Last week, with the dark glimmer of satanic Trump energy hovering over our heads, my fiancée and I made plans to meet my mother for a friendly lunch.
I’ll admit, I was a bit nervous.
Lately, it feels like the entire nation—especially places like Moore, Oklahoma—is trapped in a cheap, ball-capped death trance, a formally trashy cult where homespun diners double as right-wing meeting halls.