This dude has been in the news a lot, talking all kinds of weird shit while telling people he wants to run for President. There is a disgustingly rich guy from New York City who might make an okay president, but it’s Michael Bloomberg, not Donald Trump. My humble opinion.

Anyway, I have a few Facebook friends who seem to be taking Trump’s candidacy pretty seriously. I try so hard not to judge, but I’m only human, and also, I enjoy judging. Instead of getting cranky with people I like, though, I’ll just offer a simple anecdote. This, excerpted from my never-to-be-published autobiography Shit That Would Turn You White, is why I couldn’t possibly vote for the guy:

October, 2003. I’m at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City to play keyboards with Jessica Simpson’s band. This concert is being filmed simultaneously for Jessica’s reality show and the season finale of another program, which has not yet begun to air – something called The Apprentice. (All through rehearsal, a woman named Omarosa has been hovering with a camera crew and claiming to be the hotel’s liaison to the band… but whenever we actually need anything she refers us to Jessica’s production manager and disappears. In the broadcast cut of the show, Omarosa will be featured in a lengthy plotline about “losing the band at the airport” which I, watching for the first time at home, will find funny because we took Amtrak. I know, I know, we’re all aware that reality shows are phony; we’re just humoring the nice people who make them.)

The band has been briefed on how to interact with The Donald should he enter the room in which we are sitting or possibly standing. Rules include “Do not make eye contact” and “Do not speak unless spoken to.” Our production manager jokingly tags “Do not ask him about his masterpiece, Purple Rain” at the bottom of the list.

So it’s the night of the show, five minutes after what was supposed to be our downbeat. The Taj Mahal’s sold-out Xanadu Room is packed with 14-year-old girls and their moms. Back home in NYC, everybody’s watching the last game of one of the many, many, many World Series the Yankees would not win between 2001 and 2009. Jessica is still in her dressing room for some reason. And the band is chilling in a makeshift greenroom at stage right, enjoying soda from an iced tray of those cute little hotel bar bottles. From down the hall, we hear this:

“That’s it, this concert’s over. We’re going to the Yankee game!”

And then, about twenty seconds later and a few yards closer:

“That’s it, this concert’s over. We’re going to the Yankee game!”

The voice is familiar. It also says:

“KWAME!”

We, of course, have no idea what KWAME means because no one has seen The Apprentice yet. In his search for the mysterious KWAME, Donald Trump enters the room. As per our orders, we ignore him, and he leaves. Then we hear, from just outside:

“She’s not coming out. Forget it, this concert’s over. We’re going to the Yankee game!”

Why does the dude keep saying the same thing over and over again? For the cameras, maybe? There had been a couple in the greenroom earlier, but they’re gone now. Has he just been repeating himself to random people as they walk by?

Trump re-enters our little space, paces, checks his watch. We decline to make eye contact and speak unless spoken to about Purple Rain. Trump grabs a hotel bar bottle of soda, opens it, takes a sip, screws the cap back on and returns it to the tray. He turns to us and speaks:

“So you guys are the band?”

We nod. Trump selects a fresh bottle from the icy tray, opens it, takes one sip and puts it back.

“How long have you guys been together?”

No one in the group says anything. It’s my first gig with these guys and the drummer’s second. Not much of a story there. But somebody has to respond, so I blurt out:

“We’re celebrating our second millennium together.”

The band laughs nervously; Trump gives me this weird look, as if to say I can and will have you killed if you are in fact sassing me. Then he swigs from a third bottle of soda and puts it back. Jessica is now about fifteen minutes late to the stage. Executive privilege! The Donald sez:

“She’s not coming out. Okay. This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go on stage. I’m gonna say to the audience: Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, Jessica Simpson can’t be here tonight. But it’s okay – I’ve got my band here, and I’m gonna RAP. How about that? Should I do that?”

We laugh as if we think he should do that, but of course we don’t really think he should do that. He sips from a fourth bottle (this time a bottle of water with his face on the label). Then some guy comes into the room. Trump says – with identical inflection:

“She’s not coming out. This is what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go on stage with the band. I’m gonna say to the audience: Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, Jessica Simpson can’t be here tonight. But it’s okay – I’ve got my band here, and I’m gonna RAP. How about that? Should I do that?”

The guy laughs. This delights Trump so he delivers the same line to the next three people who walk through the greenroom. There are no cameras present. Is The Donald really this needy?

Forty-five minutes pass before Jessica finally emerges, which gives Trump time to sample every bottle in our beverage tray. We have an otherwise pleasant conversation, but it’s like he’s compelled to exert dominance – my hotel, my drinks.

The band takes the stage; Jessica waits in the greenroom. Trump delivers an introduction that I think is meant to be the announcement he tried on us and four civilians, except with three thousand people watching, this is what comes out:

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry, Jessica Simpson’s not here. Naw, here she is!”

I don’t normally share stories like this in public forums. In this case, I feel like I’m providing a service. Trump, to me, is the living embodiment of the Baby Boomer disaster that has been inflicted upon our society. He’s greedy, needy, intellectually lazy, entitled, arrogant, myopic, destructive and weak. I saw everything I needed to see that night… Facebook friends, if you trust me at all, believe it when I say that Donald Trump is not Presidential material. Now if only you’d stop posting photos of babies where pictures of you are supposed to go. I’m sure you all still look better than I do.