On the Edge of Some Old School Rebellious American Revival

RNC Closing Day Notes

“In the approximately 73 seconds between the moment when Donald Trump was struck by a bullet at a rally in Pennsylvania and the moment when he stood, bleeding from the ear, with his fist raised heavenward, the former president completed his decade-long transformation from businessman to living myth.” — Quillette

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On the last day of the convention, I have the briefest update for you. Days have been jam-packed, with the whole town resembling a maze of barricades. Entering and exiting involves a lot of meandering missteps and constant Uber frustrations. There's been no time to write. Operating on about four hours of sleep nightly, I can hardly string together full sentences, but wanted to update you quickly on a few random convention notes and ask what you think of everything you've read or watched about it so far.

Being here is unlike anything I've experienced before. I'm exhausted, overstimulated, and in awe of everything unfolding around me. The energy inside the arena is charged with fury and anxiety—emotional yet optimistic. Their guy dodged a bullet. They only have God to thank for him being here amongst them.

Sitting not far behind Trump for the past three nights is like having a front-row seat to America on the edge of some old-school rebellious revival where brash conservatism is suddenly cool again. Cowboy hats and faux ear bandages have replaced the stiffly styled stereotypes that once defined the Republican Party. Mike texted yesterday saying how "lucky" we are to be here. He heard on morning radio that it’ll go down as one of the best RNCs of all time because of the emotions trailing Saturday night's failed assassination. Trump, post-Pennsylvania, transformed into a mythical character with unstoppable resolve displayed now in quieter shade. His smile is slight—seemingly more gracious. He appears solemn but emotional onscreen above us, watching each of his endorsements sing his praises on stage.

Denise and I came here with no passes and no plan. I figured, if anything, the parties alone were well worth our time. Rarely do I have a decided focus during travel stops. It always works out. I was given a four-day pass, but yesterday the organization requested it back, leaving me scrambling for inside access tonight. We're hoping (trying now) to score new ones. I cannot miss that balloon drop!

Everyone in Milwaukee is incredibly lovely, from the officers on every corner to the pub bartenders. I’ve talked to them all. Hospitality is high, and cocktail prices are fairly low. Speaking of which—everyone in the media was noticeably hungover yesterday. Reporters were wandering the convention grounds like zombies in rumpled pantsuits. We all made the same mistake the first two nights—partying past 3 a.m. in your 40s is something painful to overcome the next day.

For me, the media war is more exciting than any political angle. Everyone is fired up and furious, pointing fingers at news media for pushing tempers to a trigger. He was nearly killed. "Isn't this what you all have been wanting?!" is the sentiment.

Someone rudely approached Denise and me at an afterparty the other night once it was revealed we were media. "No, no!" someone else rushed over to our defense, "They are not that media. They can be here." MSM reporters introduce themselves with slight humility, which I find sad but interesting. CNN is heckled. The Trump boys are disgusted in live interviews that try to shift the narrative to their father's problematic aspects. A hundred stories are here to be told, but all these outlets recycle the same ones every time. Meanwhile, I'm treated like royalty in the confines even without proper credentials around my neck.

The sirens here never stop. It's loud and seemingly always on the brink of some dire emergency.

Top repeated questions now are: Where is Melania? Where is Tulsi Gabbard? And where the hell is RFK? There is much to be said about all three of these situations, but theories will have to wait.

The parties are where it's at. Obviously. But, better than that are the unexpected run-ins around smaller corners in town. We sat at a candle-lit bar overlooking the city two nights ago with Margo Martin, Trump's stunning long-legged Deputy Director of Communications. She talked about what the terror and chaos of that day was like, showing us newly unearthed videos of her in frame roaming around a grassy patch at the event on Saturday when shots rang out. Later, at another rooftop gathering, post-shooting trauma amongst the team was the main talking point.

I have plenty of tales, videos, and beautiful photos to share when I’m home.

Today, we're heading back to the convention to tour a few media forums, meet one of Trump’s brutish lawyers for lunch, interview Tim Ballard, stalk Kellyanne, and then figure out how to get back inside for tonight's closing chapter. If we don’t make it in, I guess we'll settle at a pub nearby and watch alongside a bar full of rowdy civilians in cowboy hats as second best.

Bless MAGA, in all it’s bruised celebratory form.

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