MAHA VICTORY BALL
After endless debate over whether to brave the outdoor festivities or skip them altogether, nature decided for us. They canceled both the outdoor ceremony and the parade, for which we had a prime view suite reserved specifically for. All my influencer perks evaporated when glacial temperatures arrived. Washington, D.C. — typically the epicenter of pomp and pageantry on Inauguration Weekend — descended into something far less fabulous. The polar vortex, an arctic chill seemingly imported straight from the windswept moors of Britain, shredded all of our meticulously plotted plans. In the wake, we were left dodging rainstorms and snowfall in heels.
What followed was 4 days of pure patriotic madness, resulting in a test of perseverance as much as celebration.
The streets transformed into a maze of barricades making party hopping (which is sort of the point) nearly impossible. Much of our time was spent deciding where to go, only to find ourselves faced with Secret Service agents and military tanks clogging the roads while confused cab drivers cursed and honked at lost tourists, patriots, and irritated locals.
The cold didn't hinder protesters. When it comes to TDS they tend to thrive despite brutal circumstances. I know because I was one of them. We passed a guillotine on wheels and over a dozen frozen handmaidens — almost certainly from Portland. (They're always from Portland.)
By the time the swearing-in ceremony was hastily relocated to the Rotunda, all expectations of witnessing history in person evaporated. We resigned ourselves to watching from our hotel room with champagne in bathrobes, like everyone else. Officially, the switch was blamed on weather, but rumors suggested security concerns were more likely to blame.
All weekend long women dashed through the streets in sequined ballgowns awkwardly layered with puffer coats (or worse). I arrived at one party in a MAGA sweatshirt emblazoned with flames, star-spangled mittens, and red earmuffs — all scavenged from curbside merch booths on the way there. Overnight, wardrobes shifted from curated statements to sheer functionality. Style gave way to survival.
We could only laugh.
Transportation was a nightmare. By Day 3 we abandoned Uber entirely and resorted to arriving via bicycle. A man with serious strength and stamina peddled us to events in a cart zipped into a plastic tent, blankets on our laps, and “YMCA” blaring from his stereo.
Monday night's dilemma was choosing where to start. Arlo darted to Nordstrom for a last-minute suit once we confirmed he could attend. Event access depended on the gatekeeper — those working the door who knew me allowed extras to sneak in; those who did not turned them away. I had tickets to both the Liberty Ball and the MAHA Ball — each distinctly different vibes. Liberty promised high MAGA glam; MAHA left more room for creative and interpretive attire. My plan was to start at MAHA, packed with familiar faces from the Kennedy campaign, and end at Liberty for dancing.
That plan crumbled like the rest. Had I known we'd stay at MAHA, I would have worn the tuxedo I packed, not the cartoonish red tulle gown I ended up in. Such is the gamble of black-tie dressing.
Dr. Oz Said:
"Campaigns should be about issues that impact all Americans. RFK Jr's endorsement of President Trump puts the debate around our health at the forefront."
Halfway through MAHA, it became clear no one was leaving. Guests trickled into the Waldorf hotel from Liberty looking like shipwreck survivors, faces etched with defeat, trading stories of the horrors they had witnessed: women collapsing in the cold, one of them slipping on ice and breaking her nose, leaving a trail of blood at the entrance; a line stretching blocks; and, inside, supplies running low — water bottles ran out, wine impossible to find, restroom access directing women to new lines formed at outdoor porta potties. Melinda Rockwell compared it to being at the bottom of the Titanic. One woman entered screaming that whoever planned it should be fired. Maye Musk, stationed at the bar in a radiant red gown, warned us against attempting the trek. If Elon's mother couldn't endure Liberty, we certainly weren't going to risk it. In Maye’s presence I refrained from asking what came to mind: Could Elon's curfew be restricted so the rest of us could sleep without worrying about his next bout of insomnia-fueled excitement?
And so, we stayed put. I retreated to my table, just behind Bobby and Cheryl, who arrived trailed by a sea of flashing lights. Stunning in a shimmering form-fitted gown, Cheryl and Bobby, tanned and confident in a custom tuxedo, paused for photographers swarming their table. Their presence — poised and magnetic — felt uniquely symbolic surrounded by a crowd maligned and mocked for their convictions. For those who have endured years of ridicule, the moment offered vindication. Bobby, transcending scandal and slander to serve as a figure of resilience, embodying the perseverance of this community.
“He comes with a movement now!” I heard a guest bark at a reporter.
As we settled in, the media on site was promptly ushered out — a scene detailed later by a disgruntled Vogue editor who complained that didn’t get a chance to eat:
“That's when the MAHA press team lets me know I've turned into a genetically modified pumpkin: All journalists must leave by 7 p.m., and I'm getting kicked out. It leaves me hungry both for dinner (I, sadly, won't be able to try anything on the seed-oil-free menu) and a glimpse of Kennedy, tanned with white teeth, and his wife, Cheryl Hines. I also missed a performance by the singer Jewel. While leaving, I spot Russell Brand, who is so hyper-focused on whatever is in front of him that I wonder if he's practicing for an upcoming role in a Bird Box film. Looks like I'll be hitting up delivery when I return to my hotel; maybe another order of french fries will give me my fill.”
Her gripe echoed by many in the industry wanting a piece of the action once the balls arrived after taking aim at Trump and Kennedy continuously throughout the duration of the campaign cycle. Media going hungry. WHAT an amusing metaphor.
While they scrambled to find the exit, I sat and watched, plated prime steak and lobster washed down with tannin-free red wine in front of me. Perseverance had brought us here — we could revel in it for a night.
Encountering Jewel backstage, I thanked her for her support. My compliments stemmed from my frustrations over artists who are terrified to express any support for RFK or Trump even when they privately align with them and their policies. She told me it had happened spontaneously thanks to her offer a couple days before. I applauded her for having a spine and breaking away from that stifled mentality, as a woman raised by homesteaders in Alaska should. Had I known the rambling apology would come later, my sentiments might have been briefer. Her apology followed the usual script: It painted Kennedy supporters as problematic and Trump supporters as threatening to the queer community — essentially feeding the stereotype that someone like Jewel could instead help dissolve.
Afterward, we retired to the hotel lobby where partygoers were trapped, unable to secure rides. Picture a scene straight out of White Lotus (or, worse — The Shining): a lavish lobby (Trump hotel’s old lobby) packed with ballgowns in states of disarray, kids passed out on velvet sofas, and politicians of varying importance toasting cocktails while hitting on unattached women circling the vicinity. Denise and I, draped in matching black coats, looked like tired witches crashing the party.
We landed first at a table with Dan Scavino. Arlo, who took an immediate liking to him, said he reminded him of a character from The Sopranos. Buoyed by the comparison, Arlo suggested they ditch the party and head to a casino. Dan laughed out loud. For a second there, I thought he might oblige him. Shortly after, Arlo mistook a Southern senator for a waiter and asked for a water refill. “Find another table,” I told him after his second mishap.
Our last stop was Kimberly Guilfoyle’s table. It didn’t take long to realize she wasn’t exactly pleased about something I had posted weeks ago, and an animated discussion followed. I can’t help but like Kimberly even when she’s upset. I find her intensity captivating, and her bond with her son (who’s the same age as Arlo) endearing. But because she is a fiercely skilled attorney, I know better than to expect anything but defeat in conflict with her. My preference is to avoid it altogether. Though I am possibly as skilled at avoiding confrontation as she is at inviting it.
Unbeknownst to me, spectators filmed our exchange, which must have looked like a live-action Housewives Gone MAGA. Against my better judgment, I asked Kimberly mid-discussion if we should take a selfie. When that failed, Denise tried for a wardrobe shot. While neither attempt succeeded, the exchange ended on a curt but civil note.
At 3 a.m., we finally secured a car to take us back to the hotel. Denise and I boarded the plane home in matching MAGA hats, making friends with neighbors in the aisle. Exhausted from the festivities, we laughed the entire flight over how absurd we must have looked in ballgowns, entirely out of place.
But Trump is right — winning feels good. Especially with Bobby on the field and MAHA in the bleachers.
Vogue Said:
“When Daphne Oz enters the ball for the evening, the room truly comes to a standstill. She is MAHA royalty, after all. Just moments before, we had discussed her “optimistic outlook” for her family, the next four years, and the future. “Health has finally taken center stage,” she says about why the moment is so exciting for her. Instead of stopping by interview step-and-repeats, she walks straight into the arms of her husband, John Jovanovic. We’d also discussed our hope that mothers would have better access to pelvic-floor therapy in the near future—though by this point in the evening, the new administration had already taken down the website ReproductiveRights.gov.”
Notes of Interest:
Anthony Shriver’s girlfriend meeting Catherine Young (Cheryl Hines daughter)
Connor Kennedy and newly engaged Brazilian singer-songwriter Giulia Bourguignon Marinho
Kyra Kennedy and Carolina Shriver - the cutest cousins
Cheryl Hines family (siblings included) all in attendance
Jordan Peterson Said:
“He's the only candidate in living memory who is addressing the true catastrophe of the modern US diet.”
Dying to know more about the Kimberly story. Everything just happened in such a crazy way. Her and Don Jr were together when you attended the parade a few months back then Don Jr is on a full relationship with this other woman, that from your comments seem to be great? I’m here for the juice 🍿🍿🍿
Love this. I have to ask though, why is Russel Brand's shirt always unbuttoned these days? Always. Everywhere. Even the MAHA ball. I guess to show off his rosary?