Aussie TV star takes on Dancing with The Stars

Joe Rogan's message can be rambling and unpolished, yet men idolise him. This might be why

Sydney Morning Herald

2 hours ago

Sydney Morning Herald

Joe Rogan's message can be rambling and unpolished, yet men idolise him. This might be why

Rogan's voice can be heard in Sydney boys' boarding schools, in the luxury cars of chief executives, and in gardens of home-builders as they chip away at DIY renovations. 'He's smart, and has interesting guests,' says one lawyer. Loading A Sydney-based chief executive listens regularly. 'If you go to the pub with your mates and shoot the shit for a few hours, the conversation goes from the footy to taxes to 'did you hear about the crazy celebrity?'' he says, also on the condition of anonymity. 'That's what you get from Rogan. The people who say you've got to be careful of Joe Rogan and the manosphere are people from legacy media who are losing out to him.' Rogan's podcasts are rambling and unpolished. Joe Rogan Library (JLR), a non-affiliated fan site, estimates they run for an average of almost two hours and 40 minutes. There's been more than 2575, so it would take at least nine months to listen to all of them back-to-back. The JLR also estimates that 89 per cent of guests have been men. So far this year, Rogan has hosted chess grandmaster Magnus Carlsen, comedian Bill Murray, and 'exoneree' Amanda Knox. 'He's smart, and has interesting guests.' An Australian Joe Rogan fan It's a conversation with no specific purpose, reminiscent of stoned freshmen lying on the university lawn and gazing at the stars. His schtick is open-minded curiosity about everything, even theories that are discredited. He hates talking points and scripts. He expects his guests to say what they think, rather than spin answers to avoid stepping on toes. He has the American comedian's disgust at having his conversation hampered by 'wokeness'. That's exactly what Jack, 26, who works in insurance – and did not want to give his last name – enjoys. He thinks critics take Rogan too seriously. 'He's having a bit of fun,' says Jack, as Rogan's commentary about the latest UFC fight blares across the sports bar at The Oaks, Neutral Bay on Sunday afternoon. 'He might be having a few drinks on the podcast. He's debating things. They talk about interesting topics. A different point of view. I just think he's a funny, good bloke.' But Lauren Rosewarne, an associate professor in public policy at the University of Melbourne, argues this 'open-minded curiosity' line is a slippery slope. 'This is the problem with a lot of conspiracy theory,' she says. 'It's very much in line with what we think is critical thinking; 'I'm only asking a question'. It somehow works to validate their entire message.' About 10 years ago, Rogan contacted Szeps when a video of the Australian challenging someone's posturing on air went viral. Rogan became a mentor. 'He's not a polymath,' Szeps says of Rogan, 'but he's eclectic in his interests. [He has a way of noticing] what he finds interesting about a person and guiding it into mutual areas of interest, then shooting the shit about that in a way that, if it's not fascinating every minute, is at least convivial and curious and unexpected.' The conversation can go to strange places. 'I can't intellectually tell you why I don't believe in evolution,' actor Mel Gibson said in January this year, 'but I don't. It's just a feeling.' Rogan pushed back, asking about early hominins such as Australopithecus; Gibson said they were hoaxes. They found a point of agreement in their climate change scepticism. Rogan and a stoned-sounding actor Woody Harrelson affirmed their shared conspiracy theories about vaccination, while Rogan and J. D. Vance (then candidate, not yet vice president) laughed at jokes about billionaire Bill Gates made by their mate, billionaire Elon Musk: 'The funniest thing is when Elon showed a picture of Gates next to a pregnant woman [and said], 'if you want to lose a boner real fast',' said Rogan. 'Elon is so funny. You get dumped on by one of the smartest guys alive.' Australia's stance during the COVID-19 pandemic put the country in Rogan's sights. 'I used to think Australia [could be a good place to live], but then I saw how they handled the pandemic,' he once said. 'I was like, oh f---, that's what happens when no one has guns. Yep, the army just rolls in and tells you what to do and puts you in concentration camps because you have a cold. It's crazy.' Even so, Rogan's political positions are still unpredictable. His closeness with Team Trump did not stop him criticising forced deportations ('we've got to be careful that we don't become monsters while we're fighting monsters'). American academic Jonathan Haidt, author of The Coddling of the American Mind, once tried to articulate the concept of white privilege to Rogan. 'The real enemy is racism,' replied Rogan, 'it's not just white people getting lucky.' At the Oaks on Sunday afternoon, Russell, 26, says he was once a keen listener, but tunes in less since Rogan developed his anti-vaccination stance during COVID. The open-mindedness is shrinking. 'He took a dislike to the left side of the media [during COVID],' says Russell, who also did not want to give his last name. 'He used to be very open and explore different things, now he's more closed off and [hosts] people that reinforce his own ideas. I still think he preaches healthy behaviours.' Many of Rogan's guests don't share his views, but, having weighed up potential brand damage against potential publicity, come armed with enough anecdotes to ensure that the conversation doesn't veer into risky territory. Russell Crowe talked about the dangers of fossil fuels, which didn't get much response from Rogan, and told a rehearsed tale of being 'f---ed on the neck by a tarantula'. Brian Cox, the British physicist, explained black holes and deftly batted away Rogan's theory that octopuses might be aliens. Bono gave a fascinating insight into his friendships with Johnny Cash and Frank Sinatra, but challenged Trump's cuts to USAID. The podcast recalls the popularity of talkback radio in Australia, which once attracted listeners in their millions to (mostly) men talking for hours about whatever took their fancy. The underlying appeal of both is what's known as a parasocial relationship; that feeling of cosy familiarity, almost friendship, with a broadcaster. An Australian study found 43 per cent of men are experiencing loneliness. Perhaps part of Rogan's appeal is that he is offering them blokey companionship from a studio in Austin, Texas, 14,000 kilometres away. Rogan, 57, was born in New Jersey. His father was a police officer, and his parents divorced when he was five. 'All I remember of my dad are these brief, violent flashes of domestic violence,' he once said. He won the US Open Taekwondo Championships at age 19 then dropped out. He became a stand-up comic in the late 1980s, got an acting job on the comedy show NewsRadio in the mid-1990s and hosted the stunt show Fear Factor in the early 2000s. But for many years, he was best known as an announcer for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC, a 'no-rules' martial arts competition with skyrocketing popularity among American and Australian men. The UFC is where Rogan's links to the Trump ecosystem were nurtured. UFC boss Dana White and Trump go back almost 25 years, to when so-called 'human cockfighting' was shunned by the mainstream. Trump was the only one who would host it, making his casinos available. White returned the favour by inviting Trump as a special guest after the January 20 riots. White has been credited with securing the 'testosterone vote' for Trump in last year's election. Rogan wasn't always a Trump man. In 2022, he described the former president as an existential threat to democracy. But Rogan is a big fan of fellow vaccine sceptic Robert F. Kennedy. Rogan interviewed Trump for three hours during the US election campaign, and declined an interview with Harris. White said in January that he has been 'working on Rogan for years … I knew that if I could get him and Trump together that they would hit it off'. Rogan's interviews with Trump, Vance and White House cost-cutter Musk brought the MAGA world to tens of millions of Americans before the election. Rogan's dip-in, dip-out listeners might make up their own minds about his ideas. But his audience is so big, and some of his guests so partisan or fringe, that many think he should take greater responsibility for what he broadcasts. 'I don't think it's appropriate, at his level of fame, for him not to have bothered investing in a couple of New York Times fact-checkers, to assist him in knowing if what he's putting out there is true,' says Szeps. Douglas Murray, a conservative commentator and recent Rogan guest, recently took aim at the podcast's blurring of the line between opinion and expertise. 'It does not mean that a comedian can simply hold himself out as a Middle East expert and should be listened to as if he has any body of work,' he said. Or as Sam Harris – philosopher, neuroscientist, and former Rogan guest – said, 'Joe is a genuinely good guy who wants good things for people. But he is honestly in over his head on so many topics of great consequence.' In the United States, as in Australia, broadcasters are regulated, based on the view back when broadcast media took form that the first amendment right to free speech was not designed for mass reach, and that 'that you can't just let the market do whatever it wants to do in the airwaves, that there's a social responsibility that comes with that – democracy depends on it', says Andy Ruddock, a senior lecturer in media at Monash University. But podcasts, like so many other elements of the digital age, have evolved unfettered in an era when social responsibility is less valued than freedom and the individual. 'This is why [responding to] people like Rogan is quite difficult,' says Ruddock. 'This idea of, 'if I'm in your studio, and someone says I can't say what I want to say, that's an abridgement of my personal rights', is based on the assumption that sitting in your studio talking to millions of people is the same as sitting outside the pub and talking to someone.' This hyperfocus on the individual also worries Rosewarne for a different reason. Many of Rogan's followers, particularly young men and teen boys, are attracted to his 'life optimisation' quest. This involves not only intense physical training – 'train by day, podcast by night' is Rogan's catchphrase – but also a list of physical enhancers such as supplements, testosterone injections, freeze rooms, mushroom coffee, NAD (nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide), intravenous drips, and nootropics (brain enhancers). Many providers of Rogan's supplements advertise on his show, or have his personal endorsement. Loading 'Who doesn't want to be better?' says Rosewarne. 'Unfortunately, that reasonable-sounding message leads into directions that get exacerbated. The body as a temple, and also worship of the self; these are incredibly narcissistic movements. This is at the heart of these conservative, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ethos, too; 'you are in control of your destiny, you're the main player'.' Rosewarne suggests those who use Rogan as a road map for self-improvement should ask themselves whether it's a positive addition to their lives. 'Or does it constantly reiterate the message that you are not enough, like women's magazines did?' says Rosewarne.

The Age

2 hours ago

The Age

Joe Rogan's message can be rambling and unpolished, yet men idolise him. This might be why

Rogan's voice can be heard in Sydney boys' boarding schools, in the luxury cars of chief executives, and in gardens of home-builders as they chip away at DIY renovations. 'He's smart, and has interesting guests,' says one lawyer. Loading A Sydney-based chief executive listens regularly. 'If you go to the pub with your mates and shoot the shit for a few hours, the conversation goes from the footy to taxes to 'did you hear about the crazy celebrity?'' he says, also on the condition of anonymity. 'That's what you get from Rogan. The people who say you've got to be careful of Joe Rogan and the manosphere are people from legacy media who are losing out to him.' Rogan's podcasts are rambling and unpolished. Joe Rogan Library (JLR), a non-affiliated fan site, estimates they run for an average of almost two hours and 40 minutes. There's been more than 2575, so it would take at least nine months to listen to all of them back-to-back. The JLR also estimates that 89 per cent of guests have been men. So far this year, Rogan has hosted chess grandmaster Magnus Carlsen, comedian Bill Murray, and 'exoneree' Amanda Knox. 'He's smart, and has interesting guests.' An Australian Joe Rogan fan It's a conversation with no specific purpose, reminiscent of stoned freshmen lying on the university lawn and gazing at the stars. His schtick is open-minded curiosity about everything, even theories that are discredited. He hates talking points and scripts. He expects his guests to say what they think, rather than spin answers to avoid stepping on toes. He has the American comedian's disgust at having his conversation hampered by 'wokeness'. That's exactly what Jack, 26, who works in insurance – and did not want to give his last name – enjoys. He thinks critics take Rogan too seriously. 'He's having a bit of fun,' says Jack, as Rogan's commentary about the latest UFC fight blares across the sports bar at The Oaks, Neutral Bay on Sunday afternoon. 'He might be having a few drinks on the podcast. He's debating things. They talk about interesting topics. A different point of view. I just think he's a funny, good bloke.' But Lauren Rosewarne, an associate professor in public policy at the University of Melbourne, argues this 'open-minded curiosity' line is a slippery slope. 'This is the problem with a lot of conspiracy theory,' she says. 'It's very much in line with what we think is critical thinking; 'I'm only asking a question'. It somehow works to validate their entire message.' About 10 years ago, Rogan contacted Szeps when a video of the Australian challenging someone's posturing on air went viral. Rogan became a mentor. 'He's not a polymath,' Szeps says of Rogan, 'but he's eclectic in his interests. [He has a way of noticing] what he finds interesting about a person and guiding it into mutual areas of interest, then shooting the shit about that in a way that, if it's not fascinating every minute, is at least convivial and curious and unexpected.' The conversation can go to strange places. 'I can't intellectually tell you why I don't believe in evolution,' actor Mel Gibson said in January this year, 'but I don't. It's just a feeling.' Rogan pushed back, asking about early hominins such as Australopithecus; Gibson said they were hoaxes. They found a point of agreement in their climate change scepticism. Rogan and a stoned-sounding actor Woody Harrelson affirmed their shared conspiracy theories about vaccination, while Rogan and J. D. Vance (then candidate, not yet vice president) laughed at jokes about billionaire Bill Gates made by their mate, billionaire Elon Musk: 'The funniest thing is when Elon showed a picture of Gates next to a pregnant woman [and said], 'if you want to lose a boner real fast',' said Rogan. 'Elon is so funny. You get dumped on by one of the smartest guys alive.' Australia's stance during the COVID-19 pandemic put the country in Rogan's sights. 'I used to think Australia [could be a good place to live], but then I saw how they handled the pandemic,' he once said. 'I was like, oh f---, that's what happens when no one has guns. Yep, the army just rolls in and tells you what to do and puts you in concentration camps because you have a cold. It's crazy.' Even so, Rogan's political positions are still unpredictable. His closeness with Team Trump did not stop him criticising forced deportations ('we've got to be careful that we don't become monsters while we're fighting monsters'). American academic Jonathan Haidt, author of The Coddling of the American Mind, once tried to articulate the concept of white privilege to Rogan. 'The real enemy is racism,' replied Rogan, 'it's not just white people getting lucky.' At the Oaks on Sunday afternoon, Russell, 26, says he was once a keen listener, but tunes in less since Rogan developed his anti-vaccination stance during COVID. The open-mindedness is shrinking. 'He took a dislike to the left side of the media [during COVID],' says Russell, who also did not want to give his last name. 'He used to be very open and explore different things, now he's more closed off and [hosts] people that reinforce his own ideas. I still think he preaches healthy behaviours.' Many of Rogan's guests don't share his views, but, having weighed up potential brand damage against potential publicity, come armed with enough anecdotes to ensure that the conversation doesn't veer into risky territory. Russell Crowe talked about the dangers of fossil fuels, which didn't get much response from Rogan, and told a rehearsed tale of being 'f---ed on the neck by a tarantula'. Brian Cox, the British physicist, explained black holes and deftly batted away Rogan's theory that octopuses might be aliens. Bono gave a fascinating insight into his friendships with Johnny Cash and Frank Sinatra, but challenged Trump's cuts to USAID. The podcast recalls the popularity of talkback radio in Australia, which once attracted listeners in their millions to (mostly) men talking for hours about whatever took their fancy. The underlying appeal of both is what's known as a parasocial relationship; that feeling of cosy familiarity, almost friendship, with a broadcaster. An Australian study found 43 per cent of men are experiencing loneliness. Perhaps part of Rogan's appeal is that he is offering them blokey companionship from a studio in Austin, Texas, 14,000 kilometres away. Rogan, 57, was born in New Jersey. His father was a police officer, and his parents divorced when he was five. 'All I remember of my dad are these brief, violent flashes of domestic violence,' he once said. He won the US Open Taekwondo Championships at age 19 then dropped out. He became a stand-up comic in the late 1980s, got an acting job on the comedy show NewsRadio in the mid-1990s and hosted the stunt show Fear Factor in the early 2000s. But for many years, he was best known as an announcer for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC, a 'no-rules' martial arts competition with skyrocketing popularity among American and Australian men. The UFC is where Rogan's links to the Trump ecosystem were nurtured. UFC boss Dana White and Trump go back almost 25 years, to when so-called 'human cockfighting' was shunned by the mainstream. Trump was the only one who would host it, making his casinos available. White returned the favour by inviting Trump as a special guest after the January 20 riots. White has been credited with securing the 'testosterone vote' for Trump in last year's election. Rogan wasn't always a Trump man. In 2022, he described the former president as an existential threat to democracy. But Rogan is a big fan of fellow vaccine sceptic Robert F. Kennedy. Rogan interviewed Trump for three hours during the US election campaign, and declined an interview with Harris. White said in January that he has been 'working on Rogan for years … I knew that if I could get him and Trump together that they would hit it off'. Rogan's interviews with Trump, Vance and White House cost-cutter Musk brought the MAGA world to tens of millions of Americans before the election. Rogan's dip-in, dip-out listeners might make up their own minds about his ideas. But his audience is so big, and some of his guests so partisan or fringe, that many think he should take greater responsibility for what he broadcasts. 'I don't think it's appropriate, at his level of fame, for him not to have bothered investing in a couple of New York Times fact-checkers, to assist him in knowing if what he's putting out there is true,' says Szeps. Douglas Murray, a conservative commentator and recent Rogan guest, recently took aim at the podcast's blurring of the line between opinion and expertise. 'It does not mean that a comedian can simply hold himself out as a Middle East expert and should be listened to as if he has any body of work,' he said. Or as Sam Harris – philosopher, neuroscientist, and former Rogan guest – said, 'Joe is a genuinely good guy who wants good things for people. But he is honestly in over his head on so many topics of great consequence.' In the United States, as in Australia, broadcasters are regulated, based on the view back when broadcast media took form that the first amendment right to free speech was not designed for mass reach, and that 'that you can't just let the market do whatever it wants to do in the airwaves, that there's a social responsibility that comes with that – democracy depends on it', says Andy Ruddock, a senior lecturer in media at Monash University. But podcasts, like so many other elements of the digital age, have evolved unfettered in an era when social responsibility is less valued than freedom and the individual. 'This is why [responding to] people like Rogan is quite difficult,' says Ruddock. 'This idea of, 'if I'm in your studio, and someone says I can't say what I want to say, that's an abridgement of my personal rights', is based on the assumption that sitting in your studio talking to millions of people is the same as sitting outside the pub and talking to someone.' This hyperfocus on the individual also worries Rosewarne for a different reason. Many of Rogan's followers, particularly young men and teen boys, are attracted to his 'life optimisation' quest. This involves not only intense physical training – 'train by day, podcast by night' is Rogan's catchphrase – but also a list of physical enhancers such as supplements, testosterone injections, freeze rooms, mushroom coffee, NAD (nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide), intravenous drips, and nootropics (brain enhancers). Many providers of Rogan's supplements advertise on his show, or have his personal endorsement. Loading 'Who doesn't want to be better?' says Rosewarne. 'Unfortunately, that reasonable-sounding message leads into directions that get exacerbated. The body as a temple, and also worship of the self; these are incredibly narcissistic movements. This is at the heart of these conservative, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ethos, too; 'you are in control of your destiny, you're the main player'.' Rosewarne suggests those who use Rogan as a road map for self-improvement should ask themselves whether it's a positive addition to their lives. 'Or does it constantly reiterate the message that you are not enough, like women's magazines did?' says Rosewarne.

‘I've been chasing that feeling ever since': Besha Rodell reflects on her most formative meal at a Melbourne icon

The Age

3 hours ago

The Age

‘I've been chasing that feeling ever since': Besha Rodell reflects on her most formative meal at a Melbourne icon

Yes, there was a trip to France. A tower of profiteroles at Les Deux Magots. Breakfasts that included flaky, buttery croissants and fine porcelain cups of le chocolat chaud, so thick and creamy it has taken up residence in my sense memory as a paragon of deliciousness. But my journey into a life in food did not begin there. It began in Melbourne, Australia, at a restaurant called Stephanie's. Stephanie's was Melbourne's grandest restaurant at the time, housed in a majestic old home in Hawthorn and run by Stephanie Alexander, a chef who is credited with changing the way Australians ate. She trained many of the cooks who went on to become the country's most prominent chefs. The name Stephanie's was synonymous with the finest dining. In 1984, I was aware of none of this because I was eight and living with my American mother, my Australian father and my three-year-old brother, Fred, in a share house in Brunswick, an inner-north neighbourhood of Melbourne. The hulking old terrace where we lived − white, with black wrought iron framing its verandahs − had previously housed an elderly order of nuns. When my parents rented it, with the idea of filling it full of other like-minded hippie/academic/journalist types, its sweeping staircase and stained-glass windows and high-ceilinged rooms were filthy. They scrubbed it, claimed its grandest bedroom upstairs, and advertised the downstairs rooms for rent. Some of the first housemates they attracted were a single mother and her daughter, Sarah, who was about my age. Sarah was small, with dark hair and freckles and a gap-toothed grin, the opposite of my pudgy, blond, self-conscious self. She quickly became the leader of our gang of two, bossing me into compliance, though I did manage to inspire some awe with my firm belief that I was the queen of the fairies. (At night, while she slept, I flew away to fairyland, where I lived in a rosebush with my many fairy princess daughters. This is the subject for a different book entirely.) The central mythology in Sarah's young life had to do with her father, who was mostly absent. He was, she told me, handsome and rich and lived in a fancy house with his beautiful new wife. (The narrative was quite different when Sarah's mother told the story.) About once a month, Sarah would disappear for the weekend to her father's house and come back with 50-cent pieces that he had given her – more proof that he was 'rich', since our parents would never have bestowed such lavish wealth upon us. I distinctly remember after one such weekend, Sarah leading me dramatically to the milk bar near school and pointing to the wall of candies at the counter. I could pick whichever one I wanted, and she would buy it with her paternally acquired riches. (Did I mention my parents were hippies? Candy was not part of my usual diet.) When Sarah turned nine, her father proved Sarah's mythology by taking both of us for a celebratory birthday meal at the fanciest restaurant in town: Stephanie's. I have almost zero recollection of the food. There was a huge, beautiful chocolate souffle that haunts me to this day, but other than that, I cannot recall a thing I ate. I remember the brocade seating and deep red curtains, which gave everything a feeling of grandeur. I remember the lighting, the tinkle of glasses, the swoosh of the waiters, the mesmerising, intense luxury of it all. I remember feeling special, truly special, that I was allowed into this room where people were spending ungodly amounts of money on something as common as dinner. Quite honestly, I can't remember much about that year or my life at that time, other than the fact that my mother started sleeping with men other than my father and he moved into a different bedroom and cried a lot and then eventually she moved out of the share house and into a tiny, crappy house somewhere else with the guy who would end up becoming my stepfather. But I remember Stephanie's. My family did not frequent restaurants like Stephanie's, and in fact I do not remember any specific restaurant meal in my life before the one that occurred there, although I'm sure there were a few. I didn't need an education in food. I grew up with fantastic food, some of it just as good – and in some ways better! – than what was served at Stephanie's. My father was an academic and an occasional farmer and a gardener and a devotee of Julia Child. I was reared on homegrown fruits and vegetables, rich cream sauces, chocolate mousse made with egg whites and heavy cream and not a lick of gelatin. My mother had melded her American upbringing with her hippie sense of exploration. She spent her earliest years in Hollywood, where my grandfather was a screenwriter and many of his friends were Syrian. Rice and yoghurt became staples of her childhood meals, a tradition she never gave up. My father did most of the cooking while they were together, but when she cooked, lemon juice was added to everything: chicken livers, broccoli with butter, salads full of olives and feta bought from the Greek stalls at the Queen Victoria Market. No, I did not need an education in food. I needed – or more accurately, I desperately wanted – an education in luxury. After my meal at Stephanie's, I began haranguing my parents on my own birthdays. No longer satisfied with the family tradition of picking a favourite home-cooked dish as a birthday meal, I told them I wanted to eat at restaurants instead. They tried. My mother and my new stepfather took us out – now with a baby sister, Grace, in tow – to a neighbourhood Lebanese restaurant for my 11th birthday, something I'm sure they could not afford. I was disappointed. The food was good, but the luxury was lacking. This instinct, this need for extravagance where it is wholly unearned, runs in my family. Wealth has come and gone on both sides of my lineage, but it has never settled in and stayed. My paternal grandfather owned Malties, a cereal company that was one of Australia's most popular brands in the early 20th century. Then he had a heart attack and died, leaving my grandmother with five children and no idea how to run a business, and before long, the cereal company and the grand house in Eltham were lost. My maternal grandfather grew up exceedingly wealthy in Philadelphia and spent his life squandering that wealth on fancy cars and trips to Europe and multiple divorces, including two from my grandmother, all the while fancying himself some sort of genius playwright. Both of my parents grew up resenting the lack of luxury that should have been their birthright. I somehow absorbed that, but from a very early age, the thing I thought I ought to have, in a just world, was meals at fancy restaurants. I did not need an education in food. I needed an education in luxury. Money was a constant stress when I was growing up; I'd be lying if I said it hasn't remained a constant stress in my own adult life. And yet my mother has a thing for vintage cars, French soap, French underwear, Chanel perfume, tiny pieces of luxury that she should not be able to justify given that she is the type of woman who carries an extra canister of gas in her car because she runs out so frequently because she never has the money to fill her tank. (I know this makes no sense; you need not explain that to me.) In fact, the trip to France was a case in point. When I was 13, my mother came into a small amount of money and decided to whisk me off for an around-the-world trip, even though she and my stepfather were struggling with a mortgage and my sister Grace was a toddler and leaving her alone with my stepfather for months to take me to France and America was a wholly ridiculous thing to do. But this is my mother we're talking about, who drove a vintage red MGB convertible rather than a normal car, who believed her teenage daughter must see Paris to understand the brand of sophistication she believed we deserved to inhabit. I have endeavoured, in my life, to be more pragmatic. I have mostly failed. If I thirst for designer clothes, I know how to find them in thrift stores. I do not long for money, other than the kind that relieves you of the deep, existential dread that accompanies poverty. What I long for – what I've longed for since I was eight years old, sitting wide-eyed in that grand restaurant – is the specific opulence of a very good restaurant. I never connected this longing to the goal of attaining wealth; in fact, it was the pantomiming of wealth that appealed. I did not belong in that grand room! And yet there I was! It was intoxicating. I have been chasing that feeling ever since. This is an edited extract from Hunger Like a Thirst by Besha Rodell, published by Hardie Grant Books, RRP $35

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Joe Rogan's message can be rambling and unpolished, yet men idolise him. This might be why

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Joe Rogan's message can be rambling and unpolished, yet men idolise him. This might be why

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‘I've been chasing that feeling ever since': Besha Rodell reflects on her most formative meal at a Melbourne icon

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