I remember the first time that I really became aware of Madonna’s existence. During my elementary school and junior high school years, my parents did not allow me to have the radio on while I did my homework, reasoning that it would distract me. I listened to the radio while doing my homework anyway – I figured that, if I got a B instead of an A on a sixth-grade social studies project on indigenous Alaskan cultures because the siren song of a Hall & Oates tune had diverted my attention, thus causing a blob of glue to besmirch my villagers- tanning-elk-hides diorama and bringing down upon me the wrath of Miss Moser, who looked and smelled a lot like an elk, now that I look back on it, except that an elk probably would have elected not to wonder aloud in front of the entire class why some of the villagers in my diorama had Barbie shoes on, but would have eaten my diorama instead, thus bringing our “Condescending To Native Peoples Whose Land We Grabbed” unit to a merciful close, but anyhow, if I got a B on that dumb project instead of an A, we should probably blame the incorporation of pink plastic spike heels into a serious representation of indigenous Alaskan cultures, rather than the intrusion of Men Without Hats into my study sanctum, and quite frankly, if I cherished any hope of staying awake while cutting little elk-hide shapes out of brown paper and drawing little dark brown stitches on them with marker and then tying the goddamn things to the little hide stretchers I had made out of paper clips, I could either make up my own songs about how much I despised Alaska and its indigenous cultures, or I could sing along to “Safety Dance.”

While listening to the forbidden radio, I had to listen also for approaching parental footsteps; I cultivated a lightning-speed volume-knob thumb flick, and when I heard the third step from the top creak under the weight of a parent, I turned the radio off as quickly as possible and assumed a physical attitude of great studiousness. One night, while staring dejectedly at a metric system study sheet, I heard “Material Girl” for the first time. I probably didn’t take the same meaning from it as an adult would have, but I got the basic gist – I know what I want, and either you can give it to me or you can get out of my way – and I dug it, in the way that girls dig a strong woman before they start to care what boys might think of that. I had heard her other songs, of course – I listened to nothing but Top 40 at that age – but I don’t think she registered as Madonna before I heard “Material Girl.” After I heard that song, Madonna went from nasal audio wallpaper to an identifiable presence and attitude.

Not long after that, Madonna writhed into the national consciousness, having already completed her first metamorphosis – from low-rent Blondie-knockoff modern dance scenester in sweatshirt hairband to repentant slut clad in the Victoria’s Secret-meets-Vatican II costume of her own deconstruction – and earned herself a Time cover. (If you listened carefully, you could almost hear the editors scratching their heads and making rueful comments like, “Well, the kids seem to like it.”) When I remember the photos that Time ran with the article – portraits featuring her darkly-lined eyes and giant thrift-store earrings, framed by double-processed hair; action shots of her prancing across a stage, rubber bracelets and crucifixes in blurry motion – I can barely recognize the Madonna of today. The Madonna of today does not cavort or bound; she glides as if part of a royal processional, or she strides purposefully with scarcely a roll of her hips, reminding us of her great prominence with every step. Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing her climb a big old stepladder and get over her bad self. For someone so rich and so famous, who takes herself so very seriously and affects so transparent a sourball accent, Madonna has very little class.

Granted, Madonna’s tackiness delivered her into the bosom of the world – the unabashed black roots, the transparent aqua lingerie, the torn stretch outfits caught our attention. She represented not so much a refracted image of eighties greed culture as a new image of woman at a time when the visual iconography of feminism had stalled somewhere around power suits. But she shed that tackiness as soon as she could, opting instead for a sleek white-blonde minimalism (and matching hyper-toned body) and effecting the most radical of her trademarked transformations – which always aimed to distance her from her decidedly un-mythic upbringing in the suburbs of Detroit (not to mention her undistinguished vocal ability). At least, she shed the outward tackiness. Alas, Versace couture does not a classy broad make, particularly when said broad acquires a cartoonishly inflated sense of her own importance. Let’s take her recent appearance at the Academy Awards as an example.

In case you missed the minor flap that attended this particular ten minutes in cultural history, Madonna served as the presenter for the best song category. La Ciccone appeared in the wings and attempted to float across the stage, holding up the front of her gown much in the manner of an eight-year-old playing dress-up with her mother’s cast-off clothes. This gown, a displeasing concoction of khaki tulle and what looked like distressed black pleather, plunged to a deep vee in the front and revealed some of the sternest breasts I have ever seen; they looked less like breasts than like the overdeveloped pectorals of heavyweight boxers. The outfit also revealed Madonna’s terrifying biceps, making me wonder if Susan Powter knew that someone had borrowed her arms for the evening, or if perhaps some producer had announced an audition for G.I. Jane 2 immediately following the awards ceremony. To top this off, Madonna hadn’t bothered to do her hair. Her new German-milkmaid-gets-a-flea-dip hairstyle, with its painstakingly rolled curls and rancid honey color, doesn’t exactly flatter Madonna’s face and coloring to begin with, and it certainly doesn’t qualify as appropriate for a formal event. In short, she looked like hell. She then proceeded to announce the three nominees, and when she got to Celine Dion’s name, she made a little face and rolled her eyes. I don’t like Celine Dion, and I really don’t like that song, and I really really didn’t want Titanic to win anything else, but at least Celine wore a flattering dress and washed her damn hair before the Oscars. And when Celine’s song won, Madonna topped her own puerile display of bad sportsmanship by rolling her eyes AGAIN, grumbling “what a shocker,” and declaring the winner in the flattest possible tone of voice. Again, I loathe that song and if I never hear it again it will be too soon, but if the producers had chosen me to present the award, I might have, gee, I don’t know, shown some fucking manners. If she couldn’t have behaved gracefully, and if she really felt put-upon by the oh-so-not-heavy duties of ACTING LIKE A GROWN-UP and making nice for FIVE MINUTES while other musicians attempt to ACT PROFESSIONAL AND DO THEIR JOBS, why didn’t she give her squadron of nannies the night off and stay home with her little publicity stunt – I mean, baby? Who does she think she is?

Some of you might find my denouncing Madonna’s spoiled brattiness ironic. Well, let’s see. Do I affect an imitation-Vassar lockjaw accent even though the entire world knows I grew up in the Midwest? No. Do I pretend that a book of nude photos of me represents a level of art that the average American “just doesn’t get,” when in fact it constitutes little more than yet another attention-grabbing stunt designed to stir up controversy and sell more records? No. Do I lecture interviewers on the importance of Frida Kahlo, and dismiss those who fail to adore her self-portrait of her giving bloody birth to herself – which I happen to own, because I have more money than God, and don’t you forget it – as ignorant? No. Do I campaign relentlessly, to the point of embarrassing myself, for the title role in Evita, and once earning the role, assert that the startling similarities between me and Eva Peron mean that I may have in fact BEEN HER in a past life, and do I meanwhile keep a pretentious journal during the filming in which I bitch and moan about the Argentinian and Hungarian extras not cheering loudly enough for me during the crowd scenes, obsess about my pregnancy, and worry that the director doesn’t like me, which he doesn’t, since I only wanted the part so that thousands of people would have to applaud my every move and I could get the reverential treatment I feel I deserve, and do I then accuse the Academy of nepotism and lack of critical distance when Evita wins absolutely nothing, despite the loving camera angles I demanded? No. Do I admit the possibility that Evita threw a shut-out because I can’t sing very well and my acting is wooden? No. Do I attend the MTV Video Music Awards and admonish the crowd for its love of “gossip and scandal,” basically blaming the audience for Princess Diana’s death but conveniently ignoring the fact that without gossip and scandal I would have NO CAREER? No. Do I announce that I will never perform anything that I wrote or sang before 1995 because I consider them BENEATH ME now, and that people need to “get over” my early work? No. Do I make a point of inserting the phrase “as a mother” into every sentence of every interview I grant since the birth of my child, the raising of whom I have handed over to nannies because I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO, like put out yet another middle-of-the-road trendoid record, except when I want to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair, bathed in soft light and cradling my firstborn with my hair haloing my face to hide the surgery I had done on my jaw because I can’t handle the thought of getting old? No.

Do I know how to walk in high heels, dress myself, and do my hair? Yes. Do I know the meaning of the phrase “sore loser”? Yes. Do I recognize the fact that, when I near the age of forty, a lot of the posing and mouthing off and giving in to impulse that I indulge in now will begin to seem inappropriate and, eventually, downright pathetic? Yes. Would I prefer to take my place in history on the basis of some sort of talent, rather than for my cynical and self-
righteous manipulations of the press and the public? Yes. And finally, do I think I have the right to tear Madonna down for her snarky performance last week? Yes. Madonna prides herself on pushing the envelope and constantly reinventing herself as a woman, and I can respect that; a lot of people like to say that she sucks and has no talent, but I don’t agree. I think she has an amazing talent for self-promotion and she obviously has a great head for business. But Madonna seems to think that this penchant for testing boundaries – and, more significantly, her immense wealth and fame – allow her to act infantile and rude. Unfortunately, she has long since passed the age when she could get away with behaving like Fiona Apple. She needs to grow up and have some class.

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