by Matt Gaetz
MSNBC’s Chuck Todd concluded an interview with Abrams by asking, “Do you worry that no matter how qualified you are on paper that the perception that you have not run a large organization as an executive officeholder, or that you have not won statewide, is a knock against you?”
Qualified on paper? As basically the premise of the question? What?
Stacey Abrams was the minority leader in the Georgia Legislature. As the president might say, I prefer my running mates to be majority leaders. Minority leaders essentially complain for a living. They don’t craft policy. I know. I’m in the minority now!
Abrams’s answer was head-turning, too. Because she ran a leftist voter registration organization, she claims she was clearly qualified to be number two. Right. Based on FEC filings showing the revenues and expenses of Stacey’s make-work job, she’d barely be qualified to own and operate a string of Ruby Tuesdays. Unlike her political hack organization, at least the Ruby Tuesdays would add value—and have killer ribs.
As for Beto O’Rourke, failed Democrat Texas candidate for U.S. Senate from 2018, it was never clear what he stood for that was interesting besides himself—and that wasn’t too interesting. Yet the media were happy to say amen to Beto’s emptiness. They couldn’t get enough of beta male Beto, but it turned out voters could.
Beto understood that eyeballs matter, and he could occasionally be funny or cool (by political standards), but there was no substance there. Beto himself was Beto’s only message—and this cult-figure-in-his-own-mind lacked for devoted followers in the real world. The press loved him for some reason. This book will have more substance than Beto’s whole campaign, I trust. We are glad to keep Sen. Cruz in the Senate. You can’t beat Lion Ted lying down.
Rounding out the most embarrassing media-beloved leftist losers of the 2018 cycle was Florida Man Andrew Gillum. Oh, Andrew. We were told he was the “next Obama” following his failed tenure as Tallahassee mayor. Despite the murder rate in his city rising far faster than the quality of life, he was able to beat three white people for the Democratic nomination for Florida governor. Gillum’s fellow African Americans made up about a quarter of the Democratic primary electorate.
Gillum got the media to charge—or falsely imply—that Republican Ron DeSantis was racist. Guilt by association. Quotes out of context. The usual stuff. Gillum lost anyway. But losing wasn’t so bad…at first. Gillum got his CNN commentator gig but ultimately traded that for the disco ball and the nurse and the penis injections and all that. If you don’t know what I’m referencing, ask Google.
But an arrogant press will continue to push its favorite potential superstars. And it’ll hype every disaster that happens on Trump’s watch whether it was his fault or not.
The New York Times ran the names of a thousand people representing 1 percent of the “nearly 100,000 lives lost to coronavirus,” taking up its entire front page, no doubt viewing each death as a rebuke to Trump. One problem—besides Trump having handled the crisis pretty well—is that as soon as rebel journalists started checking the Times’ list of the dead for themselves, they didn’t have to go any farther than the sixth name to find someone who had in fact died not of coronavirus but by being shot. This is your paper of record.
If the Times was trying to fan the fires of conspiracy theories about the coronavirus crisis being overblown or a hoax, I guess they accomplished their mission. But I’m sure that wasn’t the idea. They pompously introduced the list by saying that the victims were not just “numbers.” Fair enough. But some of them also aren’t coronavirus victims.
Faced with so much press bias, you can take the “battered spouse syndrome” approach tried by George W. Bush—just hoping one day you’ll be able to please your attacker. Or you can be dismissive of the press like Trump, who was asked some gotcha question about oil by a reporter and responded, unfazed, by asking the reporter at what price oil was currently trading. The media have no idea about such real-world details, but they ask the questions they’ve been told might embarrass the president, which is the important thing.
For good or ill, a free market in journalism means that all the press ultimately cares about are ratings and clicks. Competition exposes losers, and eventually exposes arrogance. In the short term, they’ll say whatever promotes the Left, but they’re not going to keep saying it if ratings tank and they have to admit they’re losing America instead of leading America by the nose, the way they could back in the twentieth century when there were only four big TV networks.
The committed leftists in the media—the ones perfectly happy to let ratings and profits tank if they push the left-wing agenda—may think their principles give them the strength to survive their dwindling ratings, as their core leftist audience ages and eventually dies. But we populists are not just free marketeers. We’ve got a willingness to fight for something bigger than ratings. We’ll keep driving home the message of American greatness and pushing back against the elites, both corporate and governmental, even when it means we don’t get to be put in heavy rotation on the pundit circuit like the commentators who tell the press what they want to hear.
The establishment is fighting for something very hollow and trying to do it on the sly. We’re happy to put on a show and wear our hearts on our sleeves, and one way or another, I think America will get our message. It’s a shame we have to fight the media to get that message out.
CHAPTER SIX
Mar-a-Lago Magic
March 9, 2020
Undisclosed location on Palm Beach Island. 5:00 AM…probably.
There’s nothing like watching the sunrise while kissing in a hot tub with a Secret Service perimeter protecting you. They’re not there, but they’re there, if you know what I mean.
Congressman Charlie Wilson didn’t have to worry about smartphones or hidden Nest cams during his warm and bubbly rendezvous. It is a rare joy to know with certainty that TMZ isn’t hiding in the bushes.
In America, our paparazzi don’t take our royalty from us but anoint them—and the Trump family is American political royalty. They are both representative and regal. The Secret Service agents who guard them dig them—and the appreciation and affection are returned.
Mar-a-Lago is a magical place; few other residences have the same aura in the United States. It is a grand palace designed in a different era, yet the glamor, glitz and gold still shine. Especially when the president is on location.
What makes President Trump even more remarkable is that he doesn’t surround himself with a cocoon of security or a cadre of aides. This is his home, and one can often see him hopping from table to table during supper. He knows most of the guests and has been friends with some for decades.
Members of the club tend to be very supportive and protective of the president. One such individual, Toni Holt Kramer, started a small group in Palm Beach called the Trumpettes. A socialite group of sophisticated Florida women soon blossomed into an international organization with thousands of members, all to defend and support the president. I love the Trumpettes!
Tiffany Trump always surrounds herself with interesting, pretty people. All the Trumps do. My date for the evening was a stranger the day before. Following an afternoon at the Mar-a-Lago pool, everyone is connected—digitally, politically, socially, and sometimes even familially.
I was in town for a glamorous birthday for the still more glamorous Kimberly Guilfoyle. Along with myself, seated at the head table was the Trump family (gorgeous birthday girl included)—Ivanka, Jared, Eric, Lara, Don, Tiffany, and Michael—along with special guests Tucker Carlson, Anthony Guilfoyle, Sergio Gor—and a good-looking young billionaire who kept hitting on my date. He didn’t make the cut for the hot tub later, if you’re wondering.
“K. G.” is a force of nature in the MAGA movement. Don Jr.’s ride-or-die. The campaign’s best fundraiser. A TV superstar. Una puertorriqueña with elite America First operative skills. “She’s a killer,” says POTUS
. Don Jr. is lucky to have her by his side. #RelationshipGoals.
“There’s my favorite congressman!” Trump exclaimed. “The best. I wish they were all like him. He defends hard. Harder than most. Thank you, Matt. He loves this place.”
When I confessed to the president that I liked Mar-a-Lago even more than Camp David, he matter-of-factly replied, “You go for the gold.”
The president is happy and gracious when he has friends in his homes and everywhere he goes he is at home even if it doesn’t say Trump on the building.
When Donald Trump enters, everyone stands at attention. When he speaks, they learn whom he speaks to. I’m told this was the case at Mar-a-Lago well before his campaign. The clubhouse and beach are breathtaking, sure, but Trump is the main attraction.
My date was radiant like the chandeliers, glowing even, and though totally unaccustomed, she was a quick study. Upon hearing Tucker Carlson humblebrag about his captivating cable show, she said, “It’s nice you have a show. What is it about?” Tucker is the best sport. Trump is the star women love even when they don’t like him. She was transfixed. Take that, Mr. Billionaire!
She’d later say she’s now Tucker’s biggest fan. But in these times, who among us doesn’t think we are? Tucker recharges by fishing, pondering and debating constantly with friends. It is a blast to be among those to share time with him. We share what we enjoy most.
The party made headlines in various papers. You had to be there to truly experience the magic of celebrating Kimberly’s birthday. Dressed in a shiny metallic gold and black dress, while most gentlemen donned tuxedos, toasts were said in her honor. Her best friend and former Fox News producer, Sergio Gor, DJ’d from the music booth above the dance floor. President Trump stopped by the ballroom not once but twice to greet everyone and even sang “Happy Birthday.” He brought with him the Brazilian president, Jair Bolsonaro, who had been upstairs having a working dinner earlier that night.
As the beats played, A. J. Catsimatidis and her skintight white dress joined the conga line, while Jesse Watters, with his beautiful wife Emma, sipped champagne by the outside pool. Director of National Intelligence Ric Grenell chatted with Arthur Schwartz over Twitter wars, while Ambassador David Fischer watched in awe as his exuberant wife Jennifer took center stage on the dance floor to Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda.” David would go on to heroically coordinate logistics returning Americans home from Morocco during the pandemic. History should note the lives and families he saved.
The night was one to remember, especially after we learned that the Brazilian delegation in attendance was infected with COVID-19. Thankfully, none of us got sick.
As the sun rose the next morning, mimosas and cash flowed. A giant brunch raised millions for the president’s reelect from industrialists, moguls, and patriots inspired by his transformational leadership. Unlike Beltway fundraisers, few attendees wanted anything from Trump other than for him to keep fighting! The well-wishing is infectious.
Washington Post reporter David Fahrenthold says no member of Congress has stayed at Mar-a-Lago more than I have. Thanks for noticing, David.
He thinks it’s a knock, but then, he isn’t invited. Besides, I know it’s the best way to serve my country. If you want to be powerful, you have to be proximate. Is a blogger for Jeff Bezos really going to lecture me about the corrosive effects of money in politics? These bloggers-for-billionaires profess to hate the player, the game, and now even the field. If you need help knowing which dates I was there, please use this chapter as a partial guide.
For politics and policy, Mar-a-Lago can’t be matched. A translation reinforces the concept of transition itself—“Sea to Lake.” For me it was more “backbencher to presidential counselor,” even if only unofficially. Nontraditional settings are indeed my cup of spritzer and where the real work gets done.
The marble busts in the Capitol are great and august (and dead), but no place is bustier than Mar-a-Lago. Plastic surgeon members are happy to point and brag over their tradecraft, funded in part by Florida’s arcane and unfair alimony laws. At least in South Florida, as opposed to Washington, the facades hide the slightest insecurity—rather than the soulless corruption. Everyone gets the face they deserve in Florida. Not so in Washington.
President Trump has a unique ability to synthesize information from a bevy of people and stimuli. What other president could build a coalition including Mike Pence and Kanye West? Robert Kraft and Diamond and Silk? Mar-a-Lago is the big, happy, weird intersection of it all. Everyone is having fun and celebrating all the winning, though never for personal benefit—that would be tacky. It’s for America!
Trump enjoys seeing other people happy. It recharges him. It’s why the rallies matter so much to him. At the club he can let loose a little. Once he even danced in a sombrero for an acquaintance’s wedding. But he never stops working on matters large and small. And in the contest for the president’s policy indulgence, you must be present to win.
January 2, 2020
Mar-a-Lago. Main dining promenade.
“Come over here. Pull up a chair. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Your daughter Tiffany invited me, sir.”
Enough pleasantries. I had to make my argument while POTUS was chewing his meat loaf. Otherwise, he was talking. I had to give him something else to chew on.
“Mr. President, Tucker Carlson and I had to stop us from going to war with Iran once before—when they downed that drone. Are we going to have to do it again?”
I had interrupted Kevin McCarthy’s one-on-one dinner with the president. Kevin didn’t love the third wheel. I didn’t care. Besides, I was about to go on Shannon Bream’s Fox News show and would be among the first to frame the U.S. air strikes killing Iranian Quds Force General Qasem Soleimani. When Trump knows you’re going on TV he’s eager to advise and banter. Stagecraft is statecraft. President Trump and I respect the airtime.
The president immediately got Tucker on the phone.
“I’m with Gaetz.”
(Inaudible response.)
“No, he’s not with a woman.”
(Inaudible response.)
“I know, he’s an animal.”
The talk of war and peace and women continued as the vanilla ice cream was devoured. Two scoops, please. The president made the right call—kill Soleimani to avoid a war, not start one. He reset deterrence, defined the exquisite reach of U.S. lethality, and made thousands of Americans safer in the Middle East and elsewhere. At Mar-a-Lago, he could get perspectives beyond the Beltway. I’m honored to help curate just a few.
“Write that down! Give me three paragraphs.” President Trump will regularly assign snap written exams to his advisors when discussing ideas. He knows a sizzling rhetorical approach or phrase can win the day. He is a master brander. I’ve scratched out some of my best prose under pressure at the Resolute Desk, on Air Force One, and riding in the Beast, as the armored presidential limo is known. But hearing the president share a strong ambition for peace, not more war, I was eager to help him. My scribblings on a Mar-a-Lago cocktail napkin calling for Iran to accept peace remain among my proudest contributions to my country.
January 1, 2020
9:00 PM, Mar-a-Lago off-site security checkpoint.
“Sir, there appears to be something metal in your back pocket. Do you mind checking it again?”
The wand kept beeping. I was annoyed, tired, and frustrated. And then terribly embarrassed.
New Year’s Eve had not gone well. I had invited a date I adored to Key West to enjoy a celebration with two of my best friends—Dr. Jason Pirozzolo and Savara Hastings, who own a home together in the Conch Republic. The dancing was fun, the music the best. Apparently, the adoration went only one way. Not even a ball-drop kiss. Expectations were unfulfilled to say the least. Can’t win ’em all.
Alone and romantically crestfallen on a Key West beach, I got a call from
Tiffany Trump. “Why aren’t you here at Mar-a-Lago? Michael and I adopted kittens and they want to meet you.” Tiffany and her fantastic boyfriend Michael know I’m a sucker for animals and dearly miss having them while serving in Congress. Mar-a-Lago and kittens were just the pick-me-up I needed. I started driving.
Members of Congress get waved into the Capitol and White House without the hassle of metal detectors or scanners. Not so at the Winter White House. When I realized what I had pulled out of my back pocket, I could feel the humiliation wash over me like an intense wave of Florida humidity.
“Cover your stinger!” read the foil wrapper of the condom I had acquired in the Key West Airport. The smiling yellow and black flying insect pictured was taunting me. He wouldn’t be so happy if he had spent the night bickering with my date at Irish Kevin’s.
I still wince whenever I hear my Secret Service unofficial code name—“Bumble Bee.”
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two Parties, One Scam
December 22, 2018
The White House. Private residence. Government shutdown strategy lunch.
“Mr. President, if you’d like, I can thumbnail this for you.”
Vice President Pence understands how Washington works, having risen in the ranks in the House of Representatives before becoming Indiana’s governor. He always strives to provide helpful insight. It was time to cut a deal with Sen. Schumer and the Democrats and end the shutdown, he reasoned. We needed a bipartisan deal. We needed the deal more than we needed the wall, political asylum reform, or internal enforcement of immigration laws at scale. Other smart establishment thinkers were quick to agree, and ultimately, so did President Trump. The president’s decision weeks later to end the shutdown without every dime of border security money he rightly requested was one of the very few dips in his historically durable approval rating.
