115046"},"modified":"2024-08-17T21:10:58","modified_gmt":"2024-08-17T19:10:58","slug":"18-05-96","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/?p=115046","title":{"rendered":"It\u2019s All Over Now, Goodnight Reality star turned ex-President Donald Trump makes his last stand at the RNC in Milwaukee"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>It\u2019s All Over Now, Goodnight
\nReality star turned ex-President Donald Trump makes his last stand at the RNC in Milwaukee<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/h5>\n

Jeff Weiss<\/strong> & <\/span>Meaghan Garvey <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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Reality star turned ex-President Donald Trump makes his last stand at the RNC in Milwaukee<\/strong><\/h4>\n<\/div>\n

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\nScott Olson\/Getty Images<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

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It\u2019s gonna be a shit show. You can feel it in the air,\u201d said the cop from San Jose. He and his partner had been trying to act all hard-boiled, demurring when I asked what exactly brought them here. But here we were at Wolski\u2019s, the 116-year-old tavern aglow in brothel red and hung with only slightly more American flags than normal, with shots of Jager before us. It was the fellows\u2019 last night off before a week of 16-hour days patrolling the conference grounds, and soon enough the shorter of the two was spilling all his beans\u2014his divorce, his beat-style travels to most all the 50 states, and how a long career in tech had led him to the wacky world of small-time law enforcement. \u201cAny corner in this city, I could point out all the agents,\u201d he bragged, dragging with gusto from a borrowed cigarette. \u201cIt\u2019s all in the mustache.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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An evening storm had washed away the casual drinkers\u2014bright-eyed videographers, newscasters from D.C.\u2014and left an electric mix of slurring cops and Wolski\u2019s regulars, the latter of whom I followed to the dripping patio for some key bumps of Milwaukee\u2019s finest cocaine. It isn\u2019t in my custom to snort strange table drugs, but these weren\u2019t normal times. Besides, I was dead set on earning the famous \u201cI Closed Wolski\u2019s\u201d sticker, the likes of which an enterprising soldier had once slapped on Saddam\u2019s vacant throne, as pictured in a photo near the bathroom.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Now a rousing debate had sprung out among the backyard smokers as to what had really<\/em> happened yesterday at the Trump rally when a bullet from some three-named yahoo whistled just west of its target. Allegedly<\/em>, of course.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cMost staged shit I\u2019ve ever seen,\u201d sputtered a regular at the patio\u2019s far end. \u201cYou guys are frickin\u2019 retarded if you think that shit was real.\u201d The key bump crew roared in dispute\u2014the guy\u2019s a hero<\/em>, ya fuggin\u2019 jagoff!<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Amped on Hamm\u2019s beer, mid stimulants and the flutter of some vaguely patriotic new psychosis, I cut in. \u201cBut real or fake\u2014it doesn\u2019t matter!<\/em> On a level of pure performance, it\u2019s way bigger than that. Love the guy or hate him, it\u2019s the image<\/em> that\u2019s what counts here. I mean, all the world\u2019s a stage \u2026\u201d The regulars stared dully, willing me to wrap it up. \u201cEither way, it\u2019s fucking gangster,\u201d I concluded, and they cheered as the dissenter rolled his eyes and slunk inside.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It was so strange, the way I\u2019d felt since I\u2019d seen the photo last night. The Secret Service agents, chaos on their downcast faces, set the foundation from which Trump rises in perfect triangulation, fist upheld so he appears to hoist the flag that soars above. The blood streaked across his face against the deep blue of the sky. All politics aside, it\u2019s an awe-inspiring image\u2014the ultimate collision, bogus as it may be, of MAGA fantasy projection with reality. \u201cA lot of people say it\u2019s the most iconic photo they\u2019ve ever seen,\u201d Trump told the New York Post<\/em> aboard his private plane to Milwaukee Sunday night. \u201cThey\u2019re right, and I didn\u2019t die. Usually you have to die to have an iconic picture.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I say \u201creality\u201d as if there\u2019s room for such a thing at a political convention, where power-hungry freaks become demented carnival barkers, broadcasting to the masses whichever temporary reality they deem most opportune. \u201cWhat they cannot control, of course, are the winds of fate,\u201d said Ken Layne, host of Desert Oracle radio, in an \u201cemergency prophecy\u201d episode late July. \u201cThey can plot, they can plan, but they, too, are at the mercy of the whims of the Great One, who is expressed in myriad ways through many gods and spirits and actions and intense waves of feelings that we call vibe shifts<\/em>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Such a shift had taken place on Saturday, July 13, and it seemed obvious to me that we had jumped to a new timeline: Trump should rightfully be dead, and yet he lived. Now all anyone could talk about that weekend was The Photo, the most consequential image this country had produced since 9\/11, I reckoned. But in less than two weeks\u2019 time it was practically forgotten, Trump\u2019s near-assassination already several cycles old, replaced by brand-new memes for a new false paradigm. \u2014MG<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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There\u2019s no swift and painless way to travel from Los Angeles to Milwaukee. About two years ago, the spooky discount airline that shares its name with a spooky discount Halloween emporium severed the last direct connections between the two cities. The reason was self-explanatory. There isn\u2019t exactly a robust migration of pilgrims wayfaring from the western Erewhon of false reality to what\u2019s been frequently anointed America\u2019s \u201cmost drunken city.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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This doesn\u2019t help to counter Donald Trump\u2019s description of Milwaukee as \u201chorrible.\u201d The 45th president and current favorite for America\u2019s Next Top Politician mostly made the claim because it\u2019s the bluest swath in a crucial swing state\u2014the only major city to have elected three socialist mayors. In 2020, nearly 70% of voters broke for Biden, which led to allegations that there were more votes counted than actual registered inhabitants of Milwaukee County. Calling it \u201chorrible\u201d was also an unsubtle allusion to its homicide rate, fourth-highest in the nation last year (if you trust the rankings from WalletHub, a crime-enamored personal finance company<\/a>).<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Milwaukee swelled to nearly 750,000 by the time that Dwight Eisenhower offered his rejected warning about the military-industrial complex. In a milkshake-safe 1950s time warp, a fictional Fonz and Richie Cunningham indulged in nonthreatening hijinks to the delight of post-Watergate audiences searching for poodle skirt nostalgia. On the Milwaukee riverwalk, a \u201cBronz Fonz\u201d still looms large, his thumbs pressed high to the leather greaser firmament above. You can\u2019t forget the Happy Days<\/em> spinoff, Laverne & Shirley,<\/em> where the namesake characters worked as bottle cap girls at the \u201cShotz\u201d brewing company. Both shows were filmed at Paramount Studios in Hollywood. By the time these sitcoms aired in the 1970s, Milwaukee\u2019s run as the beer capital of the world was finished. In the last census, only 577,000 residents remained.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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In 1959, Blatz sold out to Pabst, begetting a series of acquisitions and hostile takeovers. The onetime favorite of working-class Midwestern lummoxes became the beer of choice of the vice era; it\u2019s now headquartered in San Antonio and owned by a San Francisco private equity firm. The same fate befell Schlitz, a brand bought and sold so many times that the original recipe was lost and never recovered. It too is now controlled by Blue Ribbon Intermediate Holdings LLC, the owner of Comet Bleach, CorePower Yoga, and Mavi\u2019s Discount Tire. For the right price, you can live in condominiums built in the old factory that once employed the real Laverne and Shirley.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The lone Milwaukee holdout is Miller, founded by German \u00e9migr\u00e9 Frederick Miller in 1855, and since purchased by Phillip Morris, South African Breweries, and now MolsonCoors, a Canadian multinational with revenues of nearly $14 billion annually. Last year, the median household income in Milwaukee was a shade under $50,000.<\/span><\/p>\n

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What they see is a massively popular folk phenomenon who continues to exist outside the parameters of polite society. An archetypical antihero who has fought federal and state prosecutions, survived an assassination, and never given a fuck.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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If not for the NL Central-leading Milwaukee Brewers and the panhellenic levitations of the Greek Freak, the city would be a complete afterthought. This isn\u2019t editorializing. This is an explanation for why you can fly nonstop from LAX to Bentonville, Tulsa, Des Moines, Huntsville, the capital of French Polynesia, and even Appleton, Wisconsin. But getting to Milwaukee requires a layover in Phoenix, Denver, Chicago, or in my instance, Las Vegas.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Vegas may have once been a neon mob hideout built to fleece delusional middle-American Babbits. But it\u2019s been decades since Ace Rothstein pointed out that \u201cthe big corporations took it all over \u2026 In the old days, dealers knew your name, what you drank, what you played. Today, it\u2019s like checking into an airport.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The presidential nominee of the Grand Old Party owns and operates a 64-story gold-plated money bin just three miles from here. But there\u2019s no need to take the journey there to understand the extent of reality fatigue. It\u2019s right here at the casino disguised as an airport. My eyes squint as I stride past thousands of slots greedily occupied by hypnotized tourists, who greasily slide credit cards down magnetic strips attached to rotating fluorescent wheels spitting out animated portraits of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Ulysses Grant, and Benjamin Franklin.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The plan is to meet Meaghan at Wolski\u2019s, a 116-year-old bar currently filled with Republicans, journalists, locals, and federales. She texts me that it \u201cfeels like fucking Saigon in 1968.\u201d But this is America in 2024, so the flight keeps getting delayed.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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When I arrive in the early hours of the morning, the Milwaukee airport is a geek show of dispirited journalists, preening delegates in their Polizei <\/em>blue wool suits, and other stragglers. By the time I reach Wolski\u2019s, the madness has mostly subsided. The G-men have gone home. The few left are the stalwarts drinking at 1:34 a.m. as Sunday bleeds into Monday morning. Admirable dead-enders offering mild respect for my fortitude in showing up to help close a bar with airport luggage in tow.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Wolski\u2019s is located inside a wood-frame house on Pulaski Street, which sounds like a stereotypical Milwaukee street name that I just made up. It looks like it used to house a dry goods store, which it probably did. It\u2019s the type of place that looks like the last verse of a Bruce Springsteen song. For now, there\u2019s only enough time to slam a double whiskey and soda, and briefly admire this mighty shrine to midcentury liver murder. The bartenders apologize for having to toss us at 2.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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On our way out, we\u2019re handed the famous \u201cI Closed Wolski\u201d stickers, and step into an Uber steered by a 60-something-year-old Black woman named Janice. As soon as she starts driving, she starts commenting on Trump\u2019s assassination attempt.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIt was staged,\u201d she says with certainty, wearing a blue surgical mask. \u201cThat was fake blood. You can tell.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The country station whines softly from the radio of the Nissan Sentra. Something slick from the \u201990s.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cTrump just did this whole thing to make people feel bad and vote for him,\u201d Janice continues. \u201cIt ain\u2019t hard to see what really happened. It\u2019s just like how they do it in the movies.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We ask if she\u2019s been getting bizarre fares now that the RNC is in town.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cA lot of these people are \u2026 losers<\/em>,\u201d she lets loose a gentle rhythmic laugh. For all the conspiratorial chatter, she exudes a sweet Sunday dinners-at-grandma\u2019s energy. We pass by the red brick buildings and stolid bungalows of the lower east end of the city.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIt\u2019s 95 degrees and these fools is all suited up and stuffy \u2026 fucking losers,\u201d she says matter-of-factly, no animus involved. \u201cI told this dude, \u2018it\u2019s fucking hot, take that shit off. I got the air on. It\u2019s sweaty in here!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cLook at this shit,\u201d Janice interrupts herself, pointing to the concrete barriers and orange pylons patrolled by ominous-looking law enforcement who have erected an impenetrable security bivouac to make it impossible to come within 500 feet of delegates or political luminaries.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cThis is all new. Wasn\u2019t even up two days ago. They must\u2019ve added more because of the \u2018assassination,\u2019\u201d she takes her hands off the wheel to make air quotes. \u201cThis morning, I drove eight minutes just to go three blocks.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cDamn,\u201d I mutter.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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She points to an otherwise undistinguished spot alongside the intimidating wall.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cThat\u2019s where a guy got killed last week by security guards,\u201d Janice sighs. \u201cHe caused a ruckus, of course, but he was mentally retarded.<\/em> And I taught special ed for 21 years. You gotta be trained to know how to handle these people. You can\u2019t just be pulling a gun on \u2018em.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We both agree. It\u2019s late and I\u2019m tired, but Janice is still in the mood to talk, noting all the police keeping sentry in the witching hours. \u201cLook at all them police \u2013 all this for a man who staged his assassination. We better elect Biden,\u201d she says emphatically, exactly one week before the fading old man drops out of the race. \u201cThis country can\u2019t take another four years of that other man.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We pass by an electronic billboard claiming that 73% of Black murders are unsolved. It reads: \u201cSave Black Lives. Vote Republican!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI\u2019m going through my second life at the minute,\u201d she says, turning onto Mineral Street, where we\u2019re staying for the next four days.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I ask what else she does for a living.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI\u2019m an assistant principal, but when I retire, I\u2019m gonna\u2019 be a stripper. They\u2019re gonna call me \u2018yellow chocolate thunder!\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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She laughs uproariously like she\u2019s never confessed her secret dream before. I ask what her stripper song would be. Without even taking a moment to deliberate, she replies \u201cDanger.<\/a>\u201d \u2014JW<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

At first you can\u2019t ignore the thrum of military choppers circling the RNC grounds, bordered by the Milwaukee River down which Coast Guard vessels crawled with machine guns pointed out at mostly empty restaurants. But it\u2019s the same as anything else\u2014you get used to it quick. We\u2019d retrieved our passes in a dim and frigid corner of the Hyatt Regency, commemorated by a plaque as the site of the attempted assassination of Teddy Roosevelt in 1912, when a bullet from a crazed saloonkeeper lodged itself just short of the former president\u2019s lungs. \u201cNo one knows what\u2019s happening,\u201d shrugged the man at the press table. \u201cThe events of Saturday have made things, uhh, disorganized.\u201d We\u2019d submitted background checks for two periodical press passes. Inside the manila envelope were three.<\/span><\/div>\n
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The air outside the Thunderdome crackled with schizophrenia, each corner a shrieking blur of esoteric homemade signs and unhinged graphic tees. \u201cTURN OR BURN!\u201d exclaimed the T-shirt of a man pacing Wisconsin St. with the frenzied look of one who\u2019d been awake for several days. \u201cYou\u2019re crying to be loved!<\/em>\u201d he bellowed at a nearby heckler through a megaphone. \u201cAnd no one loves you the way you are. It\u2019s ugly! It\u2019s not lovely! It\u2019s not the way God created you, oh, no!\u201d The heckler stepped closer: \u201cAren\u2019t you supposed to love thy neighbor?\u201d \u201cThis IS<\/em> love!\u201d the man thundered. \u201cYou\u2019ve never been LOVED<\/em> this way before!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A senior citizen in cowboy boots waved from behind a sign that read \u201cFAKE MEDIA IS THE VIRUS.\u201d I waved back. I\u2019d pissed away 15 of my best years on \u201cX.com.\u201d Crackpots don\u2019t phase me. It was Monday, the first day of the convention, and the energy was UP<\/em> among the merry throng of men in too-small suits and women with too-big veneers, star-spangled Texas cowboys, 20-somethings dressed in seersucker as if ready to set sail on a Steamboat Willie cruise, and a few delegates who\u2019d raided the \u201c4th of July\u201d section of their local costume store: hoop-skirted cotillion gowns, polyester Uncle Sam sets, and an errant tricorn hat in the mode of Paul Revere. Inside and out of Fiserv Forum, where the evening\u2019s run of speeches had just begun, the sounds of \u201cWorking for the Weekend\u201d or \u201cReelin\u2019 in the Years\u201d sparked contagious outbreaks of Trump\u2019s signature move, the \u201cJerking off Two Guys at Once\u201d dance. Manic conviviality and patriotic drag gave the impression of a parallel universe\u2019s Burning Man, with toothy smiles and \u201cafter YOU!<\/em>\u201ds for all, except for me, whose black attire and neck tattoos clearly screamed \u201cANTIFA NARC.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I\u2019d course-correct tomorrow. For now, word on the street was that the sports bars across from the arena would remain open 24\/7 from now until Friday. I ordered a double Cuba libre and watched Fox News on the big screen.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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As for that third press pass\u2014one must always take advantage of special gifts from God. So I called Charlie, my ex with whom I\u2019d recently reconciled, and told him to get up to Milwaukee for the party of the year. He\u2019s one of those magic people who can sneak inside of anything\u2014strategic invisibility in tandem with louche charm. Even so, I had my doubts. To apply for our press passes, Jeff and I had given social security numbers, home addresses and what have you; our own badges came appended with our names and photos, where the third was blank and unidentified. \u201cNo way they\u2019ll let you through security,\u201d I warned Charlie by phone. \u201cI mean, dude, they tried to murder Trump three days ago! They\u2019re not messing around.\u201d \u201cC\u2019mon, you actually believe that?\u201d he scoffed. He\u2019d be there by Tuesday afternoon.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

American society had moved past the need for realism. As for the conspiracy theorists, they\u2019d begun to sound small-minded, as if the deep state\u2019s best-laid plans had anything on unadulterated cosmic chaos.\u2019<\/em><\/span>
\nKAMIL KRZACZYNSKI\/AFP via Getty Images<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

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Trump may have called Milwaukee a \u201chorrible city\u201d weeks before the convention, but I consider it among America\u2019s most underrated gems. This is especially true when it comes to bars and restaurants, where neoliberal gray-washing has yet to transform century-old neighborhood institutions into salad chains and fitness boutiques. Local businesses had been advised to prepare for a weeklong RNC rush, but instead downtown was dead, as were the neighborhoods around it. Zaffiro\u2019s, Milwaukee\u2019s finest pizzeria, was nearly empty when we arrived for a couple rounds of Blatzes and two cracker-thin pies. \u201cSir, you can\u2019t bring that in here,\u201d barked a cop from Indiana eyeing Charlie\u2019s box of leftovers as we approached the entrance to the convention grounds an hour later. \u201cOK,\u201d he said and walked on by. Of the several dozen officers hovering at the gate, no one bothered to check his pass, nor investigate the contents of the pizza box he carried. With his dirty black hair, wizard beard and dusty Minutemen jacket he\u2019d found back in Chicago, he looked like a member of al-Qaida on summer break. Needless to say, he was in.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We headed for the Baird Center, where past a limestone bust of Donald Trump, generously donated by Indiana Limestone Fabricators, were tables hawking golf shirts emblazoned with the Declaration of Independence, books that explained to children a brief history of the War of 1812, and a vast selection of patriotic plastic jewelry one might win for 15 tickets at an arcade (\u201cMADE IN CHINA\u201d). For $1,000 you could take home a guitar autographed by Lee Greenwood, writer of \u201cGod Bless the U.S.A.\u201d whose meet and greet was soon to begin nearby. But the line stretching past the bathrooms, which we instinctively joined, was for Marjorie Taylor Greene, here to sign $30 copies of her memoir, MTG<\/em>. The line snaked past a conference room where half a dozen worshippers swayed to the quavering rhythms of a frail singer at a keyboard: \u201cWorthy, worthy, worthy Lord, another glimpse of glory!\u201d Down the hallway strolled a woman I\u2019d have expected to meet hovering around the nitrous tank at Bonnaroo. Only here she\u2019d braided red, white, and blue ribbons into her thinning hair and bedazzled her bell bottoms with rhinestone MAGA flair.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cSir, you need to buy a book to get an autograph,\u201d huffed a frazzled security guard. \u201cBut I can\u2019t read,\u201d Charlie announced pitifully. \u201cI\u2019m dyslexic!\u201d MTG perked up, triceps flexed beneath her sundress. \u201cSergio? Sergio!\u201d she called out to a handler. \u201cThis dyslexic gentleman here just gave me a great idea. Let\u2019s make sure we get an audiobook in motion.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI do appreciate all the work you\u2019ve done for literacy,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cWill you sign my chest?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Two security guards closed in; she compromised and signed his forearm. Later that day, she would recount to Breitbart News a miracle she\u2019d witnessed in a video of Saturday\u2019s near-assassination: \u201cThe flag above, blown in the wind, got tied into what literally looked like an angel. Did you see that video? It was like an angel coming down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Tonight\u2019s lineup of speakers inside the Thunderdome was a real \u201cwho\u2019s who\u201d of stooges that had been defamed, degraded and dogged out by Trump over the years and were now lining up to kiss the ring. Former South Carolina Gov. Nikki Haley emerged draped in the silks of Mother Goose. \u201cI\u2019ll start by making one thing perfectly clear: Donald Trump has my strong endorsement, period,\u201d she winced, meanwhile shaking her head \u201cno\u201d as if her animal instincts were rebelling against her mind. The cameras panned to Trump, who neither clapped nor smiled. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to agree with Trump 100% of the time to vote for him\u2014take it from me!\u201d she soullessly bleated. \u201cWe agree on keeping America STRONG<\/em>. We agree on keeping America SAFE<\/em>. And we agree that Democrats have moved SO<\/em> far to the left that they\u2019re putting our freedoms in danger!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The theme for the night\u2019s speeches was \u201cMake America Safe Again,\u201d which explained the prurient sparkle in Sen. Ted Cruz\u2019s eye as he settled in for a campfire tale of RAPE AND MURDER<\/em>. \u201cEvery day Americans are dying\u2014MURDER! ASSAULT! RAPES!<\/em>\u2014by illegal immigrants that the Democrats have released!\u201d he yelped, sweat beading on his spray-tanned brow. \u201cTeenage girls and boys wearing colored wristbands are being sold into a life of SEX SLAVERY<\/em>\u2014and it\u2019s happening EVERY DAMN DAY!<\/em>\u201d Trembling with fever, he launched into story time: A woman is shot dead on a San Francisco pier; a nursing student goes for a jog, never to come home; a mother of five is RAPED AND MURDERED<\/em> in suburban Maryland; a girl of only 12\u2014you guessed it\u2014RAPED AND MURDERED<\/em> in Houston. \u201cEVERY DAMN DAY!<\/em>\u201d the crowd cheered all together. What\u2019s more, Cruz bellowed on, these RAPISTS AND MURDERS<\/em> from Mexico, Venezuela, and Guatemala are simply chomping at the bit to cast a vote for Sleepy Joe! \u201cSTOP BIDEN\u2019S BORDER BLOODBATH\u201d read 500 signs that rippled through the arena like amber waves of grain.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I watched this from the bar across from Fiserv Forum, officially demoralized. An hour before, Charlie and Jeff had slipped past the cow-eyed blonde checking passes to get down onto the convention floor. \u201cMa\u2019am? Ma\u2019am!<\/em> Your press pass doesn\u2019t allow you down there,\u201d she\u2019d scolded as I tried to slink on by. Was it the stupid Uncle Sam hat I\u2019d worn as camouflage? The satanic look of my tattoos? Either way, they\u2019d clocked me at each entrance I tried. I drained a double Dark \u2019n\u2019 Stormy, seething with envy at the selfies Charlie was sending live and direct from front row center, spitting distance from the podium, still toting the pizza box inside of which could be a pipe bomb, for all anyone knew.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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On TV behind the bar, Gov. Ron DeSantis had slithered to the stage, looking like a wax museum\u2019s botched attempt at Bradley Cooper. \u201cLet\u2019s be honest here: Biden is just a figurehead!\u201d he squawked, intoning through his nose. \u201cHe\u2019s a tool for imposing a leftist agenda on the American people!\u201d Flanked by his newly Chadded sons and their cyborgian life partners, Trump smirked from the stands. \u201cThey want to ban gas automobiles, eliminate Second Amendment rights, and impose GENDER IDEOLOGY<\/em> on everyone from our infantrymen to kindergarteners!\u201d DeSantis whimpered on, stirring from the crowd a hearty \u201cBOOOO!\u201d<\/em> \u201cThey mandated that you show proof of a COVID vaccine to go to a restaurant, but they opposed requiring proof of citizenship to cast a VOTE!<\/em> They can\u2019t even define what a WOMAN<\/em> is!\u201d The crowd went wild.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAnd what brings you here?\u201d asked a dread-headed bartender. I tipped the wilting brim of my Uncle Sam hat and slurred: \u201cI\u2019m an antifa super-soldier.\u201d Two sallow-skinned Young Republicans dressed like haunted dolls traded glances and changed seats. The bartender shrugged and slid me another double. He was halfway to his tip goal of $1,000 by morning. \u2014MG<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Truth be told, I\u2019m no longer entirely sold on the whole \u201cmoral arc of the universe bends toward justice\u201d thing. The last decade has awakened the possibility that we\u2019re stranded in an amnesiac samsara where liberation is just another form of numbly letting go. In the singularity of the future, all personal and professional decisions will be decided in algorithmic consultation with a handheld psychologist\/executive assistant manufactured by Amazon, Apple, Google, Meta, Tesla, or Open AI. After infants receive their first complimentary scan from the state, parents will be free to select the software that best conforms to their ideological underpinnings. All choices will come with a free subscription to Hulu.<\/span><\/div>\n
\n

We have collectively made some progress, though. After years of racialized demonization, moral panic, and Miley Cyrus auto-da-f\u00e9s, you can now proudly purchase a \u201cRepublicans Twerk Too\u201d tee at the Republican National Convention. The shirt features a red, white, and blue elephant in the bottom right corner, but the pachyderm isn\u2019t busting it wide open, which feels like a lost opportunity. We may not yet be at the point where Megan Thee Stallion is offered equal time at the Fiserv Forum, but this may be the closest that a divided nation can come together in 2024. On sale next to the shirts are stickers that read: \u201cWe the People got that WAP\u2014Wrong Ass President.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It\u2019s reductive to claim that Trump entirely purged the GOP of its meatloaf, milk, and miserliness roots. The grandchildren of the original American Gothic conservatives are mostly still here, give or take a Mitt or two. But Trump paired the desire to turn back the clock to 1955 and 1985 with the marketing of a modern-day Barnum. No consistent ideology motivates him more than sheer power and the desire to entertain his fans, inflict vengeance on his enemies, and enrich himself in the process. This just happens to be the recipe for success in internet culture, where the engagement Moloch demands the complete sacrifice of nuance and any sense of proportion.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

For the past several years, I\u2019ve become convinced that the three most quintessential Americans of this century are Britney Spears, Kanye West, and Donald Trump. In the \u201900s, the Louisiana pop star dictated and distilled the zeitgeist. \u201cThe American Dream since she was 17\u201d instantiated our repressed fantasies and inherent contradictions. During the Bush era, the last gasp of organized national religiosity, Britney split open the jugular vein of desire by writhing about being a \u201cSlave 4 U\u201d\u2014like Eve about to be evicted from the Garden of Eden. The pressure of existing in the eye of the entertainment-industrial cyclops eventually shattered Britney\u2014as it would to anyone not blessed with the sociopathy built to shrug off the panopticon surveillance and the torrent of lies, innuendo, and revelations sold to the highest bidder. When she shaved her head in early 2007, it wasn\u2019t merely the act of a distressed pop star, it was the full-blown outbreak of a national schizophrenia that has doomed us ever since.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Her successor in incarnating the zeitgeist, Kanye West, was equally an avatar of lofty ambition and gnawing demons. A manic visionary with megalomaniac impulses and the brilliance to actually manifest his dreams, he told the people unpopular truths while fueled by Hennessy at MTV Awards shows and during Hurricane Katrina fundraisers while synthesizing and sampling the best of a half-century of sounds and aesthetics. He intuitively realized that controversy was the most valuable currency in an overstimulated world, and served as a bridge between post-modernism and post-reality. But where everything is permitted, surprise becomes nearly impossible. Plugged into a matrix more powerful than anything he could control, Kanye\u2019s Faustian bargain made him prone to self-destruction, which duly occurred.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It was only right that Kanye saw Trump as a kindred transmitter of \u201cDragon Energy.\u201d Trump understood the blueprint before anyone else. But unlike Britney or Kanye, the New York developer had no messy illusions of artistry, which was a key asset in his rise. Without the need to manufacture a product, a process which requires time for imagination, reinvention, and creative evolution. Trump only had to sell himself. The ideas might constantly shift, the facts might be flagrantly compromised, but what mattered most was the emotion. Besides, in a world where everything can be artificially erased, manipulated, and swiftly forgotten, honesty is really just a feeling.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

If we usually mark the \u201cfamous for being famous\u201d era as beginning with Paris Hilton, Trump was already there in the 1980s. There was no good reason why a real estate tycoon from Queens would be worth the ink, but Trump became a fixture of the New York scandal sheets, a canonical Howard Stern guest, and a bestselling author without having to write a word of his own books. He was the first influencer, selling steaks, bottled water, and his own bogus business school. Right when reality television began to permanently rupture the boundaries between public perception and objective truth, The Apprentice<\/em> became a ratings bonanza. At the dawn of the social media age, Trump realized that the press was an intermediary nuisance burdened by the old rules that governed society. The \u201cself\u201d was a fictitious conceit. But the Cartesian logic held: I post, therefore I am.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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During Richard Nixon\u2019s reign, Hunter Thompson confronted America with its unholy mirror image: \u201cThis is maybe the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it\u2014that we are really just a nation of 220 million used-car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.\u201d In 2024 we are a nation of 340 million content creators and semiprofessional propagandists, confessing mundane and sacred beliefs in the same breath, fighting vain and petty wars for personal validation. A weird blob of one-dimensional conspiracists with no time to pause between private reflection and digital retch. A loose confederation of lost souls thirsting for low-stakes fame, all in the futile hope that Vans will send free loafers in exchange for a TikTok.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

You know how often suckers are born. What no one remembers about Barnum is that he was a successful politician, too\u2014a two-term representative in the Connecticut state legislature and the Republican mayor of Bridgeport. Had iPhones existed then, he probably would\u2019ve become president. Barnum\u2019s most famous real quote was actually \u201cI am a showman by profession … and all the gilding shall make nothing else of me.\u201d It might as well have been in the Collected Poems of Donald J. Trump<\/em>, a book actually on sale on the world\u2019s least psychedelic Shakedown Street.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Before you can enter the heavily fortified Republican Green Zone, you first have to cross a threshold serenaded by dissenters.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cYOU GUYS ARE SUPPORTING A PEDOPHILE!!! YOU GUYS ARE BRAINWASHED AS FUCK!!!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

An effete man with a shaved scalp shouts loudly into his megaphone. No one pays much attention save for a few journalists capturing it as grist for the content mill. He\u2019s wearing white Crocs and a \u201cSupport Black Trans Lives\u201d shirt. The aggressive sun has turned him the color of poached salmon and sweat has left his collar misshapen and hanging off to one side.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cHe cheated on his girlfriend with a porn star!!!\u201d The man starts chanting. \u201cHe paid the porn star to shut the fuck up, to shut the fuck up!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

No one has the heart to tell him that Donald Trump actually cheated on his wife <\/em>with the porn star.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A 60ish white liberal arts professor type with wild eyes waves a cardboard sign mocking everyone from \u201cDuh Santis\u201d to \u201cTucker Carlson AKA Fucker Charlatan.\u201d A Black woman with gold bangles and short jean shorts quietly holds up a sign that reads \u201cStop The Project 2025 Agenda.\u201d Her T-shirt reads \u201cJuly 13 was a false flag.\u201d When someone hands her the megaphone, she shrieks \u201cDONALD TRUMP IS A FUCKING RAPIST.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A gnomish woman beseeches me to read Psalms 43<\/a><\/span>, but I decline. Before passing through the security gauntlet, I pass a pretty young girl in pigtails and a flower skirt. She smiles beatifically at me to ensure that I read her poster: \u201cSEEK JESUS: DO NOT DELAY.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The streets outside of the home of the Milwaukee Bucks have become the carnival midway of Trumplandia. Daily Wire representatives pass out cards with QR codes offering the chance to win a free \u201cLeftist Tears\u201d tumbler. Patriot Mobile advertises \u201cAmerica\u2019s Only Christian Conservative Wireless Provider.\u201d The United States Conceal Carry Association sells women\u2019s handgun and self-defense books featuring women pointing weapons at me with \u201cmake my day\u201d grimaces. An older white woman in a lonely booth asks if I\u2019d like to learn more about the Frederick Douglass Foundation. She looks like a Sunday school teacher and tells me their mission involves \u201cgoing into the Black community to ask what they need.\u201d With polite insistence, she hands me a purple elastic wristband, and asks if I\u2019d like a photo with a Trump cardboard cutout. He\u2019s in a red MAGA hat and a \u201cReal Men Make America Great Again, Vote Trump\u201d T-shirt. I smile for the camera.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

For the last eight years, Trump\u2019s opponents kept pointing out his relentless attack on reality. In his interview with Lester Holt during the RNC, Joe Biden chided the media for supposedly ignoring Trump\u2019s lies during the debate. But almost none of Trump\u2019s supporters care. What he\u2019s saying matters less than how he says it. Tone above substance. Entertainment above policy.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It goes without saying that there are thrice-divorced pool contractors in Fort Lauderdale and petroleum executives who only want to pay as few taxes as possible. Plenty of racists love his Hannibal Lecter meets George Wallace routines. And there is the usual coalition of evangelical zealots, anti-immigration fanatics, and those looking for some good old fashioned biblical retribution. But I suspect that the majority of his voters, at least the majority of the working-class ones, believe that no politician from either party will do much to improve their actual lives. They\u2019re seeking to be a part of something bigger and buy some overpriced merch. For those who have found themselves immured in the post-reality world of ambient disappointment, the president is simply a grandmaster of vibes. And they would prefer to laugh at Trump\u2019s jokes.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Trumpists worship Trump\u2019s imperfections and share his grievances. His woes become their own. So when Trump survived the assassination attempt and rose to his feet to chant \u201cFight, Fight, Fight,\u201d it was merely a confirmation of their most deeply held perceptions. You can see it in the cutouts of Trump as Rambo, shredded in a red MAGA bandanna, clutching an assault rifle. Trump as the Marlboro Man riding a red, white, and blue elephant. Trump dressed like Wyatt Earp, holding an old western Colt .45. A white-haired grandmother wearing a red cape, red hat, and ripped jeans, displays her \u201cThug Life\u201d shirt\u2014with Trump posing like \u2019Pac with dark shades and a thick gold chain.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It\u2019s all an outlandish burlesque, pure kitsch, and they can barely keep the swag in stock. Trump tote bags and coffee mugs, bedazzled Trump Girl Hats and MAGA hats in Duck Dynasty camo. Pink pins with Trump superimposed in front of the White House; the bubble letters reading \u201cDaddy\u2019s Home.\u201d Stickers scream \u201cMEAN TWEETS 2024.\u201d There are fake copies of the Declaration of Independence with \u201cMAGA\u201d written all over it. Trump babies and bears and fake gold medals and Bibles and \u201cI Love Trump\u201d pennants. Everything here that an apostle could dream of, except for maybe the limited edition $299 Trump assassination sneakers. Those are only available online, but last I heard they were all sold out.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u200b\u200bThe mayor of MagaVille has a Richie Rich face tattoo to match his candy-painted Richie Rich Rolls Royce. From his neck, a gold bust of Donald Trump dangles, attached to a chain so heavy that it probably causes sciatica. Even amid the outlandish costumes paraded at this nativist Mardi Gras, Forgiato Blow does not blend. This is the point. Everywhere he goes, Republican delegates and apparatchiks stop to pose for photos with the MAGA rap polemicist or at least offer a friendly bear hug.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Last night on the massive Fiserv Forum screens, the Floridian unveiled \u201cTrump Trump Baby,\u201d his brand new campaign anthem. Swiping the beat and cadences of Vanilla Ice\u2019s \u201cIce Ice Baby,\u201d the video stars Amber Rose, the stripper turned Kanye muse turned Slut Walk founder turned Trump surrogate. Wearing the aforementioned Trump pendant, Rose dances and flexes in front of a Trump-branded cybertruck. By her side, Blow inveighs against the Democrats, the fake news media (\u201cthe enemy of the people\u201d), and the \u201ctwo-tier justice system.\u201d He demands reparations for \u201cevery idiot that voted for Joe Biden.\u201d It\u2019s unlikely to sway undecided voters, but it will give you a newfound respect for the comparative artistry of Vanilla Ice.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Rose has already left the convention halls. Last night, she delivered a charismatic and polished speech about recovering from leftist brainwashing. Rose has now realized that Trump isn\u2019t racist and that he\u2019s actually our last chance to make America stronger, safer, and wealthier. According to podcast host Joe Budden, \u201cshe got a really big bag\u201d for her endorsement. I can\u2019t confirm whether that\u2019s true, but it\u2019s difficult to imagine Amber Rose sacrificing millions of dollars in future brand deals out of the sheer feel-goodery of patriotism. Either way, it\u2019s a fairly substantial come up for a party whose biggest celebrity speakers in 2016 were Antonio Sabato Jr. and Scott Baio. Over the last few months, Trump has appeared with vaunted regional street rappers including New York\u2019s Sheff G and Sleepy Hallow, Detroit\u2019s Peezy and Icewear Vezzo, and Philadelphia\u2019s 0T7 Quanny. Right after the assassination attempt, 50 Cent posted the Get Rich or Die Tryin\u2019<\/em> cover with Trump\u2019s head photoshopped atop his shirtless torso. Reports claim that the famously bulletproof New York rapper may address the convention, but eventually, 50 declines to come to Milwaukee.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

This isn\u2019t bad news for Forgiato Blow, who by default becomes the official hip-hop ambassador of MAGA nation. Over the last year or so, the St. Petersburg native has become a semiregular on Fox & Friends<\/em>, excoriating Target for wokeness and CMT for yanking Jason Aldean\u2019s \u201cTry That in a Small Town.\u201d I keep on telling myself that I should approach him for an interview, but every time I see Blow, he\u2019s mobbed by well-wishers. And as I approach the convention on Wednesday, the third night of the proceedings, a small crowd has gathered to watch the \u201cTrump Train\u201d rapper get interviewed live for Charlie Kirk\u2019s Turning Point USA.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u2018I have witnessed intense joy and exuberance and profound hatred and rage. Everyone is welcoming and polite and having so much fun until they are reminded of the evil forces that they believe have covalently bonded them.\u2019 \/  Joe Raedle\/Getty Images<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\n

\u201cWe need people to believe,\u201d Blow explains about the importance of recruiting Amber Rose to MAGA nation. \u201cIf we\u2019re giving speeches and waving Trump flags to the same people over and over, we\u2019re not getting nowhere. We need to create a new culture and red-pill new voters.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A decade ago, the rapper born Kurt Jantz had a blue mohawk, a blue beard, and at the age of 30, had nothing to show for his musical ambitions. His grandfather Stuart Arnold was a flamboyant New York playboy who moved to Florida to found the Auto Trader empire. At one point, Arnold owned a Lear Jet, a one-man submarine, and a 103-foot yacht called The Ivory Lady. Every Christmas, Arnold\u2019s children and grandchildren gathered on the front lawn of his 8,000-square-foot Victorian mansion to frolic in artificial snow, which Grandpa Arnold had carted in by the truckload.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When Arnold died in 2017, he left behind a $13 million waterfront estate, then the most expensive on the local market. Around that time, Blow began to see the light. Until then, the erstwhile \u201cSurf God\u201d made generic auto-tuned trap that sounded like a lightweight Rick Ross and paid for guest features from established stars like French Montana, Lil Durk, and Paul Wall, none of which created much buzz. It just so happened that Donald Trump had begun establishing himself as a viable candidate amongst a staid and colorless field of Republican primary Sleestaks.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

MAGA rap started with \u201cSilver Spoon,\u201d<\/a> a barely heard 2016 track in which Blow equated his wealthy roots to the vitriol directed at Trump. By then, Blow\u2019s Etch A Sketch beard returned to its natural brown and he began to be photographed exclusively in various shades of MAGA gear. Pledging allegiance to the cause, Blow added new tattoos to the gagged Lady Liberty already on his neck. The most notable being a portrait of Trump on his leg. In this rendering, Trump has face tattoos of his own\u2014including the words \u201cSelf-Made,\u201d \u201cMAGA,\u201d and \u201c2020.\u201d There\u2019s also a goat.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cPeople think we\u2019re grifters,\u201d Blow shrugs off the criticism. \u201cBut we\u2019re not getting anything by this grift, we\u2019re getting deleted<\/em>! I was there on Jan. 6, but I was outside the Capitol and I\u2019ve had all my social media taken from me\u2014all my platforms taken from me\u2014because I\u2019m fighting this fight.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Blow\u2019s first viral moment came at CPAC in 2021. Before a raised pickup truck with a Trump-as-Rambo mural, a suspendered Roger Stone got loose as a goose<\/a> while Blow rapped about FBI overreach and the unjust persecution of the Jan. 6 rioters. Blow soon discovered what politicians had always known: There\u2019s money in catering to the base. Branding himself \u201cTrump\u2019s nephew,\u201d Blow has released diss songs against the vaccine and Joe Biden (including no less than six \u201cLet\u2019s Go Brandon\u201d songs). His catalog encompasses tributes to Kyle Rittenhouse, Matt Gaetz, and Marjorie Taylor Greene (she appeared in the video<\/a>). Rolling Loud won\u2019t book Blow anytime soon, but he has several songs with millions of streams and 140,000 monthly listeners on Spotify. A decent working-class existence in a hip-hop world starkly divided between baller and budget.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI\u2019m the Trump of rap,\u201d Blow brags in his interview. \u201cMy videos are always getting taken down and that\u2019s exactly what happened to Trump. He was the president and wasn\u2019t even allowed on social media.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

For all the conspiracies and lyrical venom, Blow seems affable and sincere. He doesn\u2019t seem to see his songs as a joke per se, but you sense that he doesn\u2019t intend for them to be taken all that seriously. At one point, the Turning Point interviewer asks about the rapper\u2019s Damascus conversion:<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAt first, I related to Trump\u2019s lifestyle. The cars, the money, the pretty women,\u201d Blow answers. \u201cBut then I started coming out to all the rallies, meeting people, and seeing how kind they are\u2014and how much people need Trump.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Starry-eyed, the interviewer responds: \u201cbeautiful, Forgiato, beautiful.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

In Trump, Blow saw the same aspirational ideal that dozens of rappers had in the past. In the \u201990s alone, Raekwon called himself the \u201cBlack Trump<\/a>\u201d and Jay-Z branded himself \u201cthe ghetto\u2019s answer to Trump<\/a>.\u201d Nas bragged about being a part of the best couple since Donald Trump<\/a> and Marla Maples, and Method Man enlisted Trump for a cameo on Tical 2000<\/a>. <\/em>As the Staten Island native once said<\/a>: Rappers make great actors because they\u2019re the best liars. \u201cThey build themselves up to the point where they\u2019re Gods.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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By 2016, Trump\u2019s xenophobic and racially insensitive public comments ensured that an endorsement was the ultimate rap apostasy. Then Kanye, well, you know. Next, Trump teamed up with Ice Cube<\/a> on a plan to economically empower Black Americans. At his final 2020 campaign rally, the Miami Soundcloud rapper Lil Pump emerged to stump for Trump (who accidentally called him<\/a> Lil Pimp). And on the last day of his first term, the 45th president pardoned Lil Wayne on federal gun charges, and commuted Kodak Black\u2019s nearly four-year sentence for making a false statement to buy a firearm.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A seismic shift was underway. Late last year, the St. Louis rapper Sexyy Red summed up the transformation: \u201cthey support [Trump] in the hood. At first, people \u2026 thought he was racist, saying little shit against women. But once he started getting Black people out of jail and giving people that free money. Aww baby, we love Trump. We need him back in office.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

This partially explains why last week, I was covertly sent a pro-Trump banger (?) uniting three huge street rap stars from the last five years: a New York drill legend, a Haitian American from South Florida famed for documenting pain and struggle, and a South Central-raised child of Mexican immigrants. When I asked if there was a release date, my contact replied that he wasn\u2019t sure: \u201cIt\u2019s on Donny lol\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

Trump paused behind the podium to bask in the applause. Could it be pathos that I sensed in his expression? One of God\u2019s own prototypes, too weird to live, too rare to die? \u2018Thank you, Kid Rock, sometimes referred to as Bob,\u2019 he said.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n

It\u2019s easy to dismiss them all as unsophisticated or paid off, but something deeper is at play. These rappers aren\u2019t really Republicans. They\u2019re fans of what Trump represents to them. I\u2019m not talking about his court picks or his ties to the Heritage Foundation. What they see is a massively popular folk phenomenon who continues to exist outside the parameters of polite society. An archetypical antihero who has fought federal and state prosecutions, survived an assassination, and never given a fuck. An outlaw, whose entire modus operandi is getting money, dissing his rivals, and shattering taboos. Lately, Trump has begun walking out to<\/a> 50 Cent\u2019s \u201cMany Men,\u201d making the symbology and meme cycle complete. Trump was right: When you\u2019re a star, you can do anything you want.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cThis is about Donald Trump,\u201d Blow stresses to the Turning Point interviewer. \u201cIt\u2019s not about me or you. It\u2019s about Donald Trump and America and our future and our children. It\u2019s about the history we\u2019re making.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The interviewer excitedly bobs his head, addressing the crowd and audience listening at home.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cWe\u2019re creating the new media. We\u2019re creating new culture here,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd it\u2019s a fun movement! And we\u2019re going to win! Now we\u2019re going to play a very special song.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Yellow sparklers explode all around to the stage to the delight and applause of the assembled delegates. \u201cTrump Trump Baby\u201d booms loudly from the speakers. I\u2019d link to the YouTube of the video so you could watch for yourself, but it\u2019s already been yanked from the platform. It\u2019s been said that Sony demanded it\u2019s removal because of the uncleared sample, but who even knows anymore? \u2014JW<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

It\u2019s late on Wednesday evening when I feel myself slowly starting to crack up. This isn\u2019t a traditional mental schism where I can\u2019t leave bed for a week or where chemistry-altering medication might offer a panacea. Despite my best attempts to exercise rational logic and emotional remove, the shaky pillars upholding right and wrong have begun to come crashing down.<\/span><\/div>\n
\n

This is perilous territory for a writer. Don\u2019t get me wrong. I\u2019ve never been the objective type, but I have always strived toward honesty. And to cover this spectacle with any degree of fairness requires keeping an open mind and allowing myself to be susceptible to the awesome tidal swells of propaganda. I am the guest at the party who willingly allows himself to come under the spell of the hired hypnotist who suggests that I am a dog. And now in the middle of JD Vance\u2019s vice presidential acceptance speech, I find myself terrified that I will soon start uncontrollably barking at cat ladies.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Over the last 72 hours, my brain has weathered contusions from both slick and crude tribunes screaming about murder and nefarious conspiracies. I have heard \u201cDrill Baby Drill\u201d chants and lusty affirmations for \u201cJD\u2019s Mom.\u201d I have been threatened by invasions of ISIS terrorists and Venezuelan gang members \u201csurging to the border.\u201d 325,000 Americans are dead from fentanyl and I am told that Joe Biden is the grim reaper smirking behind it all.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I have stood in the Kansas delegation while a man next to me yells about IRS agents being fired and his neighbor just shakes his head and babbles \u201cCOVID, COVID, COVID.\u201d I have been expressly instructed to help Make America Wealthy Again, and have no idea what that means. I have watched the entire room turn to Trump\u2019s VIP section like they\u2019re worshipping a Roman emperor about to turn his thumb down to execute the haters and losers on the Coliseum floor. I have seen people dressed like Uncle Sam and Betsy Ross and MAGA mermaids and Revolutionary War militiamen and counted no less than seven types of Trump-inspired ear bandages. I have been escorted out of the Virginia delegation\u2019s country hoedown for crashing it without the proper credentials. I have snuck into the \u201cHogs N Dogs\u201d party at the Harley Museum to watch a former Republican senator perform Steppenwolf covers in flamboyant Ed Hardy stretchy shirts that exude \u201caffair with your social media assistant.\u201d I have seen old pudgy men in suspenders with \u201canother male lesbian for Rush \u201996 pins.\u201d I have deliberated seeing the documentary Red, White & Coup.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

For two minutes, I watched a jumbotron video of Trump doing his patented \u201cjerking off two guys at once\u201d dance set to \u201cYMCA\u201d and wondered if everyone was actually in on the joke. I sat at the Drink Wisconsibly pub and overheard a gray-haired and bespectacled man in a navy suit tell his friend without any irony: \u201cif you give me $100,000 in cash, I\u2019ll whack anyone.\u201d About a minute later, I watched him shake his head and despondently confess: \u201cmy son is a nice guy, I just don\u2019t get it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I have witnessed intense joy and exuberance and profound hatred and rage. Everyone is welcoming and polite and having so much fun until they are reminded of the evil forces that they believe have covalently bonded them. Outside this arena, everything is malevolent and sinister; in here, it is secure. Trump is the benevolent protector, the final bulwark against the barbarians at the gate. Only he can keep them safe.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Is everything I have ever known a lie? What do I actually believe and hold sacred? And are they out to get me? They<\/em>. My God, what is this strange encephalitis that has inflamed my brain? And how can I return to anything resembling normal when the concept of normalcy is as antiquated as an icebox.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I\u2019m walloped by a mitochondrial level of exhaustion that makes me want to collapse right here on the convention floor. The vertigo that arrives when all the wires are twisted into a Gordian knot, and the more you try to untie it, the more entwined it becomes. And here is JD Vance in eyeliner, telling me about his ma-maw\u2019s collection of 19 shotguns.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A stocky Costanza of a man interrupts my free fall. Barging into my space, he boxes me out like Rodman snaring a rebound. He wears a department store suit and a happy meal red tie and sweats profusely like he just emerged from the Wolski\u2019s bathroom. I\u2019m collateral damage in his quest to get the perfect selfie with JD Vance in the background.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cPlenty of space over there,\u201d I mutter, attempting to get his attention. But he ignores me. Then I tap him on the shoulder and say much louder. \u201cBro, you keep knocking into me. Find a different spot?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI like it fine just here,\u201d he says, not even deigning to turn around. The poisoned disorientation that I\u2019d felt moments earlier is replaced by a startling aggression that I thought I had abandoned years ago. This could be my chance. A brawl on the floor of the convention to steal the thunder from JD Vance. I debate digging my fingernails into his haunches. How likely is it that the Secret Service will leave me in traction? They need to make up for that whole failing to stop a presidential assassin snafu.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

But before I have the chance, the porcine acolyte dashes across the aisle to badger another delegate to take a selfie with him. He is not paying a bit of attention to Vance\u2019s oration. His whole purpose is to document the fact that he made it here, greedily counting the Instagram and Facebook likes in his head. When he goes back home to Palm Beach or Scottsdale, everyone will be talking about his content. He better make it count.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I\u2019ve never been a fan of hard and fast rules, but when you find yourself on the precipice of squabbling at a nationally televised event, it\u2019s never a bad idea to leave early. Right before Vance goes into his final peroration, I duck out of the arena, head full of helium, laboring hard not to trip over my own feet. I approach the chain link fences, security checkpoints, and concrete stanchions separating the convention vortex from the common Volk<\/em>. A phalanx from Akron directs me left, which leads into a metal barricade manned by Missouri State Highway Patrolmen. They scrutinize my credential and order me to head back where I came from.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Dizzily, I walk in the opposite direction toward an exit controlled by the Palm Beach sheriffs. They politely tell me that actually, everything is locked down. No one can escape until JD Vance is finished speaking. Those are the rules. I wait out this purgatory by sitting down on the concrete benches outside of the Fiserv Forum and eavesdrop on a coven of blond delegates plotting what time they should roll to tonight\u2019s invite-only after-party: an EDM Republican rave in a nearby warehouse. As I spark the square, I try to remember the last time that it felt like everything wasn\u2019t completely deranged. \u2014JW<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cTrump\u2019s ear would have been hit directly on his Auricular Vagus Nerve branch,\u201d read a post on \u201cX.com\u201d I\u2019d read earlier that week from a shifty-looking man who claimed to work in neurotechnology. \u201cI expect him to enter a full-blown Kundalini awakening stage soon.\u201d According to the Shaktism and Tantra schools of Hinduism, one might stir awake the divine feminine energy dormant in our spines through meditation, yoga, or the chanting of mantras. Here in the USA, we ain\u2019t got time for all of that\u2014why not blast it into being with an AR-15? \u201cBut doesn\u2019t a quick kundalini awakening come at the risk of psychosis?\u201d asked a woman in the replies. \u201cCorrect!\u201d said the O.P.<\/span><\/div>\n
\n

I never saw my life going this direction. I\u2019m a realist\u2014put another way, a Capricorn. But American society had moved past the need for realism. Nothing mattered but performance; our future would be determined by who put on a better show. (Of course it\u2019s always been this way, only now you can\u2019t ignore it.) I could no longer discern whether anyone was being remotely serious when they spoke. (Was Donald Trump a hero? Is Kamala Harris brat?) Nor could I spot the difference between memes and propaganda, or say with any certainty what distinguished an attempted assassination from a stage play. As for the conspiracy theorists, they\u2019d begun to sound small-minded, as if the deep state\u2019s best-laid plans had anything on unadulterated cosmic chaos.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cPowerful events breed their own network of inconsistencies. Loose ends, dead ends, small mysteries of time and space,\u201d wrote Don DeLillo in a 1983 essay titled \u201cAmerican Blood\u201d on JFK\u2019s assassination and the attempted one on Reagan 18 years later. \u201cViolence itself seems to cause a warp in the texture of things. There are jump cuts, blank spaces, an instant in which information leaps from one energy level to another.\u201d He went on: \u201cThe lines that extend from [JFK\u2019s murder] have shown such elaborate twists and convolutions that we are almost forced to question the basic suppositions we make about our world of light and shadow, solid objects and ordinary sounds, and to wonder further about our ability to measure such things, to determine weight, mass and direction, to see things as they are.\u201d Ah, but then the kicker: \u201cWe may all lead more interesting lives than we think.\u201d \u2014MG<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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<\/div>\n
Some comparisons in voltage: I was at the 2002 World Series, Game 6, when the Angels miraculously rallied from behind to defeat the Giants; I witnessed Kobe Bryant\u2019s 60-point final game. I saw Beyonc\u00e9 and Prince at Coachella, saw the USA in the World Cup, and attended an international breakdancing tournament in Nagoya where the hometown hero won the trophy. But the amperage and volume inside the arena when Hulk Hogan ripped off his T-shirt to reveal a red Trump\/Vance tank top was as electrifying as anything I\u2019ve ever seen. The bronzed, 70-year-old, semidisgraced wrestling legend growled, \u201cLET TRUMPAMANIA RUN WILD, BROTHER!\u201d And the delegates underwent a complete out-of-body experience. Jaws agape. Eyes like eight-balls. Even Trump beamed like this was the validation he\u2019d always desired. Making his rivals publicly bend the knee was all well and good. But this was the Hulkster calling Trump <\/span>his <\/em>hero.<\/span><\/div>\n
\n

It\u2019s been at least eight years since everything became wrestling<\/a>. But this was the finisher, the atomic leg drop. The goofball prophecies of Idiocracy<\/a> <\/em>coming so close that Mike Judge might as well be our Orwell. Of course, when you base a civilization around infinite amusement, eventually, life imitates WrestleMania IV.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Hulk Hogan was my first hero. I had his wrestling dolls. I watched his cartoon. I even wrote him a get-well letter once because the WWF told his fans that it would lend him strength. A 462-pound ex-sumo champ named Earthquake crushed his ribs in a vicious sneak attack and the experience was said to have left the Hulkamaniac deliberating retirement. I was at home sick with chickenpox and told him that if I could conquer this grave illness, surely he could recover too. Years later, I learned that the whole thing was just a bit to sustain interest while Hogan shot a film in which he played an intergalactic warrior who crashes his spaceship on Earth, leaving him stranded in suburbia. When I was old enough to realize that wrestling was fake, I stopped caring.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
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<\/div>\n

\"'I<\/picture><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\u2018I was at the 2002 World Series, Game 6, when the Angels miraculously rallied from behind to defeat the Giants; I witnessed Kobe Bryant\u2019s 60-point final game. But the amperage and volume inside the arena when Hulk Hogan ripped off his t-shirt to reveal a red Trump\/Vance tank top was as electrifying as anything I\u2019ve ever seen.\u2019 \/ <\/span>Chip Somodevilla\/Getty Images<\/span><\/em><\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

The intervening years weren\u2019t kind to Hogan. He cheated on his wife with his 20-year-old daughter\u2019s friend and got divorced. His teenage son nearly killed a friend in a drunk driving crash and spent five months in jail. In 2012, a sex tape famously leaked where Hogan cuckolded his best friend, a radio DJ named Bubba the Love Sponge. A few years later, Hogan\u2019s personal injury lawsuit against Gawker <\/em>unearthed more of these same recordings. This time, the Tampa wrestler was caught saying the N-word and admitting, \u201cI guess we\u2019re all a little racist.\u201d The WWE promptly terminated its contract with him (he was invited back in 2018). Hogan\u2019s Peter Thiel-lawsuit shut down Gawker.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

If this were fiction, it would be far too on the nose. But America has never preferred subtlety. The biggest wrestler of the last half-century, the one who literally wrapped himself in the flag, and sparked countless \u201cU-S-A\u201d chants, was going out sad. But here was one last chance for redemption. The biggest audience that Hogan had commanded in over a decade. All of them, from young to old, screamed at him to flex his biceps and roar like a hibernal lion and show the world that he still had it, and maybe so did they. There was only one catch.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cWe can save the American dream for everyone,\u201d Hogan said, with the same deadly seriousness that he used to tell kids to say their prayers and eat their vitamins. \u201cAnd Donald Trump is the president who will get the job done. All you criminals, all you lowlifes, all you scumbags, all you drug dealers, and all you crooked politicians need to answer one question, brother. Whatchya gonna do when Donald Trump and all the Trump-a-maniacs run wild on you, brother? God bless you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When Kennedy was killed, John Updike commented that it felt like God might have withdrawn his blessing from America. But the true believers gathered here understood there was something divine in the fact that the bullet had missed. And now their hero was back on track to win the belt once again. But there was simply no time to consider what any of it meant. \u2014JW<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\n

A54-year-old honky, spray-painted rust orange, had just lip-synced for his life to a song called \u201cAmerican Badass\u201d while Melania bugged her eyes in bemused horror. \u201cI\u2019m a porno flick, I\u2019m like amazing grace, I\u2019m gonna fuck some hoes after I rock this place!\u201d Kid Rock mouthed along, midriff spilling from his T-shirt, while a waxen Jared Kushner nervously checked the time.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Now the dark arena swelled with the weepy chords of \u201cGod Bless the U.S.A.\u201d as Secret Service agents checked the stage for IEDs. For a second the room went black; then the backdrop lifted and there the diva stood, nearly melting beneath a wall of lights that flashed \u201cTRUMP\u201d in the mode of Elvis\u2019 1968 comeback special. \u201cSlay, queen,\u201d I whispered, adrift in a sea of phones refracting the image of the former president hitting his marks on both ends of the stage, pumping his fist solemnly and mouthing with great melodrama the ballad\u2019s closing lines. (\u201cGod bless \u2026 the \u2026 YOUU\u2014ESSS\u2014AYYY!<\/em>\u201d)<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Trump paused behind the podium to bask in the applause. Could it be pathos that I sensed in his expression? One of God\u2019s own prototypes, too weird to live, too rare to die? \u201cThank you, Kid Rock, sometimes referred to as Bob,\u201d he said. It was all downhill from there.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cSo many people have asked me\u2014what happened? Tell us what happened \u2026\u201d Trump began in a grandfatherly hush. \u201cAnd therefore, I\u2019ll tell you exactly what happened, and you\u2019ll never hear it from me a second time. Because it\u2019s actually too painful to tell.\u201d Those who\u2019d spoken with the former president in the days after the shooting had claimed to notice in him a newfound existentialism. Now he launched into the story like Thoreau at Walden Pond: \u201cIt was a warm, beautiful day in the early evening in Butler Township, in the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania,\u201d he murmured, ASMR-style. \u201cMusic was loudly playing, and the campaign was doing really well. I went to the stage and the crowd was cheering wildly. Everybody was \u2026 happy.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

What felt like hours had passed. Somewhere in Delaware, Joe Biden was barking at the moon. Yesterday the White House had announced his 37th bout with COVID, which meant that he was getting a new face-lift or was dead.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI began speaking very strongly, powerfully, and happily,\u201d he lilted on, \u201cbecause I was discussing the great job my administration did on immigration at the Southern border.\u201d He paused for quick applause. \u201cBehind me and to my right was a large screen that was displaying a chart of border crossing under my leadership. The numbers were absolutely amazing.\u201d He slowly pantomimed craning his head to see the famous chart until he heard something whiz loudly, hitting his right ear. \u201cI moved my right hand to my ear, brought it down, and my hand was covered with blood,\u201d he solemnly went on.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI immediately knew it was very serious, that we were under attack, and in one movement, proceeded to drop to the ground. Bullets continued to fly as very brave Secret Service agents rushed to the stage and pounced on top of me for protection. There was blood pouring everywhere. And yet in a certain way I felt very safe, because I had God on my side.\u201d Half a dozen screens projected giant images of Trump\u2019s blood-streaked face. Screams erupted from the nearby Wisconsin delegation, who had soberly removed their cheesehead hats.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

What felt like hours had passed. Somewhere in Delaware, Joe Biden was barking at the moon. Yesterday the White House had announced his 37th bout with COVID, which meant that he was getting a new face-lift or was dead. But onstage, our great redeemer was spewing the sort of addled ramblings you regularly hear from wild-eyed men in hospital bracelets on public transportation. You could monitor the teleprompter as Trump rambled along, watching as the words onscreen became entirely detached from the speech that was unfolding.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cThe chart that saved my life!\u201d he gushed as it appeared onscreen behind him in a senseless maze of numbers and arrows. \u201cOne of the greatest charts I\u2019ve ever seen. You know the chart. Oh, there it is. That\u2019s pretty good. Wow! Last time I put up that chart, I never really got to look at it!\u201d The crowd went wild. \u201cI said, you gotta see this chart! I was so proud of it. I never got to see it that day, but I\u2019m seeing it now \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

He\u2019d been rolling for an hour now and showed no signs of stopping, as in desperate need of a drink, we attempted to leave.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cNo one leaves this floor until Trump has left the stage,\u201d snapped the man guarding the exit.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cWith our victory in November, the years of war, weakness, and chaos will be over!\u201d Trump babbled on. \u201cWe will build an Iron Dome missile defense system to ensure that no enemy can strike our homeland, and this great Iron Dome will all be MADE IN THE USA!<\/em> We will soon be on the verge of finding the cures to cancer, Alzheimer\u2019s, and many other diseases! We will not have men playing in women\u2019s sports!\u201d It had been 90 minutes now.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ten thousand red, white, and blue balloons rained from the rafters as the sounds of \u201cNessun Dorma<\/em>\u201d trembled through the arena, exuberantly lip-synced by a tan, bloated Italian who seemed to have arrived straight off the happy hour set at David Lynch\u2019s Club Silencio. A man in a seersucker suit and derby hat commenced stealing the signpost for the Washington delegation as the Trump family took the stage, not so much waving as waiting for the Don to hurry up and leave this Midwestern dump. But there he stayed, with an expression seen a thousand times\u2014the face of a man five minutes before the bartender tells him, \u201cYou don\u2019t have to go home, buddy, but you can\u2019t stay here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Slowly, a crush of revelers oozed their way toward the staircases leading outside. But red, white, and blue balloons kept descending from the ceiling, as though the party had accidentally purchased an extra 20,000 and were set on getting their money\u2019s worth. Soon, the entire floor was covered in the Stars and Stripes, making it almost impossible to take a step without spraining your knee. White-haired Midwestern grandfathers with canes began slipping, emitting antique groans. Dazed boomers in sparkling MAGA fedoras and their prim ponytailed wives hit the deck one by one, until finally, security noticed the growing calamity in front of them.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Removing pocket knives from their suits, the guards began frantically popping as many balloons as possible, as fast as they could. A minister appeared onstage to give a closing benediction. Hundreds of assembled parishioners swiveled to hear the prayer.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

But the preacher\u2019s words were barely audible over the deafening rumble of the punctured balloons. POP! POP! POP! It sounded like someone was strafing the hall with gunfire. And as the blessings of the Lord were summoned, the dropping bodies kept pace with the falling balloons. Eventually, the injured were cleared out of the way and even Trump reluctantly exited the stage. After a while, we were finally allowed to leave the arena, too\u2014to return to whatever is now supposed to resemble real life. \u2014MG & JW<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730 \u2730<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Jeff Weiss<\/strong>, the editor of Passion of the Weiss<\/a>, is a regular contributor to The Washington Post, the LA Times, and Pitchfork. His Twitter feed is @Passionweiss<\/a>.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n<\/div>\n

Meaghan Garvey<\/strong> is a writer and artist from Chicago. She writes on Substack at SCARY COOL SAD GOODBYE<\/a>.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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It\u2019s All Over Now, Goodnight Reality star turned ex-President Donald Trump makes his last stand at the RNC in Milwaukee Jeff Weiss & Meaghan Garvey Reality star turned ex-President Donald Trump makes his last stand at the RNC in Milwaukee . Scott Olson\/Getty Images It\u2019s gonna be a shit show. You can feel it in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[6],"tags":[26,24],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115046"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=115046"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115046\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":115099,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115046\/revisions\/115099"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=115046"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=115046"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reunion68.se\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=115046"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}