The TACO Doctrine: A Study in Presidential Evasion

In the grand theater of economic policy, it is often tempting to mistake the clamor of cymbals for the resonance of conviction. Nowhere has this confusion been more persistently dramatized than in the peculiar choreography of President Donald Trump’s trade strategy—a spectacle of bold beginnings followed, almost invariably, by a retreat into bathos. The term now catching currency among economists and even the more impish bond traders is “TACO,” an acronym both zesty and damning: Trump Always Chickens Out.

Let us be clear. Tariffs are not a novelty. They are, in fact, among the oldest tools in the nation-state’s kit of self-inflicted wounds. Yet they have, on occasion, served a purpose—usually ill-defined, sometimes unintentionally. What is remarkable in the Trumpian era is not the resort to tariffs but the theatricality of their announcement, the drama of their declaration, and the predictability of their subsequent dilution.

At the outset, we were promised a new age of economic nationalism. American steel and aluminum would rise again; the trade deficit would melt like morning frost; China would be brought to heel; Mexico would pay—presumably in both currency and humility. In short, we were to believe that the businessman-president, with his infinite swagger, would do for the American worker what decades of globalist ne’er-do-wells could not.

And yet, time and again, when the moment of maximal leverage arrived—when the game required resolve rather than rhetoric—the president, to use the economic term of art, folded. What was touted as a 25% tariff would become a 10% deferral, then a partial exemption, then, most ignobly, a handshake deal signed in gold Sharpie and undone by Tuesday.

The Chinese, whose sense of irony is only matched by their patience, mastered the dance. They endured insult, tariffs, and tweets, only to find themselves, six months later, at a negotiating table set with the same empty platitudes and a president who craved applause more than leverage. The so-called “Phase One Deal,” that pinnacle of Trumpian tradecraft, produced not transformation, but soybeans—modestly purchased, ambiguously promised, and mostly forgotten.

To invoke Galbraith himself, one is reminded of his observation that “the modern conservative is engaged in one of man’s oldest exercises in moral philosophy; that is, the search for a superior moral justification for selfishness.” The modern Trumpist is engaged in something similar, though more comical: the search for a superior branding strategy for economic cowardice.

It is here that the TACO doctrine finds its true utility—not merely as insult, but as diagnosis. It speaks to a governing style where belligerence is substituted for strategy, and capitulation is camouflaged by fanfare. Trump’s tariff regime was less a doctrine than a dopamine hit. Each announcement brought a surge of attention, a brief rise in approval among the aggrieved, and then, once the cameras turned away, the predictable slide into ambiguity, exemption, and surrender.

In the end, what we are left with is not a trade realignment but a parable. A lesson in how bluster, unmoored from discipline, leaves neither friend nor foe certain of intent. TACO, then, is not just an acronym. It is an epitaph for a strategy that mistook shouting for strength and compromise for conquest.

As Galbraith might have said, though perhaps with more grace than this humble interpreter: “In economics, as in politics, it is not enough to be loudly wrong. One must, at the very least, avoid being repeatedly ridiculous.”

The Quiet Below the Flag

On Power, Profit, and the Death of Shame in Washington

The man promised to drain the swamp. Instead, he paved it and built a hotel. He called it sacrifice. The numbers said otherwise.

Back in office and now a convicted felon, he stood atop a government stripped of watchdogs and filled with loyalists. He made sure the rules didn’t apply to him—and they didn’t. He said so, and no one stopped him.

The money came in. From Qatar. From crypto. From countries that once needed permission, now needing only proximity. His sons took meetings. They signed deals. They laughed at the idea of restraint. Why hold back when the crowd doesn’t boo anymore?

There were once hearings for this sort of thing. Now there are podcasts. A man called it corruption, but only “seemed like.” That was as far as outrage went—an implied shrug wrapped in audio. Nothing stuck long enough to matter. The country was too tired. Too wired. Too numb.

The president said he was too rich to need more money. But he took it anyway. Planes. Partnerships. A $1.2 billion jump in net worth. The figures were public. The silence was louder.

A judge called it the most brazen abuse of office in history. But history doesn’t press charges. The Justice Department had new management. Oversight was out to lunch. Ethics had a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

Some protested. Some posted. The rest adjusted.

He had changed the rules, and then made it clear there were no rules. Not for him. Not anymore.

The swamp didn’t disappear. It became private property. Membership required influence. Entry was granted in Bitcoin or blood loyalty.

Above it all, the flag still waved. But beneath it, the silence had settled. Cold. Heavy. Permanent.

And no one moved to fix it.

One could be forgiven, on first viewing, for mistaking this aircraft for the fever dream of a Gulf potentate with a Liberace fetish and no taste for subtlety. The so-called “gift” from the royal family of Qatar—ostensibly a Boeing 747-8, but more accurately a $400 million airborne Versailles for a man who confuses grandeur with greatness—is less a plane than a monument to the aesthetic bankruptcy of late-stage American spectacle.

That it is destined, in some grotesque ballet of legal acrobatics and geopolitical ego-stroking, to serve first as Air Force One and then as the permanent property of the Trump Presidential Library is a joke so on-the-nose one can almost hear Jonathan Swift sighing in admiration. Here is the ceremonial barge not of a president, but of an emperor in exile, trussed in gold-leaf delusion and flying high above constitutional norms.

Flossi—a beige miniature poodle with a regal posture and a nose for power—has made Washington, D.C., her home for the last eight months. While most dogs content themselves with sticks and tennis balls, Flossi preferred policy briefings and monument walks. Her days were spent trotting past the Capitol, tail high, ears perked, as if assessing the legislative mood. She’d bark twice at the Supreme Court (a subtle commentary on indecision) and pause at the Lincoln Memorial for long, contemplative stares, as though communing with history.

Tourists mistook her for a cleverly disguised diplomat’s companion. Reporters whispered that she’d been seen in the West Wing. Somewhere in Foggy Bottom, a foreign minister had once scratched her behind the ears and called her “Madame Ambassador.”

But even Flossi, with her impeccable manners and polished fur, began to tire of the suits, the slow-moving motorcades, and the endless debates about budget ceilings. Though loyal to the ideals of civic engagement, her heart began to yearn for something different: a place with rhythm, verticality, and just a dash of chaos.

Now, as her chauffeur-driven pickup truck pulled away from the illuminated dome of the Capitol, Flossi turned her gaze northward. New York City awaited.

Her paws tapped excitedly on the leather seats as the skyline came into view. The Empire State Building glowed like a beacon of possibility. The Statue of Liberty raised her torch as if to say, “Come, Flossi, the city is yours.”

Flossi had plans. She would stroll Fifth Avenue in oversized sunglasses, breakfast in Central Park (always a croissant), and attend avant-garde theatre in SoHo. She might take a guest lecturer role at NYU’s Department of Urban Canine Studies or be spotted front row at Fashion Week, curled neatly on a Balenciaga tote.

But beyond the glamour and grit, Flossi was on a mission: to understand the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. D.C. had taught her structure; New York would teach her improvisation. She wasn’t running from the capital—she was graduating from it.

As the city lights reflected in her dark, intelligent eyes, Flossi let out a single, anticipatory bark. New York didn’t know it yet, but it was about to meet its newest cultural critic, charm ambassador, and unexpected heroine: Flossi, the poodle with a passport—and a point of view.