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The Sub-Gatsby Phantasmagoria by Anthony Scaramucci's Book Party

"I dreamed the American dream," writes Anthony Scaramucci in his memoir "Trump, the President of the Blue Collar," a work of Trump hagiography, which also described the rise of Moork from the working class Long Island to Goldman tells Sachs, for eleven fun days, the White House communications department before he was brought to the cask to suggest to a New York reporter that Steve Bannon is metaphorically "trying to suck his own dick." No heavy feelings about firing. Trump is a "genius," Scaramucci insists in his book. Watching him on television is "like playing Joe DiMaggio at the Scribe High School baseball team." (The diamond serves as one of many Moochian touchstones, as does F. Scott Fitzgerald, "one of my early favorite authors.") For Scaramucci, The President incarnates Jay Gatsby, surrounded by glittering riches, yet attuned to the forgotten warriors of the past, when the Catskill Mountains were higher than the Himalayas and "primitive versions of the vampire bat ̵

1; a distant ancestor of Steve Bannon, I believe" "Head over in the caves." If all this sounds great, too bad. "Have you ever met a successful person who had no ego?" Scaramucci, a man once described as "the human embodiment of a double-parked BMW" writes. "If you combine enough ego self-esteem and you add my personality, which some have categorized as" crazy, "that's an overloaded sales machine that can drive you crazy or mislead you or both," he explains.

On Monday night, the eve of the book's release, Scaramucci's investment company SkyBridge Capital calls a group of celebrities to drink wine and nibble on hanger steak at the Hunt & Fish Club, the Midtown Steak House , is once described by the New York Post as the place "Where Beauties Trawl for Sugardaddies". The venue has a power lunch ambiance, even at 7 pm (You'll notice that the "power lunch" atmosphere is achieved by importing a bleak luxury outside of opening hours into the middle of the day.) Plastic candles hang upside down from the ceiling and shed a room with Brooks Brothers suits, millennial pink ties and fleshy, grinning faces. The women wear flowing "Out on the Town" hair and sheath dresses. A d.j. stands at the back, next to a bar decorated with red and white roses. Young people pose in front of a photo screen beside leaning towers of "Trump, the president of the blue collar", pointing to the books and then to themselves and then to their drinks and then to the chandeliers. In addition to wine and liquor, the bar offers a cocktail called When Life Gives You Lemons. "Trump, the Blue-Collar President," strives for a comeback story, with Scaramucci in the role of Rocky "when the music swells and Balboa gets up from the mat … when Apollo Creed starts looking worried."

Everyone here seems to work in finance. "Do you work in finance?" I ask. I'm talking to a guy from Long Island, one of Scaramucci's best friends, cousin Augie. He and Augie have just started a joint venture. Augie's friend seems to be impressed by the chic decor of the banker. Although he has not read Tony's book yet, he wanted to show up for the neighbor kid who did well. The "character" he recognizes is "funny, very colorful". I ask how he feels about the president. "No comment," he says with a grin. Then he looks worried: "Maybe I should not be here."

The energy in space knotted and condensed. The Mooch has landed, and a cloud of admirers descend with their unsigned copies and their iPhones. A woman pushes her date to the epicenter with an angry hiss: "He's your friend, support him!" I approach the cumulus of designer watches and Dolce & Gabbana. "Are you friends with Tony?" I ask a blonde woman whose eye-catching eyes are covered by indigo shadows. Her partner shines: "She is the beautician for the whole family!" For a moment, I think he says "Undertaker." On a table covered in white, someone put a blue collar with a Scaramucci name on it. I'm talking to Chris Windle, the operations manager at Allied / All-City, a utility and pipeline services company. He wears a jeweled crucifix on a gold chain and talks to his friend George Sigelakis, who revolutionizes the hydrant. Sigelakis, a former firefighter, has developed a particularly durable, tamper-evident hydrant that resists rust and corrosion. We look at pictures on his mobile. Windle says he likes to talk to people who disagree with him – what's important is that we can talk to each other. I think of the suitability of the hydrant as a metaphor for the inflamed national discourse. I also remember the passage in "Trump, the Presidential Candidate," where Scaramucci dares to say that Trump might be able to bridge political divides because he cares nothing more than himself.

The three-tier cake with a meringue résumé Desk, a meringue Donald Trump and a roking meringue mooch disappears and reappears as pale slices of cannoli cream. It tastes weak after pumpkin. "Do you taste pumpkin?", I ask a finance bro. "No," he says and goes away. I sit down with Curtis Ellis, a Republican agent who first met Scaramucci in the Trump campaign, and now works for America First Policies, a Trump-supporting super-PAC. He tells me that the president plays nice. If Trump is re-elected in 2020, the reign of kindness will end. "It will be the night of the long knives," Ellis prophesied.

For now, it's the night of swaying plastic candles. I should have left half an hour ago, but the waiters are bringing out chocolate biscuits, and a woman's voice is squirting out of the speakers like the minds of a hundred forgotten Americans. Here's a Gatsby – a dream: a steakhouse, white tablecloths, white party guests, sparkling cufflinks bought with Goldman Sachs salaries. The Long Islanders share the phantasmatic Manhattanites with their hands. The meringue president wears a white collar.

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