Somehow (blame Ana, actually, for asking, "Did you read that review of the Madonna concert last night? I didn’t know leather could wear leather!") they end up on the Queen of Pop.
Paul doesn’t have much. He doesn’t mind Madge, but he also doesn’t place any cultural significance on her. She’s a singer, a performer, now a package: a commodification of hauteur and an out-moded sense of glamour (notice the "u").
Ana has more, beginning with a dismissive hand wave and a nasal-y eh.
"You weren’t a girl."
She describes a childhood informed by the loss of innocence that accompanied Madonna’s all-too-visible metamorphosis from ratty-natty Eurotrash club urchin (attitude? you want attitude? I’ll spraypaint my attitude all over your neo-neo-classical plaster apartment, while you take pictures!) to half-dressed gondola passenger (touched for the very first time), to Marilyn wannabe, bleating about living in the material world.
To bleach-blonde mermaid, to peep-show gal, to raven-haired defiler. To bullety boobs, and esses and emms to...what about Music? Makes the bourgoisie wear sequins again. And western wear. Bling.
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