The blurring of opinion and fact

I don’t particularly like opinionated people.  However, opinionated people are a fact of life and there is nothing I can do about them or their opinions. Where I draw the line though is when they put forward their opinions as facts. It is an all-too frequent trait with these people and deeply disturbing in that they often present it with implicit superiority suggesting they know something we don’t or that their opinion/fact is akin to a divine revelation.
There is a difference between opinion and fact.  That “Bishop” Tamaki is extracting money from vulnerable and naïve people is an opinion; that he is extracting money is a fact.
The blurring between opinion and fact came into sharp relief this week when I read an article in Stuff by Glenn McConnell. In the article McConnell takes to task a National member of parliament for purportedly questioning climate change. That member of parliament is, in McConnell’s opinion, not allowed to do that and is making his party look “clownish” and should leave Parliament at the next election.
That is McConnell’s opinion. Some will disagree with it. Some will also disagree with his assertions, presented as facts, that: “climate change is the biggest issue facing agriculture, and the biggest challenge facing the world,” and “the overwhelming consensus is that [climate change] will happen.”
McConnell may be right. I don’t know. But nor does McConnell.  In his article, he presents no evidence for the overwhelming consensus he refers to. That evidence may exist, but equally there is evidence that climate change, if it exists at all, is a natural and cyclical event. In other words, there are two sides to the argument. That is a fact. Yet McConnell presents his side of the argument as correct and climate change as a fact. It is not, it is an opinion and whilst it may be shared by many it is still an opinion.
What concerns me most about this article though is that McConnell’s so-called facts are shared by his publisher, again with vague reference to some unspecified supporting evidence. At the end of McConnell’s article, Stuff makes this astonishing statement:
“Stuff accepts the overwhelming scientific consensus that climate change is real and caused by human activity. We welcome robust debate about the appropriate response to climate change, but do not intend to provide a venue for denialism or hoax advocacy.”
Really? So Stuff will welcome robust debate on the issue but only one part of it (response) and only from the side it is supporting. I find that incredible from a media organisation. I don’t deny their right to have an opinion and to exhibit it, but to shut out anybody that disagrees with that opinion is simply wrong.
We are not talking about hate-speech here, for goodness sake. We are talking about a contentious subject that needs our media to get on board and present us with as much information as is available—from both sides—so we can, if we wish, form an informed opinion.
Above all, we cannot, I suggest, have media that present opinion as fact. That’s just wrong.
That’s my opinion, anyway.

My name is Dewey Raindrop

My name is Dewey Raindrop.
I am a 46-year-old capricornian male looking for love. I am not looking for superficial or fleeting love—the type of generated-dross of The Bachelor or the love-lust that Nigella Lawson has for chocolate. I am looking, instead, for love that is instant and lasting, deep and meaningful, requited and resilient.
I would prefer a woman, but a man with feminine features and traits would be okay.
I live in a world of my own, mercifully free of chemtrails, where visits by extra-terrestrials are common and welcomed, and where the very atmosphere is imbued by a relaxing rejuvenating purple hue. It is a world which I wish to share with you.
Physical characteristics mean nothing to me, nor should they mean anything to you. What is a body, other than a haven for the mind? It is your mind that I am interested and my only wish is to meld mine with yours.
You do not have to educated. Education is but a journey and we shall share that journey together. We will have no clear direction on our journey. Direction is meaningless in the face of fate, and we will I know be drawn together by fate, for we—you and I—are kindred souls, destined to be together.
You do not need to apply. I know who you are. Just send a mind message and we will interact, we will engage, we will be one.
Meet me in the toilets out the back of New World tonight at 11.30.

Ear Hair

Cecil C. Sackrider and Jimmy Swaggart will tell you one thing, I will tell you another: God is not perfect.
Among His many miracles, good and bad, such as my grandson and the election of Donald Trump (the latter an acute embarrassment to God), God makes mistakes, the most visible of which is hair.
Hair lacks logic. God seems to have got it wrong on so many levels. Either that, or He has displayed His impish sense of humour. How else could we explain why, follicle for follicle, He gives more hair to men yet is far quicker to strip them of it in terms of baldness? Why, too, is it that women, with far less god-given body hair, are more obsessed than men with ridding themselves of it? To be fair, the latter has less to do with God and more to do with the thinking of women, which all men, God included, will never understand.
But the one mystery that hovers over me more than any other is why God replaces the hair he takes from men with hair elsewhere. Men lose hair from the top of their heads only to find that it navigates (or is it gravitates?) to their noses and ears. Why is that? Why is it we can we lose it somewhere, only to grow it elsewhere? It defies logic.
Well, apparently we can put it down to hormones; those things that most men had an excess of in their teens but thought they had lost six months into their marriage.
The hormones, that cause the pattern of thinning and hair loss in the scalp, also cause the mass of Vellus hair that is naturally present in the nose and ears to grow darker, longer and grow coarser. It is believed that the increased growth of hair in the nose and ears among ageing men is tied to the same causes as male patterned baldness.
The different reactions within the different hair follicles relate to the way men develop secondary sexual characteristics (whatever they may be). So while the testosterone can cause the loss of scalp hair, it can lengthen and coarsen the hair on other parts of the body.
That is the pseudo-scientific explanation, but it only answers how it happens, not why.
Lacking a valid answer to the question of why, we are forced to fall back on the simple though unappetising explanation that it is God’s perversity and misogynosity to his fellow man, which He first demonstrated as far back as His creation of Eve. God has chosen to inflict on man (and not on woman) the loss of hair from the top of the head where it is most attractively and pragmatically placed and reposition it in the nasal and ear cavities where it is both unsightly and decidedly not pragmatically and accessibly placed.
Thanks a lot, God.

Forgetting Altamont

Last week’s Fryday remembering Woodstock struck a chord (pun intended) with many readers, though, alas, none admitted to being there.  Two further little-known facts about that festival: there were two deaths—one from an overdose predictably and one, somewhat less predictably, from being run over by a tractor. There was also one reported birth, which doesn’t quite balance it out, but is nevertheless good news.

If Woodstock is the acknowledged high point of outdoor music festivals, their nadir was to come just four months later on the other side of the United States at Altamont Speedway in Northern California.

Instigated by the Rolling Stones as a free concert to end their United States tour and to counter criticisms that their concert ticket prices were too high, Altamont was touted as “Woodstock West” and would feature, as well as the Stones, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Flying Burrito Brothers, Santana and Crosby Stills Nash & Young.

Held on Saturday, December 6, 1969, the day turned into a logistical and tragic nightmare. Rolling Stone magazine described it as “rock and roll’s all-time worst day.” There were four deaths, scores were injured, many cars stolen and extensive damage. But the concert is notable mostly for the violence, much of it captured on film by Albert and David Maysles in their documentary Gimme Shelter.

That film has graphic footage of the most infamous of those deaths—the stabbing  of Meredith Hunter by the Hells Angels. 

The Rolling Stones hired the Angels to handle security, reportedly on the recommendation of The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane, both of whom had previous used the motorcycle gang in that capacity. Ironically, the Angels beat up Jefferson Airplane singer Marty Balin and the “Dead” refused to take the stage…because of the violence!

By the time the Rolling Stones took the stage that night the mood was ugly. The Hells Angels, who had been paid $500 worth of beer for their services were drunk and intimidating as they ringed the stage.

The unruly situation visibly intimidated Mick Jagger, who had already been punched in the head by a concertgoer within seconds of emerging from his helicopter, and urged everyone to, "Just be cool down in the front there, don't push around."

During the third song, Sympathy for the Devil, a fight erupted in the front of the crowd at the foot of the stage, prompting the Stones to pause their set while the Angels restored order. After a lengthy pause and another appeal for calm, the band restarted the song and continued their set with no incident until the start of Under My Thumb.

Some of the Hells Angels got into a scuffle with Meredith Hunter, age 18, when he attempted to get onstage with other fans. One of the Angels grabbed Hunter's head, punched him, and chased him back into the crowd. Following his initial scuffle with the Angels,  Hunter returned to the front of the crowd and drew a revolver from inside his jacket. Hells Angel Alan Passaro, seeing Hunter drawing the gun, drew a knife from his belt and charged Hunter from the side, stabbed him twice, and killed him.

The Stones say they were unaware of the killing at the time and that’s probably correct. Nevertheless the band (most of them) were clearly rattled and ended their set early and were helicoptered out from the site in a hurry.

Characteristically, Keith Richards was relatively sanguine about the show, calling it "basically well-handled, but lots of people were tired and a few tempers got frayed” and "on the whole, a good concert."

Maybe.

But the three (or four) days of peace and love that had occurred on the east coast four months earlier are still celebrated today and even Woodstock’s down-sides—the mud, the overdoses, the rain—are remembered reverently.

But Altamont? Altamont was different. And perhaps best left forgotten.

Woodstock Remembered

On August 15 it will be 50 years since the opening day of the Woodstock Music Festival. A planned celebration and repeat of the ‘three days of love and peace’ has been cancelled; perhaps fortunately given that it was to feature Miley Cyrus and Jay-Z who are unlikely to ever gain the legendary status of many of the original artists.
Like most New Zealanders my experience of Woodstock was confined to the movie and buying the soundtrack. Neither had much effect on me—as an 18-year-old in 1969 I had other preoccupations: trying to get laid and trying to avoid conscription. Besides, two of my favourite musical acts of the time weren’t in the movie—Bob Dylan didn’t even make the festival and his erstwhile backing band, The Band, did but were cut from the movie.
There were also some misconceptions around the event that lingered long and put something of a superficial sheen on what was largely a mud-incrusted latrine. The first is that (as is widely known now) Woodstock wasn’t held in Woodstock. It was meant to be—Woodstock was Dylan and The Band’s  home town—but the organisers couldn’t find a suitable site, and after the back-up  town of Wallkill decided the use of portable toilets didn’t meet the town’s code, another site was found: Max Yasgur’s 243 hectare dairy farm near the town of Bethels 70 kilometres southwest of Woodstock.
Second in misconceptions is that the festival attracted a reported crowd of more than one million. It didn’t. It is now known that at most 400,000 people attended over the four days of the festival, and the people of Wallkill were right—there still wasn’t enough Portaloos.
It is true that very little went to plan. Even the widely advertised “three days” stretched to four. The festival itself finally kicked off at 5.30 pm Friday with Richie Havens after the scheduled first act Creedence Clearwater Revival failed to arrive on time (they didn’t make the movie either) and closed Monday morning at 8.30, with Jimi Hendrix doing his iconic rendering of the Star-Spangled Banner. By that time the crowd had dwindled to 30,000.
Some artists arrived late; some not at all. Some refused to perform in the rain, and it rained most days. Some such as Dylan and the Rolling Stones refused outright. Some later regretted their refusals. And Woodstock lost money. It cost US $3.1 million; it took in $1.8 million. It took ten years for the original promoters to turn a profit from movie and record sales.
Yet the three and a bit days of peace and love on Yasgur’s farm live on as a special event—sociological and musical. There are today and especially to come on the 15th grandparents telling their grandchildren proudly that they were there—perhaps thousands more than were actually there.
And nobody minds that.  Don McLean’s American Pie and “the day music died” was 20 years into the future. But back then for those days in August 1969 everybody wanted to be there the day music really lived.

The Agony of Age

Age comes to us all and with it comes a raft of anomalies, dichotomies and shouldn’t be’s. Simply put age is poorly planned. And nowhere is that more sharply clear than at the supermarket.
For example, why is that the elderly and the relatively infirm with decreasing mobility insist on parking their shopping trollies in the centre of the aisle, thus requiring them to travel further to fetch something on the shelf? 
Why to do those with limited dexterity having the waiting queue behind them while the fumble through in their wallets or purses for coinsto par the exact amount of cash for their groceries? 
Why too do those with (probably) the least amount of time left insist on wasting part of it in idle chatter with the checkout operator?
That is what I mean by dichotomies and shouldn’t be’s.
Now, I am no longer young, though I am bound to say I am probably younger than my father was at my age, and I am on the cusp of entering old age. However, I am still sufficiently observant to note that there is a supermarket etiquette that all but the elderly adhere too. In the elderly’s favour, however, is that many of them passing into the dying of the light retain a sense of the niceties and they know how to charm—like the elderly lady in the supermarket today who asked me to fetch something for her off a bottom shelf. I did so. She had the grace to thank me—profusely—before adding quietly: “such a nice young man.”
Age is, after all, relative.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: Comfort

God has bestowed great comforts upon me. There is my wife Sister Billy-Jo Sackrider of course. The there is my flock, who continue to be bountiful with their prayers and gifts. And then are my partners in God—Pastor Jimmy Swaggart and his anointed sons and my old friend in Christ Pastor Kenneth Copeland.
Of these comforts I am eternally grateful. Of these comforts, I am most grateful for Sister Billy-Jo for not a night goes by that I do not lay my healing hands upon her and feel the body of Christ within her.
Yet, dear friends, I feel that God has another role for me this life. That He has other plans for me and my ministry. That the Word is not yet received by all whom God does love and the power that he has invested in me to take His word to those people has found not the succour that God would have for all of us.  Friends, last month for the third month in a row, our Ministry’s Lamb of God fleecing programme has not met its target. God has forgiven me—he told me so—and his mercy is infinite, but He says that it cannot go on forever and the work of the Word will in time not be available to those who do not commit fully to his love.
I urge you brothers and sister to take heed. The displeasure of God is truly terrifying. Yet his mercy and love is bountiful. And there is a message in there for those of you who say to me “Brother Sackrider, I am too poor to answer to the Word of God with my prayers and gifts.” The message to you is what use are food and clothes and education if you do not feast on the food of God’s love? Better to stand naked in the face of God than not to stand at all. That is what I say to Sister Billy-Jo each night.
So give. Give not what you can afford. Give not what you can. Give what you have, as the Lord has given to you.
•    For a list of God’s Gifts, as delivered personally by God to Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$ 99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a three-day family pass to the Cecil C. Sackrider Theme Park. Offer available only to American Christians.

Hair today

I count myself a fortunate person because I have hair. I have a lot of hair. Many men my age, and younger, do not and it is not always for hereditary reasons. My father lost much of his hair and two of my sons continue to look distinguished despite losing much of theirs. A third son keeps all his hair.
Hair is a wonderful thing, though I am unsure of what useful service it performs. Obviously, it is a throwback to the day when we descended from hairy apes when I guess its purpose was warmth. These days it is aesthetic, but it is also a distinguishing factor, particularly among men. We are still largely a tribal society and if we examine men's hair styles closely, we can see that style distinguishes which tribe they belong to. Here are some examples:
Televangelists
Without a doubt and universally this tribe of parasites have the worse and most distinctive hairstyles of all. Think Benny Hinn, Jimmy Swaggart, Kenneth Copeland and Brian Tamaki. They invariably have an abundance of hair with not one follicle given the freedom of movement; their hair is always swept to the side or the back and is invariably dyed. Do they go to the same hairdresser? You can walk down the street and see that hair coming toward you and say, yes, that’s a televangelist…God help me.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2af4gcS-b9Y
Rugby League Players
This tribe tries to out do each other in strange hairstyles. Many sport throwbacks to the 50s when short back and sides were de rigeur and hardly avoided. Others have strange cuts such as man-buns (Kieran Foran) or umbrellas (Kevin Proctor). Others such as Tohu Harris grow their hair long so they look like a Dothraki from Game of Thrones. What all rugby league players seem to have in common though is a complete inability to have a normal haircut like rugby players (Ma’a Nonu apart). They are however less boring.
Rock Stars
Who knows? They are all over the place these days. They don’t even call themselves rock stars any more; they call themselves “artists”. Right—Kanye West? There was a time when the rock star tribe was easily identified by the length of hair and moreover the differing length of hair showed which sub-tribe they belonged to: the longest denoting heavy metal. But these days? Who knows? Then again, who cares?
Donald Trump
Nothing more need be said.

I am growing my hair long. Not because I want to look like a rock star/artist. Not because I want to have the scope to turn it into a piece of art like the league players. And not because I want your money like a televangelist. No, I am doing it because I like it long, because it suits (hides) the shape of my face, and…most of all…because I can. I count myself a fortunate person.

Bully for "them"

Today is the final day of Bullying-free Week. The supposition I make from that is from tomorrow we can feel free to resume bullying. Yes, I know it is a serious subject, and it is wrong of me to make light of it; but I have serious doubts about whether wearing a pink shirt for a week will produce anything more substantive than body odour.
I was a bully at school, but I was a selective bully; I bullied only those who in my view could be bullied, though none deserved it. I, in turn, was mercilessly bullied by those who perceived I could be bullied and that continued well into adulthood—yes, I know you are reading this Rob.
However, nobody deserves to be bullied and the fact that bullying has always occurred doesn’t justify it let alone condone it and I support the premise of drawing attention to it. I also commend the on-going work, particularly in schools, of the facilitating organisation, The Ministry of Education’s bullyingfreenz. 
Bullyingfreenz has an excellent website—comprehensive and informative. And, unlike their flagship week, it is there to stay and available permanently--in recognition perhaps that so is bullying.
But, why the pink shirt? The website does not explain it, so we are left to surmise that in some archaic way bullyingfreenz believes that the colour pink is the signature colour of one of the most bullied sectors of our society—the LGBTIQA+ community.There is a hint of that on the website, given an entire section is dedicated to that community and justifiably so. 
But surely bullyingfreenz wouldn’t resort to the cheap trick of stereotyping?
I would hate to think that, even worse, encouraging heterosexuals to wear pink means he or she is relating to and showing solidarity with “them”. I felt the same about the use of the word they in “they are us.” Words such as they and them immediately draw a distinction and have a whiff of superiority, though I am sure that was not the intent.
So, no, you have not seen me wear a pink shirt this week.  Wearing one in a week when I went to Hamilton would be like the risk of wearing a cow costume down there—being objectified.
  But no, I have not not done it for any of the reasons outlined above. Fact is, I have never worn a pink shirt. Never shall. It has nothing to do with gender politics or stereotyping. Pink is simply not my colour.
And, yes, I do support the work of bullyingfreenz. Good on them for doing what they can.

The Awakening of Likability

What gets a politician elected?
There are many things that could and many things that should. However, often it will come down to the one thing that most of us—politicians or not—crave: likability. Likability can win or lose an election. Politicians know that but too often fail to act on it.
In America, Hillary Clinton lost for a lack of it. Few could or should like Donald Trump but liking what he was saying and represents gifted him a presidency. Of the current Democratic hopefuls, Bernie Sanders and Joe Biden are immensely likeable and are front runners because of that. Significantly, none of the six women in the race is coming even close—has Hilary ruined it for women?
Which brings me to New Zealand Politics, Jacinda Ardern and Simon Bridges. There is nothing to like about the first, something to like about the second (at a superficial level), and very little (apparently) to like about the third.
I have been around New Zealand politics and politicians for a long time and remain a political nerd. I watch Question Time. Yes, our elected officials act like school children, but they always have; that’s not an issue. What is an issue for me is MMP. MMP has foisted upon Parliament and us an immense amount of deadweight.
I have observed them in the House—these list and minor party MPs. With few exceptions, they contribute little and possibly care even less. What MMP and the List have given us is quantity not quality.
The fact is all substantial and lasting social developments in New Zealand  (of which we as a country was justly renowned) happened under the First Past the Post system when the House was totally comprised of electorate MPs directly responsible to the electorate.
No, I don’t like MMP at all.
Nor do I Like Jacinda Ardern, though I don’t dislike her either not at least as a person. As Fryday opined last week: I don’t think she is doing her job or is even up to it. But people like her because she is a woman, she is a mother and soon—maybe close to the next election—she will be a bride.
But where is the substance in that? Well, quite a bit actually. The likability factor, notwithstanding my opinion, will probably get her through.
Which brings me to Simon Bridges. Mr Bridges seems like a nice guy and I am told that he is intelligent and compassionate. Trouble is, he and his advisors have failed to convey that. As a result, he does not have that likability factor and, unlike Trump, is not compensating for it by what he is saying.
Not being liked (or disliked) is too substantial a barrier for Bridges’ personality to penetrate. The National Party has to recognise, before its too late, that the electorate does not like the party’s parliamentary leader, and, worse, are not particularly interested in him.
National may not like it, but like it or not likability is everything.

The ultimate win for Winston

The NZ Herald is asking me to pay $2.50 to know something I already know. That’s the weekly subscription fee they require for accessing their online “premium content”. It costs nothing to access ordinary stories, but there is precious few of those, and the interesting and well-written stories, often an oxymoron for the NZ Herald, are behind a paywall.

One of those stories has the enticing headline: “Inside the coalition: Who’s really running the country?” I don’t feel the headline needs the question mark. The answer is so obvious that it should be more a statement.

I will not pay $2.50 to be told Winston is running the country--by deceit, by demigoddery and by default. Our titular prime minister is missing in action for domestic issues. And the government she leads is floundering in an ocean of incredulous actions and inactions.

Almost all of their campaign pledges—the war on poverty, affordable housing, addressing mental health issues, capital gains tax, etc—are in tatters as are the targets to which they aspired.

The Prime Minister, who must shoulder ultimate responsibility, seems uninterested and indecisive on such issues. In fact, the only decisive action she has taken since she came into power was the banning of automatic weapons.
But taking one decisive action and quickly learning the art of looking doleful in the wake of a national tragedy does not a prime minister make.

So, where is she now? Striding the world stage addressing global issues, trying to constrain Facebook—good luck with that.

Meanwhile, we who look for leadership and vision on pressing domestic issues are left with a set of largely incompetent ministers who without a credible head are led by a somewhat disreputable tail--Winston Peters.

Few would doubt that this is Mr Peters’ swansong as a member of parliament. He has probably already been offered a major diplomatic post if this government keeps power. But this term may also be his most important while he builds the legacy he may be most remembered for—restraining an out of control, incompetent and ideologically dangerous government.
 Love or loath Winston Peters now,  ultimately we might all thank him for that.