Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Get A Load Of This

Another 9,000 Americans—too many to name—have died from COVID-19 in the last week.  Another unarmed Black man—his name is Jacob Blake–has been shot in the back multiple times by a white police officer.  Another natural disaster—this one named Laura—has hit Louisiana and Texas, joining the California wildfires and the Iowa derecho in numbering up the plagues for those who are counting.  

So, naturally, I’d like to take my time this week to weigh in on some inconsequential details.  Let’s start with the least consequential—her name is Kimberly Guilfoyle.

To give her credit, she was married to Gavin Newsom, now governor of California, so I must be careful in talking about her lest I sound envious.  Three months after their divorce was finalized in 2006, Ms. Guilfoyle married Eric Villency, scion of a family with a furniture design and fabricating company that he took over at 23.  Four months later (I’m not judging—I’m just southern), she gave birth to their son.  Queue the exit music as this was the obligatory brief second marriage.

All of this plus Ms. Guilfoyle’s  life through 2018 played out while she was working at Fox News.  Her departure, reportedly to work for a pro-Trump super PAC, was clouded by reports that she had been investigated by Fox for sexual harassment.  It was reported that she showed pictures of male genitals (“get a load of this”) to co-workers and identified to whom they belonged.  

Ms. Guilfoyle would not have been a stranger to talking about such things.  She famously described her first husband as “hot” and “hung” at a gay fundraiser in 2004 and implied that he would only be available for some same sex action if “you can give a better [mimicking eating a banana] than me.”  In that crowd, I suspect there would have been more than a few who would have gladly accepted the challenge.

Currently, Ms. Guilfoyle is dating Donald Trump, Jr.  I suspect it is a match made in Heaven.

Having attended my share of campaign rallies and even national political conventions, the tone and timbre of Ms. Guilfoyle’s speech at the Republican National Convention was pitch perfect.  At least it would have been had it been a real convention speech.  But without the trappings of a large stadium and thousands of delegates and supporters shouting support, her performance was just completely overblown—like watching Olivier play King Lear on YouTube.

More than one meme beat me to the punch in identifying Ms. Guilfoyle as an Evita wannabe.  But with all due respect to Patti LuPone, Madonna, and every middling talent that assayed that role in provincial productions, Ms. Guilfoyle has more in common with Faye Dunaway’s rendition in a mostly forgotten TV movie from 1981 called simply Evita Peron, but could have been titled Mommie Dearest Goes to Argentina.

If Evita is her goal, it might follow that Melania Trump is Ms. Guilfoyle’s role model.  And I must give it to Mrs. Trump.  She can imply authoritarian militarism without raising her voice—or her arms for that matter.  Dressed in olive drab “Comrade Couture” from Alexander McQueen, she walked to the podium at the RNC this week as if she were on a catwalk with the confidence that said “get a load of this.”  It was unclear whether she was trolling the American people, her husband, or both.  More charitably, perhaps she’s thinking of a post White House acting career in which she could star in a remake of Ninotchka.  

I’m at something of a disadvantage writing this before the final night of the RNC.  While Ms. Guilfoyle might fantasize about marrying the eldest Trump son and moving into the White House in dynastic style, those dreams could be foiled by Joe Biden and that other Trump child who clearly has her father’s favor.  Make no mistake about it—Ivanka has the best speaking spot on the schedule and will no doubt deliver remarks without raising speculation about what she snorted before taking the dais.

So let’s see.  I’ve talked about male genitals, border lined on slut shaming, and reduced a woman’s political speech to a discussion of what she wore.  If this hasn’t taken one’s focus off the real issues, particularly those outlined in the first paragraph, then I’m going all Karen and return my copy of Distractions for Dummies for a full refund.