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Ride young Valkyrie! Ride!
How wonderful that as Madonna descends into the terrible
haute clichés of mommyhood (that horrible, hormone-heavy,
weeping fight between her and her latest Stepford-paramour/sperm
machine/personal trainer at the airport was almost too much
to bear, and reason enough by itself to expel her permanently
from my cultural pantheon), her true heir comes bursting
forth in you, Ms. Britney Spears. The Material Girl and
her passé, sinewed biceps must now stand aside, shriveled
and shrinking next to your lusciously vine-ripened, mischievous,
wink-wink, peek-a-boo pulchritude camped so deliciously
between woman and girlhood. As you shucked, jived and ground
your way across the stage for the full forty-five minutes
of your socko Spectrum performance, so strongly reminding
me of the feral leopard dominating its prey in the dance
of the hunt, I knew that I was witnessing the sort of seismic
shift in our culture not achieved since the release of my
first volume, "Sexual Personae."
As a capitalist, libertarian, small-d democrat, I vigorously
applaud the manner in which you have co-opted your bass-ackwards,
Southern Baptist, gap-toothed hillbilly upbringing with
your sly, sexy, sexuality and devil-may-care daring. On
the album cover of your divine "Oops!...I Did It Again,"
your cocked index fingers coiled near your golden tendrils
are at once a beckoning, "come and get me, here I am"
siren call, while simultaneously sounding a claxon warning,
broadcasting your magnificent power and ability to destroy
any and all comers (pun most definitely intended!) with
your pneumatic might. (No, you aren’t that innocent,
are you, Ms. Spears?) Indeed, I believe now, that for public
safety’s sake, your virginity is a veritable imperative,
for I am convinced that today’s garden-variety, pusillanimous,
social castrato American male, cultivated to never risk
disentanglement from mother’s suckling teat, could
not do your deflowering justice.
Of course, I have seen your ascension coming since your
days as a Mouseketeer, where even amongst the sorry, shuffling,
zombified, goose-stepping rest of the cast (including that
awful bargain-basement, off-the-rack, clearance-sale, overperoxided,
getting-pawed-in-the-backseat-at-the-drive-in because-you’re-lashing-out-at-mommy
tramp, Christina Aguilera), you shone forth, even as you
performed your musical skits larded with the dangerous spewings
of mindless corporate do-gooderism. (Incidentally, I was
also the first to note the connection between Annette Funicello
appearing sans ankle socks on "Anything Goes"
day to the rise of the bathhouse culture in San Francisco,
so it is not surprising that my unfailing cultural radar
locked onto your signal at such a young age.)
Britney Spears, these are important times as you stand poised
as our movement’s Thor’s Hammer, ready to smite
the namby-pamby, whine-a-lot feminism of today’s p.c.
age, and replace it with the tsunami force of your carnal,
pagan sexuality. Oh yes, together, brandishing the staked
heads of Steinem and her awful ilk (as well as that of the
melba-chested Helen Hunt, and the loony and unstable Marisleysis
Gonzalez just for good measure), we will march through the
streets of the suburban bourgeois cultural wasteland and
usher in the next Golden Age!
Please contact me so we may plan our next move.
Yours, poised and ready to pounce,
P.S. My partner Alison agrees with everything I say about
you.
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