Dear Madonna,

Unlike my other colleagues here at CollegeCandy, when I was just a wee lass (that’s what you probably say now, and in a faux English accent, right?), I used to love you. I did. I was a fan. I loved your bangles, your lacy short socks, your polka-dotted headbands, your frizzy half-bleached blond hair, your apparent smelliness. I always imagined your scent to be a strong B.O., mixed with garlic, in “Borderline,” “Papa Don’t Preach,” and “Lucky Star.”

I adored your trashy “I’m-a-punky-girl-from-NYC” look, and when you spray painted stuff all over those Grecian statues, you were great! Of course, at the tender age of five, I didn’t realize that your look, your “raunchy NYC city-ness” was all totally faux, too. But that’s OK. Even though I know that you’re from Michigan, I’m still all right with that.

I even followed your music through the rougher spots, when it was icky as hell. I didn’t mind the whole India-moment (you were obviously doing a lot of soul searching), or the confusion you seemed to experience when you put out your last album (roller skates? Disco balls? Huh?). Remember all that silliness? You wore way too much disco-stuff and had Farrah Fawcett hair, even though the music didn’t sound a lick like something from the 70s. Read More »