Meet the Billionaire

Previously in the story of money: The demand curve looked at the supply curve all, "I'll see you at the market price, you bastard!" Alan Greenspan made out with monetary policy while Andrea Mitchell was having her hair done. Every state got to think up its own shiny quarter, and a bunch of them could think of nothing more scintillating than the official State Outline. Nobody really got into two-dollar bills, even though they were kind of an awesome idea, and nobody would touch Susan B. Anthony dollars, because no one could afford to invest the free time required to ascertain that they weren't quarters. Gas cost, like, $1.45 in the morning and $1.73 in the afternoon -- what was up with that? My bank had worse customer service than several European dictatorships of the past, including some that performed beheadings. Cereal seemed far too expensive, compared to other products that are largely flour. Like, for instance, flour. Northwest Airlines took over the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport and brought with it the economic blessing of being unable to fly anywhere except Cedar Rapids for less than $300, unless you rode in the overhead compartment and forewent your pretzel twists. The Federal Reserve ran out of twenties after Alex Rodriguez visited a drive-through ATM on his way to Chuck E. Cheese. The rich got richer. The poor got poorer. The tax code thought expensive second homes were a greater social good than an advanced education. The post office would come to your house, pick up a letter, and deliver it anywhere you asked them to for 37 cents, but ordering French toast from room service four floors away required you to pay a jacked-up menu price, a delivery charge, an included gratuity, and a tip of your own if you didn't want the guy to sneeze on your pancakes. And through the wonders of eBay, everything was worth something to someone, even if it was broken.

We swoop in over water as tense music moans on the soundtrack. "Naaaaah-nah-nah-waaaaah," it says. We look up to see the skyline of Manhattan looming ahead. Several attractive aerial shots of the city follow, and then we hear the distinctive voice of one Donald Trump intone, "New York. My city." He means this literally, of course. New York is "where the wheels of the global economy never stop turning," he says, over pictures of Times Square and a bunch of people milling around, towered over by two enormously tall dudes who are apparently on vacation from their Lithuanian professional basketball team. Now that's the global economy in action. Trump calls his city "a concrete metropolis of unparalleled strength and purpose." It drives business, it never sleeps...oh, and hey! There's the Stock Exchange! That's the factory where they make heart attacks! Manhattan is "the real jungle," and Donald says that "it can chew you up and spit you out." He says this over a shot of someone sleeping on a bench, which seems a bit too literal to me. "See? If you are weak in New York, you will end up like this guy!" In cheerier news not involving sadistic mockery of the homeless, Donald points out that "if you work hard, you can really hit it big."

Okay, let me see if I have this down. Do badly, suffer consequences. Work hard, do well. Donald is going a little bit fast for me, but then, I'm from the Midwest. I'll do my best to keep up. Hold on while I get another piece of hay to chew.

As if you aren't already packing your bags for your exciting new citified life as a non-vagrant, after Donald says "you can hit it big," he says, "I mean, really big." And then they show the Statue of Liberty, so I guess if you make it big enough, that's where you get to live. I didn't even know they had apartments there. That would be cool, I think. You'd look out at all the tourists on the island and yell, "Get off my lawn!" That's what I would do, anyway. ["I'd go with water balloons, but that's me." -- Sars] , we see a limousine streaking down a Manhattan street, and when we go inside the passenger compartment, we see him. Donald Trump. Seated across from us. "My name's Donald Trump," he says, "and I'm the largest real estate developer in New York." I find it hard to believe there are no real estate developers larger than Donald Trump, since he's not really all that large. He brags that he owns a lot of buildings, and the editors obligingly show us several of them. He explains that he also owns "model agencies, the Miss Universe pageant, jetliners, golf courses, casinos, and private resorts like Mar-a-Lago, one of the most spectacular estates anywhere in the world." He neglects to add, "And, as of now, I own the sixteen bitches you are about to meet."

Lest you think he leads a charmed life, Donald goes on to explain, "It wasn't always so easy." You see, at one point, Donald was in debt. They show the national debt clock at this point, so apparently he blew all his money on entitlement programs and military doodads. But he fought back. And won, dammit! Now he's richer than ever! And happier than ever! Look, there he is with...with Don King! And nothing says "true happiness" like Don King. At least true happiness circa 1989. We even see the Trump board game along about here. ("Roll one die to see what part of Trump's anatomy you have to affix your lips to.") More shots of Donald's accomplishments...wait a minute, Trump makes spring water? Spring water with his face on it? The hell? "As the master," he says, "I want to pass along my knowledge to somebody else." I have to say, it takes a big man to call himself "the master." Most people, if they did say something like that, would be joking. Not Donald. Donald does not joke. Especially about being the master.

Jessie is from New Richmond, Wisconsin, and she talks like it. Her intro footage shows her by a farm building with a horse or something. Is she a farmer? Because there are a few people in Wisconsin who don't make their living from agriculture. Brett Favre is the only one I can think of right now, but I'm sure there are others. She says that she only has a high school diploma, but owns a marketing firm and sells real estate. Of course, a lot of these people are going to claim to "own firms," and I'm sure that many of them legitimately do, but I would remind you that I own a business also, and it consists of me, my computer, my bank account, and -- very often -- my pajamas. "Marketing firm" is a very elastic term, so just remember that "owning a business" doesn't necessarily involve riding herd over hundreds of employees and decorating your private office with Oriental rugs. Oh, and Jessie is twenty-one. Aw, I remember when I was twenty-one. I think my main professional aspiration was poverty avoidance.

Kwame is twenty-nine. He has an MBA from the Harvard Business School, where he presumably majored in Well La-Di-Da. He's been an investment manager for a Wall Street firm. He's very cute.

Ereka [sic] is from New York City. Keep that in mind for later. She learned business at her parents' pizzeria, and now she does marketing for a cosmetics company. And she is going to her "job interview" in that classic item of professional women's attire: a tube top. I'm sure it's a very sophisticated Donna Karan Executive Tube Top, though. It probably has a pocket for your cell phone.

"Hi!" Or rather, "Haaaaah!" Wow. It's Troy, and he's from...Boise? Really? It sounds like Boise by way of Alabama, a little bit. He says, with a weirdly self-satisfied tone, that he gave up college to care for "[his] mother and [his] disabled little sister." It's all just a little too chipper for my comfort. I'm surprised he's not wearing a shirt with the sister's picture on it or something. I think he says that he's the president of his own lending company, but it might have been "linen company" or "landing company." Or "Lennon company," although I'd think that would be a rough gig these days. Or "Lenin company." Hey, ironic!

Amy is from Austin, and has decided to skip the tube top in favor of a sleeveless gold dress. She tells us that she once had "stock options worth millions," but they all went poof in the dot-com bust. Another very elastic term? "Worth." Amy has her MBA and "work[s] in the high-tech industry," whatever the hell that means. Maybe she works at Best Buy. I also want to point out that she introduces herself as "Amelia," and then the show uses a graphic that says "Amy," and for quite a while, I was writing the recap trying to figure out who was Amy and who was Amelia. That was before I figured out that they were the same person. I never claimed to be bright, which is why I'm not trying to get a job working for Donald Trump.

Now we see a guy check in with the receptionist who can't even say he's there to see Donald Trump without laughing. I feel you, dude. She asks him his name. "Bowie Hogg," he says. Oh, yeah. Bowie Hogg has arrived, people. And it's pronounced Boo-ey, too. Just like the knife. Unsurprisingly, Bowie is from Texas (he's not one of the Delaware Hoggs). He has a business degree, and he works in sales for an express delivery service. I have a feeling that without his name, Bowie would be watching from his couch, just like me.

An extremely nervous-looking woman tells us that her name is Kristi, and she's from Santa Monica. She owns a restaurant, and "investment properties." In case you haven't been following your gossip rags, she also has an appearance on Red Shoe Diaries on her rsum, and I'm thinking maybe a couple of her "investment properties" were surgically implanted.

David went to medical school in addition to business school, so now he's a nurturer-slash-weasel. He's a "health care venture capitalist." Ew. I have visions of a startup devoted to trading gall bladders on the open market.

Omarosa is dressed in a fuchsia suit, and while it's good that she's in a suit, it's not so good that every skirt she wears throughout the entire episode is barely long enough to cover her hips. She's a PhD candidate and a political consultant. Barf. "Political consultant." "Four years ago," she overenunciates, "I worked at the White House, for the Pre-si-dent of the Uni-ted States." Heh. Heh heh. Um, never mind. I think the intern jokes are pretty much over at this point. And yes, as one of the Eagle-Eyed Forum Posters pointed out, her name spelled backwards is very nearly "Ass-o-rama." That's rough.

Nick is, according to his own assessment, "the hardest-working salesman in Los Angeles, California." He sells copiers, and he's commission-only. So, as he puts it, "if I don't sell, I don't eat." That's an interesting coincidence, because if I don't have a copier, I don't collate.

Katrina is wearing a greenish-gold outfit that, while it is not a suit, is at least a dress featuring a jacket. She claims to be ranked in the top three percent of realtors nationwide. On what scale? Who's included as a "realtor"? What the hell does that mean? Who did the ranking? I protest. I can get myself ranked in the top three percent of humans nationwide, provided I get to set the parameters.

Sam is director of business development for an internet company. Eh, the internet will never last. Those crazy kids with their computers and their Napster and their sex pictures.

Heidi is from Philadelphia, and she's an account executive for a telecommunications company. She has curvy, archless eyebrows and a very shiny chin.

Bill is from Chicago, and he founded the Cigar of the Month Club in his apartment. It's now a multimillion-dollar business. That's the first thing any of these people have said by way of introduction that I've entirely understood, so he gets an extra point with me immediately. Also, he's cute, and the average cuteness of the men lags substantially behind that of the women. Hardly fair.

Jason is twenty-three, also from Detroit, and is a slumlord. Okay, not necessarily. He says he has a "real estate development firm," and explains that he rents to low-income families. You can see where I am concerned. You better be keeping those places in good repair, Jason. I don't want to read about any faulty wiring on The Smoking Gun.

Tammy is from Seattle, and she swears that she used to be a stockbroker. She rolls her suitcase off the elevator and strolls haughtily up to the receptionist. She is the last to arrive. Tammy glares at everyone, voicing over that she felt no need to communicate with the others. Everyone else seemed to be smiling or whatever, but her feeling is that the only person who needs to like her is Donald. She applies lipstick in front of the group. Always a popular opening gambit. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "And I was so impressed with that one woman who was standing there putting her lipstick on. She seemed classy."

The people in the waiting room all eyeball each other, trying to figure out who will have his or her head the farthest up Trump's rear by the end of the first day. (They don't know it now, but it will be a photo finish.) Troy interviews that although Trump has given them all a leg up, Troy will still be out there trying to earn the American dream the old-fashioned way -- via reality television. You remember Who Wants To Be Landed Gentry?, don't you?

The receptionist tells the waiting crowd that Donald is ready for them, and they are all ushered into the Boardroom. They all sit (and stand) along one side of a long table, and facing them on the other side are Donald Trump, a very old dude with white hair, and a smart-looking woman of what I would call early middle age. The first thing Donald tells the candidates is his favorite pseudo-fact of all -- that New York City is the real jungle. He then introduces George, the white-haired old guy, who is Donald's executive vice president and senior counsel. On the other side of Donald is Carolyn, the chief operating officer of one of Donald's companies. He calls her "a killer." That's nothing. My boss calls me a piranha. "There are many men buried in [Carolyn's] wake," Donald says. Nick smiles condescendingly, because powerful women are just so darn adorable he could eat them up with a spoon. Donald explains that George and Carolyn will be watching over the candidates for him as they do their tasks. Ultimately, they'll help make the call about who should win and who should get fired. "This isn't a game," Donald says, "this is a thirteen-week job interview." Tammy looks vaguely baffled. You can almost hear drip-drip-dripping in the leaky faucet of her brain. Donald tells them all that there were 215,000 applicants, and this is the group that was chosen. So they're all winners! Except not, because fifteen of them will be losers! But anyway!

, we get to hear some Donald's somewhat disjointed thinking about strategy. He points out that while some of them think business school is how you learn, others think street smarts are all that counts. Furthermore, he says, there's an old saw that women have a harder time in the workplace than men. Ereka looks all smiley and confused like, "They do?" She doesn't have this problem, I suppose, because she worked for her parents, and then she worked in cosmetics. Donald has nothing to add about any of these matters, so I suppose it's just a stream-of-Donaldness. He announces that there will be two teams in the game, and he has decided that the best way to do it in terms of ratings -- er, "good competition" -- is to team up the women against the men. Donald tells them that each week, they'll get what he calls a "business task." It might be acting as a street vendor, doing something in marketing -- "maybe even put on a rock concert." Does anyone say "rock concert" anymore? Wasn't the last "rock concert" attended by Greg Brady, pretty much? Donald mentions an interesting twist, which is that each team will have to select a "project manager" for each task. If things go well, obviously, that person will look good. If they go badly, then that person will have some explaining to do when they get to the Boardroom. (Dun-dun-duuuuuun!) "All of you should be complimented," he says, "but the fact is, there's only one going to be chosen." He mentions again that the winner will be made president of one of his companies for a year, at that "yooge salary" he talked about earlier. He tells them to go up to the suite and enjoy themselves. Heidi leans over just a little, and she turns out to be wearing one of those dresses that doesn't look too dirty until she clasps her hands in front of her and leans over a table, at which point it is definitely not professional.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to address the issue of The Hair. Donald Trump's hair is a lot like Michael Jordan's baseball career -- it serves as a reminder that one of the curses of wealth is that when you have enough money, nobody will do you the favor of telling you when you're making an enormous ass out of yourself. Donald's hair, first of all, has stripes of color. I don't even know how one does that, but he has skunk-like bands of blond in among his generally reddish-brown hair. We're not talking about highlights, either. Bands. Stripes. Like on a flag. An ugly flag, for a country roiled by turmoil and self-hating and civil war. The hair also appears to puff up from the front of his head and sweep backwards to cover what I presume is a very bald top. It's not a traditional comb-over so much as it is a comb-back. (I have also heard the opposite theory, which is that it puffs up from the back and is tucked in somehow at the front. Could be.) And yes, I think it's real hair. I don't think even a guy like Trump would buy a toupee that looked like that. I don't think they would manufacture a toupee that looked like that. His hair is also weirdly straw-like, and looks like each individual strand would snap in half if you bent it around your finger. Which I don't recommend, because he probably wouldn't like it.

Having been introduced to their new boss, the candidates are dismissed. They file out and head for the elevator. Sam voices over that when he saw Donald, "it all came together, right there." Sam says he wants "access to Trump." He wants to get to know him. In a bar! With his girlfriend! In the bathroom! With a high-powered telescope! While hanging outside his bedroom window in an improvised sling! Sam must have access! Anti-stalking statutes? Never heard of them!

The men are arguing over the dress code for tomorrow. David says that if it's in a building on Wall Street, "it would not be inappropriate to wear a tie." I think the grammar books call that the pretentious double-negative. The guys want to know if they need to wear jackets, and David says that on the floor of the exchange, you would, but he's confident that isn't where they'll be. Confident, I tell you. Nick says he doesn't know what the first task is, but the game is on for sure. Thanks, Nick!

Time-lapse takes us from sunset to sunrise in New York. The candidates leave the Tower and head for the NYSE. When they get there, Trump, who is up in the...you know, the thingy where you ring the bell...the pulpit or whatever, calls them over, so they're gazing up at him, which is just the way he likes it. There's nobody else around, presumably because it's some god-awful hour of the morning when all the regulars are still sneaking out of their mistresses' apartments and taking caffeine via intravenous drips. The men of VersaCorp did end up going with jackets and ties, and they look almost eerily matchy-matchy. Trump gives a speech about the importance of the stock market, and then he tells them that while they may be expecting something glamorous, that's not what they're getting. What they're getting today is the opportunity and obligation to sell lemonade on the street. Each team will get $250 in seed money, and then they're on their own. At 7:30 in the evening, whichever team has more money will win. The women look crazy-excited about this assignment; the guys look a little more reserved. Donald asks them to name their project managers -- the guys are going with Troy; the women are going with Ereka. They also give up the VersaCorp and Protg nicknames. Donald makes it clear that he likes the women's name better. Ereka actually winks at Donald during this sequence. Ew. The way Trump treats the women is very telling -- he's very complimentary toward them, in a way that I think any woman who's ever worked in a field dominated by men can recognize as ultimately patronizing. He looks at these women, and you can just tell that he's not thinking in terms of ability, he's thinking in terms of fuckability. That's just how it is. Maybe with women who are older, or ugly, he's able to take them seriously, but with these women, he's obviously not. He sends the teams out onto "the killer streets of New York" (Bloomberg is thinking, "Dude, we're trying to remove the fear of crime") and he says that he'll see them later. The women are all, "Woooo!" and the men are all, "VERSACORP!" and then suddenly, the opening bell is ringing and the traders are...doing whatever it is they do that I completely don't understand, with the finger-pointing and the calling out numbers and the whatever. We see the candidates head out into the streets, and then it's time for a commercial.

When we return, white letters on a black screen tell us that, apparently, the theme of the segment is, "Location, location, location." Donald interviews that while location is important, "the people behind the deal are much more important." Should be a horse race, then, because if it's going to be about quality of personnel, I think both teams will be lucky to successfully make lemonade, let alone sell it. Donald says that he would rather have a smart guy in a bad location than a dumb guy in a great location. Troy, however, is telling the VersaCorp guys at 9:40 AM that the key to success is, indeed, "location, location, location." He delegates the task of location scouting to Kwame. Troy interviews that when Trump said on the podium that they were going back to basics, he didn't know the guy meant sixth grade. I love how some of them are consumed with disparaging this task in case they suck at it. Troy sends some guys off for cups and supplies, while Kwame returns to the group with news that they're heading for the seaport.