Politics
Salon.com
Sat, Aug 12 5:00 AM PDT
In 1994, I visited the home of Donald Trump. He was a Democrat
then, of sorts, and I was the party’s nominee for governor of
Connecticut. He’d taken an interest in our state owing to his keen
desire to lodge a casino in Bridgeport, an idea I found economically and
morally dubious. I had scant hope of enlisting him, but made the trip
anyway, thinking that if I convinced him I might win, he’d be less apt
to bankroll my opponent. I arrived at Trump Tower in early evening,
accompanied by my finance chair and an old friend and colleague.
Stepping off the elevator into his apartment, we were met by a display
of sterile, vulgar ostentation: all gold, silver, brass, marble; nothing
soft, welcoming or ...
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