Who'll take on Trump & what Cher has to do with it

(687 words)

I first spoke to Donald Trump in the early 1990s. I remember word-for-word our entire conversation.

Trump: “This is Donald Trump calling for Wayne Castleman.”

Me: “Hold, please.”

I think we had that exact same conversation about four or five times over the next week. I remember thinking each time how ironic it was for me to be transferring a call from a man who lived in a castle (Mar-A-Lago) to a reporter named Castleman.

Watching Trump last night I tried to recall all the famous people to whom I’ve said, “Hold, please,” while transferring their calls to reporters more important than I.

This mostly took place in the early 1990s when I was working at National Enquirer in fabulous Lantana, Florida. I did most of my work from our Pennsylvania home but the Enquirer — best employers I ever had — would fly me to Florida for two weeks every six months or so.

I’d spend most of my day doing odd jobs, BSing with old English Fleet Streeters and manning what I came to call the “Hold, please” desk.

The B- and C-list personalities to whom I’ve said, “Hold, please,” makes for quite the oddball celebrity Hall of Fame.

Besides The Donald, there was Julie Newmar, Joey Buttafuoco, Pat Sajak, Loni Anderson, LaToya Jackson and, my favorite, Rob Camelleti. Bonus points if you remember Camelleti.

That’s right. He was superstar Cher’s bagel boy lover. They met and fell briefly in love when he was 22, she 40. 

He was my favorite because every time I’d say, “Hold, please,” he’d say, “Sure, thanks, man.”

Trump was one of those celebs who complained constantly about having his private life exposed in The Enquirer, yet found exposing his private life in The Enquirer irresistible. He’d feed Castleman and other reporters his side of the story, often with the stipulation to say the info was from “sources close to Trump,” a typical celebrity dodge.

After watching last night’s debate, I detect the GOP establishment is nervous about being close to Trump.

I can’t blame them.

I used to think he was just a frivolous ass.

I was wrong.

He’s the most appalling and crass individual I’ve ever seen run for office.

He makes Ross Perot look like George Clooney.

He’s striking a chord with people who find his bracing brand of honesty refreshing.

These people fail to understand honesty without tact is like brain surgery without anesthesia: The operation might succeed, but the procedure can kill.

Trump says these perilous times require such stridency. He says that means Trump.

Wrong. We don’t need Trump.

We need Fred Rogers.

Or maybe Joe Welch.

Welch was chief counsel for the U.S. Army in the historic Army-McCarthy hearings that marked the downfall of U.S. Senator Joe McCarthy (R-Wisc.).

During a June 9, 1954, senate hearing, the thuggish McCarthy accused Welch’s trusted young assistant, Fred Fischer, of typical communist shenanigans.

Welch’s indignant reply on live TV is among my favorite moments in American history. He said: 

“Until this moment, Senator, I think I have never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness. I like to think I am a gentleman, but your forgiveness will have to come from someone other than me.”

When a sputtering McCarthy tried to renew his attack, Welch interrupted him:

“Senator, may we not drop this? Let us not assassinate this fine lad further, Senator. You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?”

The outraged civility of the rebuke signaled the long-overdue end of McCarthyism, one of the darkest periods in American history.

So someone in the GOP has a golden opportunity. 

He or she can pick the right moment and deftly plunge the dagger into the heart of Trump’s corrosive ambitions. It will instantly elevate that candidate to the top of the polls.

It’s going to take someone firm, but well-mannered, someone who’s gone hand-to-hand with really tough customers.

Someone who knows how to get on a real roll.

I wonder if Cher’s erstwhile bagel maker is busy.

Related . . .

Where have you gone, Ross Perot?

Trump’s no jackass; he’s under-qualified

Our summer of aliens & earth’s future

Obamacare will cure “sick” Tea Party

Farewell, Sarah, America’s flirt

Now ear this!

I peered deep into our 9-year-old’s right ear the way germ-detecting scientists peer into microscopes.

I was looking for Michael Phelps.

“I don’t see any swimmers in here,” I said.

Nine is an age when “Dad” becomes a two-syllable word.

“Da-ad! Swimmer’s ear doesn’t mean there’s a swimmer in my ear,” she said. “It’s an infection.”


That’s what the doctors say, but I’m suspicious of the entire medical profession.

In evil collusion with the dastardly pharmaceutical industry, they invent diseases and spend millions on saturation advertising to convince us we suffer from every day symptoms like sleeplessness and agitation, which to me are symptoms of things like parenting and being gainfully employed.

Next thing you know we’re eating pills the way we should be eating vegetables and we’re worried about side effects like suicidal depression, colored urine and three-hour erections.

We’re all being doctored to death.

And I’m even more suspicious of the human ear, God’s worst design.

I revel in the grandeur of a beautiful sunset, the forrest in autumn and the sight of a child running with outstretched arms toward a kneeling loved one.

There is so much splendor to savor in this world.

But what happened when God designed the human ear? It looks like it was done by interns eager to dash off to the Happy Hour.

We vainly lavish plastic surgeons with millions to shave fractions of an inch off our noses, we get our lips plumped and the drooping skin on our necks and foreheads tucked back behind our temples.

But no one ever does a thing about the ugliest part of human being north of the disgusting foot.

They hang prominently from our heads like the shutters of old haunted houses. They look like a Google Earth map of the LA freeway system.

They make no sense. They are a confusing tangle of gutters.

Really, the only thing the design is good for is keeping glasses from sliding off our heads and letting us identify society’s biggest jerks by giving them a place to stick their Bluetooths.

Sure, they make great handles if you’re interested in assaulting a bald man, but that only benefits the belligerent.

Sturdy pegs could handle all those simple tasks, although that design might pose additional discomfort for mothers during childbirth and no one who’s ever witnessed that ordeal would favor that solution.

One of my favorite bits of trivia includes another ear flaw. While the rest of the aging us is giving into gravity and getting more diminutive, the ear is always on the march.

It’s true. The eyes with which we’re born remain the same size from birth to death, but the ear and the nose (and I’ve got issues with them, too), never stop growing.

Ever see the ears of a really old person? You see less sizable kites at hang gliding conventions.

We should have ear lids like eye lids. If we want to jump in the water or some punk kid is playing the Lady Gaga too loudly, we just shut our ears the way we shut our eyes when we see Lady Gaga on TV.

And that would seem like a solution to the swimmer’s ear that’s plaguing our darling Josie.

You never hear of a dolphin suffering from swimmer’s ear and the only time they stick their heads out of the water is to nod for the trick reward anchovies at places like Sea World.

Val said the nurse at the Virginia Beach doc in the box told her there’d been 15 other kids with swimmer’s ear there already by that afternoon.

Each of their parents had to shell out $150 for a minuscule quantity of ear drops that is less than what will come vaulting out my nose when the summer allergies soon start me to sneezing.

When Val told me the drops were $150, I couldn’t believe my ears.

But I think the same thing anytime I see them in the mirror.