All About My Madonna

Last night I watched Madonna's "live" Confessions on a Dancefloor on NBC. When I was younger I was a huge Madonna fan. I knew her full name (Madonna Veronica Louise Ciccone--is that right, do I STILL remember it?), and the names of her back-up singers and dancers and on and on. The only posters hanging on the walls of my room were Madonna posters. Mama loathed them and after I came out she burned them in a fire because she thought Madonna made me gay.

But before Madonna made me gay, I was about 16 and she performed the acclaimed rendition of the song Vogue, a la Marie Antoinette in powder puff wigs, chinoiserie fans, and Louis Quinze (or Quatorze) sets for the MTV Music Video Awards. It was to die for...well, for me anyways. Mama insisted on watching it with me when it first aired, as she insisted on partaking of everything I did. There I was in mama's bedroom watching the mini-TV that rested over her dresser. Mama and I were cozy on her king-sized mattress and the Madonna performance came on. My heart stopped. I was immediately enthralled. Madonna lifted her skirt and let her dancers grab her boobies. Mama was NOT pleased.

"What a slut! Letting those men grab her tits, showing her underwear! Ugh! She's fanning her parts! Turn that OFF!"

I refused; I was too into Madonna's gay tractor beam. "Mami, those guys are all gay, it doesn't mean anything to her."

"They're Gay?!! She's dancing around with devils!!" Devils or no voguing devils, I'm gonna watch my idol, bitch!

Last night was fun, but not nearly as provocative as Madonna used to be. Except for maybe the homoerotic take on Jewish-Muslim conflicts. I guess she can't really top herself anymore. She set the bar so high years ago with the Erotica album that the only sexual thing left she could do would be to shove a five-foot dildo in her ass and spin plates on the base of it while playing her electric guitar.