Grand Rapids, Michigan. It was going to be epic, like those Roman triumph celebrations where the generals would ride in on a chariot decorated with gold and ivory, so drunk on power that a slave would have to walk behind, holding a wreath over the general’s head and whispering in his ear: “Remember you are mortal.”
Against all odds, Donald Trump had won the day, leaving his enemies stunned. The president had wrested the “No collusion” headline he dearly craved, and Thursday he would claim his laurels.
It was a moment to strut and gloat and curse and insult. From the president’s point of view, which is the only point of view that matters to him, it looked like Watergate in reverse.
This was the night for Smugness Maximus. Looking out at the sea of red MAGA hats, a cockier-than-usual Don jnr, who opened for his father, said that this week MAGA stood for “Michael Avenatti Got Arrested.”
The bend-the-knee mood was best summed up by the T-shirt of a man with a goatee and neck tattoo: “BITCH I’M THE PRESIDENT!”
Trump was in such a good mood that he allowed himself a favourite indulgence: knifing a top adviser in the perfect setting
Michigan was the place to rub it in, because it will always be remembered as a place Hillary forgot.
It was strange, though, to have the victorious vulgarian spewing bile right across the Grand River from the resting place of Gerald Ford, whose museum here offers words associated with Ford that seem quaint by Trump standards: trustworthy, respectful, team player, compassion, steady leader.
Lovefest
Talking to people out on the floor, it was clear that they expected this to be a special “lovefest,” as one put it. They were thrilled at the prospect that Trump would be “the beast unleashed,” as one man said, unburdened and with his shoulders held high and his stride more confident.
A rallygoer likened it to cyclists getting to use two pedals of a bicycle when they had been able to use only one.
Up in the stands, Juli Arndt waved a “Women for Trump” sign. She had left her husband in charge of their business, Corky’s Beal City Tavern, to make the hour-and-a-half trip here.
“I knew there was no collusion. I just had a feeling. I trust him. The only thing he hasn’t done that he promised to do is put Crooked Hillary in jail.”
I noted that Jared and Ivanka had also now landed in hot water for using private accounts for official business. “Not to that extent,” she said.
And then Trump appeared, running hot at the start. His former campaign advisers Corey Lewandowski and David Bossie had been on Air Force One with him, and they were no doubt pumping him up en route, whispering to him: “Remember you are immortal.”
At the rally, Trumpsters treated the two swamp creatures like stars, asking them to autograph their merch.
But Trump did not seem to be savouring his triumph so much as wallowing in his victimhood, in what he sees as the unfair attempt by “major losers” to treat his presidency as illegitimate.
He does not get the irony that the way he first made his name in national politics was painting Barack Obama as illegitimate.
Maybe Trump, like America, is just tired of winning
Robert Mueller may not have exonerated the president on obstruction, but the president, of course, exonerated himself, bragging at the rally, “total exoneration, complete vindication”.
He denounced his tormentors in the Democratic Party and the media as “sick, sick” and, referring to his raft of critics on MSNBC, crowed that “their ratings dropped through the floor last night.” Because, in Trump’s simplistic mind, that is the worst thing that can happen to anyone.
When Trump describes what he sees as the plot against him, it is a mirror image of what his foes see: a fraud perpetrated by corrupt people, “a sinister effort to undermine” the election and a poisoning of the national debate that has left us hurt and divided and “on artificial respirators,” tearing “the fabric of our great democracy”.
Meandering
Trump engaged in his usual weird meandering, saying of his voters: “I always say they came from the valleys.
They came from the mountains, they came out of the damn rivers. I don’t know what you were doing in the river, but they came from the cities, they came and they came and they didn’t even know.”
He was in such a good mood that he allowed himself a favourite indulgence: knifing a top adviser in the perfect setting.
Just as he excluded devout Catholic Sean Spicer from a meeting with the pope in Rome, he humiliated Betsy DeVos in a town where many buildings bear her last name, having “overridden my people” by reversing her decision to cut funding for the Special Olympics.
For the last hour of the speech, Trump went flat, simply resorting to golden oldies. (He had already managed to step on his own parade in the dumbest way possible against the recommendation of his top people and Kevin McCarthy when he jumped back into the quicksand of healthcare.)
It’s not clear why, on a night when his aides promised high energy, he seemed to lose altitude. Did he miss having Mueller as a foil? Did he know in his heart that he was guilty of some of those sins? Is he tired of rallies even before the 2020 race gets well under way?
Does he know that his “No collusion” headline will not change the minds of all those Americans who disdain him? Or is he being a sore winner again?
Maybe Trump, like America, is just tired of winning. – The New York Times News Service
