It was not uncommon for me to come home from work to find Cousin Bobby holed up in my apartment. He lived hours away. He never called in advance. He didn’t have a key. But there he’d be, dirty clothes piled by the washer, something burnt in a skillet on the stove, and Cousin Bobby sprawled on my couch, TV blaring.
Donald Trump reminds me of a more sophisticated Cousin Bobby. Forget “The Art of the Deal.” Theirs is the art of the grift.