The arrival a new dog should always be a happy event, but this fine fellow comes to us in bittersweet circumstances. He’s a rescue dog, technically. The beloved companion of four small girls and their mum. A real estate agent learned of him and told them he had to go. Or they did. So we took him in. He’s a lovely dog with a great personality. But I have mixed feelings about the necessity of his arrival.
Articles from Cheeseburger Gothic
… comes the Facebook decision to turn off access to its platform for local news orgs. (And hundreds of innocent bystanders like the weather bureau, a couple of state health departments, a while bunch of arts organisations, unions, a little dairy farm, and my alien sideboob column here at Substack.)
A long time ago The Age paid me to fly to Sydney and have dinner at Tetsuya’s. The dinner cost about a grand, the booze about half that again, and of course they had to pay me for my words. I wrote a two thousand word essay at a buck a word. Spent a lot of time talking about the truffle butter. I’ll do that for a dollar a word.
So I’m sitting in this cafe. Right now, writing this entry on my phone. Because I’m trying to stay off Twitter and FaceZuck.
It’s like jonesing for a cigarette or a shot of sweet, sweet morphine. The cafe is unavoidable. I had a job to do on the other side of the city so I needed breakfast on the run.
Last year I had a request from a Ukrainian company who wanted to translate Felafel and release it upon that long suffering country. It is now out and it has one of the best covers so far.
Feels like art. Also, look at my hair, my beautiful luxuriant Ukrainian hair.