If I’ve learned anything about the American Mind it is this: Truth doesn’t exist until someone in the establishment pronounces it, usually a decade or so after it has been in circulation. Better Late than never, you say. Fine, then. Let’s fawn over the celebrated Ann Coulter for finally clashing with neoconservative Bill Kristol. The first part of the Coulter column, however, would make Bill proud. This section is redeemable:

“Bill Kristol and Liz Cheney have demanded that Steele resign as head of the RNC for saying Afghanistan is now Obama’s war – and a badly thought-out one at that. (Didn’t liberals warn us that neoconservatives want permanent war?)

I thought the irreducible requirements of Republicanism were being for life, small government and a strong national defense, but I guess permanent war is on the platter now, too.

Of course, if Kristol is writing the rules for being a Republican, we’re all going to have to get on board for amnesty and a ‘National Greatness Project,’ too – other Kristol ideas for the Republican Party. Also, John McCain. Kristol was an early backer of McCain for president – and look how great that turned out!

Inasmuch as demanding resignations is another new Republican position, here’s mine: Bill Kristol and Liz Cheney must resign immediately.”

[snip]

I wrote “A War He Can Call His Own” two years ago, but who’s counting? Truth doesn’t count; celebrity does. For what it’s worth (read the complete column):

“By promising to broaden the scope of operations in Afghanistan, Obama has found a ‘good’ war to make him look the part. By staking out Afghanistan as his preferred theater of war—and pledging an uptick in operations against the Taliban—Obama achieves two things: He can cleave to the Iraq policy that excited his base. While winding down one war, he can ratchet up another, thereby demonstrating his commander-in-chief credentials. …

But that initial mission mutated miraculously, and now we are doing in Afghanistan what we’re doing in Iraq: nation building. Nations building is Democrat for spreading democracy. Spreading democracy is Republican for nation building. These interchangeable concepts stand for an open-ended military presence with all the pitfalls that attach to Iraq. …”

UPDATED I (July 10): I’ve actually, mercifully, never read this Gerson sort. The class of commentators you all reference are the least obnoxious to me, because they have some facility with the English language, and can cobble together a vaguely coherent column. Hey, a neocon must make a living too. These pests have kids to feed.

No, it’s the tits-and-ass idiots that offend me. These are the barely literate females who get lucrative book deals for their here-today-gone-tomorrow epistolary vomit, purely because of a combination of ass-ets, pushy self-promotion (which might include heroic action over and above grinding out grating gerunds), and a knack for not threatening Big Cable Egos.

One of the bad things about the rise to fame of a cretin such as SE Cupp, or the deeply silly Margaret Hoover, for example, is that this program for fem affirmative action has made these dumb dodos believe that O’Reilly and Hannity have them on as side kicks because they are so smart.

The ditzes don’t get that they are on TV weighting in on weighty matters—having never uttered an original thought in their lives—because, however hard they try, they simply cannot make their hosts look bad. Impossible.

I do respect SE Cupp’s training as a professional ballet dancer. That requires incredible skill and dedication, a determination IT has applied to the craft of political circus animal. (Ballet dancer: that’s the one aspect of White House chief of staff Rahm Emanuel that I respect too. Ditto Kip Winger.)

How we got from trash to gold, I don’t know, but I’m glad my mind works in mysterious ways. Feast on this embodiment of American manhood. (The hard work that goes into learning to play as tightly as this and move like this is manly.)

UPDATE II: How could I forget this moron among the Fox News menagerie: Imogen Lloyd Webber is an imported liberal airhead who came up with this shopworn shibboleth on The Factor: “we must build bridges with Islam.” “I’m not particularly bright and I put myself under a lot of pressure to do well,” she said of herself. At least she possesses a modicum of self-knowledge, unlike her American bimbette competitors.

The thing I miss most about Israelis (I grew up in Israel) is their unique, acerbic humor. That wit is on display in “We Con the World.” Observe how the Flotilla Choir, among whom is the keffiyeh-clad Caroline Glick, lampoon not only the histrionics over Israel’s naval blockade of Hamas-controlled Gaza as being the “worst human rights violation in the world today,” but the parodying of the original sanctimonious line-up of “We are The World” (down to the dog-barking that is Bob Dylan’s singing).

I have observed that for the first time we are seeing a prouder, more determined, more PR savvy Israel. Larry Auster, one of the most interesting bloggers around, concurs. (Read his comments about this “brilliant, spirited, and quintessentially Western satire.”) He also provides the lyrics:

WE CON THE WORLD

There comes a time
When we need to make a show
For the world, the Web and CNN

There’s no people dying,
so the best that we can do
Is create the greatest bluff of all

We must go on
Pretending day by day
That in Gaza, there’s crisis, hunger and plague
‘Cause the billion bucks in aid
Won’t buy their basic needs
Like some cheese and missiles for the kids

We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa

We are peaceful travelers
With guns and our own knives
The truth will never find its way
To your TV

Ooooh, we’ll stab them at heart
They are soldiers, no one cares
We are small, and we took some pictures with doves

As Allah showed us,
For facts there’s no demand
So we will always gain the upper hand

We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa

We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way
To your TV

If Islam and terror
Brighten up your mood
But you worry
That it may not look so good
Well well well well don’t you realize
You just gotta call yourself
An activist for peace and human aid

We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa

We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way
To your TV

We con the world
We con the people
We’ll make them all believe the IDF
Is Jack the Ripper

We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way
To your TV

We con the world
We con the people
We’ll make them all believe the IDF
is Jack the Ripper

We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way
To your TV.

Related: Reuters does its bit to help with the ruse.

Fox News reports:

“In one photo, an Israeli commando is shown lying on the deck of the ship, surrounded by activists. The uncut photo released by IHH shows the hand of an unidentified activist holding a knife. But in the Reuters photo, the hand is visible but the knife has been edited out.”

The blog ‘Little Green Footballs’ challenged Reuters’ editing of the photo.

‘That’s a very interesting way to crop the photo. Most people would consider that knife an important part of the context. There was a huge controversy over whether the activists were armed. Cropping out a knife, in a picture showing a soldier who’s apparently been stabbed, seems like a very odd editorial decision. Unless someone was trying to hide it,’ the blog stated.”

It’s been my perception for some time that American fathers, generally, are sexually inappropriate with their daughters. The fault lies—again, generally—not so much with the hapless dad, but with these young, assertive females, taught by pedagogues and reinforced by parents and the culture that, “I’m like a sexual being” (uttered in Meghan-McCain like tart tones). The onus is on those around the girl to let her act out her sexuality 100% of the time—or so the consensus seems.

Repulsive. Improper. Unnatural.

However, Scott Brown, the man from Massachusetts who filled Kennedy’s sacred seat in the U.S. Senate, went beyond the call of an American dad’s duty in advertising his girls’ availability during his acceptance speech.

This picture of Brown with his girls, jutting boobs and all, certainly reinforces my view of impropriety (yuckiness).

More obscene than anything discussed here, however, is Ayla Brown’s singing. No, she’s not talented. Strained, bedroom groaning is not good singing. On the other hand, I guess it has its places …

Update (Feb. 4): The comment about my hailing from a once-Christian conservative country (South Africa, RIP), and thus not acclimatizing well to the hyper-sexual American family is completely off. It demonstrate to me that even conservative-minded readers are incorrigible cultural libertines.

It used to be the most basic of things that young women were modest about their sexuality around their fathers. The father-daughter relationship is a primary one for a girl. From it will develop all her future relationships with men. This is precisely why to me the specter of fems letting it all hang out around their fathers is disturbing. And why a father should know better (and Brown has carefully crafted his public image, including the pics he has released to media), and ought to be able to tell his proudly presenting girl, “Here’s my Hawaiian shirt, sweetheart, cover up.”

When you talk about restoring the middle-class family and its values, this is it. When you talk about returning America to a healthier time when parents where parents and not potential admirers or friends or sexual coaches, this is it.

For touting a slut like Kim Karsashian as a role model for “young girls” (read: budding sluts) becasue she doesn’t drink (but films herself adoringly copulating), Sean Hannity is a libertine. Am I from Another Culture to suggest this? Cultural conservatism used to be apple-pie American. Now my so-called culturally conservative readers find me quaint.

I despair. It’s beyond repair.

Incidentally, where on the continuum of tender (or, dare I say twisted) soft porn, suggestive, father-daughter tease are our wholesome Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus situated?

Civilians are dying in Iraq; soldiers in Afghanistan, Putin, his little helper (Dmitry Medvedev), and the patriotic Russian people, are getting the better of Barack; China’s Uyghur minority is going ape on its Han majority, Zelaya is seeking solace from Clinton—Bill, that is; key Irani clerics have dismissed the results of the vote (that’s good news; sensible non-interventionist wanted any findings to issue from Iran)—all the while, America’s cable news channels have been glued for hours-on-end to the formless shape of Rev. Al Sharpton, and other other black entertainers, swaying to the sounds of a pop singer passed. The same specter has occupied the front-pages of major newspapers.

To paraphrase Pat Buchanan, a silly people living in serious times.

Perhaps our Alaskan lass gets it. Having, we hope, seceded from “politics as usual,” Sarah went fishing with her hunk and her adorable kids. I hope she’s winking in the direction of Russia, and having a laugh at the expense of the self-important Obamas.

Update I: Marc Lamont Hill, Ph.D, Bill O’Reilly’s token black intellectual (read: a man who is clearly a product of America’s system of racial promotion, and doesn’t make O’Reilly’s lack-luster intellect too obvious), said: “Michael Jackson is the greatest child prodigy since Mozart.” Good grief. This man teaches at an elite university and he cannot distinguish between a Mozart and a songster, who was able to write a simple, three-chord jingle and dance to it; and who couldn’t even play an instrument proficiently, much less compose a symphony or an opera?

For this music lover—Bach, anytime anywhere—that was the most obscene comment to come out of the “wall-to-wall Michael Jackson coverage.” Writes Debbie Schlussel, with equal disgust: “the only people I feel for at this funeral circus are those kids. Sad to see his daughter, Paris Michael Jackson, cry. It’s probably the only sincere moment in the entire thing. The rest are just phonies glomming [sic] onto a successful circus act.”

[SNIP]

Bubbling up from this sewer of coverage, so emblematic of American society, was the repeated refrain that MJ managed to transcend race and gender. How stupid. The man was tortured by his race and his looks. The latest reports detail the shocking lily-white color of his frail, emaciated body, and the fresh track marks along his snow white bony arms. This was a man wracked by hate for his original looks. It takes self-loathing to voluntarily transform yourself—through dangerous, disfiguring, bone-crushing surgery—from a black young man into a no-nosed elf whose facial structure—the bones—had been chipped away to render a concave, collapsing mess, both sexless and raceless.

As for MJ’s alleged genderless “achievement”: the claim that Jackson was gay is certainly silly. He was clearly childlike and quite innocent. He didn’t have a history of affairs, male or female, and there was no evidence of child-molestation, although there was ample evidence that MJ assembled around him grafters who did not hesitate to use their kids to blackmail a childish man with means.

Update II: Jackson’s adopted daughter is a lovely little girl, who doesn’t sound remotely like the Valley Girls infesting that state. I dread to think how she’ll fare if one of the sisters takes her in. MJ seems to have imparted some manners to his kids.

“Ever since I was born, daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine.”—PARIS KATHERINE JACKSON, Michael Jackson’s 11-year-old daughter, at the pop icon’s memorial service Tuesday.

As all the repugnant muso hip-hop adulators pronounce vacuously on Michael Jackson’s contributions to “black music,” and other permutations thereof, the King of Pop’s last video reveals a hardcore edge: a catchy riff accompanied by a LOUD—and wait for this—competent guitar. The very antithesis of the aforementioned “art form.” Jackson the perfectionist sought out a competent, I suspect, studio axe woman playing in the progressive rock tradition, which relates to “black music” as Barack relates to economic recovery. Jackson had moved away from his signature, intolerable, squeaks-and-hiccups sound. Good for him—and for posterity, however long that lasts in this culture.

What a shame that, in Lawrence Auster’s astute estimation, Jackson had destroyed his health through drastic, disfiguring, medically-sanctioned self-mutilation.

Following the death notice are a few apropos excerpts from my “Mad Dog Sneddon Vs. Michael Jackson,” one of the few trenchant defenses of Michael Jackson, written at the time of his trial. Michael J. was accused of molesting a big hairy “child,” three times the size of the frail singer.*

“Michael suffered a cardiac arrest earlier this afternoon at his Holmby Hills home and paramedics were unable to revive him. We’re told when paramedics arrived Jackson had no pulse and they never got a pulse back.”

Now Keith Olbermann eulogizes Jackson, but back in 2005, “Olbermann, expecting a prosecutorial touchdown, aired a rather cruel segment on his consistently cruel ‘Countdown With Keith O.’ The segment was called ‘Prepping for the Pokey.’ In that bit of “comedy,” the awful Olbermann “pondered how Jackson would fit his prosthetic proboscis in jail.”

“The only man (Jon Stewart disappointed),” other than yours truly, “to have distinguished himself from the pack was Geraldo Rivera. The Fox News reporter conceded Jackson’s conduct was creepy and said as much (as did I). But he understood that creepy is not necessarily criminal.”

* “Mad Dog’ Sneddon Vs. Michael Jackson” was rejected for publication by a leading libertarian website. Much to the proprietor’s disgrace, the rejection was based on a dislike for the column’s author.
Speaking of whom, if you appreciate her work, please support it. And do visit WND on Fridays for the weekly column. If not for those courageous evangelicals, the cultists in mainstream media and among my own ideological faction would have seen me banished from larger audiences for good.

Update I: “Thriller” was undoubtedly a musical triumph, Jackson’s only one, perhaps. The Jackson of that era had achieved a good look in his life-long plastic-surgery odyssey. The songs were very tight, accompanied by enormous talent: Eddie Van Halen played guitar on the song “Beat It,” and Steve Lukather, studio musician from Toto, did guitars on the remainder. It was an exciting, polished effort, with a hard-core manly sound, attributable to the guitar greats cited. (Here is another one worth a listen.)

Update II (June 27): ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT. At the time a 911 call was placed from the Jackson home, Dr. Conrad Murray, Jackson’s cardiologist, had been performing CPR on the already dead MJ for the better part of an hour. If that doesn’t strike the medical profession (the media is even less inclined to think critically) as odd, perhaps the position chosen to administer the life-saving procedure will: the singer was splayed on a bed.

Now, a CPR recipient has to be lain on a hard surface — “because it is difficult to compress the chest on a soft surface.” How can you deliver an awakening thump to the heart on a surface that gives?

Yet it was the 911 operator that had to tell “the staffer to ‘get him on the floor,’” a message the latter presumably conveyed to the inept doctor.

What is it about these celebrities that makes them seek out such incompetence in their care-givers? If you recall, Anna Nicole Smith too was surrounded by an incompetent team of husband and wife nurses at the time she died.

Kanye West’s mother died under the knife of a trendy plastic surgeon. West was celebrated as a woman of some intelligence, yet she appeared to have chosen a surgeon based on his celebrity. “Dr. Jan Adams, who is being investigated by the state medical board, has been the target of malpractice lawsuits and has paid out nearly $500,000 in civil settlements.”

The fact that Adams happened to also be an Oprah-endorsed Brother might have contributed to his appeal to the late Mrs. West.

Dare I suggest the following? The common thread in the specter of wealthy celebrities choosing manifestly incompetent care givers is their own patently low intelligence.

As a fan of chamber music and hard-core progressive rock, I don’t pay much attention to pop music, all the more so considering the genre has been overrun with the toxic sludge of American, booty shaking bimbos with bedroom voices and no talent.

(Pop rock is even worse. )

Me on “cut-and-paste” hip-hop electronica: “The P. Diddy or Missy Elliot-type electronica entails taking ready-made sample CDs on which drums, keyboards and guitar have been recorded. Aided by a computer program operable even by a simian, the mouse is used to drag and drop these samples anywhere along the track. Riffs and beats can also be dropped in the software way into the “song.” An entire band of backing tracks is thus “produced” with a computer and more often than not without a single instrumentalist.”

The overwhelming nature of the bad makes one forget that there is such a thing as a well-executed, pleasant warble, accompanied by competent musicians.

The gifted Noa is a striking Israeli Yemeni singer. Now Noa, in collaboration with Mira Awad, an Arab-Israeli talent, have united to represent Israel at the Eurovision. These are musical, intelligent, gracious, modest women, who speak soberly about the issues, and do not vaporize in the vernacular of Oprah—another American pop-pollutant.

I’ve heard some boosters tout American cultural products as export-worthy. I’ve argued that: “American mass entertainment continues to spread around the world like the cultural kudzu it is, not because of its quality or the vigor of its values, but because, in form and in content, it’s as easy as a prostitute on a street corner. It demands nothing but for the performer and his audience to relinquish artistic standards and shed inhibitions.”

I’m done. Over to the ladies, and may they win the “Eurovision” with this delightful song:

Why I say the ladies are delightful:

Beautiful Noa in an old performance—interesting Yemeni beat, and a stage presence that is powerful without being sexual and slutty:

The excerpt is from “Gangsta Gifts,” now on WorldNetDaily.com:

“Hip” is how rapt reporters referred to the iPod the president and first lady gave the Queen of England. Thanks to his fawning friends in the British and American media, Barack Obama got away with giving another foreign dignitary a vulgar gift.

Shades of the reality show “Cribs”…

The MTV series features hip-hop rappers, and other American royalty, showing off their incredibly gaudy homes, CD, DVD, and iPod collections. (If there are any books in the house, these are well hidden.) They then send the loving camera crew packing.

The Obama iPod was no ordinary “small portable digital audio player capable of storing thousands of tracks in a variety of formats, including MP3.” As any teenager would for his crush, the tacky pair had personalized the thing. How do you customize an iPod for an 82-year-old monarch? …

Commensurate with the president’s signal solipsism, you make sure that there are plenty of images and audio from his inaugural and DNC addresses. … ”

The complete column, “Gangsta Gifts,” can be read now on WND.com.

“The title of this column comes not from Rush Limbaugh’s unfortunate addiction to prescription drugs, but from the eponymous ‘Mr. Big’ hit. (They don’t make musicians like Paul Gilbert and Billy Sheehan any longer, but I digress.) Nevertheless it alludes to another of Rush’s missed opportunities: Speaking against a war into which he was involuntarily drafted and almost destroyed.”

“Rush rightly denounced the State’s failed war on poverty. It failed not because fighting poverty is not a noble cause, but because, given the perverse incentives it entrenches, government is incapable of winning such a war. The same economic and bureaucratic perversions make another of the State’s stalemated wars equally unwinnable and ruinous: the War on Drugs.”

“Lysander Spooner, the great, American 19th-century theorist of liberty, defined vices as those acts ‘by which a man harms himself or his property. Crimes are those acts by which a man harms the person or property of another.’ A conservative worth his salt should know the difference; and should know that government has no business treating vices as crimes.”

“If for harming himself a man forfeits his freedom, then he is not free at all. …”

The excerpt is from my new WND column, “Addicted To That Rush.” It brings together, somehow, the Steele-Limbaugh spat, the Bush/Barack death wish for America, the progressive rock group “Mr. Big,” and much more.

Update I (March 6): Sigh. Over at The View From The Right, Larry Auster and readers discuss (rather obsessively) the one-word change I made in quoting Auster in “Addicted To That Rush.”

Auster had written:

“…their criticisms of Obama will have the stink of rank partisanship.”

I changed that to:

“…their criticisms of Obama will have the [odor] of rank partisanship.”

Let me indulge Auster’s readers: First, the change was introduced quite appropriately, encased thus []. Next, there was no deep deception, just an editorial choice. The reader Leonard D. got the issue of redundancy right, writing:

“My guess as to what Mercer did not like about ‘the stink of rank partisanship’ is that it is redundant, ‘rank’ being almost synonymous with “stinky.”

However, and not withstanding Leonard D.’s valid point, I’d have expected traditionalists to get that “stink” is rather crass and certainly very earthy. A good word, no doubt, but not the most refined one when used by a woman. Again: an honest word, for sure, but I don’t like “stink” because of its connotations (bodily fluids, etc., say no more).

Traditionalists, generally hip to the vulgarization of society, should have been hip to this preference. I simply chose a daintier, less vulgar word.

There is a time and a place for everything, and I have indeed used strong language to describe elected officials on the blog (but not in columns).

Update II: The spouse, also the best guitarist I know, tells me that Paul Gilbert located to Japan, where there is a vast audience for maestros of guitar and progressive rock. It figures: the Japanese also have aggregate higher IQs than the local Coldplay fans, to whom complexity and competence are cuss words.

I’m not even going to bother being legally correct and prefacing this with an “allegedly.” (Okay, I will, if I must.)

Coldplay, a crappy band of unmerry noisemakers, about whom I wrote the definitive piece, “Coldplay’s Contrapuntal Incompetence,” has allegedly ripped off Joe Satriani’s instrumental, “If I Could Fly.” (He sure soars musically.)

Although these knaves claim Frida Kahlo inspired “Viva La Vida,” it’s abundantly clear that coldcrap’s muse came not from the Marxist, Mexican artist, but, allegedly, from a good old American boy’s brilliance.

Listen (and resume reading after the clip):

This is an outrage I feel with every fiber, etc., etc. As when one reader wrote in to say a big-name radio talker was practically reading one of my WND columns on the air, claiming the words (chords) and ideas (chord progression) as his own.

There’s more, as you know.

As I once wrote, “The marketplace doesn’t adjudicate the quality of art or pop culture—it does no more than offer an aggregate snapshot of the trillions of subjective preferences enacted by consumers. Aguilera (Christina) probably sells more than Ashkenazy (Vladimir) ever did. Britney outdoes Borodin. For some, this will be faith-inspiring, for others deeply distressing.” (February 7, 2003)

Mediocre minds need to feed on their less-known betters. More often than not, the former have managed to climb to the top by catering to vulgar, popular tastes. (For example: The taste for blood Boobus developed facilitated not only the Iraq invasion, but careers for many a war harpy.)

They can steal with impunity from their betters, who’ll never attain the power to be able to sue.

But now the parasite has enraged the host.

Satriani’s law suit is gratifying, although I don’t expect Coldplay to lose face. They’ll be graced, rather than disgraced–much like Paris Hilton after copulating in public.

For fans of good, neoclassical, instrumental rock, I’ll ask the spouse, a formidable composer and instrumentalist himself, to say a word or two about Satriani. He agrees, though, that I’ve covered Coldplay quite adequately.

From “Coldplay’s Contrapuntal Incompetence comes a reminder of what we’re dealing with:

“Coldplay plays only one or two chords. When they get going, the band musters three. It’s the equivalent of ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,’ maybe ‘Three Blind Mice,’ although these nursery rhymes reveal better melodic progression. Indeed, some harmony might have helped Coldplay’s caterwauling, but consonance, like counterpoint, is nowhere apparent in their ‘music.’”

“The front man also fancies himself a keyboardist. He doubles over the instrument with immense concentration, leading the listener to expect some virtuosity. The sounds that escape from beneath stiff digits are as tortured as a toddler’s hammering away on a play-play piano.”

“Slackers like Coldplay deserve cold contempt. Colorlessly they drone on, sustaining one or two pitches and exhibiting zero proficiency on any of the instruments they belabor. The bassist picks notes in a pedestrian fashion and the guitarist strums simplistically, producing a cacophony with almost no melodic momentum or variation. At the guitarist’s feet lie 10 to 15 effects pedals. But a slight echo in the monotone is the only evidence that he makes use of these sonic supports.”

“The singer openly boasts that to record one of their trills, the band needed hundreds of takes—so many that they eventually gave up. Incapable of playing such simple dirge from beginning to end, our towering talents resorted to a computer to help them piece the bits together. Audiences cheer their admission of incompetence much like they revel in the president’s unfamiliarity with the English language.”