Years ago I worked with a former CEO of the Freo Dockers. And I always wanted to ask him: what’s wrong with us?
Just weeks before Rudd’s restoration, the internal polling for Labor was doom-heavy: zero seats returned in WA, Queensland gruesome…
I’m trying to cut back on red meat and writers’ festivals. The first is on the advice of my doctor, the second’s a self-made prescription.
It was late and my girlfriend had retired in disgust. She was right to. I was immobile on the couch, watching live coverage of the Boston manhunt from an American broadcast, and dumbly forgiving of the rolling nothingness
I’d always wanted to write in a way that excited the same raw euphoria as music. But I didn’t and I can’t.
In David Foster Wallace’s novel The Pale King, about—wait for it—the metaphysics of boredom in a bureaucracy, he writes: “True heroism is minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care—with no one there to see or cheer. This is the world.”
My father prepared for death like he prepared for most things: with effortless practicality. A melanoma had insinuated itself in his subcutaneous fat, and the prognosis was poor.
Two quotes and a movie was all it took. I scratched my Labor column. Others could examine the party’s existential nausea. I’d reached a combustible temperature on something else: rape and the creeps who defend it.
Canberra turns 100 this year, but awkwardly it seems Australians have forgotten its birthday. The Bush Capital must now be cursing its weird remoteness, and the fact that outside its borders ”Canberra” is not the name of a city, but shorthand for political bastardry.
A few weeks before Christmas, serial killer Paul Haigh was in Victoria’s Supreme Court representing himself.
It was not until the Berlin Wall fell in 1989 that the world began to grasp the diabolical scale of repression in East Germany. The Stasi—East Germany’s secret police—may have overseen a fatally diseased economy…
I wasn’t going to write about Michelle Grattan’s departure from The Age. Cyber feelings were unusually wired, and I happen to write for her old ‘paper. Best to stay out of the fray, I thought. Don’t get zapped.
In the week of Anthony Mundine’s graceless capitulation—and news that his hero, Muhammad Ali, was dying—I wanted to write about boxing.
I watched Lincoln last night, and it was thrilling to see Daniel Day-Lewis masterfully bring the man to life. But I left the film with a nagging dissatisfaction. Here are some loose and dirty thoughts…