There are two versions of President Donald Trump that appear in public. They both inhabit the same body—the same Youppi-shaped torso pitched forward at the same implausible angles, same ghost-pale eyelids fluttering alarmingly, same resplendent candyfloss Kangol of hair stuck on top of it like a weird hat—but don’t really seem to be the same person. Both are president, and both seem somehow to have just been informed of that fact. Only one seems to be enjoying it. That one is not the Official Trump that sniffs and mutters and struggles with prompters and prepared text, and who only barely makes it through even the most rote ceremonial duties. Most of the time, though, and whenever Trump has to do something he finds boring or lame for an audience that isn’t allowed to hoot or chant, that version is the one America gets.