Dear Henry Rollins,

In a recent interview you expressed concern, like so many of our other socially conscious celebrities, that the so-called “War on Women” was slowing the wheels of progressive permissiveness. It caused me to reflect on why I’m no longer much of a fan. I thought it might be cathartic for us both if I explored the subject in the form of an open letter, something like the one you once penned to Ann Coulter (not that I don’t think she’s a shrieking harpy myself). Since you share your angst with others on stages all across the world while clad only in a pair of skimpy shorts, I figure you”€™ll have no qualms about this.

Your career started inauspiciously. A number of great punk bands emerged in the early 80s, but Black Flag was not one of them (cool logo, though). Frankly, Henry, the band was at its best when you weren’t singing.

Still, it was during that otherwise forgettable decade that you began to forge something of a unique and compelling persona, committing yourself to physical fitness and acquiring a number of distinctive tattoos, many of them atrocious.

“€œAt this point you have a lot more in common with Tori Spelling than you do with Sid Vicious.”€

I liked you much better in your 90s phase. You had by then come into your own as a kind of countercultural “renaissance man.”€ There were books, music (often lackluster), spoken-word performances, and movie roles (mostly bad). But what you lacked in consistency and talent, you made up for with prodigious output and an unparalleled intensity.

It was this intensity that made you a source of fascination for many. It set you apart from your fellow rock stars whom you rightly chided for being weak in both body and mind. As embarrassing as it now seems, I found much of what you wrote back then inspiring. You implored us to “Not be like your parents. To not be like your friends. To be yourself. To cut yourself out of stone” and to “Keep your blood clean, your bodies lean, and your minds sharp.” Heady stuff for impressionable youths.

And you walked the walk, Henry, not allowing success to go to your head or up your nose like so many other “€œartists.” At the 1995 Grammys you performed in a tuxedo”€”but barefoot. Even Madonna observed that you’d never forgotten your roots. You were the antithesis of the rock star, the anti-Bret Michaels. You were somebody, Henry, because you were yourself.

But you’ve changed. Henry Rollins, you’ve sold out. Looking back now, there were signs of trouble. When you started being seen publicly with that loathsome loudmouth Janeane Garofalo (”the Tea Party is racist”), it was already too late.

I first encountered the word “€œhatefact“€ while drinking with someone”€”either “€œshock jock”€ Anthony Cumia at a grimy Midtown bar or VDARE‘s erudite Peter Brimelow at the incurably snobby New York Athletic Club. These two characters are about as different as American men get, but they both ask a question a lot of Americans are asking: How did we get to the point where facts are offensive? This country started out with Thomas Jefferson saying, “€œThere is not a truth existing which I fear…or would wish unknown to the whole world,”€ but today’s liberal-arts graduates have created an environment where anything that makes anyone uncomfortable is hate speech, even if it’s true”€”in many cases, especially if it’s true.

Here are 10 true statements that millions of Americans find offensive:

Yes, some people are born with big bones and others have a disease called “€œburns less calories than they take in,”€ but anyone who’s visited China in the past 100 years can see that Americans have a disproportionate number of fat pigs. These whales complain that they are seen as human garbage, yet they treat their mouths like fast-food dumpsters. Please explain to me how that is different from putting on blackface and complaining about racism.

When you”€™re a kid, you assume being Green is recycling coffee cups and putting old newspapers in a blue bin. After reading, I don”€™t know, one book, you realize there is nothing an infinite population can do to sustain itself. So you take a peek at who’s doing all the breeding. Turns out, in America at least, homegrown citizens are keeping their population at about zero growth, whereas immigrants are responsible for pretty much all of it“€”a phenomenon called “The Wedge.” When the Sierra Club was confronted with this inconvenient truth, they split into two groups. One side decided to accept this hatefact and the other decided to pretend it didn’t exist. The pretenders have done well with funding; the hatefact-mongers haven’t.

“€œHow did we get to the point where facts are offensive?”€

This is probably my favorite hatefact because if a guy who spent six years in medical school repeats what he learned, it’s hate speech. Sorry ladies, but your ovaries have a shelf life. At 30, the hourglass turns upside down and it gets progressively harder to have kids. By 35 the sand is all but gone and it’s incredibly difficult to breed. My wife had our first kid at 32 and she was wheeled through a hateful door that said “€œGeriatric Mothers”€ on it. As is always the case with feel-good propaganda, it ends up hurting the people it purports to help. I don”€™t know how many of my mid-30s female peers are stunned by how hard it is to procreate. Sexist facts could have drastically improved their lives, but they were hidden because the truth hurts.

When Act Up!’s Larry Kramer criticizes the gay lifestyle and insists, “€œWe are murderers, we are murdering each other,”€ he is seen as a crusader for justice. If the rest of us simply utter, “€œJeepers, them gays sure do fuck a lot,”€ we are woefully naïve. The Daily Show‘s Jon Stewart scoffed at people who assumed gays live any differently than straights by pointing out he lives in New York City, where everyone is decadent. Ahem: Jon? Circuit parties go on for three days and the attendees do so much crystal meth, they are able to fornicate nonstop throughout the entire event. This seemingly infinite amount of friction their poor bums and dinks are forced to endure has consequences. Nobody’s saying anyone deserves AIDS, but it shouldn”€™t come as a shock to anyone who contracts the virus at one of these parties.

This one feels blasphemous to even type. Who cares if blacks score worse than whites, who score worse than Asians? We”€™re talking about general patterns involving millions of people. I come from a long line of incredibly stupid drunks and I feel zero shame about it because I know they”€™re not me. We”€™re told the tests are culturally biased but that doesn”€™t explain why Asians all over the world repeatedly outscore the rest of us. I don”€™t care about that, either. I feel no envy for China. This data is treated like some kind of Raiders of the Lost Ark scroll that will melt your face if you look at it, but I don”€™t find it disturbing at all. As is made clear in the The Bell Curve, the curves have huge overlaps showing there are thousands of blacks smarter than whites and Asians, while plenty of stupid Asians are way dumber than most of us.

While British troops gallantly and pointlessly put themselves in peril’s way in Afghanistan, Iraq, and soon perhaps elsewhere, they must find great comfort knowing that back in Blighty, Abu Qatada (AKA “€œOsama bin Laden’s right-hand man in Europe”€) is settling into a nice new home thanks to the kindly British taxpayer.

According to Qatada’s brother, the paunchy preacher is “€œthe happiest man in England”€ and his wife and their five mini-Qatadas are “€œdelighted”€ with the move to more commodious accommodations. Here the distinguished theologian lives life in the fast lane, “€œreading Islamic texts and watching Islamic TV channels”€ while musing on interfaith dialogue.

Wembley must be an improvement on Long Lartin Prison, where Qatada spent six-and-a-half years for links to sundry sanguinary monomaniacs until he was released in February. It is probably also an improvement on the Amman suburb our hero fled in 1993 in favor of Londonistan. He claimed he had been tortured in Jordan and was consequently granted asylum. Full of gratitude, he quickly involved himself in the most hardline variants of Islam then available, and his scholarly advice was soon being sought by such earnest truth-seekers as shoe-bomber Richard Reid.

“€œThe postwar left’s raison d”€™Ãªtre has been to make extravagantly unaffordable promises to anyone, then shriek like banshees whenever an adult points out how feckless they”€™ve been.”€

In a series of equally well-reasoned judgments, he generously granted permission for apostates”€™ families to be eliminated, solicited money for Chechen militants, called for suicide attacks against Jews and Western soldiers, and generally insinuated his way into the small hearts and smaller minds of those who would become the 9/11 perpetrators. In 2001 he was placed in prison under new powers. This being ruled unlawful, he was placed under house arrest but was then rearrested and threatened with extradition to Jordan, where old friends are missing him. Thus began the present ping-pong against extradition, during all of which time he and his family have been subsidized by the same state whose soldiers he regards with such disfavor.

It is not yet known how much rent we pay for the great intellectual’s new accommodation, but the smaller house he just quit cost about £1,900 per month. And he cannot earn a living because, as his brother says, “€œthere is so much hatred against him in England.”€ (Fancy that!) There are also food stamps, energy bills, child benefits, and healthcare if any of the precious pets gets paper cuts. These are added to the legal costs and the policing costs (the latter £100,000 a week). It would make sense to take the Italian approach in such matters.

Qatada is only one example of an unassimilable arriver whose pride, while fierce, is nevertheless flexible enough to allow him to accept infidel money. There is also Old Butterhooks, Abu Hamza, who according to one estimate has cost Britain £2.75 million in welfare and other costs. Then there is saintly Omar Bakri, who has managed to accrue an impressive £250,000 in handouts, and his chum Abu Waleed, who has it all worked out:

Obviously you want to make sure you walk with a limp when you leave the house just in case someone’s taking pictures.

Cases such as these give the phrase “€œbenefits of immigration”€ an interesting new meaning. They must also make Britain’s war-weary soldiers ask whether the land they represent is fitter for zeros than for heroes.

In the February 18 issue of the world’s greatest weekly I wrote that I had fallen madly in love with Jessica Raine, the actress who portrays nurse Jenny in the Sunday-night BBC show Call the Midwife. In the throes of demonic, erotic exhilaration, I may have piled it on a bit thick. So what? If Gordon Brown can ruin the British economy, Tony Blair can take Britain to war based on an outrageous lie, and both bums can still walk around without cuffs on their wrists, surely Taki can walk on air and fly on gossamer wings over someone he’s never met.

My whole point was to renounce today’s so-called sex symbols, those drunken tarts one sees piling out of nightclubs wobbling on their thick ankles and slurring their words as they try to pretend they don’t want their pictures taken. Here was Jessica in all the grace, shyness, and understatement that makes a woman so attractive to the poor little Greek boy, so I went overboard. But nurse Jenny is my ideal woman, and although even I in my reverie was aware that it’s a role and nothing more, I compared her with today’s lot and wept.

“My amulet against women I have wronged in the past obviously doesn’t work.”

Jenny-Jessica was my incarnation of goodness, and her enchanting looks turned me into an erotomaniacal fool. Even worse, I decided to get back to the Spectator’s deputy editor, who had repeatedly made a fool of me by letting me stew on the altar—and with a cardinal waiting to boot—while she amused herself with family and friends in Old Queen Street. So I wrote, and I quote from the greatest Greek writer since Homer, “Goodbye, assistant editor of the Spectator. So long, Keira. Au revoir pour toujours, Rebecca. You’re all through, washed-up, history, curtains, finished.” I swear on John Prescott’s fat head that I meant it.

In an act of unspeakable revenge, the deputy editor not only went ahead and got married and now calls herself Madam, she hunted down Jessica Raine and commissioned a diary from her. It was a rare honor for someone as young as Jessica, who only has one hit under her thespian belt. And the deputy editor knew exactly what she was doing. In a column last week, Jessica Raine admitted being perturbed by what I wrote about her, advised me to cool my jets, and plunged the knife in deeply by suggesting I read some bloody book by some female called How To Be A Woman.

London Mayor Boris Johnson spoke the other day about the riots that devastated London and other English cities last summer:

The biggest shock for me from the riots was the sheer sense of nihilism”€”perhaps I should not have been shocked, but in my view literacy and numeracy are the best places to start. In seven particular boroughs in London one in four children are leaving functionally illiterate. In a few schools it is nearer 50%. We have to intervene at an earlier stage, and I think the mayor can help.

Here is a thing that The New York Times said on Tuesday, March 20. The subject is the shootings at a school in Toulouse, France, the previous day. The victims were Jewish, but the gunman’s identity was unknown, so the Times defaulted to basic liberal assumptions:

The political debate around the shootings, and whether the deaths of an instructor and three young children were somehow inspired by anti-immigrant political talk, is likely to continue….In the middle of a long and heated presidential campaign, with President Nicolas Sarkozy trying to win back disaffected supporters who have drifted to the far-right National Front party, the shootings at Toulouse have raised new questions about the tone and tenor of the debate here about what it is to be French.

Here is a thing that General Wesley Clark, then the supreme commander of the NATO alliance, said back in 1999. The subject was the NATO bombing of Serbia:

“€œCultural diversity within a nation causes nothing but trouble”€”what could be more obvious?”€

There is no place in modern Europe for ethnically pure states. That’s a 19th century idea and we are trying to transition into the 21st century, and we are going to do it with multi-ethnic states.

The common thread there is multiculturalism, the notion that entire populations of different cultures can coexist in reasonable harmony together under a common sovereignty.

In Europe and the Anglosphere, this is the Age of Multiculturalism”€”an age when the doctrine is so much taken for granted, at least by elite types such as the Mayor of London, editorial writers at The New York Times, and American generals, that it has seeped into the tissues and bones to the degree that contrary notions cannot be thought.

My three quotes all illustrate that. The Mayor of London cannot think the following thought: Last summer’s riots were initially and essentially race riots, with what is left of England’s native underclass only joining in later as scavengers.

As for “functionally illiterate,” well:

Across the 14 boroughs that make up Inner London, there are 98,000 schoolchildren whose first language is not English, compared to just 79,000 native English speakers.

So the dismal educational outcomes the mayor cites were not the cause of the riots. Rather, both London’s mass functional illiteracy and the riots are effects of a common cause: fifty years of insane immigration policies turning the capital into a Tower of Babel (while simultaneously gifting it with beauties like these). Multiculturalism’s horrible consequences can, this fool mayor tells us, be cured with a little extra algebra.

Intelligent people worry that our new “meritocratic” elite may become a hereditary caste. Charles Murray sees something ominous in the fact that for 25% of modern married couples, both partners have a college degree, whereas only 3% did in 1960. He and others worry that such assortative mating will produce a caste of high-IQ overlords. I have no such worries. I’m worried that American college graduates are becoming more obviously birdbrained by the year.

It is true that a certain kind of college-educated numskull is now more likely to mate with other college-educated dunderheads. That doesn’t mean they’re particularly intelligent. When we compare them to the elites or even average people from a few years ago, it’s not entirely clear the modern college graduate learns much that is identifiable as knowledge. 

People used to learn measurable things in college and high school. My parents, who were poverty-stricken working-class people, learned Anglo-Saxon and Latin as a part of their high school education. Many college graduates in English literature were required to learn Anglo-Saxon until fairly recently; as a result, the subject was often required in high school as well. Thanks to Murray’s “€œnew elites,”€ I had several years”€™ worth of high-school health and social-studies classes which taught me exactly nothing worth knowing.

“€œFrom the looks of them, modern college graduates could use a little rude vitality.”€

I recently taught myself some Anglo-Saxon to see what I was missing. It’s not particularly challenging; much easier than Latin.

It gave me a new appreciation for English as a Germanic language, for its grammar and evolution since the Dark Ages, and for modern English’s dynamism and expressiveness. Old English is a crude language. It lacks entire concepts we now take for granted and retains primitive notions and structure we have long since discarded. Old English reminds me of a rustic plow compared to modern English’s vast combine harvester. The old thing is more beautiful and more human in spirit and scale than the new thing, but it’s not as efficient and useful.

One learns interesting history while learning a dead language. While most people think of the Anglo-Saxons as laconic, mustachioed bumpkins, they were a seafaring nation”€”well-traveled and with cousins all over Europe. The first passage I read in the old tongue was a travelogue. The author complained about a lack of beer in old Estonia. Our early Anglo-Saxon tourist found that the Estonian mead made up for it. A familiarity with Anglo-Saxon also gives a fair lead up on Old Norse, Old Dutch, Gothic, and Old High German. The Germanic tribes are very close relatives. This fact is rarely mentioned these days, and it is probably a sort of thought crime to notice.

Anglo-Saxon poetry is beautiful in ways that modern English poetry can’t be. It is alliterative and has an appealingly different rhythm from modern English. I find it deeply moving in the same way I find visual Anglo-Saxon art to be beautiful. It uses a rich type of metaphor and allusion called “kenning,” which is primal and evocative. An Anglo-Saxon poet wouldn’t “share his feelings about ocean travel”; he would “unlock his breast-hoard about taking the road of the whales.” This isn’t the light, Latinate beauty of what most people consider “classic art”; it is the rude, vital beauty of people with a deep aesthetic sense and limited descriptive vocabulary. From the looks of them, modern college graduates could use a little rude vitality. An encounter with the old skalds might put a little pink in their sallow cheeks.

A scandal has raged this past week in England involving racially insensitive Tweets that landed the racially insensitive Tweeter behind bars. Liam Stacey was targeted and caged because they knew that almost nobody would want to defend him. 

Like any white person who does anything that is deemed “€œracist,”€ Stacey stands in Himmler’s shadow and elicits a similar amount of public sympathy. In the modern multicultural society, being a “€œracist”€ is put on a par with pregnancy. It’s not a question of degree; it’s all or nothing. Unlike pregnancy, you can”€™t even have an abortion, just a slow, painful course of liberal chemotherapy, with the constant fear that the self-appointed doctors of moral hygiene will say you”€™re still not cured. Pin the “€œR”€ word on somebody and you can forget all that legal crap about the Magna Carta and freedom of speech.

This is what has happened to Stacey, a young man sent to jail for 56 days for making jeering comments on Twitter about the heart attack suffered during a match by black football player Fabrice Muamba.

Mocking a man at death’s door on Twitter is terrible. Adding racial epithets obviously doesn”€™t help, either:

Liam Stacey’s real crime was being in charge of a Twitter account while under the influence of alcohol. His contrarian stance to the great tabloid-driven outpouring of national sympathy following the incident certainly did not go down well with Judge John Charles. Channeling the media mob’s mood, Charles said, “€˜”€˜I have no choice but to impose an immediate custodial sentence to reflect the public outrage at what you have done.”€ If public outrage determines prison sentences, why isn”€™t Tony Blair currently serving life?

But what is the correct, calm, and proportionate response to this kind of stupid behavior? This would depend on what kind of person you are, what kind of person you thought Mr. Stacey was, and the intervening social strata.

Ignoring him may have been in the best interests of the commissariat that is increasingly trying to impose political correctness on the UK, because cases such as this can quickly become polarizing. Bringing Twitter to the legal bench in this way is the equivalent of sifting through the conversations, correspondence, and thoughts of a large proportion of our racially divided society’s population. Is that likely to increase racial harmony?

“€œLiam Stacey’s real crime was being in charge of a Twitter account while under the influence of alcohol.”€

After Stacey made his comments he was taken to task by other Twitter users, a bit like someone turning round in a pub and saying, “€œShut up, you idiot!”€

But instead of leaving it there”€”exactly where it should have been left”€”it came to the attention of the UK’s increasingly plugged-in PC Stasi. The itch, which had already been scratched enough, was then officially cut open with a legal scalpel and probed for signs of moral cancer and ideological heresy.

Back in 1967 William Rees-Mogg, the editor of the Times newspaper, wrote an influential editorial entitled “€œWho Breaks a Butterfly Upon a Wheel?”€ regarding the prison sentence passed on The Rolling Stones”€™ Mick Jagger and Keith Richards for drug possession. Mogg’s main point was that conservatives in the judiciary who disapproved of the Stones’ lifestyle singled them out to set an example.

“€œThere must remain a suspicion in this case that Mr. Jagger received a more severe sentence than would have been thought proper for any purely anonymous young man,”€ Mogg wrote. Jagger’s sentence was later quashed and he got off with a lecture.

Stacey is such a “€œpurely anonymous young man,”€ but that doesn”€™t mean he can”€™t be used as an example. The multiculturalist establishment knows that its immigration and refugee policies have created a society where race is on people’s minds all the time”€”in effect a racist society. 

The costs of this are enormous, as we see in America’s Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case. In such societies whenever there is a minor incident where different races are involved the problem is instantly magnified and becomes insoluble.

As female authors increasingly dominate popular fiction, they are confronted with whether or not to try and appeal to the remnant male market. The authors of this century’s three biggest “€œyoung adult”€ series (and wildly profitable movie adaptations)”€”Harry Potter, Twilight, and The Hunger Games“€”have employed three different strategies.

Joanna Rowling made a boy her hero, and to fool the he-man girlz-hater element, she took the pen name J. K. Rowling. (When one of my small sons discovered that he”€™d been fooled into reading three books by a lady, he stopped reading Harry Potter in disgust.) Despite Rowling’s gifts, by the end of her remarkable series her most passionate fans were largely girls.

In contrast, with Twilight, the less crafty Stephenie Meyer didn”€™t bother, creating a woozy world of estrogen-driven emotion where Bella barely does anything except smell nice and try to make up her mind which smitten beau to choose. Twilight is the ultimate in women’s liberation, the feminine mind wholly unshackled from masculine modes of thought such as rationality.

“€œThe reason for all the different theories about the movie’s subtext is because it doesn”€™t have one.”€

In The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins tries to split the difference by making her protagonist a girl who fights. Collins gropes for masculine gravitas by attempting to channel her military historian father’s tales of hunting for dinner during the Depression and his nightmares from serving in Vietnam.

This has proved vastly successful. The screen adaptation of Collins’s dystopian soft sci-fi novel enjoyed a $153-million opening weekend, the third-highest ever. And more than just fanatical tween girls turned out. The opening-weekend crowd was two-fifths male, double that of the last Twilight installment. A majority of the audience was over age 25, and the grown-ups gave the movie a CinemaScore rating of A.

Critics are raving, especially over how Katniss Everdeen is a strong, empowered female character. Political pundits are competing to interpret The Hunger Games as a Democrat or Republican allegory.

So what is the film about?

The Hunger Games addresses today’s most burning social issues: Would a reality-TV show that forces boys and girls to hunt down and slaughter each other with edged weapons be a good idea? Should America switch to a totalitarian dictatorship in which the decadent Capitol economically exploits the twelve starving Districts and annually demands two children from each as “€œtributes”€ to compete in “€œHunger Games”€ where 23 of the 24 will die horribly?

This week brings a steamin’ hot plate of scandal, scandal, scandal”€”flour bombs, plastic babies, break-ins, drunk driving, Ecstasy, and placenta-eating. Be sure to save some room for dessert!

The box-office receipts for The Hunger Gamesopening weekend were $2.5 million less than the distributor predicted. Every radio spot I heard was touting the biggest opening weekend ever. Steve Sailer doesn’t think much of the film, so I’ll save myself the trip and the $30, or whatever it costs these days to buy a ticket and some popcorn. Sorry, Jennifer Lawrence“€”you’re cute, but not that cute.

Speaking of not that cute, I seem to be the only person who doesn’t think Jon Hamm is a mega-fox. It’s all about the Roger Sterling character for me. Draper and his new French wife are neurotic and annoying. Mad Men had the highest ratings ever with Sunday night’s fifth-season premiere, but if the reviews are anything to go by, this season will be a disappointment compared to the first few years. The writers have introduced a Civil Rights plotline, apparently not realizing that the show’s pre-Civil Rights setting provided most of its charm. Maybe that divine piece of work Betty Draper will burn her bra and become a lesbian.

“€œI seem to be the only person who doesn”€™t think Jon Hamm is a mega-fox.”€

January Jones, the actress who plays Betty Draper, claims to have eaten her own placenta after giving birth to her son recently. Why she would tell us this instead of revealing the baby’s father? With any luck the kid will look just like his father and Ms. January won’t have to spill the juicy gossip about who spilled the seed. Is the man married? Does she even know who he is? Did the sperm come from an anonymous donor? Do tell”€”the suspense is killing us!

Another mystery floating atop the gossip pages regards Russell Brand and his new lady love/loves. Some magazines show him with a woman named Oriela Amieiro, while other reports say the lady is model Nikolett Barabas. Come on, TMZ, can’t you get this stuff right?

In news that’s so wrong it’s right, Whitney Houston‘s ex Bobby Brown was busted on a DUI charge earlier this week. His blood-alcohol level tested over the legal limit. This was not Brown’s first DUI, but surely this was a grief-related incident and he’ll be as decent as a church mouse for the rest of his days.

How many suicides will we blame on Lady Gaga years from now?

Hear me out: Our ruling elites insist that bullied gay teens commit suicide in greater numbers than the general population”€”a dubious statistic“€”so all children are now obliged to endure “€œanti-bullying”€ campaigns in school.

Of course, these “€œanti-bullying”€ campaigns are simply the latest, well, bullying attempts to normalize homosexual behavior and recruit youngsters into a promiscuous gay lifestyle.

Gay activists admit this, and this phony suicide “€œepidemic”€ was debunked over ten years ago, but straight “€œuseful idiots”€ are in denial. And hey, decorating the classroom with rainbows is easier and more fun than teaching algebra, right?

Debunking be damned! Expert opinion only counts if it props up the gay and transsexual agenda. So what if the psychiatrist-in-chief at Johns Hopkins warns that vulnerable people are being mutilated to help advance shaky theories about “€œgender identity”€? Who cares? Denounce the bigot!

“€œSex-change “€˜regret”€™ is very real and occasionally fatal.”€

The trouble is, even when they live and work in inclusive environments”€”cities where Gay Pride Day/Week/Month is granted mandatory lip service“€”gay adults DO commit suicide and abuse drugs and alcohol (which is suicide in slow motion) in shockingly skewed numbers.

Yet the briefest survey of the pop-culture landscape, taking in Glee and Ellen and “€œChaz”€ Bono on Dancing with the Stars (oh my!) demonstrates that homosexuality and its offshoots have never been more tightly embraced.

Which brings us to the highly derivative and unoriginal yet/therefore hugely popular celebrity Lady Gaga.

She’s appointed herself a champion of LGBT youth and is forever encouraging fans to “€œbe themselves”€”€”which, given her “€œBorn This Way”€ anthem, paradoxically appears to mean “€œdressing like someone else”€ and even “€œchanging your sex entirely.”€

Take 16-year-old Campbell Kenneford, who told the Daily Mail that Lady Gaga inspired him to have a sex change. Exactly how many “€œCampbells”€ are out there is impossible to know, but no doubt you”€™ve noticed we”€™re being incrementally pushed to prepare a place for a multitude of trannies.

The trouble is, sex-change “€œregret”€ is very real and occasionally fatal.