Since Donald Trump announced for president last summer, I’ve written a bit about him — not much, but a bit. Mainly some bloggy, tweety things (as below, and as in my occasional “Trumpservations”).

Some of what I’ve written has been celebratory — of Trump. Some has been relatively neutral. Most has been condemnatory.

One of the things I most resent about the Trump campaign is that it has made me anti-Trump — which is not a natural thing for me to be.

As I’ve said before, I get a kick out of Trump (or did). He is an American original. He is definitely an American type: the braggart, the hustler, the showman. He is an adornment to society. He “adds to the gaiety of life,” as the British say.

He certainly makes life in New York more fun. He keeps the tabloids hoppin’. And did you see him on Saturday Night Live, as host? That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. He can be a pleasure to watch and listen to.

Trump is “livin’ the life,” as they say. The dough, the casinos, the brawds. The Miss Americas, or whatevers. The golf. I’d love to peg it up with the guy. Any red-blooded American male would, I think.

I have also noted that Trump is an exceptionally talented performer. I said as much just a second ago. One of my lines is, “He’s more comfortable on television than most people are in their living rooms.” I’ve often used a similar line about opera singers. “She’s more comfortable on stage than most people are in their living rooms.” I’ve said that about Anna Netrebko, for example, and Angela Gheorghiu.

They’re both sopranos — divas. Trump is kind of a diva, too.

Then there are his politics. I share some of his politics, to the extent his politics can be discerned. (I think he’s mainly a Trumpist — someone for the advancement and glorification of Donald J. Trump.) Bill Buckley once said, “Within every conservative is a streak of libertarianism.” That is certainly true of me. And within every conservative, surely, is a streak of populism. This streak in me is fairly wide.

To my nutty-Right critics, I’m a director of Chase Manhattan (or whatever they have). (Does Chase Manhattan still exist?) In reality, I’m more like a peasant with a pitchfork. All my life, I’ve been howling against the Man. How odd to discover that, at this stage of my life, I’m regarded by some as the Man.

Trump taps into a vein mined by, among others, Ross Perot, Pat Buchanan, and George Wallace.

Now, it’s true that Trump makes a curious tribune of the people. He is a trust-funder who lives in a world of private jets and penthouse suites. He brags about the elite education he has had (something that would normally get the populists furious). He won’t even shake hands with his peeps! (Evidently, he is “germophobic.”)

Be that as it may …

As I said at the top, I am not a natural anti-Trumpster. I don’t think he should be anywhere near the presidency, but I am not naturally anti-Trump. It’s his nastiness, more than anything, that has made me so.

I think of his personal attacks on John McCain, Megyn Kelly, Carly Fiorina, and Ben Carson, most prominently. Usually, conservatives despise personal attacks on women, especially. I mean, attacks by men on women. But with Trump, all bets seem to be off.

Then there are his weird personal attacks on journalists who criticize or even question him — Rich Lowry, for example, or Chuck Lane. He sends playground insults out on Twitter, late at night.

This immaturity is rare enough in an adult. But in someone who millions of people apparently think ought to be president?

I like the fun Trump — the one who has a woman in the audience come up and pull his hair, to determine its reality. But the other Trump — the “blood coming out of her wherever” Trump — ruins it all for me.

One thing I’m saying, I guess, is, Trump is not as I’d wish him to be. And that reminds me of one of the best comeuppances I ever had.

I was talking to Amir Taheri, the Iranian journalist and intellectual. I was complaining about Shirin Ebadi, the Iranian lawyer and Nobel peace laureate. “Why doesn’t she do this, that, and the other thing?” I said. Amir replied, “Because then she wouldn’t be Shirin Ebadi, she’d be Jay Nordlinger.”

Ah — good, good point.

(Disclosure.)