This Saturday, Madonna turns 50. That means Blondie must be hobbling around on a tennis-ball walker somewhere. Or maybe she’s launching a comeback tour under the name “Grayie.” She’s probably doing the Four Seasons Retirement Home circuit, playing back-to-back shows at 8:30 and 10:30am, croaking out, “Once I had prunes, and they gave me gas” for her big encore, which is inspired by the soft patter of well-medicated hands. Polite applause is about the best you can hope for anyway. You don’t want the Q-tips pelting you with lingerie purchased out of a medical-supply catalog. Titter if you want, but working the activities center stage (well, to be accurate, it’s not really a stage but generally the most well lit corner of the room – usually where they keep the fake Ficus) is a tough gig. So respek, yo. Madonna, on the other hand, probably just finished wet-nursing baby Banda last week – and not just for pleasure. If 50 is the new 30, Madonna is still 25. She could cougar a 12-year-old if she really wanted to and if it were legal, which it might actually be in England. Plus, any Italian chick who routinely pisses off the Vatican in order to sell more records is infallibly hot. Why? Because she knows her hell ticket’s already punched. So really, what’s a wild night on a Motel 6 vibrating bed with a midget, a goat, and a couple of gallons of Vaseline? Does she care? Hard to say. The pope gets to spend eternity in heaven with Jesus and His Dad, but Madonna played Seven Seconds in Heaven with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on national TV. There hasn’t been a pope with that kind of mack since at least the 11th century. Jealous anyone? It’s a nonissue anyway, considering the current pope is probably a huge Blondie fan. It’s easy to ride the high horse of celibacy when you’re an octogenarian, but that doesn’t mean you need to piss holy water on the head of every fishnet-wearing pop star who incorporates masturbation into her stage show … unless … it’s mutually consensual. More than anything, Madonna is a globe-straddling (yeah, that’s hot too) icon of her hedonistic, self-absorbed generation who turned all preachy once she popped out a couple of guppies (and then borrowed one from another fishbowl). You get the feeling that if you were to attend a high tea with her and Bono, they would bore you to death with their hot-winded bullshit – right up until you whipped out the Bolivian marching powder and cranked up the Erasure. At that point, all bets are off. Just cover your exposed holes, and try not to give the paparazzi a decent angle. If you’re like most people who haven’t been permanently crossed off the pope’s “nice” list, you don’t need that kind of scenario to have a good time. Some good music, beer, and a roomful of fun-loving people should do the trick. You can get just that this Friday night when the Alamo Drafthouse hosts the Madonna 50th Birthday Sing-Along. Get into the groove with a Madonnalicious night of revelry celebrating the birth and, more importantly, the dogged resilience of one of America’s … scratch that … England’s greatest pop-culture icons.
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