Ain’t no fool like a old fool.

Oh, Madonna. The thing is, I don’t want to have to be shakin it for dollars on the teevee when I’m fifty, no matter how astonishingly fit I am. I don’t want to need that kind of attention, I don’t want to find myself trolling for skinny-shanks Justin Timberlake to back me up so the kids will like me, I don’t want to have to vamp and preen and jump up and down insisting I’m still relevant. And that (well, that and your music, which I hate and have hated since pretty much everything after “Borderline”) is why I can’t stand looking at you, even at the gym where it’s a choice between you, a soap with a character named “Greenlee” and Imminent Myocardial Infarction Guy on the recumbent bike in front of me. Desperation and insecurity aren’t any less desperate and insecure just because a person is filthy rich and famous and well old enough to know better.