I’m in Perth researching a book about murder, meaning and the colourful constellation system of justice. The institutions that formally comprise it, and the variety of individuals involuntarily thrown into it. What are their roles? How do they each make sense…
So I’m late to the Gillard Speech party, or at least the ensuing commentary about the commentary. So shoot me. I didn’t much like the party, filled with cowboys and girls, their guns loaded with smug certitude and me just packing an old-fashioned…
In July, American comic Tig Notaro was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer. This was just the latest splash of fate’s bilge water: in previous months, Notaro had suffered a break-up, a bacterial disease and the sudden death of her mother.
In August last year a warning was issued: the public’s “deep malaise” would be stripped from Newspoll and rudely supplanted to the nation’s highways. Yes, the Convoy of No Confidence was rumbling into town where this travelling circus of indignation would…
Yesterday I spoke at the Council for Humanities, Arts and Social Sciences (CHASS) inaugural national forum. The theme was “What Makes Us Human?” The following is the speech I delivered.
Waleed Aly could barely contain his anger. In his Monday column on Sydney’s protest, you could trace the hard edge of his incredulity. Typically, though, Aly’s frustration was elegantly transposed into a thoughtful and muscular piece.
This week I put some questions to Associate Professor Mohamad Abdalla, the founding Director of the Islamic Research Centre at Griffith University, on Saturday’s Islamic protest in Sydney.
I read Obama’s books, listened to his speeches and absorbed his academic CV. I marvelled at his poise, and celebrated the story of an essentially fatherless young man’s audacious ascension.
It’s now just been a couple of hours since President Obama wrapped up the three day Democratic National Convention. And I’ll admit it: Obama’s speech bored me. Disjointed, excruciatingly safe, slim on policy detail…
Christopher Hitchens has been dead 9 months, but the past week welcomed his slim book Mortality—a collection of Vanity Fair essays written about his aggressive terminal cancer, a place Hitchens called “Tumorville”.
The internet is saturated with snark. We all know it, and there’s probably little more to be said about it. But here’s what you don’t hear: that the praise for public statements—whether TV reports, newspaper columns or speeches—is just as witless as the abuse.
Last week I recalled my artless days of student journalism in a piece on #interngate. It was far from complete, but the shock of recognition amongst readers was so great that I’ve decided to provide a more comprehensive list
If you wanted to torture me, you could do much worse than strapping me to a chair and reading to me my student magazine pieces. I sprayed my arrogance and five buck words for about 3 years for Grok magazine, proud rag of my alumnus Curtin University.
Robert Hughes had seen death before. In 1999, out in the remote Kimberley of Western Australia, the world’s most famous art critic was driving back to Broome. Hughes had been fishing with his mate Dan O’Sullivan…
In the end, it took me nearly ten years to watch it all. Why? Well, there’s life. That humble sundry of change. Different suburbs, states, countries. Different friends and lovers. Commitment to a long-running TV series requires stability.
And so it is again. A young man, preposterously armed, strikes down strangers in cold blood. As chillingly distinctive as the Aurora massacre might be, there is nothing distinctive about his nihilism.
This year is the 40th anniversary of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72, which just might be the high-water mark of the American journalist’s powers.
I drink a lot at the Union Hotel in Fitzroy, a raffish, understated place snuggled between Smith and Brunswick streets.
I’d like to thank Bernard Keane for his thoughtful criticism in yesterday’s Crikey. It provided fresh contrast to the sub-literate and humourless bleats of conspiracists, et. al that I heard yesterday. Amen.
Forty years ago, five men in business suits were arrested burgling the Watergate building in Washington DC, the site of the Democratic National Committee’s headquarters.
I moved to Korea because I could think of nothing better to do. I was 22 and Kim Jung-Il was indulging some half-mad petulance while my father calculated the distance warheads had to travel between Pyongyang and Seoul.
Young reporters must consider Canberra exciting. A marred and endlessly contested leadership coloured by interminable scandals, deliciously heightened by the perilous calculus of the House.
The evening after the slaughter Police Chief Roy Kneese denied that the police should have acted on that letter: “There was nothing we could file charges on him for. There was nothing in that letter. It seemed he had a crush on the girls”.
You know, I’ve started this bloody letter five times now: too sappy, too obvious, too trite, too confessional. To hell with it, here goes: congratulations and thank-you. You’ve touched a lot of folks over the years