The White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner (WHCD) is unique for being the one night when America’s three centers of power—Washington, New York, and Hollywood—converge. Every April, just as the cherry blossoms are in bloom, social climbers of every variety descend upon the nation’s capital. Though the ostensible purpose of this annual gathering is to support the institution of America’s free press, anyone who has attended the weeklong bender of brunches, cocktail receptions, and after-parties knows that’s a thin patina of justification for dressing up, going out, and meeting famous people.
As an off-and-on veteran of the fetes surrounding the dinner (which I’ve never attended) for nearly two decades, I have had my fair share of celebrity encounters. Early in my career I was fortunate to befriend the late Christopher Hitchens, who for many years hosted the weekend’s most exclusive event, the Vanity Fair after-party, in his spacious Kalorama apartment. When the bash later migrated to the French ambassador’s residence around the corner, he sneaked me in. It was there that I overheard Scarlett Johansson complain that the subpar service of the Four Seasons in Georgetown should qualify it for a downgrade to “the Three Seasons.” I met Mike Myers, waited in line for the bathroom with Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and watched Hitchens lacerate Richard Belzer for claiming 9/11 was an inside job. I sang “Hey Jude” alongside Don Lemon with Darren Criss on piano.
The vanity of the event is worth remembering as journalists lose their collective minds over this year’s dinner, set for Saturday night. After avoiding the black-tie gala for his first five years in office, President Donald Trump will grace the Hinckley Hilton ballroom with his presence, and the evening will have a deep resonance. This was the room where, in 2011, Barack Obama and Seth Meyers humiliated Trump before an audience of millions. As lore has it, it was then and there Trump decided to exact revenge on all the people laughing at him by running for president.
