“Men are better than women. But a good woman is better than ten good men.”—Donald Trump (paraphrased), according to Barbara Res, his top construction engineer in the 1980s, as imparted to creators of “Biography: The Trump Dynasty.”
So true.
Category Archives: Sex
A US Victim Visa: Subsidizing & Rewarding Dodgy Behavior
From Palm Beach State Attorney Dave Aronberg we learned today about a new and nauseating detail in our immigration system.
The detail was tucked into Aronberg’s self-aggrandizing presser about rescuing sex workers from human traffickers, or something.
“The federal government offers visas to victims who are foreign nationals if they cooperate, allowing them to remain in the country indefinitely.”
In this case, Chinese prostitutes illegally in the country. Only the best for the US:
New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft has been charged “with two misdemeanor counts of soliciting prostitution.” He is accused of “visit[ing] a Florida massage parlor for sex acts the night before and the morning of last month’s AFC championship game, authorities said Monday in documents charging him with two misdemeanor counts of soliciting prostitution.”
Evidently, US immigration policy, among other philanthropic objectives, aims to make honest women out of prostitutes.
Aronberg steered a Monday news conference away from Kraft’s case to the larger issue of human trafficking. No human trafficking charges have been filed against Kraft, Haven or any of the other alleged customers, but at least one alleged operator is charged in Indian River County with trafficking.
UPDATED (2/19): NEW COLUMN: Grammys: Great Porn, Maybe, But Music It Was NOT
NEW COLUMN is “Grammys: Great Porn, Maybe, But Music It Was NOT.” It’s now on WND.COM and The Unz Review. An excerpt:
I used to have some respect for Lady Gaga. With all her pretentious Yoko Onanisms, Stefani Germanotta, Gaga’s real name, is actually a hard-working and, at times, polished singer.
But to watch Gaga, at the 61st Grammy Awards, perform a number called “Shallow” was to endure an assault on the eyes and the ears.
Legs permanently splayed like an arthritic street walker, Gaga traipsed around catatonically, attempting to head-bang, but getting disoriented. Some things are best left to a macho, metal-head guy.
Gaga’s look was not a good one. But her sound, which is what counts here, was positively terrible. Yet, Gaga—lugging microphone and mount around like a geriatric with a walker—was a highlight in what was a pornographic, cacophonous extravaganza.
Aside the gorgeous Alicia Keys, host of the 2019 Grammys, who is talented and charming, and Dolly Parton, a consummate pro—the event showcased the gutter culture that is the American music scene. The country is truly in the musical sewer.
The petulant female artists, so proud of their seized power, showcased power, all right—but it was all in the hips, the pelvis, and in thrusts and twerks of the tush. Not one transcendent, inspiringly beautiful dance move did these throngs of crass stompers execute, on the pimped stage.
Janelle Monáe? The sum total of this artiste’s musical “talent” is simulating sex on stage. “Let the v-gina monologue,” she hissed venomously at her adoring, masochistic fans, while moving her nether regions to a base, atavistic beat. Indeed, in an orifice, Miss Monáe has found the right interlocutor.
Let us stipulate for the record that this is never about lyrics. Cardi B screaming that she “likes morning sex” but that nothing in this world does she love “more than checks” is not an issue.
Put it this way, if the greatest composer ever, Johann Sebastian Bach, set his divine, god-like cantatas to the saucy, naughty lyrics of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, would I decry his sublime composition as immoral? Don’t be daft. The music of J.S. Bach would still be sublime if it were set to Cardi B’s gutter language.
My point: Cardi B doesn’t make music. The category for which she and her sisters should be nominated, if I am being charitable, is street theater.
Incessant, asinine, genital-speak is one of the things that distinguishes these female artistes (as in “a person with artistic pretensions”) and makes them particularly repulsive. Do they not realize some things are best left veiled and mysterious?
Women of Monáe’s ilk are first to robotically protest the objectification of their sex, but are complicit in ensuring that The Act itself suffers the very same fate: sex has been made an object, a fashionable accessory, part of an empowering, emasculating life-style.
Screaming there was aplenty at Grammys No. 61. But good voices? None at all. Informed we were that the insipid Kacey Musgraves, a two-chord whiner, is what passes for country music, these days. …
… READ THE REST. NEW COLUMN, “Grammys: Great Porn, Maybe, But Music It Was NOT,” is now on WND.COM and The Unz Review
UPDATE (2/19/019):
Linda Ronstadt on modern country music:
I don’t listen to modern country music. I don’t care for it particularly. I like old country music, when it still came out of the country. What they call country music now is what I call Midwest mall-crawler music. You go into big-box stores and come out with huge pushcarts of things. It’s not an agrarian form anymore. When it comes out of the country, it’s not farmers or woodsmen, or whatever. It doesn’t make much sense. It’s just suburban music.
61st Grammy Awards: Another Great Porn Show. Music It Was NOT
Other than the gorgeous Alicia Keys, host of the 61st Grammy Awards, who has talent and is certainly charming, and Dolly Parton, a total pro—the show showcased the gutter culture that is the American music scene. We are now truly in the musical sewer.
The petulant female artists, so proud of their seized power, showcased nothing much but hip movements, pelvic thrusts and tush twerking. Not one inspiring beautiful dance did these crass stompers execute on the elaborate stage.
Janelle Monáe? Sum total of her “talent” is simulating sex on stage.
Screaming? Oh yes. Good voices? Nada. The insipid Kacey Musgraves is a two-chord whiner who makes me miss Sarah McLachlan.
Great melodies? Nothing; other than a few truly great old songs botched by the newbies’ ugly warbling: it’s the custom. Nobody learns to sing properly. For example, a screaming duo, Chloe x Halle, absolutely mutilated the exquisite, emotional song, “Where Is The Love,” performed in 1972 by Donny Hathaway and the magical Roberta Flack.
Again, not one memorable song did I hear, sporting a decent chord progression and some melodic variety; not one vaguely competent guitarist or instrumentalist: nothing.
Understandable. Why bother to acquire instrumental proficiency, instruction in composition and voice training when the swaying hips, jutting pelvises or just attitude (Dua Lipa) are what’s on sale and in demand?
I used to have some respect for Lady Gaga. But to watch Gaga, legs permanently splayed like an arthritic hooker, traipsing around clumsily, attempting to head-bang, but getting disoriented (yeah, it takes a metal-head guy to do that), then lugging microphone and mount around like a geriatrics with a walker and Depends: this was not good, to put it mildly.
The tartlets I watched “sing” at this Grammys would have been even more inaudible and tuneless were it not for the Auto-Tune: the “holy grail of recording,” that “corrects intonation problems in vocals or solo instruments, in real time, without distortion or artifacts.”
This T & A line-up would be reduced to even more embarrassing grunts, out-of-tune yelps, and bedroom whispers, if not for the Auto-Tune.
Most of the performers were G-d-awful as musicians. They sustain one or two pitches and exhibited little proficiency on any of the instruments they belabor.