Trump could learn a lesson from Barbra Streisand

It almost always pays to take the high road. After all, there’s less traffic up there — and far fewer accidents.”

Mike Blinder, Publisher of E&P Magazine

In 2003, Barbra Streisand tried to make a photograph disappear. It was an aerial image of her Malibu home, buried among thousands documenting coastal erosion. Almost no one had seen it. Then she sued to have it removed.

The result? Millions of views, global coverage and a permanent place in media history for what is now known as the Streisand effect — the idea that the fastest way to make something famous is to try to suppress it.

Two decades later, that lesson hasn’t just held up; It’s scaled. And you could see it play out again in real time earlier this month.

Texas lawmaker James Talarico’s interview on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert” became a national story — not because of what aired, but because of what didn’t. After concerns tied to FCC “equal time” rules — concerns that, in today’s political climate, inevitably raise questions about pressure from the White House — the interview was pulled from broadcast and posted online instead.

What followed was almost a textbook example of the Streisand effect in motion. The segment didn’t disappear; it spread. What might have aired once on late-night television quickly became a widely shared clip, reaching audiences far beyond the show’s traditional viewership. The conversation expanded, attention grew, and the attempt to limit its reach backfired.

It multiplied it.

For those of us in the news business, this isn’t just political commentary. It’s a clear demonstration of how attention now works. In an environment driven by conflict, every public attack becomes a signal, and every effort to discredit something becomes a form of distribution. What might have been a single story now becomes a multi-day narrative, amplified not in spite of the criticism, but because of it.

In effect, criticism has become marketing.

This isn’t new. Long before Streisand tried to suppress a photograph, a Michigan mother named Terry Rakolta tried to shut down a television show. After walking through her living room and seeing her kids watching “Married… with Children,” she launched a campaign urging advertisers to pull their support.

They did.

For a moment, it looked like the pressure worked. Sponsors fled, the network adjusted, and the show’s future seemed uncertain. But then something else happened. People started tuning in to see what all the fuss was about.

The controversy became the marketing. Ratings climbed, advertisers returned, and a struggling upstart network called Fox suddenly had a hit. The producers reportedly even sent Rakolta flowers.

The attempt to shut it down didn’t shrink the audience. It built it.

Fast forward to today, and that same dynamic isn’t just alive — it’s accelerated. When a powerful figure calls out a journalist, that journalist gains visibility. When a media outlet is attacked, curiosity drives traffic. When a segment is criticized or constrained, more people go looking for it — not fewer.

Not because they agree, but because they’re curious. And once attention is captured, the outcome is already changing.

There’s another layer to this. For some audiences, being attacked doesn’t diminish credibility — it enhances it. It signals relevance. It suggests impact. It implies that something worth paying attention to just got someone’s attention. In that sense, the attack doesn’t just amplify. It legitimizes.

That doesn’t mean the strategy is ineffective. It can energize supporters and reframe a narrative. But it also guarantees that the very thing being targeted reaches a larger audience than it would have on its own.

That’s the paradox.

In trying to control the narrative, you end up expanding it. In trying to diminish a voice, you introduce it to more people. In trying to end a story, you give it another life.

And for publishers, there’s a lesson here — even if it’s not entirely comfortable.

We’ve always known that conflict drives coverage. But in this environment, reaction has become as important as reporting. The follow-up often draws more attention than the original story, and the controversy becomes the content. Which means when we cover the reaction, we’re not just explaining the story — we’re helping extend it.

That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t cover it. Sometimes the reaction is the story. Sometimes it reveals real pressure, influence or power that deserves scrutiny. But we should at least recognize what’s happening.

We’re not just reporting on attention. We’re participating in it.

I learned this lesson early in my consulting career. One of my team members left to become a competitor. My first instinct was to go on the attack — discredit, push back and make sure clients knew “the truth.”

My wife stopped me with a piece of advice I’ve never forgotten: if someone is going to implode, they will do it on their own — without any help from you. Take the high road.

I did. Their effort didn’t last, and in time, I was able to welcome that person back — to my advantage.

I’ve tried to remember that lesson since. It almost always pays to take the high road. After all, there’s less traffic up there — and far fewer accidents.

Barbra Streisand didn’t intend to make that photograph famous. Terry Rakolta didn’t intend to make a sitcom a hit. And yet both did exactly that, because attention doesn’t work the way it used to.

In today’s media environment, the fastest way to make something matter may be to loudly insist that it doesn’t.

In that case, I’ll just leave this here and see if the White House is reading E&P.

A Truth Social post aimed our way might do wonders. After all, nothing drives audience growth quite like being told you shouldn’t be read.