During a visit to New York last year, I took a much-anticipated wine-tasting day trip, visiting three Long Island wineries. On a glorious June morning, about 25 of us piled onto a bus and hurtled several hours north of Manhattan. Within a couple of hours, we were flashing past classic clapboard homes, just like those in the movies. It was pure Americana, with narrow roads flanked by lush foliage and picture-perfect, painted wooden houses with manicured gardens and flags everywhere — on poles, above doors, draped from window boxes, attached to large SUVs in the driveways. In the way of all relentless flag-waving the world over, at first it was quaint, then disquieting and ultimately menacing. There were even rows of little flags stuck into the grass near the kerb, for better lines of sight from passing vehicles, next to "Vote Trump!" signs. In that smug libtard way I really am working on, I thought surely there couldn’t be any Trump supporters this close to fine wines. I was wrong on...
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