The Media vesus Donald Trump

There are some astonishing stories coming out of America these days, aren’t there? Most involve their President and many are contradictory. So much so that a new phrase, alternative facts, has been coined.

But what—and who—are we in New Zealand to believe? And do we care? Well, to answer the second question first: yes, we care or should do. Whatever is going on in America at the moment will have global ramifications—at the very least economically and quite possibly and disastrously militarily. American “issues” have always impacted on the rest of the world. What is different now is that those issues seem to be out of control and so, seemingly, is the President. That is deeply disturbing and dangerous. Yes, we should care.

And who are we in New Zealand to believe? Sean Spicer? Fox News? Mike Pence? None of those, anyway. I honestly don’t think they believe in what they are saying—certainly Mike Pence doesn’t, and he has been openly contradicted by his President/boss. Some of the proclamations (are they anything else?) emanating from Fox News under the guise of “news” are at best opinions and at worst propaganda. Don’t even start me on Spicer—the antithesis of C.J. Craig (you had to be there). So, that is basically the Trump camp with little credibility.

But, what of the other side? The media. Can we believe them? They certainly seem determined to find, extract and exploit every weakness, lie, damage, insanity, misstep (choose your own word) from the Trump presidency. Maybe there is some truth in Trump’s statement yesterday that he is the victim of a witch hunt and that no previous politician has ever faced such a level of scrutiny.

However, that doesn’t mean what the media are saying—are reporting—is untrue. And that is the key, I believe. That is the difference. On the Trump side, we are offered more often than not denials, contradictions and hyperbole—and often offered them, if body language is any indication, with unctuous reluctance. On the media side, we are given facts, provable facts, often based on the utterances of Trump officials and mostly attributable. Yes, the media may be a little intense –even shrill—at times, but this shouldn’t obviate the innate truth of what they are saying.

That said, I don’t believe the media will drive Trump out of office, as they did to Nixon. They are up against too formidable and staunch an opponent, Trump’s ego, to do that. Nor do I think there is a smoking gun—an impeachable offence—of sufficient magnitude to do that. What I think will drive him from office, or at least restrain him from seeking reelection, is boredom. His own. I don’t think he wanted the presidency in the first place. I think he saw his campaign as something of a reality show driven in part by ego. In my opinion, I don’t think he was  prepared to go the distance; I think it was his intent to pull out of the race after fueling his ego on the big stage. But then momentum took over and he stayed the distance. He won, and now he’s saddled with a job that will tie him down for four years.

If I am right in that contention, President Donald Trump, forced into the job that he is, would likely not run full-term. I think he would like to get out of the job before that. And he and his advisors could easily come up with an excuse to do so.

But, here is the dichotomy: the media won’t let him.  I think Donald Trump is sitting there in the Oval Office (or, more often, Mar-a-Lago) backed into a corner (not that there are any in the Oval Office) because his ego won’t allow him to be hounded from office by the “criminal” media. In many ways, it is that media, and his ego, that are feeding an ill-advised determination to stay.

It could be said, and I never thought I would say it,  it might be best for Donald Trump, for the world and for us, if we just left him alone for a while.

Let’s pick on Wogistan instead.

I don't have a problem with homosexuals.

I don't have a problem with homosexuals.

I am not saying some of my best friends are gay. Fact is, I don't know. I don't ask, and I don't care.

What I do care about, however, is homosexual pimping of our language.

In earlier days, gay had a simple and joyous meaning. Gay, when used by F. Scott Fitzgerald, was immediately recognisable for what it was. Fitzgerald needed no further words, let alone explanation. And I do feel for those who are named Gay. "I am Gay," probably does require explanation. In spoken word, the capital G is not apparent.

I also have an issue with the cumbersome initialism LGBTIQ—Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Intersex, Queer—which in length seems to be growing like a vociferous plaque. Even in its earliest evocation, it was the wholly unnecessary and duplicative LGB. If it grows much further and embraces zebras it will use nearly every letter in the alphabet.

But, the one high jacked word I most have a problem with is Rainbow. It is personal. A few years ago, just over ten years ago, I wrote a book called Ridin' the Rainbow. It isn't a gay book. Quite the reverse, so to speak—though I often say that some I interviewed for the book might have thought I was gay. Coming from Auckland and being a writer leads to that assumption.

No, it isn't a gay book. It is a great book, and you can currently buy it by searching on TradeMe.

The reason I am bringing up Ridin' the Rainbow (copy and paste for your TradeMe search) now is that I have been asked to write a sequel, which I am very much looking forward to.

Why?

Simple. It is the people. I met so many interesting people the first time around, and I look forward to meeting more this time. The history of the industry I wrote about—trailer manufacturing— is replete with wonderful characters. Here, by way of explanation and example, is an extract from the original book. It is about a guy called Dave Domett:

"Dave Domett was a generous host who liked to entertain. Friday nights at The Empire (Feilding) were Domett staff nights, and Dave was simply one of the boys. If a customer was visiting Feilding, the venue shifted to the Denbigh Hotel, which offered accommodation, home-cooked meals, a house bar which stayed open long after the 6 o'clock closing, and Dave Domett as the consummate and entertaining host.

"Dave is remembered as being able to hold his liquor with the best of them, though he was never a big or competitive drinker. What he preferred was to show his acumen in another area—trials of strength.

"In researching this book, I heard of—and had described to me by three sources—the Domett Door Feat. Physical prowess (and a high stud) is needed to accomplish it.

"It begins with an open door. Stand with your back to the edge of the door, and reach backwards over your head to grasp the top of the door with both hands; then, using arm strength (and possibly a little practiced technique) try to lift your body from the floor. Then in one fluid motion similar to a backward somersault lever your body up and over to end the feat sitting astride the top of the door.

"It needs to be remembered that Dave Domett was immensely strong. Whether the feat helped him directly with trailer building is questionable; that it was impressive, memorable and a colourful addition to the legendary status of Dave Domett is not."

I never met Dave. That feat and more I heard from others. But, I wish I had met him. I wish I were at The Empire or at The Denbigh. They must have been gay times, when gay simply meant great.

Hair Today

I have been corresponding with George Clooney lately. It has been a one-sided conversation, which I guess is not a conversation at all. George seems curiously reticent to respond to even the simplest question I have asked of him—that is, how does he keep his hair in great shape. It is important that I know. It is one the world’s great, yet largely unheralded, mysteries. Why? Well, think about it: when you and I get a haircut, it is plainly obvious. We have that recently shorn look, and there is nothing that even the best hairdresser can do to avoid that—and I have one of the best. Yet George Clooney doesn’t seem to have that problem. His hair always looks impeccable and, more important, exactly the same each and every day. How? Does he get his hair cut every day or every week? Does he have his own barber—sorry, hairdresser—on staff travelling with him? I imagine he could afford that. In George’s business looking well-groomed is of course important, unless you are Brad Pitt. In my business, it is not. My business is writing. And, as of today, it is a full-time business. Nobody much cares what a writer looks like. In fact, the dishevelled shambolic look is a popular conception of writers. It is, however, a misconception. Today’s writer—whether working in the commercial or creative sectors—must adopt and maintain a professional demeanour and approach to his or her work. Gone are the days when the popular conception, and expectation, of writers was a solitary soul starving in a garret.  That eroded the day Ernest Hemingway shot himself and ended with the advent of GST. All the best advice on writing, and that usually comes from, of all people Stephen King, is that writers must be highly disciplined and treat their “craft” as a job—a profession. If that means turning up to work at the same time every day and even wearing a tie—so be it. Gone too are the days of writing just for the sake of it without expectation of a productive outcome. A prime example being writing to George Clooney. The one resilient foible a writer will allow him or herself—other than the right and faculty to use the word foible—is that in the creative arena they can create worlds and escape into them at will. Though again, taking a pragmatic and professional approach, that facility should be enjoyed only sparingly, and only when wearing a tie as a reminder that there is also a real world. However, in all other respects writers are no different from anybody else. No different from carpenters, accountants, truck drivers or televangelists. They are different from politicians, but so is everybody else. In fact, if one was to look at it in that light your Fryday correspondent is virtually indistinguishable from Mr Clooney—apart from the hair of course.

Letter From Wogistan: Dear Kim

                                        The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

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

Presidente Kim Jong-Un

Presidente For Life

People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea

Pyongyang

North Korea.

Greetings from the Peoples of Democratic Republic of Wogistan.

Our xalted leader, Presidente Yoseph Flagrantlie (God give him long life and much children), great admirer. He share many of your policys.

He want visit your kingdom for state visit. He say he will bring his family to meet what left of your family. He also bring natural wine of our country and prettiest sheep.

He show soldierarity with great peoples of Democratic Republic of North Korea against bad peoples of United States of America. Join you in parade.

Need name of your hair cutter two. Want appointment.

Please send plane, but not one built by your peoples who build your missiles.

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

The Worst Ad Evever?

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Political correctness, if not dead, is at least comatose. It was fun while it lasted, and a hobby for some, but it was not sustainable against the onslaught of derision brought on by its self-perpetuating stridency and farcicality. I think its nadir came with the 1979 edict (Radio New Zealand) that the term man-hole be replaced with person-hole. There are of course other examples. But, those are in the past. These days it appears that the final and sole bastion of the PC Brigade is food. There are still those who consistently and insistently tell us what is healthy and, more often, unhealthy for us to eat and drink. Even there it is often a moving feast, if you will forgive the play on words. This week a glass of red wine is good for us; next week, likely as not, it is not. However, one of the more consistent and possibly accurate targets for the PC Brigade is soft drink. I must admit that they have come up with a substantial body of evidence that excessive drinking of soft drinks is bad for us. Certainly, they have changed my thinking and I have moved from standard Coke to Zero, though I have never drunk much of any soft drink so any improvement is negligible. Still, I think they have a point. And that is why the following ad., reproduced lately on Facebook, would be so horrifying to them. In fact, I am prepared to say that even when it was first run in the 1950s it was so out of place, so inaccurate, so stupid, it was farcical and possibly dangerous. You wouldn’t be able to run it these days; possibly it shouldn’t have been allowed to have run in those days. But, Fryday is taking itself too seriously, just like the PC Brigade. Let’s just accept that this ad will never ever run again, and sit back and have a laugh at quite possibly the most stupid ad. ever inflicted on us.

Dear God #2

Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Twitter: #millionsofpeopleloveme.

Dear God

How is the family? Son well?

Having a great time here. It’s great. Of course, we have the frustration with the criminal media. They are still trying to justify getting it so wrong. Still! Can you believe it? Stupid. That’s what they are. Bad hombres.

Anyway, let’s move on.

God, we should talk. I have a deal for you. Now, you know how you have always wanted a piece of Saudi Arabia? Well, come November I think I can put a deal together that’s the best deal I have ever done. And nobody does a deal better than I do. I do great deals. That right. The deal is this. I have this army—a great army—that is doing nothing. Where is the commercial sense in that? If you are not shooting bullets nobody is making bullets. The Free Market suffers. The Arms Industry suffers. And when that happens everybody suffers. Yes, they do.

So, what you and I are going to do, God, is to put an end to suffering. Yes, we are. We are going to start a war. A war with Saudi Arabia. A great war. Nobody has built a war like I will build this war. I will use my army. All you have to do is move in when my army has taken the country and turn all the Arabs into Christians so they don’t come back at us. You get all those new Christians. I get the oil.

Nobody loses. Right? Except maybe the Arabs.

I say we will do it in November. I will have run out of executive orders to sign by then.  Do we have a deal? Do we get our people together to talk it through? Maybe hook up your son with mine? Better still, Ivanka? That would be great.

By the way, thanks for the great idea on how to do the all-time job on the legacy of Obama. Came to me last night. Must have come from you because I was sitting in my shorts and bathrobe watching Cecil C. Sackrider on late night television at the time.

Inspired, God. We make a great team, God. Yes, we do. A great team.

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America.

Fryday Feminity and Feminism

This week we had International Women’s Day. I imagine that to many women it does not mean much. Even in this internet age the great majority of women would know March 8 as just another day, and in some cases and in some religions they struggle to be recognised, let alone celebrated.

For others, however, it was proclaimed as a day of affirmation of (variously) women’s rights, equality and equity. None of which Fryday has an issue with. Though it would rather have been spared the excruciating and embarrassing attempt at female solidarity and pride by the National party’s female caucus lead by Paula Bennett. The proliferation of proclamations claiming that the world would be a better pace if “ruled” by women also began to get a bit tiresome. Have none of them heard of Donald Trump?

What did strike me as interesting though was the juxtaposition with another announcement this week. That was that VietJet Aviation, a privately run discount airline also known as VietJet Air, listed on the Hochiminh Stock Exchange. Why is that interesting for any reason than it being another example of thoroughly modern communist country truly embracing capitalism? Well, it is because this airline is renowned, or notorious depending on your perspective, for once having had bikini clad flight attendants. The airline was fined by the Vietnam’s aviation authority, but a video of the bikini-clad girls dancing down the aisle went viral and VietJet received international publicity that it could otherwise not hope to emulate. Ticket sales soared. The carrier eventually expects to eclipse state-run Vietnam Airlines in the domestic market, and it also has big goals for its international operations.

Wonder what I am getting it?

Am I offended by its overt sexism? Am I even befuddled by the curious juxtaposition of bikini and gather belt and stockings (see photo)? Yes, I guess.

But what really intrigued me on the International Women’s Day is that the person that contrived this, authorised this and took VietJet to new heights is a woman, CEO Nguyen Thi Phuong Thao. What is more, Thao is the only Vietnamese to make Forbes' list of the world's 100 most powerful women.

Now, I am going to go out on a limb here and state that as much as Ms Bennett’s video was well-intentioned it did come across as almost an apology for being a woman. It was less of a celebration than a condescension.  Whilst I would not I think ever see Paula Bennett and or Judith Collins in bikinis, I would hope that they would acknowledge that Ms Thao’s approach, whilst different, is no less compelling as a manifestation of the fact that feminism and femininity are powerful weapons.

On a broader front, let us also now consider that the criticism and claims of sexist and sexism can often be countered by the judicious and astute use of sexuality, as Ms Thao amply proved.

FFFL

Among the cute animal footage, the quizzes and the omnipresent and now largely repetitive slagging off of Donald Trump in Facebook, even the casual voyeur can often find something of real merit. I am not talking of the so-called inspirational and aspirational quotes that proliferate. Nor am I talking of the plethora of posts that threaten to reveal who we were in a past life or, macabrely, predict when we shall die.
No, I am talking about the posts that invite us on a shared journey into our earlier lives. This life, not a past one. They usually comprise photos of the way we were. In extreme cases, and I am guilty of this, they may even be our baby photos, though, in my case, what interest my low-slung nappies and slobbering lips had to the Facebook Fraternity was certainly called into question.
But, what is fascinating about some of these posts is not what they are, but what they represent. I have a very good friend: a woman with a fine and now adult family. She and I have been friends for about 40 years, though we lost touch for a long time—time enough for her to have her family, for them to grow up, and for me to have forgotten what she looked like 40 years ago.
Last week I was reminded.
Her daughter, a beautiful young woman in her own right, posted a photo of herself as a young child—perhaps four—dancing with my friend, her mother, then probably in her 20s. Being a photo, one can only imagine the exuberance of that dance. However, it is patently there. And there is also in that photo a sense of the now—not the past, as short as it was, nor the future that would challenge them both. But of the moment, of the present, of the share joy of being together, captured so many years ago in one photo and shared just last week by the daughter to celebrate her mother’s birthday.
And to share the love.
The term share the love can these days be rather trite. Nevertheless, it can often be an expression of sheer and sincere intent. Facebook, for all its faults, can be good for that,
Thank You Mark Zuckerberg
Thank you Sarah.

A Fryday About Nothing

Occasionally Fryday is torn between its self-imposed responsibility to deliver a new piece every Friday and the demands on its time from other projects. More rarely, Fryday simply wakes with nothing to say and, because nothing is planned or written before Friday, time soon runs out to write anything at all.

Such is the case today.

I woke with nothing to say. I can fall back on Trump, as indeed many would like to do. But, I covered him last week and I detect that most of us are all a bit trumped out, so we need a break. I could talk about the Port Hills fires, but they have been well and truly—and rightly—canvassed; the horror of the fires and their impact is apparent for all to see. 

There are of course, always the Fryday staples: Hamilton, Whetu, useless objects, and the various correspondents, such as Cecil C. Sackrider, Fryday employs around the world. But, I can’t think of a more useless object than Donald Trump, and all my correspondents seem to be busy. Fryday can be a very lonely place when not populated by these people.

So, there is nothing to galvanize my thoughts on this day and, yes, as predicted, I am running out of time.

Perhaps I need a change of scene and a change of pace. A journalist acquaintance tells me that next week he is off to the Cook Islands to do a travel piece. Lucky bugger. Travelling and being paid for it. That’s perhaps what I need. I read an article this week on the slowly developing North Korean tourism industry. It is apparently tightly controlled, but it is there. I wouldn’t mind trying that. However, my preferred destination is, and after once visiting it will always be, Paris. That is where I would like to go next. And if North Korean President for Life Kim Jong-un is affronted by that then he has at his disposal (pun intended) several demonstrable mitigation options. Apparently, poison being one.

So, as I look at the clock above my desk, I see that it is 6:50 a.m. NZT (2:20 a.m. in Pyongyang, so I won’t wake Him) and I still haven’t written a word on Fryday. 

That means, there will be no Fryday this week. I have simply run out of time to write anything.

And if you are wondering why I have taken 399 words to reach that conclusion, just put it down to Fryday’s attempt at delivering “fake news”. According to Mr Trump, apparently everybody’s doing it.

Job done.

Have a good weekend.

Dear God: The Trump Years: #1

Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Twitter: @millionsofpeopleloveme.

2/10/17

Dear God

You have got to be right, right? Am I right?

Of course I am. Hey, I am terrific, right? But sometimes, God, you also got to be wrong. Am I right? You know I am.  You know the feeling. You’ve been there. You created Mexico, for God’s sake. How wrong can that be? Right?

And sometimes—not often—I get it wrong. That’s right. I get it wrong. I admit it. There I said it. Knock yourself out. I said it. I am wrong. That’s right, I was wrong when I said I would be the greatest President God ever created.

I know you got a lot of smart people, around you God. But to say they created me? C’mon! Not in their wildest dreams. Not in their wildest dreams could they have created me. C’mon! It’s like throwing Saint Peter into a property deal in The Bronx. They’d kill him down there. They love me down there.

I created me.

You know, people say to me. All the time they say to me. Mr Trump, how can a man like you who is worth millions and millions of dollars, who has done the greatest deals of all time—yes I have—who wears the greatest ties—aren’t they? Aren’t they great? How can you be so modest?

And you know what I say? I say, look at me. I am terrific. I have everything. I own modesty. Yes I do. I own it.

So, God, that is why I say you created me. ‘Cause I am great like that. I let it go. I give you the credit for me. After all, and after Mexico, people got to believe that you got something right. Am I right?

Donald J. Trump

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America.

PS: Are you on Twitter?

Friends

I have always supported the commonplace view that birds of a feather flock together. People of agreeable disposition tend to gravitate to each other for the sheer pleasure of it and out of mutual respect. Less agreeable people, and I know the description is subjective, tend to do the same. They gather for a time to complain, bleat and generally bemoan the fact that the rest of the world does not share their opinions (which they inevitably state as gospel) and indeed won’t take them seriously.

I think you know the type.

The distinction between the two groups is that generally within the first group friendships ensue and endure; for the second, such friendships are rare—ultimately even mutual malcontents get sick of each other. Loyalty rather than self-interest is not a strong point for this group.

I have been thinking of this today because yesterday was Facebook Friends Day and because a group of my friends is in some serious strife resulting in them being vilified and judged. Some of those who have been most vitriolic in this instance are, in my view, very much in the second group and a second commonplace saying “those who throw stones…” comes to mind.

What my friends may or may not have done is not for me to judge. There are those more professionally qualified than I to do that, and to their credit they do so based on what is put before them and not on conjecture, assumption and envy.

My only judgement, the only one I am qualified to make, is whether my friends should remain my friends. I have made the decision that they should do so. In fact, I never seriously considered otherwise. They were my friends yesterday and nothing so far presented to me suggests that will change tomorrow.

Yet the suggestion can be made that in making my decision I, somewhat ironically, lack judgement.

I have little time for that, and for one compelling reason: people who imply that, do not understand friendship. Friendship is not finite but nor is flimsy. It is not vacuous; it is not a whim; it is not shredded by circumstance, and a strong and genuine friendship does not—I repeat—does not make you vulnerable. Instead it lifts you, consoles you, accommodates you, strengthens you, and, in many ways, makes you.

So, here’s to friends. They and loyalty are for now and forever our saving graces.

And no matter what else is happening in the world at this time, nothing, but nothing, can Trump that.