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 for him. It made no sense. Was I a sociopath, or what?

“This is not about Trump,” my son suggested the following day. “It’s about your anger at the left.”

Indeed. My irritation with the progressive left, initially a soft hum, had swelled to a trumpet blast over the past few years. It started in spring 2020, when the online scolds began hurling epithets at anyone who suggested, ever so timidly, that locking down an........

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