Saturday, 9 April 2016

5 Reasons Donald Trump Could Make a Great President

Many people consider Donald Trump an embarrassment and a major liability for America. They can’t believe a man of Trump’s calibre has made it this far in the presidential race. 

To others Trump is breath of fresh air, someone who is not afraid to speak his mind and say what he thinks they want to hear. 

If you fall into the former camp, don’t despair.  While an openly racist, misogynistic and torture-loving president might not seem like good news for everyone, there is always a silver-lining.

Below are 5 reasons why Donald Trump is actually the perfect candidate for the Oval Office.

1.      His privileged upbringing and billionaire status make Trump an ideal representative of rampant capitalism. Many people believe that the Don is a self-made man, but like so much about him, this is false.

Trump built his own fortune on the back of his father’s wealth which was amassed through government subsidies for low-income housing. Trump started out with a ‘small’ $1 million loan from his father followed by an estimated $40 million inheritance in 1974.

It can’t be denied that Trump’s life has been one of extreme privilege and wealth. With no experience or understanding of the struggles of ordinary people, Trump is the perfect person to preside over an economic system which rewards the speculation and greed of the few at the expense of the many.

2.      Trump can rid the nation of the scourge that is political correctness.  By having the guts to claim that the vast majority of Mexicans crossing the border are drug-runners, criminal and rapists he’s made it possible for others to stereotype with impunity. This enables disgruntled white people to lose sight of the real source of their problems by blaming the nearest brown person.

Trump’s views on Muslims are just as enlightened, and his solutions to the problem of unwanted foreigners on American soil are sheer genius.  Building a wall between the United States and Mexico, and halting the entry of all Muslims into the country, may not be even remotely practical measures, but they sure do appeal to the right people, and that’s what counts in politics today.

3.      As if his racist comments and dog-whistle politics weren’t enough to recommend him, Trump’s roots in the race-hatred run even deeper. His father, Fred Trump, was arrested at a Klu Klux Klan rally in Queens in 1927 and he also had a civil rights lawsuit filed against him for refusing to rent his properties to black people.

With much of Europe moving in a rightward direction in its scapegoating of refugees and Muslims, Trump is truly a man for the times.  His racist pedigree and enthusiastic use of race baiting throughout his campaign prove that he would be more than comfortable strutting the global stage with other racist world leaders.

4.      Trump has no commitment to the truth whatsoever. His ability to not just bend the truth but discard it completely is unparalleled in recent history. What makes this even more astounding is that many people know he’s lying and don’t care. For them it’s part of his charm and they are impervious to actual evidence.

The ability to tell bare-faced lies without flinching is an excellent quality for a president to possess. This skill comes in very handy when invading other nations under false pretences, or talking up the economy when everyone knows it’s a pile of dog shit.

5.      The man loves war and is enthusiastic about torture. He’s said as much in interviews: “I’m good at war…I’m really good at war. I love war in a certain way, but only when we win.”

While this may set alarms bells off for lefty pacifist types, especially when combined with his other fascistic qualities, it does make him well suited for the role of president.  Trump’s desire to win and his demonstrated refusal to be restrained by any moral and ethical considerations could make for some interesting times ahead!

Donald Trump might not be everyone’s cup of tea it’s true, but his qualifications for the top job are undeniable. Given the chance he could take America to places many had never believed possible.

Trump, Violence and the Right to Free Speech

Given Trump’s enthusiastic support for violence against protesters at his rallies, it’s not surprising that he’s been hit with a lawsuit. Three people have filed a complaint against the candidate claiming they were racially abused and threatened with violence at a rally in Kentucky.

Trump’s encouragement of violence has been well documented. He’s defended the violent actions of his supporters in the past by saying they were overcome by their love for America. From New Republic:

They don’t like seeing bad trade deals, they don’t like seeing higher taxes, they don’t like seeing a loss of their jobs where our jobs have just been devastated. And I know — I mean, I see it. There is some anger. There’s also great love for the country. It’s a beautiful thing in many respects.”

Notwithstanding the belief that liberals love big taxes, this statement could equally be applied to those who are protesting against Trump. Protesters clearly love their country enough to get out there and take a stand against what they see as a very dangerous turn in politics.

To Trump and his supporters the protesters are “professional troublemakers” and “puppets of the institutional left.” Andrew Marcus, a filmmaker who recorded a protest in Chicago, put it in a nutshell. From

This was a premeditated act of harassment and intimidation to shut down the Trump event but wrapped in a message of stopping the hate.

Trump supporters on the other hand, are seen by opponents as racist red-necks who are more than a little crazy. This impression was reinforced by John McGraw, the 78 year-old white man dressed in cowboy gear, who sucker-punched a protester as he was led away by police. From Inside Edition:

Number one, we don’t know if he’s ISIS…We don’t know who he is, but we know he’s not acting like an American,” he added. “The next time we see him, we might have to kill him.

His victim was RakeemJones, an African-American man who attended the rally as a "social experiment" with a "diverse group" consisting of a gay man, a white woman and a Muslim.

While this conflict seems to symbolize in a potent way the great divide that has opened up in American politics, what is actually does is obscure the middle ground made up of those who are attracted not so much by Trump’s race-baiting but by his promise to bring back jobs and restore manufacturing. These are the people who have been hit hardest by deindustrialization and the loss of job security. Student Kyle Netzle made this clear at a rally in Wisconsin. From Alternet:

What I think is the biggest thing for me is that if he is able to bring back big corporations like manufacturing back to America that would be great. I'm in school for welding so that would be big.

It’s true these supporters are vulnerable to slogans and easy answers, but they also see a vote for Trump as a way of sticking it to the Establishment, which in their eyes includes the proponents of identity politics who they have been taught to see as their enemies.

It’s easy to write these people off as deluded and uneducated, but they have much more in common with anti-Trump protesters than they realize. All of them are angry and worried about the state of American society. All of them are yearning for change. Considering how ugly and divisive the political contest has become, is there a better way of reaching these people?

Fox’s Megyn Kelly may actually have made a good point when she commented on a recent protest in Chicago. From MediaMatters:

Is this the way to shut down the ability of Chicagoans and those who have traveled in some cases for miles and miles and waited for hours and hours to get in, to have their say and hear him for themselves? For all these people know, they weren't Trump supporters. Maybe that gentleman would have walked away saying "You know what? He's not for me." We'll never know now, because they shut down their right to listen.

Do protests at Trump rallies make a real difference or do they create more hostility among the very people the protesters should be trying to reach? It seems Trump’s popularity might finally be waning but the discontent which attracted people to him is still very real and could easily be exploited by another politician. There’s a desperate need for genuine communication in America today. Maybe it’s time to stop judging and start listening.

Friday, 30 October 2015

It's Baaacckk: NaNoWriMo 2015

Wow, it’s almost November, and you know what that means: National Novel Writing Month

I attempted NaNoWriMo for the first time last year, and to my shame it’s been almost 12 months since I’ve updated my blog. That’s not because I haven’t been writing, I just haven’t done nearly as much as I'd hoped. The fact is I’m still working on the novel I started for NaNoWriMo last year. I have 15 chapters which are rough but it’s starting to take shape and now I just need to find out how it’s going to end. So the plan this year for NaNoWriMo is to finish the damn book (the first draft anyway), and then get down to the real nitty gritty of trying to pull it all together and make it work.

The goal is 10 3000 word chapters by the end of November, which is 30,000 words. I’m guessing I’ll probably need to write furiously for at least an hour every day to achieve this. This will mean forsaking all other entertainments, which Foxtel have decided to help me with by cutting  our service. It’s good to know the universe is taking care of me.

Looking back on my last post about NaNoWriMo I haven’t really taken the lessons on board. I haven’t been writing every day or setting daily writing goals and I haven’t made any efforts to become part of a writing community. These are all things I plan to rectify in the near future, so may NaNoWriMo 2105 be the first step in the write direction! (bad pun intended)

I strongly urge all writers to take the NaNoWriMo challenge this year. It’s just like the All Bran Challenge in many ways: it’s very good for you and is known to produce  a lot of crap ; - )

Hemmingway said it best:



Sunday, 7 December 2014

I'm a NaNoWriMo Failure


If word count is the key indicator of success for NaNoWriMo then I’m an unmitigated failure. I ambitiously aimed for 50,000 words despite the fact that there were many things going on in my life during November that kept me from my desk. Long work hours, an interminable commute in which I was too tired to even contemplate reading, let alone writing, and social events all conspired against me to prevent me from reaching my goal. The writing I did manage to squeeze in was very rushed and subpar, but even taking all of this into consideration, I would still say that it was worth it. Next year I plan to participate again, but hopefully with a bit more free time to devote to it.

Here are five things I took from my NaNoWriMo experience:

1.     Writing every day is often impossible but if you can put aside even a small amount of time every second or third day it really does add up quickly.


2.     Writing with your inner critic/censor turned off becomes much easier the more you do it. Having a word goal each day and striving to reach it, no matter how bad your writing seems, helps to get the creative juices flowing.


3.     Creative writing activities and character profiles are not a waste of time. For the first time since I started writing I spent time completing pre-writing activities before NaNoWriMo and I found it so helpful to know about my characters backstories and relationships when I started writing. Hopefully this will translate into more complex and believable characters. I don’t think I would have been able to produce anything near 20,000 words without this work beforehand.


4.     Being part of a writing community is important. Even though I didn’t have much time to interact with other participants it was really nice to know that others were out there going through the same things and striving to reach their goals. People were so supportive of each other on social networks and this is one of the things that makes me want to take part again.


5.     Writing itself is fun, but good writing is incredibly hard. NaNoWriMo has helped me to recognise that it’s fine for first drafts to be terrible because this is just the first step in a long journey. Or as Ernest Hemingway put it so succinctly:



Friday, 17 October 2014

The Park

 Dusk is draping itself across the sky and settling into the treetops with the birds when a young couple wander into the park. Both are dressed in jeans and black t-shirts and from a distance only the white logo on the girl’s shirt distinguishes them. With arms wrapped around each other they follow the path that winds along the edge of the shimmering lake, past massive trees that have watched over this green kingdom for a hundred years or more. Their trunks are disfigured by whorls and battle scars which, from some angles, look like sinister faces. 

 It’s been a warm day but a late rain shower has dispelled the heat and driven away the walkers and joggers who would normally be choking the paths at this hour, all of them plugged into their own digital worlds. The girl and boy are no different from the others. She’s holding a phone up with her free hand and they’re both laughing at something on the screen. 

Only when the reach the white jetty that extends out over the water do they disentangle their arms and glance around at their surroundings. All they see is an empty park shrouded in mist. They don’t seem to notice the bulky figure in a brown uniform standing near the boat shed. The bald man steps back, sinking further into the gloom, his fist tightening around the handle of a shovel at his side. 

The teenagers follow the jetty all the way to the end. They don’t even pause for a moment to savour the glowing lights on the distant shore or the gentle lapping of water against the wood before the girl starts taking photos. When they grow bored with this the boy reaches into the back pocket of his low slung jeans and puts something up to his lips. A bright orange flare lights up his face for a seconds. A strange, sweet smell soon mingles with the aroma of damp earth and they pass the cigarette back and forth until it’s finished. From where the man stands it looks like a firefly dancing between them.  

They’re laughing as they come back down the jetty, and the girl finally puts the phone in her pocket. Her giggle sounds like ice cubes falling into a glass. Darkness is descending but instead of turning back the way they came they hesitate for a minute and then, taking hands, they follow the path deeper into the park. They look like Hansel and Gretel setting out into the woods. The man’s heartbeat quickens as he watches them. Slipping away from his spot near the boat shed he follows, being careful to stay in the shadows so they don’t catch sight of him.

Solar lights are sprinkled through many of the trees, giving the park a festive feel. He hears the girl say, “It’s just like a fairyland,” and it makes him smile. When they reach the fork in the path the man holds his breath as he waits to see which direction they’ll take. One path leads in a loop past the asphalt car park right back to where they entered. There are a few cars idling there now, occupied by people who want to enjoy the twilight without getting their feet wet. They are no doubt taking photos to upload to Facebook and Instagram despite the fact they couldn't even be bothered stepping out of the car to experience it for themselves. They might as well be watching it on tv, the man thinks. The other path leads to the children’s playground in the middle of the park where it is completely deserted.

“Which way do you want to go?” the boy asks.

“Let’s go to the playground. It’ll be fun.” The man lets out a sigh that could be either frustration or anticipation.


Long metal gates painted a garish red separate the playground from the rest of the park. The boy and girl squeeze easily through the gap and head straight to the towering slide. It’s almost two stories high and usually stacked with clambering children. It looks even more imposing without them.

 “I’m not climbing that,” says the boy, straining his neck to stare up at the distant platform.

 “Come on, don’t be a wimp.” Without waiting for a reply the girl skips towards the slide and disappears into the stair well. A few seconds later she is flying down the steep yellow slope with her long strawberry-coloured hair streaming behind her. She’s moving so fast she overshoots the landing pit and collides with the low retainer wall, letting out a loud “hmph” as the air is knocked out of her. “That was awesome,” she says, getting to her feet and brushing herself off. “I’m going again.” 

The boy hesitates for a moment, and then he jumps into the sandpit next to the slide and grabs hold of the flying fox sitting idle in the middle. Dragging it to one end he climbs onto the step and launches himself across the pit, letting out a ‘yeeehaaa’ that causes the man to wince from where he is struggling to catch his breath behind a tall shrub.  “I can’t believe we’ve got this whole place to ourselves,” the boy calls out as the girl comes hurtling down the slide again. “It’s so awesome.”

“I know,” she calls out as she overshoots the landing pit and hits the wall again.
After ten minutes the teenagers abandon these amusements to follow the labyrinth of hedge- enclosed paths that meander around the playground, their footsteps crunching on white stones. All of the paths have something special at the end and in one cul-de-sac they find a wooden wishing well. They drop stones into it and listen for the echo below. 

“What did you wish for?” asks the boy.

“I can’t tell you cause then it won’t come true,” replies the girl.

“Bet it was about me.”


Another path leads to a miniature tower with a bell at the top. They giggle and shove each other on the winding staircase as they compete to pull the rope first. The boy wins, and the sound of the bell peels out mournfully across the empty park. After exiting the tower they come to the entrance of a tunnel that runs underneath the playground and they scramble into it without hesitation, the girl leading the way. The tunnel is long and dark, and many a child has become lost and frightened in here in broad daylight. The girl emerges first and she glances behind and then takes out her phone as she waits for the boy to catch up. When he doesn’t appear after several moments she calls out to him, but there’s no answer.

“Come on, Jeremy, don’t be a dick.” When he still doesn’t reply she bends down and peers into the darkness, holding up her phone for light. The thin shaft doesn’t reach far and there’s a slight waver in her voice when she speaks again. “I’m not joking, Jeremy. This isn’t funny.” As more seconds pass she looks around nervously and kicks at the white pebbles with the toe of her sneaker. Dusk is giving way to night now and the solar lights are little match for the encroaching darkness. “If you don’t come out soon I’m going home without you, I swear.” 

The words have only just left her mouth when a soft crunching behind causes her to spin around but before she can see who or what has crept up on her, fingers wrap around her neck. She lets out a bloodcurdling scream that jolts the birds in the trees out of their nests and their outraged shrieks blend in with her screams. Then the incongruous sound of laughter is added to the cacophony. The hands around her throat relax and the girl turns around in time to see the boy falling to the ground. He is convulsed with laughter. “You should have seen your face,” he gasps. “That was so freakin’ funny. I wish I’d filmed it.”

“You asshole, I’ll get you for that,” she says, kicking his outstretched leg. The boy, still laughing, scrambles to his feet. With his arms raised in a gesture of mock surrender he backs away from her then turns around and takes off. She follows in close pursuit, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. When they reach the gates to the Garden of Tranquillity they both stop abruptly as if sensing an invisible barrier separating this part of the playground from the rest. The wrought iron gates are wide open but there’s a feeling that this place is special, prohibited. The gardens are elaborate and the well-tended roses distil their perfume on the cool night air. There is a large glimmering pond in the middle with a bridge over it and stone benches dotted amongst the trees.

It’s this part of the park that the man loves best. It was designed as a special place for sensitive children to get away from the rough and tumble of the other kids and it’s exactly the kind of place he wishes he’d had as a child to escape from the taunts, the fighting, the negativity that filled every minute of his day. There are places to sit and just look at the trees and flowers, a pond with ducks that come right up to you when you feed them and a special swing that he can sit in for hours. When he’s in that swing it’s almost like the rest of the world ceases to exist. He tilts his head back and watches the stars spinning overhead and everything else just drops away. He comes here a few times during the week, late at night or sometimes earlier if it’s raining, because these are the only times he can have the place to himself. It gives him a chance to dig out any weeds the lazy gardeners have missed, put some extra food on the soil for the roses and add some extra lights to his favorite tree.

 He used to come here during the day until people began looking at him strangely, like he was some kind of pervert. He told some children to be quiet once and when they didn’t listen he yelled at them and then a woman in a uniform came and asked him to leave. It wasn’t his fault. The signs say that this is a quiet area and not so long ago people took notice of this, but no one cares anymore. The children run around yelling and screaming and chasing each other as if it’s no different from the rest of the playground. Even worse than the kids are the parents who don’t even look up from their phones to discipline their children or to appreciate how wonderful this place is. Before he stopped coming during the day he noticed that some of the children were bringing phones and ipads into the garden too and he wanted to smash them all for their lack of respect. It’s bad enough that people are glued to their phones everywhere else he goes, that they don’t even have the decency to make eye contact anymore, but bringing them here was a step too far. 

“It’s beautiful,” says the girl, as she and the boy sit down on a bench in front of the pond which ripples gently in the breeze.

“Hmmm,” says the boy, “I find it a bit creepy.”

“How could you find this place creepy? It’s so peaceful.” The man feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The girl is okay, she gets how special his garden is and that means more than anything in the world to him. He’s about to turn and leave them to it when to his horror she pulls her phone out of her pocket again and her face is illuminated in its unnatural light as she holds it close. The silence is soon broken by the tinny, jarring sound of music. It’s so loud and shocking that it causes him to start and he hears the bushes around him rustle. He is about to confront the teenagers with his rage when the music cuts out abruptly. 

 “Hey, I like that song,” says the boy. “Why did you turn it off?” The girl is staring hard in the direction of the bushes.

“Did you see that?”


“I thought I saw something over there,” said the girl, pointing to the spot where the man is concealed. “Was there anyone behind us when we came in?”

“There’s no one there, Em, you’re imaging things.”

“No I’m not, I swear I saw something move.”

“Maybe it’s the ghost of that kid who disappeared from here. People say he still haunts this place, you know.”

 “Don’t be a jerk, no kid disappeared from here. You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Seriously, some kid really did go missing here one night. It was a long time ago now but I remember because my mum was freaked out about it and she wouldn’t let me come here for ages with my friends.”

“Ok, now I’m starting to get creeped out too. I think we should go.”

“Alright. Do you want to go and hang at Matty’s place for a bit?”

“Yeah, alright.” They stand and take hands again and follow the path out of the Garden of Tranquillity, with the man gliding silently behind them. There are several painted signs showing the way to the exit and they follow in the direction of the arrows. The man knows a shortcut that will allow him to get to the gate before they do and he’s already waiting for them when they come around the bend and see his magical tree. It’s covered in what look like hundreds of   twinkling solar lights. Forgetting their fear the young couple stop in front of it, just as he knew they would, and take out their phones.

“Pretty, isn’t it,” he says, stepping out of the shadows before they can take any photos. The both scream and the boy grabs the girls arm and starts to pull her away, but the man works quickly to allay their fears before they can escape. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to scare you. I’m the night security guard,” he smiles. “I’m just doing my patrol.” He sees them looking over his uniform and taking in the logo he’s sewn on and the fear in their eyes starts to recede a little. “Would you like me to take a photo of the two of you together in front of the tree? Many people ask me to do this for them.” They are still slightly wary as they glance at one another, but then the boy shrugs his shoulders and holds out the phone towards him, not wanting to be rude. 

“Yeah, okay, thanks.” It’s at that moment, when they least expect it, that the man strikes like a deadly cobra. With lightning speed he raises the shovel which has been concealed behind his back and hits as hard as he can, listening with satisfaction to the crunching sound as it makes contact. The boy only has time to grunt in shock. The girl lets out a strangulated cry but she seems to be frozen to the spot. Before she can find the strength to flee or fight he brings the shovel down on her too. Crack, crack, crack. In just a few seconds it’s all over, their lights extinguished forever, but he can’t stop himself now. He raises the shovel again and again completely oblivious to anything around him. They are pulverised, smashed, broken beyond recognition but still he keeps going, not hearing the voices or the sound of running feet on damp grass. Not even caring what happens next.

“You psycho,” a tearful voice calls from a distance. “You absolute psychopath. That was my brand new iphone. My dad is going to kill me. I can’t believe you did that.”

“Come on,” urges a female voice, “Don't try and talk to him. Let’s go and get the police. He’s crazy” 

Their footsteps recede and when he is sure they are gone he finally looks up and takes a deep breath. The park is his again, dark and silent just as he likes it. The police will come of course but they’ll never find him. He’ll just lay low for a while and sooner or later they’ll forget all about this incident, just as they have before. He runs his hand over his bald head and is about to retreat to his secret hiding place behind the boatshed when something in the distance catches his eye. It’s a row of glowing lights bobbing along the path at the edge of the water. They are moving fast, coming towards him at a rapid pace. As they draw nearer he hears snatches of laughter and voices, all talking over each other and spouting obscenities. It’s a group of teenagers. With iphones. Hoisting his shovel over one shoulder like a rifle he marches towards the lights.