Search your souls, Chicago.

You don’t like T R U M P, the letters now plastered on the south face of Trump Tower about 200 feet above street level. Neither do I. But aesthetics is a small part of the reason. If you’re old enough to remember, what did you feel about P L A Y B O Y when those gleaming letters commanded both the north and south faces of the former Palmolive Building, just under the revolving beacon, about 460 feet high?

If you’re not standing on Wacker across the river from the T R U M and P, you probably won’t see them, even after they’re lit. P L A Y B O Y looked down onto blocks and blocks of Michigan Avenue and Lake Shore Drive.

But because Hugh Hefner belonged to Chicago, his letters were local color. Donald Trump is an interloping braggart with silly hair from New York, and it’s burned us that he not only stuck his nose in Chicago’s business but put up a tower so tall and handsome it confounds our need to sneer at it. But no longer—the other shoe has finally dropped. Trump has acted like Trump; the wretched excess we were expecting all along from that vainglorious fop has finally arrived.

I submit that the main reason we despise Donald Trump’s sign is that we want to despise it. We want to despise everything about Trump Tower, but thanks to architect Adrian Smith, dammit, we couldn’t. Trump’s ego finally opened the door. God bless him!