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What a Year on Ozempic Taught Johann Hari

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Friday, June 7, 2024

In the fall of 2005, Johann Hari, then a young columnist for The Independent who was struggling with his weight, described a trip he said he’d taken to a wellness spa in the foothills of the Carinthian Alps. After spending just four days there on a cleansing diet that consisted almost entirely of drinking tea—Hari could not bear to stay a moment longer—he’d lost seven pounds. “The cravings for lard had leeched out of my system,” he marveled in his write-up, noting that he hadn’t yet regained the weight.Hari tells this Alpine-detox story once again in Magic Pill, his fourth and latest book, released last month—but the anecdote now appears to hold a different lesson. Instead of maintaining his new diet, he seems to relapse: “When I got home, I felt like a failure,” he now says of the very same experience. “Where, I wondered, was my willpower?”The new book’s title is a slanted reference to Ozempic (which doesn’t come in pill form), and to the new class of anti-obesity medications that is already reshaping health care for tens of millions of Americans. Many of Magic Pill’s 250 pages describe these drugs’ amazing benefits and potential harms; most of the rest are devoted to a workmanlike review of certain social causes of obesity, and how they might one day be reversed. Some portions of this story have been told in other places—Hari makes ample references to other well-known books. But his account brings an element of human drama that few could match, even when it’s just rehashing others’ work. That drama is the author’s own: Above all else, Magic Pill describes Hari’s everlasting struggle to control himself. Whether purposefully or not, he has produced a revealing record of his shame.Why does Hari feel ashamed? For one thing, he’s on Ozempic. Hari doesn’t really need to take Ozempic, but he’s on it nonetheless: That’s the premise of the book, as laid out from the start. He decided, “quite abruptly” as he puts it in the introduction, to begin injections. It was 2022, and his pandemic BMI had risen to a hair over 30, just high enough to qualify for a prescription. Going on it “was a snap decision,” he explains, “and later I realized I was driven by impulses I didn’t fully understand at the time.” A methodical examination of those impulses unspools from there: Across the book’s 12 chapters, Hari will ask himself why he can’t just stop eating. Why should he need the help of a powerful drug to lose weight? Where, he’ll wonder again and again, is his willpower?There are scientific answers to those questions, and also there are moral ones. “Taking Ozempic was a betrayal of my values. Every time I injected myself, I felt fraudulent,” he writes. A few pages later, he elaborates: “If I am totally honest, at some level, I believed that by taking these drugs, I was cheating.” This inner sense of crookedness is meant to stand in for a more expansive one. If he’s a victim of his impulses, then we all are as well. Why can’t any of us stop eating? Whatever happened to our willpower? And if Hari feels uneasy injecting himself with artificial self-restraint, then society should feel the same. We’ve made a religion, more or less, out of limitless consumption; we’ve allowed our diets to be overrun with processed, packaged foods. Now we’re rolling back the ill effects of too much eating with yet another branded product. Doesn’t this approach to public health feel a little bit like cheating? Isn’t it a form of fraud?This line of thinking holds a special resonance for Hari, who has in other contexts shown a catastrophic lack of self-control. In fact, his history as a journalist would seem to offer special insight into the battle between the id and the superego. As a columnist for magazines and newspapers—and as the guy who wrote about the Alpine weight-loss trip almost 20 years ago—he was once a lauded journalist. Hari’s work “combines courageous reporting and forceful writing with honest analysis,” announced a judge who awarded him the Orwell Prize in 2008. But Hari’s career appeared to reach an early end a few years later, when some of his work was found to be conspicuously dishonest. In 2011, he was outed as a plagiarist, and then for making vicious accusations about his rivals through a sock-puppet account on Wikipedia. “I did two wrong and stupid things,” Hari wrote in his final column for the Independent, under the headline “A personal apology.” He promised to step away from writing for a while so that he could study journalism, and that when he finished he’d be more scrupulous than he’d ever been before, footnoting all his work and posting audio of all his interviews. “I hope after a period of retraining, you will give me the chance,” he said.That chance arrived a few years later, when Hari reappeared with a best seller, Chasing the Scream, on the social causes of addiction, and a viral TED Talk—which has now been viewed 21 million times—on the same topic. He’s since written three more pop-science books, all of which are variations on this theme. In 2018, he published Lost Connections, another best seller, about depression, anxiety, and, to some extent, the nature of addiction. Hillary Clinton blurbed that one, and Ezra Klein had Hari on his podcast. After that was Stolen Focus, in 2022, about technology, distraction, and the limits of the will. Hari got another blurb from Clinton (among other celebrities), and spent another hour as a guest on Klein’s show. And now this year we have Magic Pill, Hari’s book about obesity, overeating, and, once again, the limits of the will.Which is to say, all of Hari’s writing since his comeback has been concerned—one might even say obsessed—with self-control and self-destruction; and with the interplay of forces, from without and from within, that may lead us into ruin. They present as social commentary, and also as self-help, and further as a meditation on the links between the social and the self. As Klein put it on his podcast, the books compose “a little subgenre taking conditions and afflictions that we individualize and arguing for their social roots.”Hari tends to use himself to illustrate those conditions and afflictions, however they arise. According to his books, he’s been hooked on stimulants; he’s also been strung out on antidepressants, dependent on his phone, and addicted to fried foods. He says he has a family history of drug dependence, and of mental illness, and also of obesity. In other words, Hari lives in just the way we all do: caught between desire and self-blame. His books describe dysregulation. They’re also a product of it.Back in 2015, when Hari gave his first post-scandal interview, he described himself, in a joke, as a “recovering former columnist.” His work since then does read like one extended chronicle of a struggle for sobriety—particularly when it comes to sticking to the facts. Hari’s books remind you in a hundred different ways that he’s on the wagon as a journalist. He posts the audio from many of his interviews, just as he promised he would, and he piles on the endnotes. “I went on a journey of over forty thousand miles. I conducted more than two hundred interviews across the world,” he boasts in the introduction to Lost Connections. “I went on a 30,000-mile journey … In the end, I interviewed over 250 experts,” he says in Stolen Focus. And now, apparently having rushed a bit for Magic Pill: “I went on a journey around the world, where I interviewed over a hundred experts.”But showing off is not the same as showing discipline. In spite of Magic Pill’s 394 endnotes (including those published on the website for the book) and 318 posted clips from interviews, and notwithstanding the pair of fact-checkers whom Hari thanks in his acknowledgments, the book is strewn with sloppy errors. Some of these have already been made public. When a British restaurant critic named Jay Rayner, described by Hari as having lost his love for food after going on Ozempic, pointed out on X last month that this was “complete and utter bollocks,” Hari admitted his mistake: “I apologise to Jay for getting this wrong, & am gutted I & my fact-checkers missed it,” he wrote. Then his proffered explanation—that he’d meant to cite the experience of the film critic Leila Latif when she was on Ozempic—ran aground as well. “I’m not, nor have I ever been, on semaglutide,” Latif chimed in just hours later.A few weeks ago he posted fixes for another seven errors from the book on his website, in response to an email from a journalist. (A detailed roundup of those mistakes has since been published in The Telegraph.) I came across a bunch of other glitches in my reading of the book. In one instance, Hari writes about an evening long ago when he heard about a restaurant in Las Vegas where the servers doled out spankings to anyone who didn’t clean their plate. According to the book, that conversation happened in the late 1990s or early aughts, but the restaurant in question—called the Heart Attack Grill—didn’t open in Las Vegas until 2011. This tiny error makes no difference to the story Hari tells, but lots of tiny errors, set against the backdrop of the author’s ostentatious rigor, tell a story of their own. In a chapter on the scourge of ultra-processed foods, Hari talks about the slurry of defatted beef that is sometimes called “pink slime,” suggesting that it got this name from a food executive. This is precisely not the case. (Food executives sued the guy who coined that phrase, along with the news outlet that reported it, for defamation.) When Hari writes about the big reveal of findings from a major trial of Ozempic’s use for losing weight, he sets the scene on “one day in 2022.” The reveal occurred in 2021. And when he describes a study of mothers who have been taught “responsive parenting” techniques, he says their children ended up half as likely to become obese or overweight as those of other parents. (Hari puts the word half in italics, to emphasize the size of the effect.) But this finding was not statistically significant, according to the published work to which he is referring. “Differences between study groups were modest,” it says.When reached by email, Hari acknowledged two of these mistakes and insisted that the other two were spurious. Some food executives did end up uttering the words pink slime, he said. (This was only in the course of responding to the PR crisis that the coinage had produced.) He also said that he’d drawn the stat about responsive parenting from a different paper that came out of the same research project, which was published two years earlier than the one cited in the endnotes of his book. (The text in Magic Pill clearly refers to the findings of the more recent paper.)I’m worried by this indolence with details, from a (once again) successful writer whose commitment to the truth was formerly in question. But I was disconcerted, too, by Hari’s careless use of language. He’s a lovely writer when he wants to be: As a columnist, his early work—filled with fizzy, funny formulations—was a pleasure to consume. Now he sometimes writes as though he’s dishing day-old cream of wheat. “Then a breakthrough came from totally out of left field,” reads one characteristic section opener. The scientists in Magic Pill are said to have “aha moments,” “light-bulb moments,” and moments as “in a game show, where you realize you’ve won the jackpot”; and many of their reported quotes—which Hari tends to give at snippet-length—are comically banal. “That was unbelievably exciting,” an endocrinologist tells him, in reference to the FDA’s approval of a diabetes drug. “When you have obesity as a child, it’s very difficult to become un-obese,” another source explains.[Read: Ozempic or bust]He’s also shameless about recycling his work. “I’d like to briefly restate a little of what I wrote,” he offers at one point, as the setup for a two-page run-through of a scene from Lost Connections. In other places, second-hand material gets passed off as something new. “If I was a sandwich, you wouldn’t want to eat me,” he says he told his trainer in Magic Pill, after learning that his body-fat percentage was up to 32. He made the same incomprehensible joke about his body-fat percentage, using almost the same words, in the story about his visit to the Austrian health spa from 2005: “If I were a sandwich, nobody would eat me. Except me.” He also used it in a column from 2010: “If I were a sandwich, nobody would eat me except me.”Some stretches of Magic Pill are so caked over with cliché that you can’t help but wonder if Hari might be doing it on purpose. He writes about a time when “something unexpected happened,” and then another time when someone “stumbled on an unexpected fact,” and a third when a lot of people started to “notice something unexpected.” This formulation—someone noticed something—keeps coming back: We hear from people who have variously “noticed something weird,” “noticed something odd,” “notice[d] something disconcerting,” “noticed something striking,” “noticed something peculiar,” or simply “noticed something” (which occurs multiple times on its own).Some people are so rich they’re said to have fuck-you money. As I read through Magic Pill, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is this Hari’s fuck-you prose? But then something else occurred to me: Ironically, and despite its tendency toward sloppiness, this is Hari’s writing on a diet. Sure, he used to tell his stories with panache, but that was the old Johann Hari—the fried-chicken-eating Johann Hari, the pill-popping Johann Hari, the plagiarizing Johann Hari. Now he’s on a strict regimen of bullet points. He’s skimmed the oil from his writing and doubled down on adding fiber.Why else would he insist on keeping track of all the miles that he’s traveled for each book? Why else would he be calculating (and reporting!) the numbers of his interviews? And why else would Hari feel the need to enumerate his every thought and argument as if it were a meal to be recorded in a food-tracking app? Magic Pill, like all his other books, is preoccupied with numbered lists. He can’t seem to stop himself from tallying: the five reasons we eat; the seven ways that processed foods will undermine your health; the 12 potential risks of taking drugs like Ozempic; and the five long-term scenarios that these drugs may yet produce. Was this just another form of laziness? He’s counting calories, of course; he’s showing you his work is made from whole ingredients. This is journalism on a detox cleanse. This is how you write for sustenance instead of pleasure. And this may be what you do when you’re a recovering former columnist.“I work hard to make my books both factually accurate and transparent,” Hari told me in his emailed response. “Because of some things I did that were unambiguously wrong 14 years ago, I am held to a high standard, and I embrace that high standard.” But few efforts at self-discipline can last for long, as Magic Pill itself explains.The book describes a long history of research showing that losing weight by eating less is often ineffective. “When I injected myself with Ozempic for the fifth month in a row, I thought of all the diets I had tried over the years, all the times I had tried to cut out carbs or sugar,” Hari writes. “I wondered if all those diets had been a sad joke all along, and this was my only option now.” As a journalist, he also ends up straying from his regimen: From time to time, and in place of conversations with his expert sources, Hari slips into a looser and more entertaining style. He talks about his friends, for instance, and describes the conversations they’ve had about Ozempic. Hari’s pals, unlike his sources, tend to speak in long and lively monologues that just happen to encapsulate the themes of Magic Pill. “How much is this really about improving your health?” asks a friend whom he decides to call Lara. “I don’t think, for you, it is. Not really. Not primarily. I want you to stop, and really think about it.” She goes on: I’ve known you for twenty-five years, and you’ve never been happy about how you look. You look good. I’ve always thought you looked good. But you don’t think you do. So you’re taking this drug—and all these huge risks—to conform to a particular look, an approved look, the most socially approved look. That’s why you’re doing it. You want to be thin. Those people at that Hollywood party you went to, where you learned about this drug for the first time, and you texted me all excited—they weren’t doing this to boost their health. They were already healthy. They had private chefs to cook them the healthiest possible food. They see a personal trainer every day. They were doing it to be unnaturally thin. You aren’t taking these risks to have a healthy heart. You’re taking them to have cheekbones. Lara continues in this vein, with very minor interjections from the author, across five pages of the book. This reads like Hari’s writing on a binge, unchecked by endnotes or the need for posting audio from interviews. (The bits about his friends come with no citations.) And he’s in binge mode, too, when he’s telling stories from his past, like the one about the wellness trip to Austria. Certain rigors now appear to be suspended, and the facts get kind of doughy.[Read: Ozempic patients need an off ramp]For instance, when Hari first wrote about his visit to the Alpine clinic, for The Independent in 2005, he said that he was met at the entrance by a man. In Magic Pill, it’s “a woman dressed in an elaborate nineteenth-century Austrian peasant costume.” (When reached by email, Hari blamed this gender inconsistency on a typo in the first version, which turned she into he.) The same woman comes back later in the retold version of the story, still in her elaborate peasant costume, where the original version refers only to a “nurse.” Hari says in Magic Pill that multiple staffers at the clinic were in these silly peasant outfits. The version from The Independent—from which entire paragraphs have otherwise been borrowed word for word—mentions none of them. (“It’s normal, when writing an article, to leave out some minor descriptive details, and to include them when you have more space later,” Hari told me in the email.)Similar adjustments can be found in Hari’s other reheated anecdotes. He starts the book with one about a trip he took to KFC on Christmas Eve in 2009, where all the members of the restaurant’s staff surprised him with a giant Christmas card addressed “to our best customer,” which included personal messages from each of them. He told the same story a few years ago in Lost Connections, and before that in an Independent column in 2010. But the original version takes place on December 23, not Christmas Eve; “You are our best customer” is a thing that’s said out loud, not written on a card, and there’s no mention of any personal messages from anyone at the restaurant. (Hari acknowledged that he’d made an error on the date, and told me that he’d be “happy to correct this.”) If these stories have been lightly edited, all the changes were of course unnecessary. Perhaps the clinic sounds a little sillier with the staff in dirndls, and the story of the card from KFC lands a little better when it plays out on Christmas Eve. But why would Hari bother to adjust these minor details when he’s taking such pains in other ways to demonstrate his scruples?Hari’s subject matter and his execution seem to come together in these moments. He’s explained the social and environmental causes of compulsive overeating, and he’s appealed to all the ways in which behavior can be shaped by past experience. In recent years he’s done the same for drug abuse, depression, and distraction. After nearly losing his career for taking liberties with facts, Hari has gotten famous as a chronicler and social theorist of our lack of self-control. But however it’s presented, his struggle to constrain himself still appears to be ongoing. Johann Hari keeps wondering what happened to his willpower. Four books into his comeback, we all might wonder just the same.

A chronicler of addictions struggles to control himself.

In the fall of 2005, Johann Hari, then a young columnist for The Independent who was struggling with his weight, described a trip he said he’d taken to a wellness spa in the foothills of the Carinthian Alps. After spending just four days there on a cleansing diet that consisted almost entirely of drinking tea—Hari could not bear to stay a moment longer—he’d lost seven pounds. “The cravings for lard had leeched out of my system,” he marveled in his write-up, noting that he hadn’t yet regained the weight.

Hari tells this Alpine-detox story once again in Magic Pill, his fourth and latest book, released last month—but the anecdote now appears to hold a different lesson. Instead of maintaining his new diet, he seems to relapse: “When I got home, I felt like a failure,” he now says of the very same experience. “Where, I wondered, was my willpower?”

The new book’s title is a slanted reference to Ozempic (which doesn’t come in pill form), and to the new class of anti-obesity medications that is already reshaping health care for tens of millions of Americans. Many of Magic Pill’s 250 pages describe these drugs’ amazing benefits and potential harms; most of the rest are devoted to a workmanlike review of certain social causes of obesity, and how they might one day be reversed. Some portions of this story have been told in other places—Hari makes ample references to other well-known books. But his account brings an element of human drama that few could match, even when it’s just rehashing others’ work. That drama is the author’s own: Above all else, Magic Pill describes Hari’s everlasting struggle to control himself. Whether purposefully or not, he has produced a revealing record of his shame.

Why does Hari feel ashamed? For one thing, he’s on Ozempic. Hari doesn’t really need to take Ozempic, but he’s on it nonetheless: That’s the premise of the book, as laid out from the start. He decided, “quite abruptly” as he puts it in the introduction, to begin injections. It was 2022, and his pandemic BMI had risen to a hair over 30, just high enough to qualify for a prescription. Going on it “was a snap decision,” he explains, “and later I realized I was driven by impulses I didn’t fully understand at the time.” A methodical examination of those impulses unspools from there: Across the book’s 12 chapters, Hari will ask himself why he can’t just stop eating. Why should he need the help of a powerful drug to lose weight? Where, he’ll wonder again and again, is his willpower?

There are scientific answers to those questions, and also there are moral ones. “Taking Ozempic was a betrayal of my values. Every time I injected myself, I felt fraudulent,” he writes. A few pages later, he elaborates: “If I am totally honest, at some level, I believed that by taking these drugs, I was cheating.” This inner sense of crookedness is meant to stand in for a more expansive one. If he’s a victim of his impulses, then we all are as well. Why can’t any of us stop eating? Whatever happened to our willpower? And if Hari feels uneasy injecting himself with artificial self-restraint, then society should feel the same. We’ve made a religion, more or less, out of limitless consumption; we’ve allowed our diets to be overrun with processed, packaged foods. Now we’re rolling back the ill effects of too much eating with yet another branded product. Doesn’t this approach to public health feel a little bit like cheating? Isn’t it a form of fraud?

This line of thinking holds a special resonance for Hari, who has in other contexts shown a catastrophic lack of self-control. In fact, his history as a journalist would seem to offer special insight into the battle between the id and the superego. As a columnist for magazines and newspapers—and as the guy who wrote about the Alpine weight-loss trip almost 20 years ago—he was once a lauded journalist. Hari’s work “combines courageous reporting and forceful writing with honest analysis,” announced a judge who awarded him the Orwell Prize in 2008. But Hari’s career appeared to reach an early end a few years later, when some of his work was found to be conspicuously dishonest. In 2011, he was outed as a plagiarist, and then for making vicious accusations about his rivals through a sock-puppet account on Wikipedia. “I did two wrong and stupid things,” Hari wrote in his final column for the Independent, under the headline “A personal apology.” He promised to step away from writing for a while so that he could study journalism, and that when he finished he’d be more scrupulous than he’d ever been before, footnoting all his work and posting audio of all his interviews. “I hope after a period of retraining, you will give me the chance,” he said.

That chance arrived a few years later, when Hari reappeared with a best seller, Chasing the Scream, on the social causes of addiction, and a viral TED Talk—which has now been viewed 21 million times—on the same topic. He’s since written three more pop-science books, all of which are variations on this theme. In 2018, he published Lost Connections, another best seller, about depression, anxiety, and, to some extent, the nature of addiction. Hillary Clinton blurbed that one, and Ezra Klein had Hari on his podcast. After that was Stolen Focus, in 2022, about technology, distraction, and the limits of the will. Hari got another blurb from Clinton (among other celebrities), and spent another hour as a guest on Klein’s show. And now this year we have Magic Pill, Hari’s book about obesity, overeating, and, once again, the limits of the will.

Which is to say, all of Hari’s writing since his comeback has been concerned—one might even say obsessed—with self-control and self-destruction; and with the interplay of forces, from without and from within, that may lead us into ruin. They present as social commentary, and also as self-help, and further as a meditation on the links between the social and the self. As Klein put it on his podcast, the books compose “a little subgenre taking conditions and afflictions that we individualize and arguing for their social roots.”

Hari tends to use himself to illustrate those conditions and afflictions, however they arise. According to his books, he’s been hooked on stimulants; he’s also been strung out on antidepressants, dependent on his phone, and addicted to fried foods. He says he has a family history of drug dependence, and of mental illness, and also of obesity. In other words, Hari lives in just the way we all do: caught between desire and self-blame. His books describe dysregulation. They’re also a product of it.

Back in 2015, when Hari gave his first post-scandal interview, he described himself, in a joke, as a “recovering former columnist.” His work since then does read like one extended chronicle of a struggle for sobriety—particularly when it comes to sticking to the facts. Hari’s books remind you in a hundred different ways that he’s on the wagon as a journalist. He posts the audio from many of his interviews, just as he promised he would, and he piles on the endnotes. “I went on a journey of over forty thousand miles. I conducted more than two hundred interviews across the world,” he boasts in the introduction to Lost Connections. “I went on a 30,000-mile journey … In the end, I interviewed over 250 experts,” he says in Stolen Focus. And now, apparently having rushed a bit for Magic Pill: “I went on a journey around the world, where I interviewed over a hundred experts.”

But showing off is not the same as showing discipline. In spite of Magic Pill’s 394 endnotes (including those published on the website for the book) and 318 posted clips from interviews, and notwithstanding the pair of fact-checkers whom Hari thanks in his acknowledgments, the book is strewn with sloppy errors. Some of these have already been made public. When a British restaurant critic named Jay Rayner, described by Hari as having lost his love for food after going on Ozempic, pointed out on X last month that this was “complete and utter bollocks,” Hari admitted his mistake: “I apologise to Jay for getting this wrong, & am gutted I & my fact-checkers missed it,” he wrote. Then his proffered explanation—that he’d meant to cite the experience of the film critic Leila Latif when she was on Ozempic—ran aground as well. “I’m not, nor have I ever been, on semaglutide,” Latif chimed in just hours later.

A few weeks ago he posted fixes for another seven errors from the book on his website, in response to an email from a journalist. (A detailed roundup of those mistakes has since been published in The Telegraph.) I came across a bunch of other glitches in my reading of the book. In one instance, Hari writes about an evening long ago when he heard about a restaurant in Las Vegas where the servers doled out spankings to anyone who didn’t clean their plate. According to the book, that conversation happened in the late 1990s or early aughts, but the restaurant in question—called the Heart Attack Grill—didn’t open in Las Vegas until 2011. This tiny error makes no difference to the story Hari tells, but lots of tiny errors, set against the backdrop of the author’s ostentatious rigor, tell a story of their own. In a chapter on the scourge of ultra-processed foods, Hari talks about the slurry of defatted beef that is sometimes called “pink slime,” suggesting that it got this name from a food executive. This is precisely not the case. (Food executives sued the guy who coined that phrase, along with the news outlet that reported it, for defamation.) When Hari writes about the big reveal of findings from a major trial of Ozempic’s use for losing weight, he sets the scene on “one day in 2022.” The reveal occurred in 2021. And when he describes a study of mothers who have been taught “responsive parenting” techniques, he says their children ended up half as likely to become obese or overweight as those of other parents. (Hari puts the word half in italics, to emphasize the size of the effect.) But this finding was not statistically significant, according to the published work to which he is referring. “Differences between study groups were modest,” it says.

When reached by email, Hari acknowledged two of these mistakes and insisted that the other two were spurious. Some food executives did end up uttering the words pink slime, he said. (This was only in the course of responding to the PR crisis that the coinage had produced.) He also said that he’d drawn the stat about responsive parenting from a different paper that came out of the same research project, which was published two years earlier than the one cited in the endnotes of his book. (The text in Magic Pill clearly refers to the findings of the more recent paper.)

I’m worried by this indolence with details, from a (once again) successful writer whose commitment to the truth was formerly in question. But I was disconcerted, too, by Hari’s careless use of language. He’s a lovely writer when he wants to be: As a columnist, his early work—filled with fizzy, funny formulations—was a pleasure to consume. Now he sometimes writes as though he’s dishing day-old cream of wheat. “Then a breakthrough came from totally out of left field,” reads one characteristic section opener. The scientists in Magic Pill are said to have “aha moments,” “light-bulb moments,” and moments as “in a game show, where you realize you’ve won the jackpot”; and many of their reported quotes—which Hari tends to give at snippet-length—are comically banal. “That was unbelievably exciting,” an endocrinologist tells him, in reference to the FDA’s approval of a diabetes drug. “When you have obesity as a child, it’s very difficult to become un-obese,” another source explains.

[Read: Ozempic or bust]

He’s also shameless about recycling his work. “I’d like to briefly restate a little of what I wrote,” he offers at one point, as the setup for a two-page run-through of a scene from Lost Connections. In other places, second-hand material gets passed off as something new. “If I was a sandwich, you wouldn’t want to eat me,” he says he told his trainer in Magic Pill, after learning that his body-fat percentage was up to 32. He made the same incomprehensible joke about his body-fat percentage, using almost the same words, in the story about his visit to the Austrian health spa from 2005: “If I were a sandwich, nobody would eat me. Except me.” He also used it in a column from 2010: “If I were a sandwich, nobody would eat me except me.”

Some stretches of Magic Pill are so caked over with cliché that you can’t help but wonder if Hari might be doing it on purpose. He writes about a time when “something unexpected happened,” and then another time when someone “stumbled on an unexpected fact,” and a third when a lot of people started to “notice something unexpected.” This formulation—someone noticed something—keeps coming back: We hear from people who have variously “noticed something weird,” “noticed something odd,” “notice[d] something disconcerting,” “noticed something striking,” “noticed something peculiar,” or simply “noticed something” (which occurs multiple times on its own).

Some people are so rich they’re said to have fuck-you money. As I read through Magic Pill, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is this Hari’s fuck-you prose? But then something else occurred to me: Ironically, and despite its tendency toward sloppiness, this is Hari’s writing on a diet. Sure, he used to tell his stories with panache, but that was the old Johann Hari—the fried-chicken-eating Johann Hari, the pill-popping Johann Hari, the plagiarizing Johann Hari. Now he’s on a strict regimen of bullet points. He’s skimmed the oil from his writing and doubled down on adding fiber.

Why else would he insist on keeping track of all the miles that he’s traveled for each book? Why else would he be calculating (and reporting!) the numbers of his interviews? And why else would Hari feel the need to enumerate his every thought and argument as if it were a meal to be recorded in a food-tracking app? Magic Pill, like all his other books, is preoccupied with numbered lists. He can’t seem to stop himself from tallying: the five reasons we eat; the seven ways that processed foods will undermine your health; the 12 potential risks of taking drugs like Ozempic; and the five long-term scenarios that these drugs may yet produce. Was this just another form of laziness? He’s counting calories, of course; he’s showing you his work is made from whole ingredients. This is journalism on a detox cleanse. This is how you write for sustenance instead of pleasure. And this may be what you do when you’re a recovering former columnist.

“I work hard to make my books both factually accurate and transparent,” Hari told me in his emailed response. “Because of some things I did that were unambiguously wrong 14 years ago, I am held to a high standard, and I embrace that high standard.” But few efforts at self-discipline can last for long, as Magic Pill itself explains.

The book describes a long history of research showing that losing weight by eating less is often ineffective. “When I injected myself with Ozempic for the fifth month in a row, I thought of all the diets I had tried over the years, all the times I had tried to cut out carbs or sugar,” Hari writes. “I wondered if all those diets had been a sad joke all along, and this was my only option now.” As a journalist, he also ends up straying from his regimen: From time to time, and in place of conversations with his expert sources, Hari slips into a looser and more entertaining style. He talks about his friends, for instance, and describes the conversations they’ve had about Ozempic. Hari’s pals, unlike his sources, tend to speak in long and lively monologues that just happen to encapsulate the themes of Magic Pill. “How much is this really about improving your health?” asks a friend whom he decides to call Lara. “I don’t think, for you, it is. Not really. Not primarily. I want you to stop, and really think about it.” She goes on:

I’ve known you for twenty-five years, and you’ve never been happy about how you look. You look good. I’ve always thought you looked good. But you don’t think you do. So you’re taking this drug—and all these huge risks—to conform to a particular look, an approved look, the most socially approved look. That’s why you’re doing it. You want to be thin. Those people at that Hollywood party you went to, where you learned about this drug for the first time, and you texted me all excited—they weren’t doing this to boost their health. They were already healthy. They had private chefs to cook them the healthiest possible food. They see a personal trainer every day. They were doing it to be unnaturally thin. You aren’t taking these risks to have a healthy heart. You’re taking them to have cheekbones.

Lara continues in this vein, with very minor interjections from the author, across five pages of the book. This reads like Hari’s writing on a binge, unchecked by endnotes or the need for posting audio from interviews. (The bits about his friends come with no citations.) And he’s in binge mode, too, when he’s telling stories from his past, like the one about the wellness trip to Austria. Certain rigors now appear to be suspended, and the facts get kind of doughy.

[Read: Ozempic patients need an off ramp]

For instance, when Hari first wrote about his visit to the Alpine clinic, for The Independent in 2005, he said that he was met at the entrance by a man. In Magic Pill, it’s “a woman dressed in an elaborate nineteenth-century Austrian peasant costume.” (When reached by email, Hari blamed this gender inconsistency on a typo in the first version, which turned she into he.) The same woman comes back later in the retold version of the story, still in her elaborate peasant costume, where the original version refers only to a “nurse.” Hari says in Magic Pill that multiple staffers at the clinic were in these silly peasant outfits. The version from The Independent—from which entire paragraphs have otherwise been borrowed word for word—mentions none of them. (“It’s normal, when writing an article, to leave out some minor descriptive details, and to include them when you have more space later,” Hari told me in the email.)

Similar adjustments can be found in Hari’s other reheated anecdotes. He starts the book with one about a trip he took to KFC on Christmas Eve in 2009, where all the members of the restaurant’s staff surprised him with a giant Christmas card addressed “to our best customer,” which included personal messages from each of them. He told the same story a few years ago in Lost Connections, and before that in an Independent column in 2010. But the original version takes place on December 23, not Christmas Eve; “You are our best customer” is a thing that’s said out loud, not written on a card, and there’s no mention of any personal messages from anyone at the restaurant. (Hari acknowledged that he’d made an error on the date, and told me that he’d be “happy to correct this.”) If these stories have been lightly edited, all the changes were of course unnecessary. Perhaps the clinic sounds a little sillier with the staff in dirndls, and the story of the card from KFC lands a little better when it plays out on Christmas Eve. But why would Hari bother to adjust these minor details when he’s taking such pains in other ways to demonstrate his scruples?

Hari’s subject matter and his execution seem to come together in these moments. He’s explained the social and environmental causes of compulsive overeating, and he’s appealed to all the ways in which behavior can be shaped by past experience. In recent years he’s done the same for drug abuse, depression, and distraction. After nearly losing his career for taking liberties with facts, Hari has gotten famous as a chronicler and social theorist of our lack of self-control. But however it’s presented, his struggle to constrain himself still appears to be ongoing. Johann Hari keeps wondering what happened to his willpower. Four books into his comeback, we all might wonder just the same.

Read the full story here.
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Alabama Utility Commission Allowed to Hike Prices Behind Closed Doors, Judge Rules

A judge has ruled that Alabama's Public Service Commission can continue holding private meetings to decide fuel price hikes

MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) — Alabama's utility regulators can continue to hold closed-door meetings to determine price hikes, in an apparent departure from common practices in neighboring states, a circuit court judge ruled.The decision on Monday rejected a lawsuit filed by Southern Environmental Law Center on behalf of Energy Alabama, a nonprofit that advocates for renewable energy sources. The watchdog group was denied access to two meetings in 2024 where the public service commission decided how Alabama Power — the state's largest electricity provider — should adjust prices based on volatility in global fuel costs. Montgomery circuit Judge Brooke Reid ruled against the environmental advocates in a one-page order after a hearing in June. She said the group's rights had not been substantially violated. At the June hearing, Reid said the commission’s “interpretation of its own rules should be given deference.”Christina Tidwell, a senior attorney for the Southern Environmental Law Center, blasted Reid’s decision in a statement on Monday.“While other Southern states have meaningful public engagement in fuel cost proceedings, Alabama Power customers will continue to be shut out of the process,” Tidwell wrote. The Alabama Public Service Commission has rules that govern how Alabama Power can change electricity prices to offset increases in fuel costs, which tend to be volatile. Those rules say that the public is entitled to hear evidence and participate in proceedings that adjust fuel costs to ensure these changes are “just and reasonable.”The lawsuit said there have been only two public fuel cost hearings since the commission’s current rules were adopted in 1981. By contrast, the Georgia Public Service Commission, which regulates a sister company of Alabama Power, has held at least 26 public formal fuel cost proceedings, according to the complaint.The last public meeting in Alabama was called because the 2008 financial crisis caused fuel prices to skyrocket rapidly, according to attorneys for the state commission. They argued that the commission hasn't technically initiated a new proceeding since that change 16 years ago, even though rates have been adjusted over 15 times since then, so they are not compelled to invite public input.Attorneys for the state also argued that the public has “plenty of opportunities for input” even without public meetings, because the commission publishes monthly reports on fuel prices online, and rate changes are subject to public appeal. Alabama Power is a subsidiary of Atlanta-based Southern Company, which reported $4.4 billion in profit in 2024, according to annual shareholder reports. Alabama Power serves about 1.5 million of the state’s roughly 5 million residents.Most Alabama residents get electricity through municipal or cooperatively owned utilities. In 2023, the average Alabama Power consumer was paying about $159 per month, compared to the statewide average of approximately $132 per month, according to the most recent data from the U.S. Energy Information Administration. Alabama Power did not respond to an emailed request for comment on Wednesday afternoon inquiring about recent rates.After the ruling, Energy Alabama's executive director Daniel Tait said in a statement that the decision was “disappointing” for “Alabamians who have no choice but to pay the high cost of fossil fuels on their Alabama Power bill.”Riddle is a corps member for The Associated Press/Report for America Statehouse News Initiative. Report for America is a nonprofit national service program that places journalists in local newsrooms to report on undercovered issues.Copyright 2025 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See - June 2025

California overhauls landmark environmental protection rules

Governor Gavin Newsom says bureaucratic roadblocks have made it difficult to build housing in the most populous stateCalifornia is overhauling its landmark environmental protection rules, a change state leaders say is essential to address the state’s housing shortage and homelessness crisis.California’s governor, Gavin Newsom, had threatened to reject the state budget passed last Friday unless lawmakers overhauled the California Environmental Quality Act, or Ceqa, a 1970s law that requires strict examination of any new development for its impact on the environment. Continue reading...

California is overhauling its landmark environmental protection rules, a change state leaders say is essential to address the state’s housing shortage and homelessness crisis.California’s governor, Gavin Newsom, had threatened to reject the state budget passed last Friday unless lawmakers overhauled the California Environmental Quality Act, or Ceqa, a 1970s law that requires strict examination of any new development for its impact on the environment.The governor and housing advocates say that Ceqa, although well-intentioned at the time, put up bureaucratic roadblocks that have made it increasingly difficult to build housing in the most populous state in the US.Lawmakers passed the transformative measure despite opposition from environmental groups. Newsom called it a step toward solving the state’s housing affordability problem.“This was too urgent, too important, to allow the process to unfold as it has for the last generation,” he told reporters at a news conference after signing the bill.The new rules were passed in two so-called “budget trailer” bills. Under the new rules, large swaths of “infill housing”, or homes built in and around existing development, will be exempt from Ceqa reviews. There will be some exceptions, including for very large projects and construction in very low-density areas, but most homes and apartments built in cities will no longer be subject to the review.“This is what we’ve all been waiting for – a long-overdue step to stop Ceqa from being weaponized against housing,” said Assemblymember Buffy Wicks, who sponsored one of the bills. “We’re taking a major step toward building desperately needed homes faster, fairer, and with more certainty.”The new regulations also include exemptions for hi-tech manufacturing sites, a move proponents say will stimulate growth but critics say will facilitate industrial development in low-income neighborhoods.The exemptions, and in particular those for manufacturing sites, have been vehemently opposed by some social justice and environmental groups. “Together, these bills undermine the public participation process and the right to protect their community from environmental and health risks,” said the Western Center on Law & Poverty.“We’re in a nature crisis, we’re seeing unprecedented loss of wildlife, and that’s to be made worse with this bill,” said Laura Deehan with the group Environment California in a committee hearing on Monday.Earlier this year, Newsom waived some Ceqa rules for victims of wildfires in southern California, creating an opening for the state to re-examine the law that critics say hampers development and drives up building costs.The state budget passed last week pares back a number of progressive priorities, including a landmark healthcare expansion for low-income adult immigrants without legal status, to close a $12bn deficit.

Coalition fears spending cuts could idle central Oregon trail maintenance

Jana Johnson of Deschutes Trails Coalition says federal funding cuts will indefinitely pause trail maintenance performed by professionals.

Each summer the Deschutes Trails Coalition dispatches a small crew into the forest around Bend to improve trail conditions for myriad hikers. They remove fallen trees, repair trails impacted by erosion and cut back overgrown vegetation. But those involved with trail maintenance are increasingly worried the work relied on by both locals and visitors will soon come to a screeching halt. Jana Johnson, executive director of the nonprofit coalition, says federal funding cuts ordered by the Trump administration will indefinitely pause trail maintenance performed by professionals. A hiring freeze for seasonal workers will only compound problems for the Forest Service. “There’s obviously a lot of staffing shortages. There have been firings. People have been leaving our federal agencies due to the current budget and offers from the current administration,” said Johnson. “The public needs to know that our public lands are struggling right now.” READ MORE: Oregon hikers asked to ‘step up’ as federal cuts threaten Northwest trails The Deschutes Trails Coalition — in the third year of a three-year pilot project to pay for trail maintenance — was expecting a $200,000 grant to pay for a trail crew to operate through the summer. But that funding has been canceled, casting doubt about how the nonprofit will pay for trail maintenance in the years ahead. The coalition planned to stretch the funding over the next three years, supplemented by grants. “But without that $200,000, we are just left scrambling to try to figure out how we are going to fund them,” said Johnson. Concerns that trail maintenance won’t happen this year on the Deschutes and other national forests reflect broader worries that the Trump administration is sidelining environmental protections and recreation in favor of resource extraction. Executive orders are already in place to increase logging and fossil fuel extraction on public lands. The Deschutes River Trail runs through Tumalo State Park in central Oregon near Bend. One section of the trail follows a metal boardwalk over a field of boulders. Jamie Hale/The OregonianNate Wyeth, vice president of strategy for Visit Bend, says abandoning professional trail maintenance won’t go unnoticed by the public. “Our unparalleled access to outdoor recreation is the top reason many folks visit or live in Bend, and the current federal funding crisis will undoubtedly impact trail conditions, creating a negative visitor experience,” Wyeth said. An inquiry to the U.S. Forest Service from the Bulletin related to the disappearance of funding for trail maintenance went unanswered. Maintaining trails in national forests and other public lands has only become more challenging in recent years, due to increased demand from the public to hike and explore the outdoors. Project work has piled up due to increased use. “We already have millions of dollars of backlog of maintenance that needs to be done on our trails,” said Johnson. “So we’re just going to keep falling further behind if we don’t have crews that are working on maintenance and projects.” While volunteer crews occasionally maintain local trails, the Deschutes Trail Coalition crew is the only paid, professional crew working on the Deschutes National Forest. Deschutes County Commissioner Tony DeBone acknowledged that the Trump administration is tightening the purse strings, impacting groups like the trails coalition. “These are times of action, obviously, from Washington D.C. when the dollars are stopping in different directions,” said DeBone. “People could or need to think differently this year,” he added. “This is the time where if those resources aren’t there, what’s the next plan? Being able to open up a trail can be done in partnership with the federal government.” DeBone suggested local organizations like the Deschutes Trail Coalition find out what is possible to accomplish. “Volunteers can get quite a bit done,” he said. Trail maintenance on the Deschutes National Forest usually starts in May and continues until mid-October. Johnson said there are some funds leftover from a year ago along with some new grants that can be used to get some work done at the start of the season. But the coalition’s account will be drained fairly soon, she predicts. “We desperately need funds,” Johnson said. Courtney Braun, co-owner of Wanderlust Tours in Bend, said she is anxious about what federal funding cuts mean for national forests’ partner organizations and public lands. “We feel this could impact not only the health and maintenance of the forest including trails, but could impact visitor safety without as many boots on the ground or trail maintenance,” said Braun. “This also will affect future projects of trail building that will delay some major improvements for both our community and visitors alike.” Braun said she hopes the community can “rally around” public lands and support federal employees who have been left with large funding gaps in their departments. “We can encourage visitors to really lean into volunteering and understanding or educating themselves about the lands upon which we recreate,” said Braun. “Hopefully with all of our powers combined we can still offer a high quality visitor experience. It just may look a bit different.”Approximately two dozen organizations conduct volunteer trail maintenance in Central Oregon, including: • Sisters Trail Alliance • Oregon Equestrian Trails • Central Oregon Trail Alliance • Friends of the Central Cascades Wilderness • Central Oregon Nordic Club — Michael Kohn, The Bulletin

Hawaii Spent Millions on Housing for the Homeless. Show Us the Receipts

A Honolulu Civil Beat review found that the state agency in charge of Hawaii’s homeless villages lacks records to show how millions paid to a nonprofit to build hundreds of housing units was actually spent

The state agency in charge of Hawaiʻi’s homeless villages lacks the records to show how millions of dollars paid to a nonprofit to build hundreds of housing units was actually spent, a Civil Beat review of contract documents and invoices found.Since late 2023, the state has issued more than $37.1 million in no-bid contracts to HomeAid Hawaiʻi to build small dwellings as part of Gov. Josh Green’s signature Kauhale Initiative.While HomeAid has provided the Department of Human Services with balance sheets and supporting documents showing how it used state money for some of its projects, the state doesn’t have receipts or other documents detailing the specific use of public money for other projects.DHS told Civil Beat that some of those projects are not finished and will be subject to agency audits once they are.Now, Green wants $50 million more from the Legislature for his program to address homelessness. The Legislature has yet to agree on that funding as lawmakers consider what requirements to attach to the money to build kauhale villages across the state.House and Senate lawmakers have disagreed on the terms of the kauhale bill and must hash out differences during a conference committee, which has not yet been scheduled. A key point of contention is whether to require at least two bids for the construction of the villages.The Kauhale Initiative is meant to solve one of the state’s critical social issues. After running for governor on a campaign to address Hawaiʻi’s housing crisis, Green declared a state emergency on homelessness in 2023. Oʻahu’s annual Point-In-Time count at the time tallied more than 6,223 homeless people, more than half of them living outside. Green’s team quickly built 12 kauhale statewide. With the procurement code suspended under the state of emergency, Hawaiʻi waived competitive bidding and went with a no-bid development contractor, HomeAid Hawaiʻi, to implement the program. The initiative calls for creating “affordable spaces for housing and healing our people, through intentional ‘kauhale’ design and operation.”Critics, including of late Green’s former homelessness coordinator John Mizuno, have raised questions about operating costs of some kauhale. And Civil Beat’s review of construction expenditures highlights potential lapses in the Department of Human Services’ oversight of those projects.The department was unable to provide documents to show spending by HomeAid on two of the priciest kauhale projects to date — Middle Street’s Phase 2 and another one in Kahului on Maui — totaling more than $14 million. Work on those projects has just recently begun, officials said, although the nonprofit has received about $2 million up front.Details on two other contracts were also lacking. For one of those contracts – to deliver 273 homes statewide – HomeAid CEO Kimo Carvalho billed the state for nearly the entire cost of the contract all at once and provided almost no detail on how funds were used.On another contract for the Alana Ola Pono kauhale in Iwilei, the state paid out $2.5 million – half the value of the contract – up front with only a brief description of work that would be performed. Details on what became of the rest of the money weren’t provided in response to a records request from Civil Beat. That project opened in December, but is about two weeks away from completion, Carvalho said.Much of the work to review invoices was done by Jun Yang, who at the time was an employee of the Department of Transportation but also part of a kauhale team formed to aid Mizuno. Yang was so deeply involved that at one point, when there was a hold up in payment from DHS to HomeAid in September, Yang told Carvalho that if HomeAid staff sent payment request forms “we will get them taken care of.”Yang took over the top job from Mizuno in February.DHS Deputy Director Joseph Campos told Civil Beat on Wednesday that he recognizes his agency’s responsibility to the public and to legislators. The department has many processes to review the expenditures, he said, and it is not trying to skirt accountability.“Although we utilize the authority of the emergency order not to do a formal bid process, that does not mean we go willy nilly in choosing whatever we want.”Despite the absence of backup documentation to prove it in some cases, Campos said, “almost on a daily basis, we’re price-engineering or value-engineering a contract to make sure that we’re getting the best possible price out there.” Bill To Require Competitive Bidding In Question The House has sought to address questions of accountability by requiring at least two bids from builders. But the Senate removed the requirement after Yang testified that requiring two bids could delay development of projects. House Housing Committee Chairman Luke Evslin, who had amended the kauhale bill to include the two-bid requirement, said he couldn’t say what position House conferees will take during the negotiations to reconcile the two versions. Evslin has been named one of the co-chairs of the conference committee.An older version of the kauhale bill required “at least two bidders for any kauhale project”, however it was dropped in more recent versions.“For my own personal preference, the two-bid requirement makes a lot of sense to ensure accountability and efficiency,” Evslin said.Evslin acknowledged that no-bid contracts are allowed under Green’s emergency proclamation on homelessness, which suspends the state procurement code. But Evslin said requiring at least two bids makes sense as Green’s initiative matures from an emergency policy into a permanent endeavor.“Our hope is to transition the Kauhale Initiative into something that is sustainable,” he said. Green declined an interview request to discuss the kauhale bill. His spokesperson, Makana McClellan, said the administration would wait until after session to talk about active bills. Mizuno also declined to comment.McClellan said that HomeAId’s kauhale projects are routinely reviewed for compliance by the state Attorney General’s Office. How To Make The Program More Effective The rift over the two-bid requirement reflects a difference of opinion between the former and current coordinators in charge of overseeing Green’s Statewide Office on Homelessness and Housing Solutions. The overall philosophy, which isn’t disputed, is that it’s better for people and less expensive for the state to create tiny home villages with support services than to provide services to people on the street. The dispute involves how to get there.Mizuno, a longtime former lawmaker whom Green appointed to the position in December 2023, testified in February in favor of requiring two bids to build kauhale. Evslin’s housing committee amended the bill to incorporate the request.Diesel fuel and equipment to provide electricity cost $21,032 just for April — which came out to more than $1,000 a month per tiny home — according to invoices from Sunbelt Rentals examined by Civil Beat. In contrast, the average monthly bill for a full-sized residential home on Oahu is $202, according to Hawaiian Electric Co.During a tour of several properties Mizuno showed that monthly cost for another kauhale, located in a converted residential home, was just over $1,300 per bed.Generally a staunch advocate of Green’s initiative, Mizuno said he was “very concerned with off-grid kauhale.” At the time, Green said the off-grid kauhale were merely a bridge to get people off the street and into homes.By month’s end, Mizuno had stepped down from the top post to be Green’s special advisor on homelessness, replaced by Yang, who previously had been homelessness coordinator for the Hawaiʻi Department of Transportation.Less than a month later, on March 12, Yang requested that lawmakers remove the two-bid requirement for kauhale construction contracts during testimony in a joint hearing of the Senate committees on Health and Human Services and Housing.Echoing Department of Human Services testimony, Yang said he was “concerned that the two-bid minimum may delay project development in certain communities if only one bid is received.” Documents Show Irregularities Those records included invoices and supporting documents typical of large construction projects and final reports required by the contracts. The request initially focused on the Middle Street and Iwilei kauhale.The department’s first response to the request two weeks later didn’t include documents detailing expenditures. Instead, the department just provided copies of the contracts themselves.The agency eventually scanned and turned over copies of invoices and supporting documents for most of the kauhale projects on April 11. It provided extensive documentation for the Middle Street project’s first phase.But there were notable irregularities concerning other projects.For example, HomeAid was granted a contract in June to provide 273 tiny home units at a cost of $5.8 million. Payment was supposed to be made in four installments between June and September, with invoices and documents accompanying each installment.Instead, HomeAid sent one invoice in August, covering $174,000 worth of work, and another in October for $5.6 million. The majority of those funds went to the broad category of “Consulting and Non Employee Expense.” There’s no breakdown of what that entailed.“I believe we’re still working through the process,” Campos said of the project. “I believe we’re only halfway through on that one.”Despite the lack of publicly available accounting on some of these contracts, the department was looking at what the payments were for. Carvalho said his team and state officials meet weekly to review expenses on projects.Yang was the subject matter expert on the kauhale initiative, Campos said, which is why he was deeply involved in reviewing invoices.In one instance, Carvalho emailed Yang on Sept. 13 to check on reimbursements for money spent on kauhale in Kahului and Iwilei, as well as other projects in Kāneʻohe and Kalihi.“Would you mind helping me to track these down?” Carvalho wrote.Yang replied a few hours later, telling Carvalho to have staff prepare payment request forms. Yang even checked in with Campos’ secretary, asking her to forward other invoices for payment.He asked Carvalho to send a coversheet and a payment form for HomeAid’s 43-unit kauhale in Iwilei.“We will process the check for $2.5 million,” Yang wrote.HomeAid sent the state an invoice a week later. HomeAid’s Iwilei contract requires it to provide an itemization of expenses, timesheets or receipts. But there are no supporting documents to show how HomeAid spent the money on the Iwilei kauhale.Instead, there is merely a description in the invoice summarizing work performed, including erosion control, installation of a dust fence and barriers, construction and environmental services and site work. None of these costs are itemized, and there’s no accounting for what was paid to various subcontractors.Campos explained that those were upfront costs that wouldn’t necessarily be accounted for at this stage. Once projects like the Iwilei kauhale are completed, Campos said the public would be able to review the audits on those projects’ costs.Carvalho acknowledged that HomeAid is behind on providing invoices for the Iwilei project.“It doesn’t mean that the state’s not aware of what is being billed every month,” he said. “There’s still at least some accountability along the way.”The state also couldn’t provide documents concerning two newer projects. HomeAid was given a $6.7 million contract in November to complete the second phase of a kauhale on Middle Street. It called for up to 30 housing units, in addition to the 20 already at the site.In December, HomeAid was given a $7.9 million contract for a kauhale project in Kahului.Both contracts called for $1 million to be paid to HomeAid up front. HomeAid was required to account for those expenses, according to the contracts. The contracts also say that subsequent payments would be made in monthly installments after submission of invoices and supporting documentation.Asked about the status of those projects and records detailing spending, Carvalho said that work has just recently begun on both of those projects.“There hasn’t been a lot of work to spend on,” he said. ‘Where Is The Accountability?’ Lawmakers have also had a hard time getting details about HomeAid’s work on other housing projects.Rep. Elle Cochran, who represents Lahaina, has asked DHS for documentation concerning construction of Ka La’i Ola, a village of temporary homes for fire survivors in her district. The project cost $185 million, or $411,000 per home, including massive infrastructure improvements for the land, which will later be used by the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands. The project opened in January.Cochran said she asked for documentation called for by DHS’s construction contract with HomeAid, including interim reports and a final accounting for the project. Emails from Campos to Cochran show the agency is still working on her request.Regardless of the emergency proclamation suspending the procurement law, Cochran said it’s fair to ask for an accounting now that Ka La’i Ola has been built.“If this type of money has been expended and given, then where is the breakdown? Where is the proof? Where is the receipt?” she asked. “Where is the accountability?”This story was originally published by Honolulu Civil Beat and distributed through a partnership with The Associated Press.Copyright 2025 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See - Feb. 2025

Romania promises laws to deal with brown bears as population estimate doubles

Country may be home to as many as 13,000 bears, the highest total by far in Europe outside RussiaRomania may be home to as many as 13,000 brown bears, almost twice as many as previously thought, the country’s forestry research institute has said, as officials promised new laws to allow communities to deal with “crisis bear situations”.The institute’s study of 25 counties in the Carpathian mountains was the first to use DNA samples from material such as faeces and hair. Previous estimates based on prints and sightings put the bear population at less than 8,000. Continue reading...

Romania may be home to as many as 13,000 brown bears, almost twice as many as previously thought, the country’s forestry research institute has said, as officials promised new laws to allow communities to deal with “crisis bear situations”.The institute’s study of 25 counties in the Carpathian mountains was the first to use DNA samples from material such as faeces and hair. Previous estimates based on prints and sightings put the bear population at less than 8,000.According to environment ministry figures, bears have killed 26 people and severely injured 274 others over the past 20 years in Romania, the most recent fatality being a 19-year-old hiker who was mauled to death on a popular Carpathian trail last July.The government last year more than doubled its authorised cull of brown bears, a protected species in the EU, to 481 after recording more than 7,500 emergency calls to signal bear sightings in 2023 – more than twice the previous year’s total.MPs argue “overpopulation” is leading to an increase in attacks, an assertion disputed by environmental groups who say the focus must be shifted towards prevention, by keeping bears away from communities and targeting specific “problem bears”.Germany’s foreign ministry last week updated its Romania travel advice, noting that bears were increasingly venturing into residential areas and along roads, leading to “dangerous encounters with humans”. It urged travellers to heed local warnings.Based on an analysis of about 24,000 samples collected over three years since 2022, the institute’s study, published late last week, concluded there were between 10,419 and 12,770 individuals living in Romania – by far Europe’s largest brown bear population outside Russia.A brown bear in a summer field in Romania’s Carpathian mountains. Photograph: Erika Eros/AlamyWorld Wildlife Fund (WWF) Romania has since questioned its methods, saying genetic studies were usually conducted over a much shorter period, but the institute has said it considers the survey 95% accurate.The Romanian environment minister, Mircea Fechet, said he would lobby the European Commission to lift the bears’ protected status. The EU’s habitats directive allows the animal to be killed only in exceptional circumstances and as a last resort.“We have to intervene,” Fechet told local media. “The specialists say the optimal bear population is around 4,000.”skip past newsletter promotionThe planet's most important stories. Get all the week's environment news - the good, the bad and the essentialPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionHe also promised to introduce a law allowing local officials to bypass the current system of “gradual intervention” – which obliges mayors to first try to scare a bear off, or capture and relocate it – and instead put the animal down directly if necessary.Existing methods “have so far proven ineffective”, Fechet said, adding: “I hope my proposal, which is currently under public consultation, will put an end to these tragedies. Human life comes first.”Slovakia this month also authorised a cull of 350 brown bears – about a quarter of its estimated population of 1,300 – after a 59-year-old man was mauled to death. Two other people died last year after being attacked or chased by bears.Slovaks “cannot live in a country where people are afraid to go into the forest, and where humans become food for bears”, said the country’s populist prime minister, Robert Fico.

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