October, 2024 - Stuart McCullough

Postcards from the Edge – The improbable return of the Donald

How did it come to this? The world teeters on a precipice as a former American President seeks to snatch back the reins of power, possibly without breaking any windows or ransacking anybody’s office this time. But here we are – days out from an election in which Donald Trump is the nominee of a mainstream political party as opposed to being the guy that works Mondays and Thursday in the laundry of a medium-security correctional facility and who shares a room with a guy named ‘Pitbull’. Go figure.

With thirty-four felony counts to his name, Donald Trump is now the ultimate conviction Politician. Weirdly, no one in his party suggested that the Donald should respond to his status as a convicted felon by dropping out of the Presidential race. In contrast, his former opponent (and current President) spaced out in a debate, and suddenly ‘fitness to serve’ was a major issue. None of it makes sense.

When a candidate for high office in America is not travelling too well, they don’t simply pack it up. Rather, they ‘suspend’ their campaign. Donald Trump, however, seems to be able to inspire people to suspend disbelief. You can forensically collect evidence and present it in a clear and methodical manner, only for it to be dismissed with a single word. Whenever words like ‘hoax’, ‘fake’, ‘rigged’ or ‘witch hunt’ are uttered, it’s an invitation to disengage with facts and, instead, assert your own reality as the truth.

I sometimes think that Donald Trump didn’t leave reality television to get involved in politics; he dragged politics to reality television. On one level, I can see why he might appeal to some people – the whole bin-fire catastrophe that is his every public appearance is perversely entertaining. On another level, it’s difficult to see how anyone, much less millions of people, can take him seriously.

When the insurrection occurred on 6 January, 2021; I assumed that would be the end of him. That’s usually the price for attempting to overthrow democracy. Now he refers to those imprisoned for their actions on that day as ‘hostages’. I’m not entirely convinced that Donald Trump knows what the word ‘hostage’ means. But whatever the constraints on his vocabulary, he has defied logic and political orthodoxy by doing and saying things on a daily basis that would instantly kill the political aspirations of anyone else. Seemingly indestructible, he’s the Keith Richards of American politics.

The constant references to Hannibal Lecter are bewildering. At least by referring to him as ‘the late, great Hannibal Lecter’, Trump is proving that he knows Hannibal can’t be appointed to his cabinet, even if he’s unaware that he’s a fictional character. Which is also true of Hannibal Lecter.

It’s fair to say Trump has gone low, especially when it comes to immigrants. The whole ‘they’re eating the dogs’ thing was immediately debunked but that hasn’t been enough to stop it being spewed forth with what is now monotonous regularity. It’s as though by repeating the lie, he’s hoping to make fact-checking redundant by drowning it in a sea of perfidious claptrap. More recently, he’s started referring to his own country as a ‘garbage can’ because of immigration. It’s about as far away from ‘give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses’ as it’s possible to get.

He’s obsessed with Vladimir Putin. Which is strange because the United States and Russia were once enemies. Such was the enmity between them that Sting felt the need to intervene with his song ‘Russians’. It was a tune that took the world to the brink of annihilation until both sides realised that they had something in common – namely, neither of them liked Sting that much. The Cold War ended a short time later.

But, for Trump, dictators like Putin are potential BFFs. If Taylor Swift hadn’t endorsed Kamala Harris, there’s no doubt Donald Trump would have casually slipped a Taylor friendship bracelet into the next muffin basket he sent over to the Kremlin.

His campaign mimics autocracies. The Iraqi government once has a spokesperson whose job it was to speak to the press and talk up regime in the grimmest of circumstances. He did this with a rhetorical flourish so grand and silly that he earned the nickname ‘Comical Ali’. Two decades on, and Donald Trump’s spokesperson has described Bob Woodward – of ‘Watergate’ fame – as ‘deranged’, Anthony Fauci as a ‘liar and a fraud’ and a four-star general as having ‘beclowned’ himself. I didn’t even know that ‘beclowning’ was a thing.

There’s a video. Back in 2008 when Barack Obama bested John McCain, the then-president made an announcement. At the time, George W. Bush was derided by many as something of a dunce, the ultimate nepo-baby. But the speech he gave was beautiful. It met the moment. It drew people together. It seems almost unimaginable in the current climate. Go and find it on YouTube. It’s how things are meant to be done.

The King and I

I’ll be honest – I wasn’t looking forward to it. But as the weeks peeled away from the calendar and the arrival date edged ever-closer, I steeled myself for the inevitable imposition that was to come. It wouldn’t be easy. I’d need to prepare myself for the disruption to my routine and the burden that is making people feel comfortable, although not so comfortable that they forget to leave. I’ve never been fond of house guests.

I do my best to be a good host. But if I’m being honest, the entire time they’re here, I’ll be thinking about how relieved I’m going to feel when they finally call an Uber and head out to Tullamarine. That moment can’t come soon enough. If it sounds like I’m lacking generosity towards my guests, it’s not as though I asked to be put in this position. These people weren’t invited. Rather, they have been imposed upon me. Truth is, I hardly know Charles and Camilla at all.

It’s the fault of a ridiculous loophole. Back when Melbourne hosted the Olympics in 1956, a large billeting program was proposed by which ordinary Melburnians would open their doors to international athletes and visitors. The people of Melbourne, a somewhat suspicious lot, resisted the invitation. This resulted in the ‘Home Billet (Olympics) Act’ of 1956, which saw international interlopers imposed on locals against their will. The anger associated with the program was largely forgotten in the Olympic afterglow but, as it turns out, the ‘Billet Act’ was never revoked and it remains the case that any one can be required to play host with fourteen days’ notice.

When I was told that I’d need to clear out the spare room for the King and Queen of England, I felt royally put out. The spare room is the one I use to dry my laundry and I’m not inclined to pack up the clothes horse just to make them feel more comfortable. Indeed, the guests should make themselves useful and pair the socks.

I gave the lawn a quick mow and the floor a vacuum – which I understand is more or less expected when you’re hosting royalty. When the doorbell rang, my heart sank. As I pulled back the door, there they were, all smiles. Charles had already made the most of the retail opportunities at the airport and was wearing a Ken Done koala t-shirt. Camilla had bought a box of spicy wings from the KFC drive-through. She tipped the box in my direction by way of a greeting, but I declined.

I bundled them inside before the neighbours could see and put the kettle on. They were, naturally enough, tired from the journey. They had a lot of baggage – both physical and emotional – and I’ll admit that I tuned out when Charles told me how worried he was about one of his kids.

I moved the bags into the spare room. It was a tight fit – so much so that the Royal couple had to crawl over their own suitcases to get to the bed. I almost felt bad for not moving the clothes horse into another room. Almost. For a moment, I feared Camilla might drop her box of spicy wings but she soon steadied and propped herself on the bed. I can’t say I was thrilled to see her getting crumbs on the doona and I made my point by offering to her a plate, a serviette and a mop and bucket, but there was nothing I could to deter her.

It’s been a rough couple of days since. I’ve lost control of the television. Charles, as it turns out, is a big fan of ‘Are You Being Served?’ It’s ruining my algorithm on Netflix. I tried to persuade him to give ‘Kath and Kim’ a go, but he told me sternly that he didn’t like documentaries.

I took them for a counter meal at the pub. Camilla was intrigued by the idea of a ‘chicken shnitty’ and, on arrival, she immediately put her name down for the darts tournament. We were having a great time until the conversation took an unexpectedly dark turn. I made the mistake of asking them why they’d come to Australia and the atmosphere turned instantly chilly. Charles leaned in, bearing his teeth and said, ‘Why do you ask? Don’t you want us here?’ In retrospect, shrugging my shoulders may not have been the best response. As they reeled from the impact of my indifference, I made things worse by asking Camilla whether she was going to eat her chips to which she responded by covered them with her hands and turning slightly away. It was super awkward.

Things still felt tense when I dropped them off at the airport shuttle bus. Although I was relieved to see them leave, I’ll admit that I (mostly) enjoyed their visit. But that said, I wouldn’t want them to stay. I’d never get my washing dried if they did. As the bus pulled away and the faces of Charles and Camilla were pressed against the glass of the rear window, it occurred to me that the way I felt about them as houseguests is how I feel about them more generally. It’s nice to see them, but I don’t need to see them all the time. It is, perhaps, time for us to have the house to ourselves.

I’ll Tumble Dryer For Ya

It was an unexpected message. In the middle of the day, my phone vibrated to indicate that either it was incredibly cold or had just received a message. Upon closer inspection, I could see the message preview that read as follows: ‘WE MISS YOU’. Presumably the use of upper case was intended to emphasise exactly how much they missed me. Who could it be? Who did I know that valued my presence so deeply that they felt the need for an all-caps message in the middle of the workday? I eagerly picked up my phone to find out. It was, as it transpired, a message from my dry cleaner.

This is embarrassing. Some months ago, I dropped off some suits for a bit of a spruce up. A couple of days later, I stopped by to pick them up again. Money was exchanged. All was (or so I thought) well with the world. It was simple. It was transactional. It was over. But what I regarded as a casual dalliance that was motivated by a need to get the chocolate stains out of my work pants, was clearly interpreted as something far more meaningful and enduring by the dry cleaner. To put it mildly, I was caught off guard.

How did I get it so terribly wrong? I had assumed that we were on the same page, never thinking for a moment that there might be an expectation that we’d keep in touch. Granted, it’d been a while since I’d been to the dry cleaners and it’s quite possible that the entire dynamic has been the subject of a dramatic overhaul whilst I was off spilling chocolate on my work pants. Serves me right.

When it comes to service providers, I’d describe myself as having a somewhat mercenary disposition. Granted, I visit the supermarket once a week, but I don’t call it in between trips to see how it’s feeling. Excursions to my nearest department store are more seldom still but it’s never occurred to me to send it a card just to let it know that it’s in my thoughts. I just want what I want before moving on. If that seems cold hearted, I can only say that this approach was once considered standard practise.

When did shops get so emotionally needy? When I drop off a suit and some pairs of slacks for some minor titivation, I’m not expecting any kind of emotional attachment. I’m not sure what I said or did that charmed them so, or how it is that I managed to make such a deep and lasting impression on them, but I better figure it out, because I’ve got to duck to the shops for milk and I don’t the Coles Express to fall hopelessly in love with me.

What if the text message is just the start? What if things only get worse? Before long, I’ll be overwhelmed by the sense that maybe, just maybe, I’m being watched and my mail read. With very little warning at all, it’s gone from a harmless and well-intentioned interaction that meant nothing to me, to full-blown Baby Reindeer-style obsession. Nobody wants a clinger, even if they do offer competitive prices that include a thirty per cent discount when you get three or more suits cleaned on a weekday.

Sometimes the phone rings and, when I answer it, all I hear is the sound of steam. It’s only six months to Valentines Day – if I don’t break it off now, I’m at serious risk of the local laundry taking out a full-page ad in the Herald Sun to declare it’s undying love for me. Best to take decisive action now in the hope that things will die down and life can get back to normal.

I picked up the phone and contemplated sending some kind of brilliant retort, such as ‘New phone, who dis?’ before hesitating. Engaging would, I feel, only make things worse. I could try saying ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ but that would be a gigantic lie as, deep in my heart, I’d know it’s absolutely one hundred per cent them. They could get sad. They might get angry. If things got really out of hand, they might even threaten some kind of legal action. Given the business they’re in, they’d inevitably try and take me to the cleaners.

At the end of the message was an opportunity to ‘opt out’ of future messages. I hesitated. Granted, being told by your dry cleaner that they ‘miss you’ is worrisome in the extreme, but it begs the question – why aren’t I getting these kinds of messages from anyone else? Is it because I’m really good at keeping in touch with my nearest and dearest? Definitely not. This leads me to that somewhat sad but inevitable conclusion that my dry cleaner likes me more than members of my immediate family. Sniff. It’s a hard truth, but there it is. Not only do I not hear from some of them, I couldn’t tell you the last time any of them starched my shirt collars.

When faced with the chance to opt out, I did nothing. I will, I think, keep things as they are for a little while. For now, I still receive lovelorn messages from the dry cleaner, telling me how much they miss me. And, for moment at least, that’s all I want.

Grand Prick: Turning a Go-Kart into a Slow-Kart

It all came rushing back. As I sat, gripping the wheel, it dawned on me that this was the moment I’d be training for, if not my whole life, then every other weekend between the ages of seven and sixteen. The engines roared, my seat belt was pulled tight and my helmet visor down. I was ready. But as I sat, I experienced a crushing sense of doubt – did I really want to subject my loved ones to the humiliation that comes with being beaten on a go-kart track?

We went to Phillip Island. It was a school holiday/ kid-friendly trip, so certain things you might otherwise associate with a vacation – such as ‘rest’ and ‘recuperation’ – were instantly eliminated. This would have more in common with an episode of ‘Survivor’ than it would ‘Postcards’. Nerves were destined to be frayed as we would be pushed to the limit, both physically and emotionally.

First cmes the car trip. Loading a car for a family vacation is an art, a science and (possibly) a divine miracle, all rolled into one. For reasons that escape me, we pack not so much what we need but whatever we can find that isn’t nailed down. We’re a tribe of chronic over-packers. As a result, loading up the car is kind of an out-sized reverse-Jenga experience. It takes ages.

As a result of some previous, quite fractious car trips, we now have a strict rule when it comes to music – each person can select two (and no more than two) songs for the Spotify queue. This rule was imposed after some rather harrowing journeys that involved nothing but tunes from obscure off-off-off Broadway musical productions that weren’t so much songs as they were an assault on the senses. Some things are off Broadway for good reason. If that sounds harsh, then try travelling to Diamond Creek with the sounds of ‘Operation Mincemeat’ ringing in your ears. (Yes, Operation Mincemeat is a musical. Allegedly.)

But I can handle two songs. For two songs, I can be curious and interested and polite and not overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rip the ears from my head with my bare hands. Granted, there have been attempts to subvert this iron-clad car rule – such as when the twenty-one-year-old chose an eighteen minute piece by Rachmaninov (which I liked, but which outraged the others). The ‘two song rule’ largely works; save that the eleven year old wants to hear the same two songs repeatedly. Right now, the two songs on constant rotation are ‘Love Story’ by Taylor Swift and (sigh) ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ by ‘NSYNC’. Apparently, the latter is featured in the ‘Deadpool and Wolverine’ movie.

We were always going to end up seeing the penguins and looking at koalas – it’s hard not to at Phillip Island. But it was also inevitable that we’d wind up at the go-kart track. To put it simply – I am surrounded by highly competitive people. I knew I was in trouble when each family member started talking down their prospects before we’d even begun.

It’d been raining and the instructor spoke to us sternly about the treacherous conditions, saying that each one of us was ‘destined’ to come off the track at some point. We lowered ourselves into tiny bucket seats and waited as the engines growled. It was then that instinct kicked in – this was, essentially, a faster version of the ride-on lawnmower that accounted for my every other weekend when I was a kid. I was in my element.

When the flag dropped, I took off at a great rate of knots. There was water everywhere. I knew the eleven-year-old was in front of me, because I could hear the strains of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ from somewhere over the other side of the track. The nineteen-year-old – who we thought would baulk at the whole idea – was now hurtling through space (and possibly time) as his go-kart left the track entirely and plunged into the lawn. He was having a lot of fun.

I, on the other hand, was putting safety first. In that respect, I was very much on my own. One of the rules of the go-kart track is that you must slow down when the lights are orange because someone might be on the track. When I dutifully eased to a crawl in the face of an amber flashing light, I was then overtaken by my partner, Katrina, who had seen her chance to leave me in her wake and had taken it.

I came stone-cold last. But of all those driving that day, I was almost certainly the safest. I was definitely the only one using their indicators. After our time was done, we each exited our vehicle and awaited the official results which, of course, could then be disputed on the journey home. After we piled into the car and I started the engine, I was greeted by the sounds of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ for the thirtieth time that day. I was wet, cold, I’d just come last by a considerable distance and now I was being subjected to a dodgy boyband from the nineties. And I was happy.