My Night With the New Right
ICE raids, Botox, and magic.
Last week, I received an invitation to a D.C. party called “The Imperial Salon.” It was advertised as “a luxury addendum” to this week’s NatCon that would evoke “the grandeur of ancient imperial gatherings” and “inspire a rebirth of Western vitality” with the “new cultural vanguard.” Naturally, I couldn’t resist.
I go to these things every few months to try and get a flavor of the moment, and the flavor of last night was… something like Malört: bizarre, a bit bitter, and fairly disorienting by the time last call came around.
The night’s advertised special guests included Congressman Mike Collins, the extremely online, extremely anti-immigration representative from Georgia; Andrew Cuff, chief speechwriter at the Department of Education; and Jeff Clark, the Acting Administrator of the Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs (OIRA)—though he’s better known for his prior role at the DOJ, where he tried to help Trump overturn the 2020 election results. There were also tradcaths in browline glasses, drunk White House staffers, Bannon buddies, defense contractors, and women and men alike Botoxed to the gills.
The night started out mildly enough. Clark got on the mic to rant about the ongoing “lawfare” of the left and Covid-era safety measures, which everyone in the room still felt deeply aggrieved by. He laid out OIRA’s top priorities, which include dismantling President Obama’s Endangerment Finding, which allowed the EPA to regulate greenhouse gas emissions, and generally taking “a meat cleaver to regulation,” flexing his office’s new powers under a February executive order.
As I floated around the room, I heard surprisingly mixed reviews of the administration. The topic of tariffs inspired some queasy looks. Not everyone was thrilled about the tech billionaires’ heavy involvement, nor with DOGE’s recklessness. But just about everyone I spoke to was excited about mass deportations, and eager to see more action against DEI and liberal non-profits. One activist told me about his organization’s next priority: revoking D.C.’s right to self-governance, which actually echoed a conspiracy theory I saw on TikTok earlier this year.
Another interesting takeaway was the lack of confidence in J.D. Vance’s electoral prospects. The people I spoke to about 2028 deeply feared Gavin Newsom. I asked who they thought could be Vance’s running mate. Ron DeSantis, maybe, given that his term limits as Florida’s governor were coming up in 2026. Another suggestion: President Trump himself, who could technically run as Vance’s VP, before Vance resigns halfway through his term and Trump steps up to serve out the final two years. (Per the 22nd Amendment, a U.S. president can technically serve for up to ten years.) And of course, there was one more option: Run Trump for a third term, and “tie them up in the courts while they try to have elections.” Trump’s health issues did not arise.
By about 8:30 p.m. things started to get a little messy. I had been led to believe that conservatives don’t drink anymore, but last night suggested otherwise. Once the open bar closed, young women kept coming up to our table to “borrow” abandoned drinks. (Young women: Please, for your own safety, never do this!)
When the party relocated to the hotel bar upstairs, the quality of conversation deteriorated rapidly. I witnessed multiple noisy debates over the superiority of different Christian denominations. (The “tribalist” Protestant outshouted the Unitarian, who tried to defend that his branch wasn’t totally dominated by “libtards and pride flags.”) I was asked with utter seriousness whether I believed in magic, and warned against vaccine microchips and the dangers of 5G. An OPM staffer double-fisting two beers tried to persuade me that Diddy was the most persecuted man in America.
I have often argued that people misunderstand the New Right because they refuse to reckon with how deeply weird—and suddenly dominant—this movement is. Last night left me more confident than ever in that thesis. Sadly, I had to pass up the after party at the cigar lounge Shelly’s, and the after-after at Martin’s Tavern (apparently the new right-wing hotspot now that Butterworth’s has gotten too crowded). I hope everyone got home safe.
Curiosities 💫
I’ve been reading The Orphan Master’s Son, which is totally brilliant. If you’ve read it, you’ll know how surreal it was to see this article about a botched Navy SEAL operation in North Korea.
This story will haunt me for years. I’ve been looking for a way into the Silicon Valley surrogacy story for a while, but Emi Nietfeld absolutely nailed it. Kudos to her, and my heart goes out to the surrogates mentioned in this piece.
Outside of the Imperial Salon, I can’t say D.C. seems particularly overjoyed at the state of things:
Back to New York I go! Hope you’re having a fun weekend.
Unitarians are not Christians and don't claim to be.
In a way, the weirdness, the fascination with niche authoritarian philosophers and belief in outrageous conspiracy theories are all a currency among the very online folk who still feel like insurgents. They are all ways to be edgy. So, as long as you hate the right people, it’s okay if not encouraged to be a little out there.