You could have heard a pin drop in Milwaukee on Thursday night when Donald Trump got straight to the point:
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened, and you’ll never hear it from me again, because it’s too painful to tell, really.”
I stood in a circus of red, white and blue painted faces, decorated MAGA jackets and baseball caps, just 20 rows back from the stage at the Republican National Convention.
The Oregon delegation sat to my left, Puerto Rico to my right. On the other side of the floor, the Wisconsin Cheeseheads wore their glorious orange hats.
The Texans proudly pumped their ivory Stetsons to the live band. The Arizonans were decked out in white earbands, some custom-made with Star Spangled flair.
Behind me sat Trump’s family in their private box.
I could make out the profile of the smoking hot Melania, who had just flown in on a private jet. She had just sucked the oxygen out of the arena and entered like a WWE Diva to the quivering strings of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, for a hard cut to Kid Rock’s rousing performance before Donald.
You could have heard a pin drop in Milwaukee on Thursday night when Donald Trump got straight to the point.
I stood in a circus of red, white and blue painted faces, decorated MAGA jackets and baseball caps, just 20 rows back from the stage at the Republican National Convention.
The Oregon delegation sat to my left, Puerto Rico to my right. On the other side of the floor, the Wisconsin Cheeseheads wore their glorious orange hats.
Musically, the evening started to taste like orange juice and toothpaste, but who cared?
Trump was about to make his first public statements since a pizza-faced 20-year-old man eluded and nearly shot dead the once most respected intelligence agency in the world.
After Saturday’s attack, rumors circulated that Trump would only appear remotely.
No chance.
This showman eminently was going to milk this moment like a cash cow that had won the Iowa State Fair.
“It was a warm, beautiful day in the early evening in Butler Township in the beautiful state of Pennsylvania,” Trump said.
They were the opening lines of a bedtime story that you should never read to a child.
But the Trumptastic ladies decked out in custom-made MAGA glitter dresses, the regular delegates in suits and ties, and the gray-haired men dressed as Uncle Sam were ready to explode – if not slightly manic after having just been inundated with a psychedelic pop parade of Americana.
Moments earlier, Hulk Hogan had ripped off his shirt and revealed a Trump-Vance t-shirt. (I saw Don blow the Hulkster a kiss from the family box.)
Evangelist Franklin Graham calmed the rising animal impulses with an appeal to our Lord and Savior, whom he personally thanked for saving Trump from an assassin’s bullet.
Kid Rock popped a pair of artificial hips with his ode ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’.
And UFC president Dana White did his best Macho Man Randy Savage impersonation (“Need a little excitement? Go Democrats!”).
A slick, pre-produced video telling Trump’s life story, from young New York City real estate mogul to reality star and president, left me wondering: Has Don Draper come out of retirement?
A pumped-up Hulk Hogan had ripped off his shirt and revealed a Trump-Vance t-shirt. (I saw Don blow the Hulkster a kiss from the family box.)
Normie delegates in suits and ties and gray-haired men dressed as Uncle Sam were ready to explode—if not slightly manic. They had just been on the business end of a firehose of Americana.
Kid Rock popped a few prosthetic hips with his country-rap-rock ode to Trump.
And then the stage lit up: “TRUMP” in giant Broadway balls.
The man of the hour walked up to singer Lee Greenwood and shouted, “God Bless the USA.”
The helmet and jacket of slain firefighter hero Corey Comperatore, who was killed Saturday while shielding his family from Trump’s gunfire, were placed at stage right.
Everyone around me was in tears.
One woman cried so hard that she wiped her eyes with her fake ear bandage.
“I heard a loud whooshing sound and felt something hit me really, really hard. In my right ear. I thought to myself, ‘Wow, what was that? It could only be a bullet,'” Trump recalled, captivating the audience.
“I moved my right hand up to my ear, brought it down. My hand was covered in blood. Just blood everywhere.”
An older man wore a white cowboy hat with Trump 2024 buttons on the lapel of his white cotton blazer, desperately trying to keep his hat together. His chin was trembling and his eyes were moist.
Only the naive among us aren’t cynical about politics, but I have to say, this felt real.
After the extraordinary events of Saturday night, an assassination attempt on a former president, .
I felt either sick or excited (it’s hard to tell) by the psychedelic pop culture spin cycle. But without a doubt, we had now arrived at the really good part.
“To every citizen, whether young or old, male or female, Democrat, Republican or Independent, black or white, Asian or Hispanic, I extend the hand of loyalty and friendship,” he thundered — and we believed him.
This speech transcended politics because it wasn’t about the bumbling Joe Biden or the giggly Kamala.
This is the Trump that arrogant coastal improvers refuse to acknowledge.
He has a bond with people.
And if he had left it at that, stuck to the autocue and completed the emotional rollercoaster, there would not have been a single expert in the cable news world who could credibly conclude that this was not one of the most masterful closing acts to a convention in modern history.
But that would have been too simple for such a complicated man leading such a wild, unruly, and unpredictable MAGA movement.
Time ticked by as the great entertainer went off script.
When Don from Oregon bent down next to me, I thought he had dropped his phone. But this sweet man in his 60s was doing squats so his legs wouldn’t fall asleep.
The entire crew of Puerto Rico had taken their seats.
A nice lady from Maine asked if the stationary autocue was broken.
“No,” I assured her as she looked genuinely concerned, “he’s just freestyling.”
The speech transcended politics because it wasn’t about the bumbling Joe Biden or the Cackling Kamala. This is the Trump that arrogant coastal know-it-alls refuse to acknowledge.
The minutes seemed to turn into weeks as 45 traveled through time, from his love affair with Kim Jong Un to Venezuelan rapists.
I swear I heard the narrator from Sponge Bob say in a French accent, “Three…hours…later…”
But when I looked at the Trump family box, I felt a sense of relief. The whole thing was empty!
Surely that meant that at any moment they could be ushered backstage to join their patriarch?
No!
He continued for 40 minutes.
Jean from Delaware admitted that it had all taken a little long, but wisely added, “That’s to be expected from a man who cheated death.”
As the entire Trump family gathered on stage and balloons fell from the ceiling, I reflected on the insane spectacle we had all witnessed.
Jean is right in several respects.
Trump escaped death, and now it feels like he’s just starting over.