The workings of my mind continue to surprise me, even at age 67. On the evening of Nov. 5, as I watched Pennsylvania flip from blue to red on my TV screen in Toronto, I waited for the expected pang of alarm to tighten my chest. But it wasn’t alarm I was feeling — it was excitement. What the hell was going on here? I thoroughly dislike Trump. He wears his ego like a neon placard, the words spilling out of his mouth an endless riff on “look at me.” He has no oratorial game, no gravitas, no class. And I won’t even get into the weeds of his moral character. Point is, I’m no fan of the guy. And yet I couldn’t mistake the poke from my subconscious: it was rooting for him. I was rooting
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