In my head the planned Trump ballroom, to be built where the now-eradicated East Wing of the White House recently stood, is an architectural hall of pus and fascist hubris.
Donald Trump is a temporary resident of a grand historical home that is owned by taxpayers. He didn’t have the right to mangle the traditional look of the place. He was obliged to respect the historical continuity aspect, and instead he said “fuck it, I’m going to Mar a Lago this place.”
In my mind the Trump ballroom is a spiritual kin of the giant Stay–Puft Marshmallow Man, whom we all remember from the totally unfunny third act of Ivan Reitman’s Ghostbusters.
Until the sudden bulldozing of the East Wing and the revealing of the ballroom’s architectural scheme, I had taken vague comfort in the notion of the Trump presidency being theoretically finite and, you know, at least potentially a done deal (i.e., history) as of 1.20.29.
But the Stay-Puft ballroom will probably endure, and that likely fact has deeply enraged me. My blood is boiling.
If Gavin Newsom wins in ‘28, it must be torn the fuck down. I’m serious. Bulldoze the damn thing and rebuild a new East Wing, one that will presumably exude a semblance of taste, restraint and proper decorum.
And if Newsom won’t destroy it, the French 75 should figure some way to dynamite it. This sounds crazy, I realize, but I would honestly not have a huge problem with Leonardo DiCaprio‘s Bob Ferguson using a drone to…I don’t know, drop a firebomb or something at 3:30 am.
