Page 5 of 10

Here’s what Chris Rock told me he’d do if he became President

Chris Rock has announced that he’s running for President in 2020, joining Kanye West, Ron Perlman and Bernie Sanders in the battle to become the next US Commander-In-Chief.
Interestingly enough, when I interviewed him in 2008 I asked him what exactly he’d do if he became President.
The short answer?
“I’d raise the minimum wage. I’d get rid of salad bars and all-you-can-eat buffets … America’s getting big. We’re a very portly country.
“There’d be no more shows like Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. It makes people feel bad at what they don’t have.”
And he’d get rid of The Bomb.
You can read all about it – and his thinking on comedy, his TV show and much more – here.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

11 life lessons I learned from Wolverine

A man may wear many faces Spy, samurai, superhero, soldier – Wolverine has been them all.
And he will wear many of them during his lifetime A man who has lived long enough as Wolverine has seen everything from world wars to the creation of the automobile. He knows that change is the one true constant in life.
Not everyone will understand you Only a few select people like Jean Grey will ever see beyond Wolverine’s wild exterior to the sensitive, heroic soul beneath.
There will be enemies From Sabretooth to anti-mutant prejudice, opposition comes in many forms.
But you don’t have to face it alone Find and cherish your own X-Men.
The true scars are beneath the skin Wolverine is a walking example of the Buddhist dictum that life is suffering. From teammates to lovers, he’s seen just about everyone he’s ever cared about die. But it is his ability to take the pain and keep going that arouses our admiration.
Conflict is inevitable Sometimes you have to extrude the metaphorical adamantium.
Your true superpower is ultimately very human – and everyone has it Wolverine’s ultimate superpower isn’t his mutant healing factor – it is his willpower.
It ain’t over until it’s over How often has Wolverine come from behind against the odds to triumph?
Never give up Wolverine once crawled out of no less than Hell itself. And as World War II leader Winston Churchill once said, “If you’re going through Hell, keep going.”
The real adventure is finding out who you are – and accepting yourself For a long time Wolverine’s memories were taken away. Now that he has them back, he shows that accepting yourself for who you are is the greatest challenge of them all.

Hey, why not check out my military thriller, Game Of Killers, out now on Amazon.

New satire: the day Cate Blanchett introduced mixed-martial arts into the Sydney Theatre Company

I’d agreed to meet Cate Blanchett at the Sydney Theatre Company’s HQ in the Rocks.
She had promised me that the STC was about to take a bold new direction based on new trends in theatre.
Intrigued, I told her I’d meet her there with my note pad.
“Bring a mouth guard too,” she quipped intriguingly in that Oscar-winning voice.
I grabbed my tape recorder (and said mouth guard) and arrived five minutes fashionably late at the STC.
The site that beheld me was incredible.
The main stage of the Sydney Theatre Company – home to Chekhov, Shakespeare and god knew how many Michael Gow productions (I still have the psychic scars from my HSC days) – had been demolished.
In its place was a giant fighting cage.
And in the middle of that, dressed like a prize fighter, was none other than Cate Blanchett.
“Get up here,” she rasped.
I nervously entered the cage and offered her my hand. Instead, she punched me firmly in the breadbasket.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Oof,” I quipped, winded.
Had Cate Blanchett, winner of two Academy Awards, just struck me?
And did this have anything to do with why she had summoned me here? Or did the Carol star simply want to beat on some journalists today, which was a very laudable and understandable impulse?
As I regained my bearings, Hugo Weaving, naked from the waist up, stepped into the ring.
“I suppose you’re wondering why we’ve replaced the stage with an MMA octagon,” Cate said, eyes blazing with determination.
“I was wondering that,” I managed to reply.
“Me too,” chuckled The Matrix star beside me. “Everyone’s talking about it. The phone are running hot.”
In a flash, Blanchett knocked Weaving out cold. She was a hell of a southpaw. Either that, or Weaving had a glass jaw.
Two minions quickly entered the ring and dragged Weaving away.
“Bring me another actor,” barked Blanchett, bobbing and weaving on the spot.
Then she turned back to me.
“I suppose you’ve seen the new Sydney Festival program,” she said, her voice a delightful blend of Sydney drawl and New York insouciance.
“No,” I said.
Her gloved fists came at me again, pummeling me in the stomach.
“Ooof!” I cried.
“Call yourself a theatre critic!”
“Actually, I don’t,” I wheezed.
I was rewarded with another strike to the belly for my philistinism.
“Arghh!” I said, having said “ooof” twice already.
“Anyway, their new show Prize Fighter will apparently feature live boxing along with incendiary storytelling. That got me to thinking,” she said, rubbing her glove comically against her temple to emphasise the act of thought, “sometimes just showing Hamlet or Macbeth by themselves just isn’t enough.
“In this world of divided attentions, where people play with their iPhones at the same time that they watch Pinter, audiences just aren’t content with watching one thing.”
I quickly stopped tapping on my iPhone as Blanchett went on. “They need more. They need live spectacle. They need …”
“Live boxing?” I offered.
Enraged, Blanchett hurled me against the ropes. Her delicate foot that had tread the hallowed boards of Broadway found my face.
I crumpled like a poorly composed street newspaper theatre review.
“NO, NO! Not live boxing! Then it would look like we’re just copying the Sydney Festival. No … what we will have will be live mixed-martial arts with each show. MMA is far more popular than boxing, anyway.”
“But will our audiences take to mixed-martial arts while they’re watching The Wharf Revue, for example?” asked a greased-up Richard Roxburgh, who had somehow snuck into the ring. “Are they ready for it?”
In reply, she kicked Roxburgh in the head. The Rake star kissed the floor. His mouth guard gently exited his mouth.
I took the chance to quickly insert mine.
“That’s the problem fighting people who haven’t won Oscars,” she said as her minions removed his limp torso. “No stamina.”
“Anyway, I’m thinking of introducing the concept into our latest show, Speed-The-Plow. I’ll do the fighting while Rose Byrne can do the acting.”
My heart leapt. The chance to see Cate Blanchett on stage! It was the white whale of all Sydney theatre, the one show everyone wanted to catch.
Dare I ask her for some “review” tickets?
“Mamet goes with mixed-martial arts, don’t you think? All that quick-fire, brutal dialogue. ‘Coffee is for closers.’ Bam!” she said, punching the air. “‘My watch costs more than your car.’ Bam!”
Cate paused. “Mmm … where is Rose anyway?”
“She’s out,” replied National Treasure Noah Taylor from beside me. Cate responded by kneeing him in the balls. He waddled out of the ring like a comical crab, trying futilely to steal focus away from Cate all the while.
“Shame,” she said. “Rose looks like she’d be a good scrapper.”
“So,” said Cate, turning to me at last, “what do you think?”
I was afraid to talk.
I was afraid NOT to talk.
I was just afraid.
How long could this interview go? How long could I stand up to Cate Blanchett’s MMA fury, a discipline she had clearly studied as hard as any Mamet script?
Fortunately, the Gods Of Theatre smiled upon me.
“No matter how daring your new direction, you’ll never top me, Cate,” said a voice behind me.
We both turned.
It was none other than David Williamson.
Dressed in the garb of a mixed-martial arts fighter.
And he was blazing with the strength of dozens of successful productions.
“I am Australia’s favourite playwright, Cate,” boomed Williamson. “If there should be any radical new direction in Sydney theatre, it should come from me!”
He began bobbing and weaving. At some two-metres tall, his reach was incredible. He was clearly born to the brand-new genre of theatre-luvvie-slash-MMA fighter.
“I’ve wanted this for so long – ever since I studied The Removalist in high school,” Cate said, suddenly bobbing and weaving in turn. “Now come at me!”
The immovable dramaturg was about to collide with the unstoppable actress.
This was no fight for mere mortals to witness.
Plus I had 600 words to write.
I left to contemplate this exciting new direction in theatre – and instantly regretted that I hadn’t asked Cate for some front-row tickets to her new show.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

About last night’s The Walking Dead premiere … aka how to react when a beloved character is killed off

“I feel so numb.”
“I had to call in sick today I’m so traumatised.”
“I’ll never love or trust anyone again.”
“NOOOOOOO!”
The Twittersphere is up in arms over the fate of a certain character in last night’s The Walking Dead.
Not even TWD producer Gregory Nicotero’s warning about how brutal the season 7 premiere was could prepare us for its shocking events.
It was that disturbing. And hundreds of thousands of tweets about it can’t be wrong.
Which raises the question: what do we do when someone whose adventures we have followed for years – devoting precious hours and binge-marathons to – is suddenly killed off?
There is a certain amount of trauma involved when heroes and heroines we’ve invited into our living rooms – and spent many a rainy day or long afternoon getting to know – disappear from our TV screens.
These characters become more than mere pixels on the screen: they become real in a way. At least, the emotions they evoke are real. And we, in turn, become invested in their fates.
We know from long experience not to get too close to any character from The Walking Dead or Game Of Thrones. Go to one Red or Purple Wedding and you know someone is going to cop a crossbow bolt/knife to the throat/poisoned chalice. Sometimes it’s King Joffrey (yay!). And other times it’s Robb and Catelyn Stark (why, George RR, why?).
Still, the heart wants what the heart wants. We can’t help but hope for the best and love them anyway.
So when they end up at the business end of Negan’s bat we still feel all the feels. (Am I being perverse by loving Jeffrey Dean Morgan as Negan – even if I condemn his monstrous cruelty?)
And it’s not like there’s a club for Survivors Of Unexpected Major Character Deaths or anything.
The only therapy we have is venting with our fellow netizens online.
Yet perhaps such emotions are not such a bad thing. When a major character dies, it just goes to show the stakes involved … that this is serious, people. As serious as real life. To believe that fictional characters never die is perhaps to believe in the prolonging of adolescence: to put off the grim realities of adulthood, to believe that Lassie or Skippy or Flipper or the Lone Ranger always arrive in the nick of time to save the day.
If our appetite for the grittier series and boxsets has proved anything, it is that we as an audience are ready and hungry for more adult drama.
All of the top tier shows – The Sopranos, Game Of Thrones, True Blood – feature major character deaths. And we still love them anyway.
To be fair, the writers usually do their best to soften the emotional blow. After all, they’re emotionally invested in the characters, too.
As a fellow writer, I understand how writers can become attached to their creations. In a way, their lives become our lives. We imagine what they say and do, their words and actions coming to us at all hours of the day. They become our friends and confidantes. Fictional characters can sometimes occupy as much headspace as a treasured friend.
And no one wants to kill a treasured friend.
Personally I think the best way to end a TV show that potentially features the death of major characters is to be ambiguous. For example, I love the much-derided ending of The Sopranos. Now I can go back and watch the whole series again, believing that Tony lives at the end.
Then again, I also like to believe Thelma and Louise and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid survived at the end of their respective movies.
After all, you don’t actually see them die – there’s that little wiggle room in the imagination for other outcomes.
But back to last night’s shocker.
Perhaps George R.R. Martin was right when he wrote “valar morghulis”.
All men must die.
And occasionally major characters must die, too.
And perhaps that’s how it should be in the world of adult drama.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

The horrors of moving house

Jean-Paul Sartre once said: “Hell is other people.”
But of course what he meant to say was “hell is moving house” – because whether you’re moving into a new house, rental flat or hobbit shack by the beach, the act of sorting, packing, editing, binning, transporting and rearranging all your belongings is a devilish endeavour that should be rarely attempted in one lifetime.
And it doesn’t matter what gender you are: packing your gear and moving stumps is no less than a referendum on your past achievements, hopes and future ambitions, box-sized parcels of dreams held precariously in the hands of clumsy student removalists.
First of course comes the cleaning. It is amazing how much filth one house can contain (surely the claim that dust is actually human skin must be a myth?).
And just where do all those 5c pieces come from? They’re everywhere, breeding like tribbles from Star Trek, getting into the bottom of cabinets, drawers and even shoes.
The spiders in the house immediately arc up once your bring the vacuum cleaner up to their corners on the ceiling: “What are you doing? I come in peace, human. I mean you no harm. I … I … argh!”
Like counting tree rings or carbon dating peasants found in peat bogs, you can measure the time line of your own archaeological dig by the detritus you find on the ground.
If you find old K-Tel products (such as the classic album, Difficult To Strip To Hits), a slinky, a fondue pot, a Rubik’s cube or a shoulder pad, you truly are a long-term couple. Chocolate bars gone out of fashion (Texan Bar, Space Food Sticks or Scorched Peanut Bar) similarly mark your progress.
Perhaps you’ll find a Tang label affixed to the kitchen floor and crushed can of Tab behind the fridge. Maybe a tribble trapped in the washing machine. Old TV guides with Big Brother circled and later crossed out mark your evolving taste in entertainment. You could even find an old tape with Austen Tayshus performing Australiana and wonder how you ever found it amusing.
But the real test of the relationship is deciding what, to paraphrase Elaine from  Seinfeld, is “packworthy”. Here you might find your opinions differ wildly from your partner.
You might think that giant stone mortar and pestle is a waste of space, but your wife insists on keeping in just in case the in-laws visit and want some specially ground black pepper … perhaps followed by an after-dinner board game of Risk given to you as a Christmas present (and gathering dust untouched in the bottom of a cupboard for years).
But you can’t object too much, because you have to argue about the merits of keeping that giant pig club from your trip to Vanuatu, the Wii console you never opened but suddenly can’t bear to part with, the croquet set you never used or the leather pants from four sizes and two decades ago that you still dream of fitting into. (Menfolk, it is pointless arguing that you only need one set of dishes: every well-breed person knows that you need both your daily dishes and the good china, just in case the Queen decides to visit.)
Once most of the grunt work is done, the vacuuming is complete (destroying civilisations of bacteria mere generations away from becoming sentient), the packing boxes purchased and the essential items packed away, the nostalgia phase sets in.
One of you will inevitably find an old photo album. You’ll sit down and cast your mind back to your youth. Didn’t you look so glowing and optimistic back then, despite the hint of teenage acne, King Gee boots and bad ’80s hair? What would your younger self think of you now, your achievements, your progress in life?
Would they pat you on the back and say, “Well done, sir/madam”? Or would they regard you like one of those unhealthier doubles from those creepy health care ads and wonder, “What the fuck happened to you, man?”
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Here is your chance to edit your life according to your new beginning. You have a chance to keep the memories you want and the objects that reflect them. The bins will fill up and new life will spring up in the freed-up spaces. You will have room to conjure new memories together.
Just remember to keep enough tokens of your best youthful dreams. And choose your battles over space wisely. Because maybe keeping that lifesized Bruce Lee statue or pair of jousting sticks in the living room is a battle best lost.
And no relationship is worth jeopardising over those old K-Tel records.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Top 10 things you should be doing on International Talk Like A Pirate Day

  1. Saying “arr”.
  2. Thinking of puns involving saying “arrr”.
  3. Saying “me hearties”.
  4. Saying “arr, me hearties”.
  5. Wenching (or, if you’re a female pirate, “menching”).
  6. Pirates Of The Caribbean/Black Sails marathons.
  7. Learning your pirate history. What was the Golden Age of Piracy? Why was Sir Francis Drake considered the “Queen’s Pirate”? Why were pirates early examples of democratic capitalism? Where did the modern pirate accent originate from?
  8. Driving while wearing an eye patch as a talking parrot screeches on your shoulder.
  9. Debating the ultimate question … Who would win in a fight, pirates or ninjas?
  10. Rum shots.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

My experience bingewatching the entire first season of Mr. Robot

9am: Meet Elliot Alderson: vigilante hacker extraordinaire. He’s the perfect hero for our times: anxious, nervy, clever, fully aware that the system is rigged against him. I like him already.
9.07am: He’s using his awesome hacking skills to take down a coffee shop owner. Too bad it’s for something sleazy and not for the terrible coffee they serve in those big chains (next time I go into one I’m going to say my name is like one of those gigantic titles from Game Of Thrones, like “Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons”).
9.25am: Wow, Elliot’s crying in his apartment. We’ve all been there. I wish I could give him a big hug.
9.30am: I love how Elliot talks straight to the camera. It feels like he’s talking straight to ME!
10.10am: Dude greets Elliot by saying “bonsoir”. How classy is that? You just know anyone who speaks French can’t be a villain.
10.30am: Treat myself to an Iced Vo Vo. I feel like I deserve it. Plus no one eats Iced Vo Vos any more (why is that?).
10.45am: Elliot has a bestie called Mr Robot, kind of a sketchy older dude played by Christian Slater (loved him in Heathers). Wait … what? Did Mr Robot really just do that? Spit out Ice Vo Vo crumbs across the floor.
11am: Back to Elliot and his hacker collective, F Society (wonder what the “F” stands for). They want to launch the hack from hell against E Corp … or, as Elliot likes to call them, “Evil Corp”. Hack the evil corporation, save the world … kind of like Heroes with “save the cheerleader, save the world”. Only there’s no cheerleaders here … just more socially maladjusted hackers.
11.15am: So Elliot’s got a whole “will they or won’t they” thing going on with his friend Angela. Kind of like Sam and Diane from that other bingeworthy series, Cheers.
11.30am: Tyrell’s wife is kind of hot. I keep that thought to myself and don’t tell my wife on the opposite couch.
11.45am: Turns out people who speak French CAN be villains.
12am: Do I really have to go to the bathroom? I guess so. But it’s a good sign to how addictive Mr. Robot is that I’ve held out this long.
1pm: Lunch. Time to discuss what I’ve seen with my wife. I’m learning new things, such as what the IT phrase “honeypot” means. Maybe I could be a hacker vigilante, too. She doesn’t think so. Feel offended.
2pm: My buttocks are slightly sore from sitting rigid in the same spot for so long due to the excitement. I have a hard life.
2.30pm: Elliot is starting to get paranoid. His paranoia is infectious … I glance over my shoulder to see my wife looking at ME. Maybe she senses that I find Tyrell’s wife hot. She knows these things.
2.35pm: Don’t want to give too much away, but the following hours include hacks, beatings, shootings, Dark Armies, darker deeds … and even murder.
4pm: The big reveal. I did not see THAT coming. Kind of like the big reveal from The Empire Strikes Back. I’m still getting over that one.
4.15pm: My bladder complains. Maybe TV shows should be rated by how long you hold off going to the bathroom while watching them … the implication being the longer the hold-off the better the show. Maybe shows should be ranked between 1-5 Bladders. In that case, Mr. Robot is definitely 5 Bladders.
4.16pm: Reluctantly answer the call of nature.
4.30pm: There are two tragedies in life … not getting what you want AND getting what you want.
Spoiler alert: Elliot gets one of these.
But me and my wife definitely got what we wanted: hours and hours of quality viewing courtesy of one of the best new series on TV.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Why Ryan Reynolds is the most likeable man in Hollywood

I interviewed the most likeable man in Hollywood once.
His name? A Young Ryan Reynolds.
Actually, his name was just Ryan Reynolds, but he was indisputably young. His youthful good looks were on display as I sat with him, his co-star Jessica Biel, a cameraman, a PR woman and what seemed like five other people in a hotel room in Sydney in 2004.
We were there to talk about their new action movie, Blade: Trinity, and we’d begun the interview by discussing someone who was making a reputation for himself for allegedly being “difficult” – the movie’s star, Wesley Snipes.
Jessica Biel – aka the future Mrs Justin Timberlake  –  was also an actress on the rise, gaining fame for her role in drama 7th Heaven.
Yet it was Reynolds who had most fascinated me that day. His charisma on screen was undeniable. It was also undeniable meeting him in person. He answered my questions with agreeable wit and good humour, even the one about then-girlfriend Alanis Morissette.
I didn’t know much about him, but even back in 2004 his name had been mentioned in connection with playing Marvel anti-hero Deadpool (remember, this was long before capes and costumes began to dominate Hollywood). I told him he’d make an excellent Merc With The Mouth – he had the sly wit, the cheeky, knowing grin and the athleticism that would be perfect for the role – for which he thanked me.
Close to a decade later Reynolds did indeed unveil his Deadpool to critical and box-office acclaim.
To paraphrase Sally Field, it looks like we like Reynolds … we really, really like him.
The subject of Reynolds’s likeability came up this week as I watched the movie Self/less, which starred Reynolds.
“There’s just something really likeable about Reynolds,” my wife said.
And I found I had to agree. I’ve interviewed many Hollywood stars face to face – including Will Ferrell, Robert Downey jnr and Jon Favreau, all likeable and charming chaps – but there’s something about Reynolds that makes him special, a certain je ne sais quoi.
Maybe it’s the fact that he can play a tough guy yet still be in touch with his emotions. Maybe it’s because he can play both action movies and rom-coms with equal aplomb. Maybe it’s because he’s Canadian (and everyone likes Canadians).
Maybe it’s because he’s kept his smooth good looks. Maybe it’s because his physique is perfectly dimensioned between Jesse “not buff enough” Eisenberg and Arnold “condom stuffed with walnuts” Schwarzenegger.
Maybe it’s because he’s both a man’s man – the type of dude you’d like to share a trench with or a drink with down at the pub – and a woman’s man, having dated some of the hottest actresses in Hollywood including Scarlett Johansson and now wife Blake Lively.
But we like him. And his charm has stood the test of time, from Van Wilder: Party Liason to Deadpool.
We even forgive him for Green Lantern.
Perhaps we don’t really need to dissect his appeal. Maybe we should just appreciate his je ne sais quoi for what it is rather than quoting Q Scores and the like.
If I had to name a rival for the title of The Most Likeable Man In Hollywood, it would probably be Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.
I’ll let you know who wins if I ever get to interview The Rock.
Until then, give us more Reynolds … and bring on Deadpool 2.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Ten journalistic phrases we need to outlaw right now

Moral compass No one uses compasses any more. Replace with “moral GPS”.
Highway robbery When was the last time some Dick Turpin-type stuck a blunderbuss through the open window of your horse-drawn carriage and demanded “all your jewellery and gold doubloons, sir, if you value your life”? I thought so. We’re in the 21st century now, people. Replace with “internet highway robbery”.
Drop of a hat Is there a direct correlation between the decline of Western civilisation and the decline in hat wearing? I like to think so. Still, no one wears hats any more. Best avoid.
Legend As one wise scribess once commented, “King Arthur was a legend … not some meathead who kicked a field goal in the last five minutes of a game.” Remove “legend” and replace with “top bloke” or female equivalent.
Hero Once upon a time you had to defeat the French at the Battle Of Trafalgar to earn the title “hero”. Now it seems anyone can be a hero (why, maybe even you, dear reader!). Still, I can’t help think that Lord Nelson would be rolling in his grave to be described in the same company as the maker of Sydney’s best cappuccino, for example.
Litmus test As a child I thought the greatest thing in the world was watching magnesium burn in chemistry class … closely matched by the magic of testing for acidity with litmus paper. But we’re not children any more, candy doesn’t taste as good, life has crushed our spirits and the wizardry of chemistry has long been replaced by more adult endeavours.
Enfant terrible A favourite expression employed by arts writers to describe “dramaturges” who “modernise” Shakespeare by casting cross-dressing dwarves who hurl sex toys at audiences. Replace with “DOCS child”.
Dramaturge I’ve never meet anyone in the theatre who has given me a convincing explanation of what a dramaturge is. Maybe Cate Blanchett is one – she virtually IS Sydney’s theatre industry – but who knows? For that reason, I will never call anyone a dramaturge, in print or otherwise, even as a form of insult. Or an “auteur” for that matter (although I have used “auteur” as an insult).
Bellwether Apparently bellwether “refers to the practice of placing a bell around the neck of a castrated ram (a wether) leading his flock of sheep”. References to castrated rams have no place in respected periodicals. Avoid.
Bun fight I’ve never seen anyone fight with buns. Have you? I’ve seen people fight with live crabs, but that’s another story. (Note to self: NEVER tell that story in public.)

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.