One year after Trump's election, the actor and 'SNL' Emmy winner helps channel the commander-in-chief in a fake memoir that delves into everything from Ivanka's neck rubs to White House decor (needs "more Abu Dhabi, less Alabama").
My inauguration, the actual legal takeover of the government with the Bible and then the speech, felt totally fantastic. Everybody watching, everybody listening, not just the 2 million or 3 million there on the Mall but like a billion people all over America and all over the world, on TV and online — probably on radio in Africa and India — so many watching, so many listening, no laughing, no talking (just me talking), total respect, even the haters terrified into a kind of respect, everyone focused on President Donald J. Trump. It would've been perfect if I hadn't had to read the speech, because reading always brings down my mood, both in public out loud and by myself. But they wouldn't let me wing it. Still, incredible, amazing, phenomenal.
But that was, what, 17 minutes? My inauguration day lasted 17 hours, most of it was a waste of time and fake. That lunch with all the supposed Washington VIPs and "leaders" in the Capitol Rotunda? Terrible acoustics, acoustics from 1776 or whenever. That event was a great example of why, until I came along, the American people were completely bored by politicians and government. Went on forever, with the president, me, just sitting there listening to other people say all their phony things, so dull — except when I told Hillary to stand and get a round of applause. Although I didn't mean for everyone else to stand, like an ovation, but fine, whatever, nice moment, presidential, I'm a gentleman. She lost so badly and surprisingly that everybody knows she's permanently humiliated; I didn't need to rub it in right then.
One thing I've always known is that the great ups in life never last very long. Usually not even a minute, often just a few seconds. It's "Oh, yeah!" — and then, gone, bye-bye, not happy anymore. It's true after you put out a great tweet. It's true after you have that great moment with someone you love. It's true after you eat a great dessert, like the superb three-layer Trump chocolate cake at the Mar-a-Lago Club. I was lucky to learn this lesson young. In fact, learning it is my earliest memory, and it also involves cake. My third birthday party, fantastic time, leaning over the Carvel cake to blow out the candles, my hair catches on fire. Mom yells, "Fred, no," just as Dad pushes my face into the cake to put it out and starts laughing like a maniac, one of the only times I remember him laughing. The other thing I know is that you always remember the downs much, much more clearly and much, much longer than the ups, like each one is one of those video jiffies from Twitter playing over and over and over in your mind, and you can't delete them.
Now I'm president. I won. I won. I won. My first morning at the White House. Day one.
VOICE MEMO: Presidential to-do list
Song: "I WON / I WON / DAY ONE," © 2017 by Donald J. Trump
But it's a Saturday, so we'll say Monday is day one. This weekend is the warm-up, like hitting a few balls before you actually tee off. What do I wake up to? All of the disgusting, dishonest media lying about the size of the crowd, every channel, every so-called expert. It was like bringing a beautiful supermodel home at night: You're so happy, but then the next morning there's a rotting corpse in bed. (A figure of speech. Although that did also actually happen to a friend of mine.)
Why did I care so much about the totally wrong and fake crowd estimates? I didn't care for myself, I'm used to that, I've had 30 years of that kind of rude treatment by the vicious media. What I really cared about, as Kellyanne explained to me, were the feelings of the millions of people who traveled from all over America and stood for hours to experience the most sacred moment of their lives. I was angry, as Bannon explained to me, on behalf of the forgotten men and women the elite media wanted to keep forgotten, to erase from the historical record with their Big Lie. Reince said we could maybe create a federal Office of Crowd Size Measurement in the Commerce Department, because they're already in charge of the atomic clock that controls time. Which, by the way, I'm pretty sure my brilliant MIT engineer uncle, Dr. John Trump, invented.
In the limo this morning on the way out to the CIA, Kellyanne gave me a neck rub, the way Ivanka used to love doing when she was little, and then I felt even better when I delivered a great speech to the staff there. They gave me several amazing standing ovations. But then afterward, on the way out, somebody told me CIA headquarters is now officially called the George Bush Center for Intelligence. At first I thought that was some kind of Washington insider joke, but it turns out they mean the old Bush, Grandpa Bush, who it turns out ran the CIA for a year. Which suddenly made me put two and two together and realize why all the intelligence big shots are against me, since I destroyed Jeb Bush, knocked him out of the race a week after the first primary, even though he spent $150 million against me. It's why Billy Bush secretly taped me a decade ago. It's Hillary and Obama and the media and intelligence and the Bushes all in a giant circle jerk, and I'm tied down on the ground in the middle, and it's disgusting. But when Reince and Kellyanne both looked at me funny, I realized I'd said all that out loud. But I didn't apologize, or refer to it, just looked straight ahead. Which is Leadership 101. "You know," I said, "we're already halfway to Trump National." That's my luxurious world-class club in Virginia, two beautiful courses. "We can stop in McLean for Big Macs, Oreo McFlurries, whatever you guys want, on me."
When I got back to the White House, I didn't want to watch them lie on CNN, and during the day between Fox & Friends and primetime Fox TV is pretty boring, especially on Saturdays, so I used the time to really inspect the place. It's elegant, but it's not 21st century superdeluxe. My personal taste is luxurious and continental, what Ivanka calls "more Abu Dhabi, less Alabama" — no offense, Jeffy Sessions, you Alabama pixie.
My actual private living area in the White House is much, much smaller than I'm used to — 20,000 square feet, which I know sounds big, but my penthouse in Trump Tower is 30,000, OK? The entire White House, including all the servant barracks or whatever that I haven't even seen yet, is half as big as Mar-a-Lago. The Oval Office is very special, great branding, iconic. Nice high ceiling. But I literally have bigger bathrooms in my homes. At least they've already put up the new gold drapes I picked in the Oval, which look so much more strong and sophisticated than the cheap red ones Obama had in there. Everybody tells me I can't be the first president to install a TV in the Oval. "Why can't I?" I said when we first walked in on Friday. "The American people would love me for it. We could hang a pair of small screens, 30 inches, 40 inches, either side of the big window there, behind the desk, where those paintings are. TVs are just the better, modern version of paintings, right?"
Call me sentimental, but it makes me sad that I'll never own the White House. I've been told that my sons Donald Junior and Eric, who now operate our company independently, offered to pay $430 million in cash for the entire White House complex. It would be an unofficial property in the award-winning Trump Hotel Collection™. All of which was not my sons' idea originally, by the way, although they realize it's brilliant. We — by that I mean The Trump Organization, which I do not currently control at all — had an amazing guy in Kyrgyzstan, great country, totally ready to make the purchase loan, but the deal was too sophisticated for the government lawyers and bean counters to understand.
Not that Don Junior and Eric and The Trump Organization need the White House, because I've heard they're now doing a major hotel expansion all over America, and although I don't know any of the details whatsoever or the local regulatory or loan situations or anything like that, people are saying that one of the hotel deals they're doing is in Valley Forge, which would be so perfect, so special — Washington slept here then, Trump sleeps here now, the one who made America, the one who made America great again. The ads would write themselves.
From You Can't Spell America Without Me: The Really Tremendous Inside Story of My Fantastic First Year as President Donald J. Trump (A So-Called Parody) by Alec Baldwin and Kurt Andersen, to be published on Nov. 7 by Penguin Press. © 2017 by Alec Baldwin.
This story first appeared in the Nov. 1 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.