Trump soon got palpably bored with the Granite State and the presidency, and started motor-mouthing about “Celebrity Apprentice’’ and his suspicion, which was proven wrong, that President Obama was born in Kenya. Not wanting to find myself airborne over the Throgs Neck Bridge with no exit strategy, I begged off.He asked the driver to drop him off at his private chopper emblazoned with the name “TRUMP’’ for the trip home. Here is a guy with the common touch, but the attention span of a flea.He’s someone voters would enjoy having a beer with, even though he doesn’t drink alcohol.
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In my heart, I wanted the smack-talking, hair-challenged, self-absorbed New York City billionaire Republican to nail down this baby. I interviewed him inside a stretch limo in New Hampshire in 2011 about his White House ambitions.
Embracing the presidential aspirations of Donald Trump was, from the start, an exercise in magical thinking. I’ve hung out with Trump, 70, many times over the years, professionally, socially and in wacky combinations of the two.
But the chat devolved into a madcap dash through Podunk streets too small for his ride — or his ego.
Trump staffers asked a photographer and me to put sterile cotton booties over our shoes so as not to sully the carpet. My all-time favorite Hollywood GOP curmudgeon, Clint Eastwood, 86, told Esquire magazine in the September issue that we’re living in a “p—y generation’’ beholden to political correctness.
Trump, he said, is “onto something.’’ But he stopped short of endorsing him.
Trump picked a stupid fight with the Muslim Gold Star parents of 27-year-old Army Capt. Sure, dad Khizr Khan put the candidate on the spot while at the Democratic National Convention.
But some of us smitten with his shoot-from-the-lip style have reached our limits. Why would he crave spending endless hours in policy meetings, cavorting with miserable domestic and world leaders and abandoning his collection of obscenely opulent abodes to live in public housing at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. His penthouse, which sprawls over the 66th, 67th and 68th floors of Trump Tower, looks like the palace of Louis XIV — if the French king mated with Liberace, with 24-karat-gold accents adorning everything from the lamps to the china, marble bathtubs and a vaulted living room ceiling painted with a fresco of scantily clad babes.
When I visited about two months after his lovely wife, Melania, now 46, gave birth to the couple’s son, Barron, now 10, the infamous germophobe boasted that after fathering five children, he’d never changed a diaper.