Searching for Donald Trump in the VIP tent at the Bridgehampton Polo club isn't hard. The man stands out like he's written in all caps. TRUMP, says his hair. TRUMP, proclaim his slitty eyes. TRUMP, call out the plastic women who follow him around. One of those was women was the disgraced Miss U.S.A., Tara Conner. She was giving an interview to a reporter. "I'm in a 12 step program right now," she said, her manicured fingers seeming to wipe a tear from her heavily made-up eyes, "but that is off the record." Also there was a Miss Universe there and some other pageant title-holders—but Star Jones was banished to the periphery to make room for Trump and his Trumpterage. The hooves of galloping ponies on the polo field went "d-trumpity trump, d-trump d'trump." Amelia Bauer and I were there to document the Trumpsanity.
In the opposite corner Star Jones was being filmed, her face dancing a jig of a thousand expressions, each one seeming more grotesque than the one before it.
"Donald, Donald," called out a man on the far side of the velvet rope. Donald approached warily. The man extended his hand. His face was a marshland of splotchy red, and looked like it had been lifted no more than an hour ago. Instead of eyebrows, he had two smears of white cream. "It's me, Abe Wallach!"
Wallach was Trump's head of acquisitions for more than ten years before retiring. "Abe?" Trump said, incredulously, "I don't recognize you! You look 25 years younger." Trump turned to the security guy: "Let him in." The security man said," Sorry, Mr. Trump, but he needs a wristband." Trump turned to face the guard, his eyes somehow narrowing further. "You know who I am, don't you?" he hissed. "I do, sir. But he still needs a wristband." Trump unhooked the rope from its stand and in went Abe. Trump continued to insist, somewhat tactlessly, how he could not recognize Wallach. "Ha, that's what retirement will do," said Wallach, laughing uneasily.
When we finally got a hold of Trump he was hot and annoyed. "''Scuse me, Mr. Trump. Let's talk about a woman we both know well. Do you feel any sense of victory now that Rosie is out of The View?" He assessed for a split second before saying, "I don't want to talk about Rosie. She's a sleazebag, what more is there to say? I'm not going to talk about it."
Sensing our Trumpian moment was passing, we asked, "Ok, let's talk about ponies." "No," he said, moving on, "you're done." His newest wife, Melania, shot us a sympathetic look as she trailed her husband. We shot her one straight back, since she was the one that had to let him bed her routinely.
We never got to ask him about how he freaked out at that golf tournament last weekend—we hear he was partnered with some teenager, and near the end of the match, thinks went south and Trump stomped off and got in his car and just left. But now we'll never know for sure!
In the big tent for the poorer, the plastic surgery was a lot worse than even Mr. Wallach's. On the other hand, the crowd was pleasingly rowdy. In the far end, two "rocker dudes" were standing around. One had a choker on. They told us they were in the band Rammstein; obviously we didn't believe them. So we gave them a hard time. Who would pose as a German industrial band? Later it turned out they actually were in Rammstein! Oops, our bad.
As the Polo match wound down, Rocco DiSpirito could be seen wandering around dispirited and lonely. The ponies were being loaded back into their trailers; who would load Rocco into his trailer? The plastic faces and breasts of the polo goers sagged in the heat. Only Donald Trump, his hair an island of placidity, seemed unfazed. He took the mic and began to speak. Through the loudspeakers and echoing across the now empty field, the voice of Trump echoed, "Trump, trump, trump, trump, trump."