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I have no idea how I ended up 10 feet in front of the stage [ [link removed] ] while Hulk Hogan ripped off his shirt at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee back in July. At first, I thought I might be living in a computer simulation, or at the very least, I had accidentally drunk a dairy product that was causing me to hallucinate.
But I have since been told that, no, it actually happened. (At the time, former Wisconsin Gov. Tommy Thompson, who was a couple feet from me, observed: “It looks like Trump’s going after people who love race car drivin’ and ’rasslin’.”)
In a sense, Hogan’s appearance fits in well with Trumpism—the former president is adept at manufacturing sensational storylines in which he can play the role of both hero and heel. (Trump was actually inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2013 [ [link removed] ], the first U.S. president to be granted that honor since Millard Fillmore.*)
But it was odd that the party would choose Hogan of all people—a man who frequently had sex with the wife of a good friend as his buddy watched and who started suing media outlets after his own sex tape leaked—as the warm-up act for Trump’s acceptance speech, despite Trump’s own penchant for the hedonistic. (The only less Googled phrase than “Hulk Hogan sex tape” is likely “mustard and banana cookie recipe.”)
But it was an opportunity the Republican Party could not turn down. At the same time Republicans and conservatives deride popular culture, they desperately want to be part of it. And since they aren’t able to get Oprah Winfrey or Spike Lee or John Legend or Lil’ Jon to come to their convention, like the Democrats can, the GOP settles for a muscle-bound septuagenarian, a reality show “star” [ [link removed] ] whose parents are in prison, an OnlyFans model [ [link removed] ] with a forehead tattoo, and a Ultimate Fighting Championship executive who was once caught [ [link removed] ] on film slapping his wife.
Oh, and, of course, there was washed-up nu metal rapper Kid Rock, who took time away from machine-gunning cases [ [link removed] ] of Bud Light to perform a sanitized version of his 2000 hit “American Bad Ass” to a crowd of confused conservatives. (There is a sex tape of Kid Rock also floating around the web, which makes one wonder: Was there any speaker at the RNC who hasn’t filmed themselves in a state of amorous congress? Is anyone waiting with bated breath for the Ted Cruz boot-knocking experience?)
But it is these once-famous group of speakers that make Republicans feel that there is an alternate popular culture out there to which they belong. They know the insufferable George Clooneys of the world are stumping for the other side, and they reject all of their progressive condescension, arguing that celebrities can’t possibly know what “real life” is like. That is, of course, until a celebrity makes the slightest hint that they might not be leading the army of the woke, at which point Republicans quickly snap them up and claim them as their own.
Obviously, the most notable example of this situational celebrity hate/worship is Donald Trump, who went from being a regional celebrity in the Northeast to a national name when he started hosting his reality show, “The Apprentice.” Every week, millions of people tuned in to watch Trump play a tough and decisive television character. And when he decided to run for president, these people naturally believed all the characteristics they saw Trump demonstrate on TV would suit a president well—he could change laws and better their lives simply by having a strong enough personality.
After Trump’s victorious 2016 campaign, celebrity worship in the GOP took off. Suddenly, any celebrity who had fallen on hard times could cozy up to Republicans, who were just happy to have a “real name” on their side. That is why in 2024, visitors to the RNC could see movie stars like British comedian Russell Brand wandering the convention grounds, still reeling from over a dozen women accusing him of sexual impropriety. People like Brand are clearly willing to trade their names for a chance to once again be in the spotlight, even if it’s with a political party whose members who aren’t meaningfully engaged in modern popular culture.
The parade of pseudo-celebrities has continued unabated, especially those seeking to rejuvenate their careers through feckless campaigns. Just in the past few years, Republicans have run candidates like TV show host and quack medicine enthusiast [ [link removed] ] Dr. Mehmet Oz in Pennsylvania and former NCAA football coach Tommy Tuberville (who actually won his senatorial race) in Alabama.
Despite actually living in Texas, former Georgia running back Herschel Walker ran a disastrous campaign for the U.S. Senate in which he admitted to pointing a gun at his wife’s head and telling her he was going to “blow her brains out,” lied about serving in law enforcement, admitted to having three children he had never publicly acknowledged, endorsed a “dry mist” [ [link removed] ] product that would “kill any COVID on your body,” and faced allegations he had paid for multiple girlfriends [ [link removed] ] to get abortions.
But hey, we knew his name—even though it seems a few of his children didn’t. And, of course, as his running mate this year, Trump picked J.D. Vance, who made a name for himself in the literary world as the author of “Hillbilly Elegy,” a lively account of his tough upbringing in a rural Ohio ravaged by drugs and unemployment. Vance’s story was so compelling it was made into a movie starring A-listers like Amy Adams and Glenn Close, both of whom are no doubt frantically hacking IMDB to get it removed from their résumés. And while Vance is, indeed, a U.S. senator and thus taken more seriously than other celebrities, it was the name recognition he earned as an author that catapulted him into the national spotlight in the first place.
Finally, let’s not forget the recent support Trump received from Robert F. Kennedy Jr., a vaccine crackpot, amateur bear carcass collector [ [link removed] ] and former drug dealer who has made a career of trading on his family’s name. Trump once proposed that drug dealers get the death penalty, so it’s not clear who Kennedy should be more afraid of, the GOP presidential candidate he supports or revenge-minded bears. But of course, nobody cares because the celebrity the name “Kennedy” imputes to the Trump campaign is worth all the headaches it also drags along with it.
Yet none of these names grants Republicans the golden key to true stardom within popular culture. Sure, there are some genuine celebrities whose names are whispered in conservative circles—Adam Sandler is evidently a registered Republican, while Vince Vaughn is openly proud [ [link removed] ] of his libertarianism.
But if Republicans are going to gain acceptance in the world of popular movies, music and books, they are going to have to create the outlets themselves. It is why right-wing publications like The Daily Wire have started their own movie studios [ [link removed] ], children’s networks [ [link removed] ] and book imprints [ [link removed] ]—with virtually no success to date. (The movie studio has only released a handful of films, and one of its biggest titles, the Gina Carano-led western “Terror on the Prairie,” cost $2 million to make but only raked in $13,000 [ [link removed] ] at the box office.) Until then, the GOP will have to make do with vaccine-denying has-beens like former Saturday Night Live star Rob Schneider, erstwhile Superman Dean Cain and 1990s relics like Kevin Sorbo and Kristy Swanson.
Ironically, much of the reason people vote for Republicans is because they have historically stood against what conservatives thought was a godless culture of celebrity. But the recent rounds of minor stars joining the GOP is evidence the party will jump toward cultural relevance in less time than it takes Hulk Hogan to choke out Brutus Beefcake.
*-This is not true.
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