The Trump effect or What hath the orange one wrought?

(or subtitle: Where is Mencken when we need him?)

Things have been steadily going from bad to worse since the November elections. The image that comes to mind is that of stones being lifted from the wet soil in ever larger numbers, allowing the ugly life forms underneath to wiggle out, rearing fat pink heads that should have remained hidden. Thus the frightening recent events in Charlottesville, thus people we didn’t know still existed becoming vocal with demands appalling in a nation that seemed geared toward more tolerance, less factions, less throwbacks to racist, bigoted times where cretins and downright monsters could thrive.

Change is everywhere. As an intro to how I’m about to illustrate the point, let me say that some years back, when I was doing a stint with an IT firm, my boss, noticing that writing was listed on my resume, pushed on me a couple of paperbacks with gaudy covers picturing full-breasted females and muscled men in various states of pre-sex extasy. The guy—Joe was his name–proudly revealed that these were written by his wife, a full-time and successful romance writer. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I thanked him and went home, the books burning a hole in my trunk where I had tossed them with a covert look around my parked car to make sure no one had seen me. There they remained, under a pile of clothes for Goodwill. After a respectable amount of time had lapsed–two or three days, I guess–I returned them, telling Joe how much I had enjoyed them. I still remember my one fear at the time, that I would  have an accident while the books were still in the trunk, and that once they were found in the mangled remains of the car, my reputation as a person of some intellectual gravitas would be forever marred and that would hurt even in death.