O P I N I O N

NOT THAT PROFOUND

By Nathan Graziano

When I was in college, I was—what’s the right euphemism for this?—“open-minded” when it came to experimenting. I also read Huxley, Kesey and Blake, and listened to the Grateful Dead and a few of The Doors’ albums, here and there.

Let’s just say I wasn’t averse to the idea of expanding my consciousness.

Last night, while watching Donald Trump accept the nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee, Wis., I’m fairly certain some of my youthful adventurousness caught up with me.

While sitting in the living room with my wife, watching the television, suddenly some really strange images started to appear on the screen.

At one point I thought I saw the Hulk Hogan of my youth—the WWF “say-your-prayers and eat-your-vitamins” Hulk Hogan—standing at a podium in front of a room full of Suits, ripping off his T-shirt while screaming that Donald Trump was his “hero” and “a real American.”

Then the Hulkster’s old walk out song, “Real American” by Rick Derringer, started blaring as The Suits reached furor, screaming and throwing their fists in the air. At one point, he referred to ecstasy in the room as “Trump-a-mania.”

And I could’ve sworn I saw grown adults wearing gauze pads over their right ears for no particular reason, and they were the same people who refused to wear masks during the pandemic.

Really, really weird stuff. Every bit as bizarre as the night I swore an Alf mask was speaking to me.

Next, Kid Rock appeared on the stage. And he was playing crappy, insufferable Kid Rock songs and hopping around like someone put carpenter ants in his jockstrap. Meanwhile, these conservative women, with so much Botox that their countenances were inscrutable, were either trying to dance to the music or having mild seizures beside The Suits.

Meanwhile, they cut to Trump’s running mate, Ohio senator JD Vance, who looked like he had inadvertently walked into a bathroom stall at a swingers club.

At some point, everyone in the building bowed their heads and prayed for Donald Trump, who inexplicably wasn’t struck down by lightning.

Finally, some old guy—who might have been Joe Biden—started singing “Proud to Be an American” as Trump made his grand entrance, and The Suits were worked into another frenzy.

But when Trump started to speak, he sounded like a different person entirely. He reflected on last weekend’s assassination attempt and appeared to be humbled by the very thing that should humble all of us: the fragility of our own mortality.

His entire demeanor—the usual egomaniacal arrogance and complete disregard for decency—had softened, and he appeared to be a man changed by an epiphany. This was the strangest part of the trip: Trump sounded like an actual human being with human feelings.

Then it ended, and Trump went on for another four hours spewing blatant lies and the same-old vitriol, and finally I felt like I had returned to my senses and was grounded, once again, in reality.

But, phew, that was pretty f***** up.