I’ve booked a trip to my Trumpy ancestral homeland, and I could use your help
A month from now, if all goes as planned, I’ll be in Northeast Wisconsin celebrating my niece’s wedding. And by “celebrating” I mean refusing to do the Chicken Dance, patiently explaining to the caterer that “vegan” does not simply mean “less Velveeta,” and trying to keep pace with a horde of professional drinkers (aka Wisconsinites) who were gradually weaned off Jägermeister as babies before being moved onto solid food.



























