The best response? Pointing fingers and laughing. She danced like one of those things they put outside of carwashes, the tubes with faces and arms attached to a fan. She had no mystery, no allure, no skill, no art, and her lunatic visage was so off-putting you were heartened by a sudden new-found certainty: an entire culture had realized that keeping your tongue extended like a basset hound with heat stroke was unbecoming, and unlikely to be repeated except as a sarcastic reference in Instagram selfies.
There’s that, at least. Amusing how this all makes Madonna look like such a grown-up, in retrospect.
When the deliberate attempt to shock us with the vulgar becomes boring, is that a victory of some sorts? Madonna is now the adult. Whew.