The cost of winning the 2016 US presidential election might finally be sinking in for Donald Trump. It must be quite sobering for a man long fixated on establishing and cultivating relationships with celebrities to realize that most of them have abandoned him. Sure, he’s about to become the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military in the world, but is that as gratifying as bro-ing with Lionel Richie at Mar-a-Lago?

Instead of glitz and glamour, President-elect Trump is stuck pretending to be friends with Steve Bannon, who looks like the kind of person who cleans his ears out with the eraser end of a pencil and microwaves Eggo waffles for breakfast. He’s so loathed that when a Trump spokesperson claimed that Elton John would be performing at the inauguration, the legendary pop star immediately, vehemently denied it.

Dustin Hoffman, Tom Hanks, Oprah and Beyoncé all came to Barack Obama’s first inauguration. The list of show business people to back Trump this year includes the greasiest Baldwin, Scott Baio, Jon Voight, former Backstreet Boy Nick Carter’s brother Aaron, and neo-Nazi Tila Tequila.

This makes Trump’s choice for inaugural party guests quite stark. He can either eschew celebrities altogether and invite only the most pale, doughy conservative policy wonks he can find (plus Ben Carson and Omarosa, just for diversity’s sake) or embrace the D-listers and Real Housewives cast members that are his new inner circle.

Really, that’s no choice at all. Either a buzzed Reince Preibus spills spiked punch on Incredible Hulk actor Lou Ferrigno and makes him angry (you won’t like him when he’s angry) or Milo Yiannopoulos knocks over a priceless vase from the Grant administration while attempting to goosestep into the party.



There might be a third way, though. Donald Trump has promised to unite the country, and what better way to bring people together than to invite them over to his house for a few drinks. Invite the entire country, let them tour the White House, ply them with food and beverages, and let them rub your head like Jimmy Fallon (in exchange for a small donation in lieu of paying an entry fee). I will also offer my services to the president-elect as kegmaster general of the United States. I’ve sent out countless Facebook invites and have one of those hand-stampers to mark those of legal drinking age. It’s shaped like a dolphin, which is pretty cool, I think.

This might sound like a bold, if not completely impractical decision, but there is precedent for an open invitation inauguration party. Our seventh president, Andrew Jackson, swung wide the doors of the august White House for a soiree that apparently devolved into a drunken rager that left the president’s home in a state of disrepair. Jackson offered attendees snacks, ice cream and whiskey-laced punch. The sheer size of the crowd caused numerous accidents inside the White House – furniture damaged and food spilled. Jackson snuck out of the event and returned to his hotel until the party wound down.

Like Trump, Jackson ran with no political experience on the promise that he would smash a corrupt system and wrest power from the monied elites and return it to the simple, blue-collar folk of the United States. His resulting administration was rocked by scandals, he used his considerable executive authority to forcibly remove Native American tribes from their land, and he advocated for the abolition of the electoral college.

Trump might cast himself as a Jacksonian populist, but his list of potential cabinet appointees is filled with cronies, career politicians and deeply mainstream business types. He’s already started walking back many of his most unpleasant campaign promises – the ones that are also the most popular with his base. His business dealings seem to be more important to him than the ideals he claimed to hold dear. He’d probably be even less comfortable hosting a party with normal people than Jackson was.

That leaves Donald Trump even more isolated, stuck making small talk with Mitt Romney and wishing he could be out on the golf course, hitting balls with his old pal Tiger Woods. He could be duetting at the piano with Elton John or sharing an intimate chat with Justin Timberlake. Hell, he could be hobnobbing with the Clintons! But his power-grab strategy put all that out of his reach.

Instead he’s trapped in a beige hell of his own making, surrounded by old things and old faces on the wall. I hope it was all worth it, man.