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Martin Amis | Norman Mailer | George Plimpton | J.D. Salinger | Camille Paglia

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.

Martin Amis | Norman Mailer | George Plimpton | J.D. Salinger | Camille Paglia

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