I have blog shame, but forget about that. I’m taking time out from important activities like darning, felting and sewing on buttons while surfing burlesque sites to bring you breaking news.
Mark Davis wrote Gangland a long time ago, but a lot of the mud still sticks. It’s what I call the Negus factor. George Negus is perilously close to being Sluggo these days, bringing an open-shirt Solo man feel to Dateline that is well, a bit daggy. He doesn’t belong there anymore. HE claims he still does though, based on the fact that if the upcoming journos were hungry enough, they’d have assassinated him by now…and so on. As if the world of opportunities to learn the business of investigative journalism had the same model as when he was a paperboy. Right, George. It’s all about how wussy they are.
But today, in literary terms, something BIG happened in my home town. Firstly, Sleepers Publishing, the small company publishing fiction they think is damn good rather than the next fucking cookbook that will make a mint – by this I mean not pitching to the book market’s basest instincts – have had one of their titles shortlisted for The Age Book of the Year.
Secondly, Steve Grimwade was employed as the director of the 2010 Melbourne Writers Festival. Having been around while Steve and alicia slaved their guts out for little personal money, sheerly for the love of books and performance, for many years – this is just superlative. He’ll do great things for the program, following up on already positive changes in the post-malthouse era. I was thoroughly bored with the MWF in its pashmina heyday, but the last two years have piqued my interest far more. Sometimes it’s a pity I’m a 150km away with two children under three. I don’t feel it often, but I feel it today.
Unfortunately for Steve, every crap poet he’s ever been nice to (many, many) will now be calling him. Such is the price of fame.