Why is Trump Trying to Explain this Crash?

 

It is rare for Fryday to cover the same subject two weeks in a row, but President Donald J. Trump's pontifications regarding the tragedy over the Potomac deserve nothing less than a scathing response.

Even by Trump’s standards, which are minimal at best, his trying to mine political capital from the tragedy is ill-conceived, ill-judged, infantile and pathetic.

Attributing the crash to diversity in hiring as a possible reason for the aircraft colliding is, at the very least, premature and unworthy, considering investigations have yet to start.

They are also unnecessary, given they are not the opinions of an expert, are not supported by evidence (and are unlikely to be), and reflect poorly on the presidency when compassion and gravitas are needed.

To be fair to Trump, he did admit that he had no evidence to support his statement and that “it just could have been [diversity].” But why say it all? The President’s judgement and maturity must be called into question.

But Trump doesn’t stop there.

In the same statement, he suggests that the helicopter pilot might not have been wearing night-vision glasses. Again, this is unnecessary and premature. Why is Trump trying to explain this crash? And from what standpoint? He does not have the expertise, retrospect, or foresight for such utterances.

And he is achieving nothing.

But he does utter one truism in his statement. Well, to be more accurate, it was Vice-President Vance who said, “If you don’t have the best standards when you’re hiring, it means on the one hand, you’re not getting the best people in government.”

He is dead right there. He and Trump only have to look in their mirrors to see that.

 

Letter to God

 

All the news that is S**t to print

 

People losing their jobs is not good news.

But the question is: is it news at all?

I am referring to Newshub's imminent demise and TVNZ's staff cuts, which have led to the cancellation of several long-standing programmes. The number of staff cuts makes for grim reading, but does it warrant the amount of coverage it received from the media? Is it new, and is it, to a certain extent, self-inflicted?

In answer to the first question: I would say no. The fact that a major broadcasting operation, Warner Bros. Discovery, is closing its New Zealand news operation is news and probably does warrant heading the television news of its masthead channel and that of its government-owned rival. But doing so night after night with media-savvy presenters and newsreaders fronting impromptu press conferences was audacious, ludicrous, repetitive, and ultimately, I think, ineffectual.

What is not in question is the media’s right to do it. This is media having access to media. So, they used it. Over-used it, in my view. And that is in stark contrast to the meagre and all-too-fleeting coverage of substantial redundancies in other industry sectors.

But they aren’t the media.

I guess it’s a case of if you have it, flaunt it.

The second question is: is it new? No, the demise and the reduction of media have been going on for a long time and are wholly understandable. Economic factors are a big driver, and I can remember a time in America—a time in the 60s when, notwithstanding it produced some of the greatest columnists of all time, 305 daily newspapers closed their doors. And it has continued; since 2005 the U.S. has lost nearly 2900 newspapers, and 45,000 journalists have lost their jobs. Magazine numbers have had a proportional decline.

Whilst there are no exact numbers for newspapers and other media outlets going to the wall in New Zealand, we see anecdotally the same decline happening here.

So, the third and final question, is the decline of the media self-inflicted? In part, yes. Media can point to greater competition, the advent of social media, the cost-of-living crisis, audience and advertising distribution, COVID-19, and a score of other factors. But could not one of the reasons be that people no longer respect or trust the media—particularly the news media?

I look at what is served up to me today, and what I see and hear is concerning. For example, this morning on ZB radio, the three main news items were about the release of reports—obscure reports by obscure groups on obscure issues—hardly worthy of the research, let alone the publication of that research. Check out the TV news tonight; it’ll probably be the same. Put simply, reporters are not reporting other than to parrot the latest press release about reports soon to fade into obscurity.

They are not doing their job—hunting out and reporting on the important issues.

And then we have the failure of the media—particularly television—to demonstrate any objectivity. You may disagree. But do you recall those days of the Podium of Truth? Jessica, then Tova, then Barry? Jessica saw the light and did a Jacinda (runner), Tova went to podcasts, and Barry is still—well—Barry. But they have been replaced by a new breed: Maikie Sherman (TVNZ) and Amelia Wade (Newshub)—strident, full of self-importance and, given their reporting, totally bereft of credibility.

The perceived Maorification of the media may also played a part in declining ratings for the news.

And then there is the quality of presentation and reportage of the news. We have, for the most part, young, inexperienced news reporters who want to be the next Woodward or Bernstein. They haven’t the training for it, and more importantly, they don’t have the editorial oversight that maintains the standards—grammar, spelling, consistency--and even the objectivity of quality reporting.

There are exceptions. I think Newshub has some good people in there and in my view generally do a better job than TVNZ.

But increasingly, I am turned off and turning off the news—all news.

The old saying, I think from the New York Times, “All the News That’s Fit to Print,” is no longer fit for purpose.

Loose lollies and other proclivities

 

With the passage of time and a diminishing libido an old man like me loses his passion for the proclivities of youth such as horny women, masturbation, and Richard Laymon books.

Instead, one seeks other interests for an increasingly chaotic and ill-disciplined mind that is constantly conscious and concerned about the signs of early dementia and Parkinson’s.

In my case, those new-found interests include Charles Dickens's books, Mississippi's music, and shops.

Of course, the first two need no explanation—at my age and with my ailments, Bleak House becomes a light read, and The Blues befits my state of mind. But shops?

I have developed a fascination with fascinating shops.

They can be fascinating for any number of reasons, but the most prevalent are what they stock, the eccentricity of the owner, or both.

An excellent example of the latter is a small liquor store on the main street of Katikati in the Bay of Plenty. It’s called Finer Wines but stocks far more than just wines. That’s why it is so fascinating: almost every inch of available floor space is stacked shoulder-high with cases of liquor—wine, beer, and spirits. There is so much of it that walking two abreast between the stacks is impossible. Nor is there room to pass someone if they are already in the narrow corridors between the stacks—you must wait for them to vacate the area.

I have seen nothing like it before.

But what makes Finer Wines even more remarkable is the owner. He will tell you, as he told me, that the reason he has so much stock is that he has just taken delivery of new stock and hasn’t had time to put it away. That is not true. I know for a fact (because I was told) that his shop has always been like that and has been so since its opening.

 Even more remarkable, and alone worth a visit, is that this man seems to know where to immediately find any bottle in the shop even, in my case and my request, the most obscure of whiskies. He will also tell you something about every bottle you may be interested in, give tasting notes, and make recommendations.

Finer Wines in Katikati is well worth a personal visit, but there is also a website if you can’t make it.

The other store of interest to me is closer to my home in the Bay of Islands. It is the general store in the small rural town of Okaihau. It is owned by a friend of mine, and next to the district’s best butcher, which is why I first visited it.

The general store lives up to its name by being just that—it stocks just about everything, from fresh produce to toys. There are clothing, books, paintings, and garden tools. But most fascinating of all is that the store is a throwback to an earlier era—and deliberately so. There are loose lollies of the long-forgotten but fondly remembered (when seen) kind, such as large spearmints, milk bottles, smokies, and humbugs. There are toys I remember playing with as a toddler but haven’t come across for decades, and there is a woman behind the counter who looks and acts like Ronnie Barker’s Arkwright from Open All Hours. My wife and I spent almost an hour in this shop the other day and I am sure we didn’t see all this wonderous shop has to offer.

Settlers Way Country Store—make a visit or shop online at https://www.settlersway.co.nz/.

So, deprived of, or perhaps more accurately, dispensed with the proclivities of youth mentioned above, I am quite happy to settle for the small things in life, such as these shops.

They are my happy place.

 

The Long Walk Back

 

Someone, it may have been Will Rogers, once said of California that it was as if the United States had tilted, and all the country’s nuts slid into the Golden State.

I felt that way when I watched Parliament this week. It was as if the floor of the House had tilted, and all the nutters were deposited in its northeast corner.

They are all there—The Greens and Te Pati Māori—all Tā Moko and broad-brim hats, nestled in their little enclave, clinging smugly and righteously together.

Occasionally, one of them will venture out in a quixotic endeavour to harry the hoards. However, as Julie Anne Genter found this week, the long walk back can be costly and humiliating.

Of course, Genter’s embarrassment is just the latest among the greenery. There is also the bullying allegation against Genter, the shoplifting of Ghahraman, the exploitation allegations surrounding Darleen Tana and that ridiculous attempt by the Greens to oust their leader, James Shaw, last year—too white, too old, too male, too sensible.

Too bad he’s gone.

Add to that list of tribulations their behaviour of a couple of weeks ago when they turned up in the House en-mass wearing Shemagh Tacticals Desert Scarfs, presumably in support of Palestinians in Gaza. Not a good look on you, James, but you were at least saved, by conveniently being overseas, of the disgrace of looking like a dickhead.

Then, on Tuesday of this week, all the women of the Green Party turned up in matching green frocks and ill-fitting frocks, too. They looked like a contingent from Gloriavale. What was that all about?

Te Pati Māori say some outrageous things and they love to provoke. But co-leader Rawiri Waititi usually does it with quiet humour and good grace, and the party usually sticks to its core values.

So, what are they doing over there on the road to nowhere in the northeast corner?

If I had a message for Waititi, it would be to get out of there before it is too late. Allow your magnificent Tā Moko to shine, brother. Nothing good ever comes from playing with the nuts.

And my message to the Green Party is simple: If you want to save the planet, you have to first get on it.

 

Fryday versus AI

I have decided to restart Fryday. 

I’m doing it, in part, because yesterday I promised a very important man in my life that I would and, because he supplies my whiskey, I want to keep him happy.

If you don’t know what Fryday is or have forgotten it, it’s a blog I started anonymously in 1995 to “fry” a panel beater who gave me terrible service. I know it was not particularly laudable, but I wanted to prove the adage that the pen is mightier than the sword by writing a column that would drive him out of business. I failed—the panel beater is still in business, but so, too, is Fryday, which is now perhaps among the oldest blogs in New Zealand.

In the decades I have been writing Fryday, I have rarely been at a loss to find something to say about something. And when perception and situation have failed me, my readers and I have been gifted some wonderful characters such as Cecil S, Sackrider, Whetu, Yoseph Wankerstan, and even George W. Bush to find things to say for me.

Over 1,000 Fryday posts have been published, and responses have varied in number and viewpoint. The one that drew the most responses was one I wrote about my ill-fated foray into raising Sea Monkeys. For some obscure reason, Sea Monkeys resonated with readers more than other more frequent characters such as George Bush and Donald Trump.

I have lost many early posts, but you can read more recent posts here.

Another reason I have decided to bring back Fryday is to prove to myself that I can write it better than anybody or anything else.

I am not thinking about you when I make that comparison; I have the long-held belief that anybody can be a good writer, and there is no great mystique about it. Therefore, my issue is not with you—it is with Artificial Intelligence (AI). 

As a professional writer whose income is wholly dependent on my skill, I am often asked if I feel threatened by AI, which seems to be able, if not capable, to write anything. The answer is yes, I do. But I am damned if I will be beaten by it.

That is true, particularly of Fryday.

I plan to use Fryday as a tool to combat AI. While I acknowledge that AI can help improve writing, I refuse to rely on it to create a unique voice or humour, both of which are integral to Fryday and which, in my opinion, AI cannot deliver. However, I may be mistaken, and it remains to be seen whether this experiment with Fryday will prove to be a mistake.

But, I’ll take the risk.

My name is Mike Isle. Fryday is my creation—it’s back, and I hope you enjoy it.

Whetu Calls: Water Gate

 Whetu is an old friend of Fryday’s. Not that I think he knows that. He doesn’t have email or access to the internet. In fact, he is so far off the grid he thinks “the grid” is somewhere stockcars line up or steaks are cooked.

But, for all his isolation and frequency as a guest of His Majesty, he is a masterful observer of Man and, if his repeated success in finding me despite my efforts to avoid him are exempla, an astute detective.

I should know by now that if I get a knock on my door at a late hour, it will likely be Whetu. This happened to me yesterday, which I find doubly surprising and deeply worrying given that I now live in a gated community, and at that hour, the gates were locked. Nevertheless, I felt an obligation to respond. Here is how the correspondence went.

HE: Kia Ora, Bro.

ME: Whetu.

HE: You got new home?

ME: Yes.

HE: You didn’t tell me.

ME: It slipped my mind.

HE: But I found you.

ME: Despite those gates being locked.

HE: They is?

ME: Don’t take it personally.

HE: Been a long time.

ME: Yes.

HE: A lot of water has passed under the tree.

ME: Under the bridge.

HE: That, too.

ME: Yep.

HE: How much?

ME: How much water?

HE: How much money.

ME: What!

HE: How much money for that water? I come to collect. It’s called Three waters, not free waters. Auntie Mahuta told me that.

ME: She’s your Auntie?

HE: Yo, bro.

ME: But you are, what, twice her age?

HE: A distant auntie. Anyway, she made whanau in charge of three waters. I get water under the tree…

ME: Bridge.

HE: I throw that in for free. I get tree water, and

cussies get other twos.

ME: And what are those?

HE: What?

ME: What waters?

HE: Ah…. rain?

ME: And?

HE: Dirty.

ME: Dirty waters?

HE: Yo.

ME: There seems to be something a bit murky about this, too.

HE: No, that Four Waters. Hone handles murky.

ME: Hone Mahuta?

HE: Uncle.

ME: Well, whatever money you are asking for, I am not paying it.

HE: You’re not?

ME: No.

HE: No?

ME: No.

HE: Well, I tells you what.

ME: What?

HE: I’m thirsty. Give me a couple of bottles of Waikato instead.

ME: Waikato water?

HE: Waikato beer. I am not drinking that river water s**t.

 

All Talk

 

Eric Bogosion as Barry Champlain: Talk Radio (1988).

 

This week one of Mike Hosking’s featured guests was the American actor and writer Eric Bogosian.

I have long been a fan of Bogosian. His most recent appearance on the entertainment media was his masterly performance as the ruthless and eventually jailed US senator Gil Eavis in HBO’s hugely successful Succession series. Eavis, though fictional, is believed to be based on Senator Bernie Sanders, though, of course, Sanders has never been imprisoned as far as I am aware, anyway.

It is not the first time that Bogosian has played a character based on reality. I first came across him in 1988 when he and Director Oliver Stone converted Bogosian’s stage play, Talk Radio, into a film of the same name.
On stage and in the film, Bogosian plays a late-night talk show host called Barry Champlain. Most of the story involves Bogosian/Champlain sitting alone in the studio, with his producer next door, taking calls from an increasingly strident, delusional, and sometimes potentially dangerous gamut of callers who want to cover everything from home recipes to hate crimes. There is on Champlain's show a recurring thread—and threat—of anti-Semitism.

Gradually, over the course of the show, Bogosian/Champlain cracks under strain. It’s a disciplined and highly captivating performance by Bogosian in the movie, especially considering there are only a few other characters—other than call-in voices—in the movie and none in the one-man stage version.

Champlain is a deeply polarising character whose listeners either love or hate him. But none can do without him.
It is ironic that Bogosian appears with Mike Hosking, a host who has a similar polarising effect in New Zealand—but there, the similarity ends.

Thankfully.

As I said, Champlain is based on an actual character and event. Alan Berg was a late-night talk show host working for KAO in Denver, Colorado. He had an acerbic style that was loved by some for its entertainment value and hated by others, particularly by white supremacists (Berg was a Jew), who perceived him to be a threat.

At 9:30 p.m. on June 18, 1984, after a shift on air and a quick supper with a former girlfriend, Berg (50) returned to his townhouse. He stepped out of his car, and gunfire erupted, with Berg being shot twelve times. He died at the scene.

Nobody was found guilty of the crime, and certainly, no one was jailed for it. But it is widely believed that at least one of those white supremacist groups was responsible for it.

Nothing of that nature has happened in New Zealand, and nor is it likely—it is not in our nature.

But it is a salutary lesson that words can hurt our country—and polarising words most of all—words that wound. There is a line in Talk Radio that says, “Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words cause permanent damage!”

I hope that permanency is not the case, but in my view, there are too many of those such words around now. They are in our pubs, at our dinner parties, profligate on radio and television.

We don’t need them.

We need light relief… next week, Fryday brings back Whetu.

Letters from Wogistan: Drama

 

 

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

 

Sharma Drama

Member of Parliament

Parliament House

In New Zealand

 

Dear Mr Drama

Our Presidente for life Yoseph Flagrantie send you fragrant greetings from the Peoples of Democratic Republic of Wogistan.

Our Presidente follow your warfair with great Prime Minister Jacinda Adern with great interest and concern.

Why is it that youse think she has done wrong when all the media in your country say that she can do no wrongs?

 

Presidente is great fan of Mrs Ardern and if you were in this country Presidente say that he wouldn’t want to be in your pants. He rather be in Mrs Aderns pants.

 

You has been warned.

 

 

Sincerely

 

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

 

Disrupt, dispute, disrepute—a sorry saga

 

I am not a believer in the adage that there are two sides to every story.

There are countless stories where there is only one side to be told, and only conspiracists feel the obligation to construct another.

But then there are stories, presented as essential truths, that are so outlandish, nonsensical, and farcical that one is compelled to contemplate that there must be another side to the story.

Stuff published such a story this week. It was of a 72-year-old teacher from Mt Maunganui who was found guilty of a serious misconduct after he forcibly removed an in-ear headphone from a student.

The student was sharing the headphone with another student and listening to music while the teacher was conducting a maths class.

One student was also drumming on his table and disrupting the class.

Now, it must be said that in removing the headphone (after the student declined to do it himself) the teacher broke it. A verbal altercation ensued which resulted in the teacher leaving the class to seek help.

That is the essence of the story, as reported.

It is what happens next that compels the two sides theory.

One of the two students complained to the principal.

The college principal made a mandatory report to the Teaching Council.

An investigator reported to the council’s Complaints Assessment Committee, which charged the teacher with removing and breaking the student’s headphone and/or failing to appropriately de-escalate the situation after the incident.

The Teachers Disciplinary Tribunal found the teacher had engaged in serious misconduct by removing the headphones unexpectedly and recklessly. It said the teacher’s actions were likely to adversely impact the student’s wellbeing, that his actions could bring the teaching profession into disrepute, and that it was an unreasonable and unjustified use of force.

The teacher was censured and had conditions imposed on his employment for two years.

The teacher then appealed the tribunal’s decision to the district court, which upheld the decision.

He then applied to the Appeal Court for leave to appeal the decision. The Appeal Court this month declined the application, rejecting all his grounds for appeal.

On Tuesday, the teacher said the saga had been “farcical”, had cost him $55,000 so far and could cost another $20,000.

He promptly retired from teaching.

So, a teacher’s career has ended, and he is considerably out of pocket, because he attempted to stop a student from disrupting his class.

When I was 10 and in form 1, a teacher grabbed my hair and threw me across the classroom after I mimicked his distinctive teaching style. That was thoughtless on my part and over-the-top on his. If his actions had become known (I didn’t tell my parents) it would have been a sackable offence—if not criminal—even back then.

It was that egregious.

But this? How could such an event, as reported, have such serious ramifications? And as for the charge of failing to de-escalate the situation, I would have thought that was exactly what he was attempting to do initially by removing the headphones.

In my view, it the whole thing defies explanation, as it stands. Unless there is something else is at play here, the actions of the various parties in leaving a teacher hung out to dry are deplorable. If anything, it is those actions that have brought the teaching profession (and judicial system) into disrepute.

 

The Curious World of my Gym

 

For a little over a year, I have been working out at a gym. Initially, it was for health reasons, now it is for health and because I enjoy it.

There are five gyms to choose from in the small town I live in. I chose the second largest for reasons I will go into in a moment.

I go at least four times a week and work out for about an hour and a half each time, which at my gym makes me hard-core, though I acknowledge there are those who frequent their gyms more often and work harder than I do.

Significantly for what follows, I am in the gym at the same time each day at the end of my working day. I am often in the gym with the same people every day and that has taught me a thing or two about gym etiquette and the hidden philosophy of gym-going.

Let me start by telling you about the people. The reason I go to the second largest gym in town is that the largest and most popular is replete with poseurs who spend more time in front of the mirrors than the equipment. [1]

The people in my gym are in a different world—their world. They work-out in relative silence with only brief engagement with me or any of the others. At most, there will be a smile or a wave across the room as acknowledgement of my presence. 

Even so, over time you get to know something of them, or assume you do. I share the gym with two massive men. Both would be over six foot seven and look intimidating with their magnificent beards and no-nonsense demeanours; yet, because I work out at least as much as they do and often harder, they are among the first to help with techniques and modifications to my exercise programme. They are gentle giants.

Then there are the former gang members. I assume they once belonged to a gang because the facial tattoos suggest such and I assume they no longer belong to a gang, because most gang-pads have their own home-gym or own one elsewhere. There used to be four or five guys, but they stopped coming when vaccine mandates arrived. I miss them—they were always friendly in the distant way of the dedicated gym-goer.

The most dedicated at my gym is a girl. I commented to the gym-owner that she is in the gym every time I am there and she works hard but never smiles. He replied that she is indeed the most frequent gym goer he has and is painfully shy.

These are the people—the good people—who populate my gym world and share a philosophy of co-habitation.

But there are people whom I am not so keen on. Let me tell you why—their habits.
There is an unwritten gym etiquette based on, in my belief, common sense and common courtesy. These guys, and they are mostly guys, have neither. Here are my pet hates. Do you agree or disagree and are you able to add some of your own?

• People, mostly young, who use the gym equipment to sit on when sending or reading texts, often for protracted periods.
• People who don’t put the weights away, expecting someone else, will.
  
• People who simultaneously use three or more pieces of gym equipment, effectively depriving their use by others.
  
• Young people, mostly male, who congregate around a set of gym equipment (often using it just to sit on and talk) passing the equipment between themselves in rotation, thus having the same effect as above.  
  

It is interesting that the last mentioned happens a lot more frequently since the departure of my “gang” friends.

I know I sound like a curmudgeon, and an elderly one at that, but come on people—common courtesy! Fortunately, I have Fryday to vent my frustration. Also, for the same purpose, a punching bag at the gym—that’s if one of those toerags doesn’t get to it first.

 

 

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[1] The second reason is that my gym doesn’t have the classes such as Pilates, Zuma, etc, run by raucous hyper-active advocates of the body-perfect. I prefer to work away in silence.