In August 2017, after only 10 days on the job, Anthony Scaramucci was bounced from the White House as his reward for a galactically memorable lapse in judgment and couth. The alumnus of Tufts and Harvard Law School decided to share with the New Yorker that Steve Bannon – the man who righted Donald Trump’s presidential campaign – was prone to bouts of egotism and, shall we say, auto-erotic gymnasticism.
More than a year after being banished from the castle, Scaramucci is still hovering near the moat, apparently auditioning for another job while looking to settle scores weeks before the midterm elections. His book, Trump: The Blue Collar President, is both his vehicle and weapon of choice.
Not surprisingly, it is a paean to both author and president. It is self-revelatory, self-reverential and an addition to the growing pile of Trump alumni kiss-and-tells. For someone who was an assistant to the president for less than two weeks, “the Mooch” has a lot to say.
As is to be expected, he ladles out praise for Trump, offering hosannas to the president and his father while showering generous portions of filial piety on his own dad. Scaramucci observes: “My father and Fred Trump lived by the simple American equation: the harder you worked, the more opportunity you afforded your family.”
Unmentioned is that, as recently reported by the New York Times, Fred successfully and possibly fraudulently conveyed hundreds of millions of dollars to his son in an end-run of estate tax laws. Trump himself has not refuted the reality that he was born on third base. Instead, he remains secure in his belief that he hit a game-changing triple in the seventh game of life’s World Series.
But then again, so what? As Scaramucci tells it, Trump “understood, even back in the 80s, that people need a good story to make sense of the world”. Or at least a narrative to reinforce their beliefs, truth be damned.
While describing Trump’s drubbing as a casino operator, Scaramucci attempts to paint a patina of unvarnished success on Trump’s West Side Yards project, a real estate development on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Reality was more complicated. Trump did not cover himself in glory.
Scaramucci writes selectively of the city “accepting” Trump’s bid on the land, and allows the story to fade. Actually, it appears Trump blew an opportunity to become the city’s premier property magnate. As Bloomberg reported in 2016: “It was a deal of genuine magnitude and would have put [Trump] atop the New York real estate market. And he screwed it up.”
Specifically, Trump had difficulty navigating the competing demands of lenders and community groups, picked a fight with Mayor Ed Koch, and wound up worse for wear. In the end, “Trump had become a major personality, but he wasn’t New York’s top developer.”
Elsewhere, Scaramucci confirms that Ivanka, the first daughter, was his portal to West Wing employment. In his words, “I got a call from Ivanka Trump asking if I would come in and talk to her and her dad.” For good measure he adds: “Ivanka and Jared are good friends of mine, and have remained so.” Nous sommes arrivés.
To be sure, Scaramucci is a true American success story, with a managed fund to show for his work. In addition to writing of his ties to the first family, Scaramucci gladly tells of his own upward arc, even as he lugs a huge chip on his shoulder. And yes, good old-fashioned north-east ethnic reductionism colors his tale.
Scaramucci refers to himself as a “Guido”, and claims he was never destined for stardom at his one-time employer Goldman Sachs. As he put it: “Nobody there will ever admit to this, but if you’re an Italian kid from working-class roots, there’s a glass ceiling that you’ll never be allowed to break through.”
Describing New York’s University Club, Scaramucci observes that it resembles a place where “old Wasps covered up their affairs”, and looks like a set from the 1980s movie Trading Places. He’s not that far off the mark. The club’s architects were Charles McKim, William Mead and Stanford White. Like Trump, Scaramucci grew up outside Manhattan’s rarified precincts and lets his resentments and yearnings shape his prose.
Indeed, few are spared, not even Scaramucci’s “own team”. The Blue Collar President records Scaramucci’s take on the church. A self-described lapsed Catholic, the author calls confession the “Handi Wipe of sacraments” and challenges Pope Francis over his liberal stance on immigration.
But it is the attacks upon the White House chief of staff, John Kelly, the man who fired him; Reince Priebus, the former chief of staff; and Bannon that are the most personal and most tart. Scaramucci just cannot let go.
Kelly is “ineffective”, insecure and a poor pairing for the outgoing, self-confident and gregarious Trump. Priebus is portrayed as a “rat” and a latecomer to Trumpworld.
As for Bannon, he’s on the receiving end for multiple pages, diagnosed as “megalomaniacal” and “one of the biggest hypocrites in a town lousy with them”. Unmentioned by Scaramucci is that Bannon provided badly needed heft at those moments when the Trump campaign appeared ready to sink under the weight of its own drama. Said differently, had Roger Stone, Corey Lewandowski or Paul Manafort stayed at the helm, Scaramucci would be writing about President Hillary Clinton.
And yet The Blue Collar President gets one very big thing right in its title: only Donald Trump possessed the degree of authenticity with key voters that was needed to win the White House.
