charlie

“Jared had on his usual ‘Lululemon Luftwaffe’ outfit he liked best for travel days. He felt it made him look relatable. Athleisure wear was such an ironic choice for a guy who never truly appeared relaxed. A young male assistant followed closely behind with two suit bags filled with slim cut, blue Armani suits and crisp white shirts. He sometimes doubled as a personal trainer when the First Son-in-Law traveled but for the purposes of this top secret trip he was only dropping the luggage and leaving. Jared didn’t carry his own bags, ever. Steve wore his milkshake suede Loro Piana loafers and a Gucci track suit that nobody told him made him look absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes you can become so wealthy that nobody gives you good advice. Witkoff had passed that point long ago. Miami has a way of accelerating bad taste and overspending in late middle-aged men born in the Bronx. At 69, Witkoff had been marinating in the South Florida sun with a black AMEX for way too long. The Weasel of Worth Avenue was how the shop girls referred to him in Palm Beach. He was a dilettante in every sense of the word, a man more suited for the Cajun chicken at Le Bilboquet than a hardbitten negotiation with the world’s most medievally villainous characters. Yet, here he was flying around the world as Trump’s special envoy in all things where the family, and his own well-manicured clan, might make a buck. It was the lure of Ukraine’s vast mineral reserves that enticed him into the special envoy position to begin with - he didn’t so much care about the politics of it all or staunching the bloodshed of innocents, he was in it for the cold hard cash. His marching orders, along with Jared’s for this mission: ‘Just don’t fucking make me look like Hillary or Carter!’” noelcasler.substack.com/p/bl…