Talk of Trump dominating conversations in Montreal
And that’s leading to many sleepless nights and neuroses among some of the masses
No doubt about it now. A wall will definitely be built along the Mexico-U.S. border, according to some boisterous tipplers at a downtown bar.
Why? The stolen jersey worn by New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady in the team’s Super Bowl win over the Atlanta Falcons in February was recovered in the suburban Mexico City home of Mauricio Ortega, an ex-exec with the newspaper chain Organización Editorial Mexicana.
So? Connect the dots, grasshopper. Brady is Donald Trump’s Golden Boy, and, apparently, the QB is wild about The Donald. So, too, for that matter is enigmatic Patriots coach Bill Belichick, who sent Trump a rather glowing missive prior to the U.S. presidential election.
In the Trumpian universe, this act of jersey larceny committed by a Mexican perp pretty much cements the creation of the wall. The Donald can only be pushed so far.
Save for the occasional interruption induced by unexpected blizzards in March and potholes all the time, Trump chatter pretty much dominates at bars, bar mitzvahs, weddings and family dinners around town.
Certainly, Montrealers have always had an interest in American politics — because it affects us on so many levels — but this obsession here with Trump’s foibles has taken on levels of hysteria not seen since the days of Tricky Dicky Nixon and Watergate.
You know something is up when those who had so vilified Dubya are now singing his praises as an up-and-coming artiste.
Super Bowl Sunday festivities used to be relatively civil affairs among the gang of reprobates with whom I regularly eat and drink and lose brain cells. Not this year. Most weren’t rooting for a favourite team. Most had no affinity whatsoever for the Atlanta Falcons, but desperately wanted them to win — all because of the Brady/Belichick/ Trump connection.
The rage in the room was palpable when the Patriots made a late-game comeback. Tears may have even been shed. It was nuts — although the beer didn’t help.
This weekend, my fellow reprobates will be engaging in another traditional TV ritual, checking out the NCAA March Madness basketball tourney.
In years past, the gang would root for long shots or teams with the most Canadians or teams never coached by another Trump diehard, the mercurial Bobby Knight. But this year, one of our group, the Chinatown One (so named, not for being incarcerated for acts of political defiance, but rather for punching out his stationary vehicle while he was in an altered state years ago), is rumoured to be researching the political allegiances of players and coaches from Butler and Baylor.
Before a recent Habs game, conversation among two young couples at a ribs joint adjacent to the Bell Centre had nothing to do with the firing of Michel Therrien or suspect play of defenceman Alexei Emelin. Nah.
One of the women was asking when the game would be over, so that she could rush home to watch CNN coverage of Trump’s wiretap charges against Barack Obama and allegations of Russian collusion in the U.S. election. She even fessed up she had become more glued to TV news than to The Bachelor. Shocking.
The two guys were more concerned about Canadian business suffering if Trump were to re-do NAFTA. One also worried that some day the newly elected president might wake up in a particularly truculent mood and “bomb Bulgaria or some other country” for no particular reason.
The two couples also concurred that they have once again become rabid fans of Saturday Night Live, and try to be home for 11:30 in time to catch, perhaps, Alec Baldwin doing Trump or Melissa McCarthy morphing into Sean Spicer.
It’s no accident Saturday Night Live is enjoying its best ratings in years — up there with those glory days of John Belushi, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner et al.
No accident, either, that the late-night shmooze shows of Stephen Colbert, Trevor Noah and Bill Maher have also become must-see TV. They must all give thanks to The Donald.
But while Trump’s actions and tweets are a boon for satire, they are also leading to too many sleepless nights and neuroses among some of the masses. In a recent Op-Ed piece in the Gazette, Montreal psychiatrist Gerald Wiviott coined a name for this condition: Trump Adjustment Syndrome.
Good news: There may be a cure. One of the hotter YouTube videos sweeping the city — and continent — is a faux spot for this affliction:
“Do you find yourself feeling depressed, hopeless, suffering from insomnia, panic attacks and irritability, arguing with friends and family, yelling at your computer screen and (having) the constant urge to pull out your hair? If any of these symptoms sound familiar, you may be suffering from T.I.A.D., or TrumpInduced Anxiety Disorder.”
According to the ad, there is an antidote: “Impeachara,” a pill that will convince you The Donald has already been impeached.
Of course, there are side effects: “Elation and the ability to focus on work and family again.”
There’s also a warning to Americans: Take it soon, “before you lose your health insurance.”