Articles from Cheeseburger Gothic
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.
… 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.