Madonna Louise Ciccone [aka Madonna] was born in Bay City, Michigan on August 16, 1958, which makes her 56 years of age. Her career started in 1979 and since that time she has amassed a fortune exceeding $800 million dollars doing exactly what she wanted to do with her life, which is pretty much everything a human being could possibly hope to do in one lifetime, or 100 for that matter.
The tailwind from her career would be enough to propel most clinical narcissists into old age without the help of a therapist, but not Madonna. No. She demands the world see her the way that it did 30 years ago, in spite if the fact that it is 30 years later.
In light of this, it’s no surprise that she levels charges of “ageism” as if that’s going to somehow guilt-trip her fans into some sort of collective hallucination.
The poor woman just fell off the stage during a comeback performance, for god’s sake. That’s about as bad as it gets for a cultural icon that uses fame the way human beings use blood.
Youth is gone, Louise. I’m sorry. I feel it, too. So does everyone else our age. But we don’t do ourselves any favors trying to be something we’re not. If you want to believe the applause you receive from aging women and drag queens constitutes transcendence, I’m sorry.
I remember seeing Madonna at NYC nightclubs back in the late 70’s. She was unknown, striking, wildly creative, and always blitzing for attention. She leveraged the currency of youth to achieve her objectives when she had it in spades. Some people are fortunate that way. Personal conviction is something most of us have to earn over time.
Nonetheless, after many decades of Madonna being Madonna, her relevance is vanishing. And while in all likelihood she can still fill arenas, the reason has everything to do with nostalgia and nothing whatsoever to do with another successful reinvention.
If she wants to act, let her act. Meryl Streep still does it. If she wants to make a nightclub appearance here and there, maybe belt out an old jazz standard, go for it. Woody Allen has a regular gig at Café Carlyle in New York. It’s all good.
With these thoughts in mind, I regret to say that I can no longer rock my crimson Spandex in the gym, in spite of the fact that I haven’t aged a day since 1979.