Funny things, those internets. You might be innocently looking for porn and, damnit, what upturns instead is Clive Hamilton.
If you are Australian, it is likely that you know Clive well. For the past few years, he has evolved a professional suspicion that pornography, video games and unwholesome websites shape behaviour. Once, he wrote useful books about the paralysis of consumerism. Now, he frets that a money shot is the harbinger of doom.
Of course, he’s also developed a sideline in writing green Hallmark cards. Don’t get me wrong. I was all for saving the planet For Our Children, too. But this widely circulated correspondence to The Children made me want to have my ovaries electrosurgically removed.
Is this what happens to lefties past a

Generally speaking, International Women’s Day, March 8, is an occasion to which I pay little mind. This negligence is largely due to the fact of me being a lazy shit. And it does owe partially to my great phobia of joining. In 1979, Brown Owl flashed my non-regulation underwear as a caution to all assembled Guides. I have since reasoned that it is better to wrap one’s self in solitude than risk being multiply stung by the hive mind.
As I am terrified that the Sisters’ Army might want to examine my underwear, I tend to avoid IWD. In fact, I rarely give it a thought. The past week, however, has upchucked surprises sufficiently nasty to rev my angry parts. And these all, by chance, involve the feminine

I’ve had much that is negative to say on the topic of contemporary weddings before. Viz. if you’re going to respect the ritual, effing respect it.  Don’t magnify the worst bits, like avarice and vanity; don’t dispose of the decent bits like, um, commitment and cake.
No one listened.
Recently, I was invited to a wedding.  Bride and groom have requested actual cash in lieu of gifts.  This is not unusual. It appears, the custom has lately become very common.
The couple of my acquaintance used a poem that, I presume, is far too shit for anyone to have bothered claiming copyright.   It’s here.
Allow me to share a typical stanza:
“More than just kisses so far we’ve shared
Our home has been made with love and care
Most things we need we’ve already got
Like a toaster

A little while ago, I had an ultrasound. This was due to the belief that my body, and left fun bag in particular, were riddled with disease. Anyhow, we weren’t. According to the measure of sonography, me and my left fun bag are completely cancer free.
I was, to employ the language of happy young people I see on the E! entertainment network, treed.  To wit: really rather pleased.  Pleased, in fact, to just beyond a point of rapture.
The phrase “You Don’t Have Cancer” ranks highly in the register of things one wants to hear.  Within its proper context, it’s is right up there with “I Love You”, “You’ve Got the Job” and “No. Honestly. That’s the Right Size for Me.”  On almost any day to almost any person, this would

Just a few years ago, I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.
And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.
But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.
His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time, misery and