Trump has always been drawn to spectacle over substance, which is why the office of the presidency, its traditions, its symbolic weight, means nothing to him. He treats it as an extension of his personal brand, a stage set to be redecorated, repurposed, and cheapened to suit his latest stunt. The White House, once the seat of American power, is now a backdrop for whatever personal indulgence he finds amusing at the time. So should it be any surprise that it was turned into a Tesla car lot?
Let’s remember it was already cheapened during his first term. Who can forget the MyPillow guy holding court in the West Wing, briefing the president on martial law? The press conference held in front of Four Seasons Total Landscaping? The Oval Office meetings where Kanye West ranted about alternate universes while Trump beamed, soaking in the attention? If the presidency was once a sacred institution, that ended the moment it became a platform for snake-oil salesmen and reality TV cameos.
This is a man who never understood the presidency as anything beyond a prize, who saw the Oval Office not as a place to govern but as a set for his own endless show. The White House has become just another gaudy Trump property, its gravitas stripped away, its history reduced to a collection of props. Where previous presidents measured their legacies in policy and diplomacy, Trump measures his in photo-ops, in branding opportunities, in how successfully he can turn the nation’s highest office into a sideshow.
But whose idea was this? Did Musk come to Trump, panicked that his company was tanking, that the protests had hit harder than expected, that investors were deserting Tesla’s once-unassailable brand? Did he suggest they stage a moment, roll out the latest models on the South Lawn, turn the White House into an extension of his crumbling PR strategy? That Trump, ever the salesman, should pretend to be buying a car? That they should make it look like Tesla was still the great American success story, unshaken by unions, unbothered by boycotts, its CEO still standing side by side with the President of the United States?
Or did Trump come to Musk, sensing weakness, recognising the moment to extract something from a man who needs him more than ever? Did he offer himself up as a brand ambassador, willing to lend the presidency to Tesla’s recovery in exchange for something later? Musk, for all his supposed brilliance, has never been good at hiding when he is in trouble. He panics in public. He lashes out, blames enemies real and imagined, fires off tweets about short-sellers and shadowy billionaires. He is not someone who moves quietly when things start to slip.
And what does it say about the presidency that this is how things now work? That the White House can be used as a showroom, that the power of the office is so cheapened it can be traded for a photo-op? That the President of the United States will publicly buy a car from a man whose company is under siege, who is facing protests at his showrooms, who is being abandoned by the same markets that once anointed him as the future?
If the presidency was once a sacred institution, its ethical foundation is now eroded beyond recognition. It is not simply corrupt in the traditional sense. It is transactional, performative, a stage for the rich to settle their own scores, to smooth over their own failures.
Musk’s presence at these events is never incidental. He doesn’t just appear. He curates, ensures that he is positioned exactly where he wants to be. More revealing than his presence is the presence of his son, the now infamous X Æ A-12, who has become a kind of political mascot, paraded around like an heir to a Silicon Valley dynasty.
Why does Musk feel the need to bring his son to these displays? It’s not just a calculated attempt to soften his image, to remind the public that he is, after all, a father. It is something more desperate, more performative, a man who believes legacy is something that can be staged in real-time. He is trying to establish a lineage, to present himself not just as a businessman or an innovator but as a historical figure, someone whose influence will last beyond him. X Æ A-12’s presence is meant to signal permanence, an inheritance of power, a child standing beside the men who shape the world, absorbing their lessons.
But what is the lesson? That power is something you perform? That it is about proximity, about making sure you are in the shot, making sure your name is in the conversation? Musk, for all his wealth, does not behave like someone who knows he is the most powerful man in the room. He behaves like someone who still feels the need to prove it. He stands beside Trump, not because he needs to, but because he still craves the association, the affirmation.
This is the real cost of Trump’s second term. Not just the policies, the appointments, or the authoritarian drift of his governance, but the slow, deliberate erosion of the presidency itself. He is not destroying the office in the traditional sense. He is hollowing it out, turning it into something weightless, unserious, an extension of his own self-image.
So who is the more powerful man? The one who holds office, or the one who can turn up, make a request, and watch the presidency shape itself to his needs?
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