TANZANIA, July 20 -- And why media houses must stop hiring goons with microphones.

THIS week my brain staged a quiet protest. I couldnt write a single paragraph. Writers block had me staring at my keyboard like it owed me money.

Even my house cockroaches started looking concerned. I thought: “Is this it? Have I finally become one of those washed-up columnists who writes about their cat and sunsets?”

But alas, dear reader, the universe intervened via WiFi. Hallelujah!

Two screaming radio interviews popped up on my YouTube feed. What I witnessed was not journalism, not media, not even theatre.

It was a certified, Grade A, prime beef stew of untrained presenters attacking artists like hungry mosquitoes at a blood drive.

Let...