Normally, the idea of hauling Donald Trump to a Manhattan courthouse to be charged with dozens of felonies would bring a smile to my face. And it did, for a while anyway, when one local screamed at Trump’s ally Marjorie Taylor Greene, “Go home! New York City hates your guts!” Amen. But wiser political minds than mine know that happiness and Trump just do not go together. As Rebecca Traister explains in her perceptive column, the circus surrounding Trump’s indictment is not just a symptom of the press’s infatuation with the former president and his antics — it’s emblematic of a ubiquitous, misguided mindset that if we could only somehow “get” Trump, we could expunge Trumpism from our system. Unfortunately, that happy day has yet to arrive.