Singer Mark - Trump and me

For decades, the problem posed by Donald Trump to writers, whether it was a daily tabloid reporter or a more high-minded scribe for what used to be known as the qualities, was that he was beyond parody. A man of rampaging ego, sufficient funds, and a neediness greater than that of an infant, Trump bestrode New York City, littering the press with one fantastical quotation after another. He was the reliable La Rochefoucauld of our city. But instead of Hypocrisy is a tribute that vice pays to virtue, we got I have so many fabulous friends who happen to be gay, but I am a traditionalist.

In the pages of the satirical magazine Spy or in the New YorkPost, Trump was, in the 80s and 90s and later, a constant. He would not have wanted it any other way. He was a real-estate marketer and he sold himself wherever he could: there he was in the corner for a World Wide Wrestling match, or humiliating wannabe Trumps on The Apprentice, or demeaning half the human race on The Howard Stern Show. This was a gentleman who went on the radio to say of his former wife, Nice tits, no brains. His vulgarity was unstoppable and without limit. He didnt much care if he came off as a little crude. He knew you couldnt resist listening. You know, he said, it doesnt really matter what they write as long as youve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.

Not only was Trump beyond insult or parody, he seemed a distinctly local product, like the smell of a Times Square subway platform in mid-August. In 1960, A. J. Liebling, The New Yorkers polymathic reporter of midcentury, set out for Louisiana to write about Governor Earl Long, Hueys more erratic brother, with a similar conviction that his subject was not for export. Southern political personalities, like sweet corn, travel badly, he wrote. By the time they reach New York, they are like Golden Bantam that has been trucked up from Texasstale and unprofitable. This was the problem with Trump in reverse.

I suspect that these factors were at the root of my friend and colleague Mark Singers initial reluctance to write about Donald Trump when, in 1996, his editor, Tina Brown, more or less commanded him to do so. I can vouch for the genuineness of Marks initial reluctance. I have seen him when he is captivated by a subjecta bank collapse in his home state of Oklahoma, the wonders of the magician and scholar Ricky Jaybut he took a long time to warm to this one. But I am glad he felt the lash of editorial compulsion and moved ahead, if grudgingly, because, as it turned out, he provided us with the best, most insightful, and funniest portrait of Trump. Just as Liebling managed to make an export literary product out of half-mad Earl Long, so, too, did Singer find a way to write with freshness and wit about Trump. His profile is a classic of the form.

We just did not know that it would be of such value at this late date, for, as I write, Donald Trump is no longer interested merely in accruing another gold-plated tower in Manhattan; he intends to take occupancy of the White House. He intends to command the nations armed forces and be in possession of its nuclear codes.

Ill never be sure, but I think I was in the room when Trump might have made his fateful determination to run for President. He had verbally and publically teased us with the idea for many years, but we always figured it was a publicity vehicle, like Trump Steaks. But I think at least some part of his decision to go forward was rooted in humiliation. At the 2011 White House Correspondents Dinner, a springtime ritual of low moment, the press and the capitals politicians squeezed their egos into the biggest ballroom at the Hilton to preen, feed, and determine, yet again, who is funnier: the President of the United States or the hired-hand comedian invited to the dance.

That night President Obama, with the help of his speechwriters, decided the time was right 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 Obamas 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 hes taken some flack latelyno 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 thats 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?

Trumps 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 exampleno, seriouslyjust recently, in an episode of Celebrity Apprentice, at the steakhouse the mens 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 didnt 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!