Rose's Cantina

I was blessed with one of those iconic names. Rose. Actually, it's Rosalie. Named after my father's cousin in Scotland. Or a girl he knew in the Army. Depends who's telling the story. Rose is the girl that songwriters write songs about. As such, I've been a ballerina, the fun Puerto Rican girl of Bruce Springsteen's youth, a handjob given to a roadie in a Jackson Browne imagining. I've been a posey, a Texan, a Washingtonian. But this one takes the cake. Now I'm Richard Nixon. Or I used to be. I'm supposing this is referring to Nixon's Karma. Or it's something that Bruce Cockburn wrote when he was on mushrooms. Check it out. It's truly disturbing.

I think I'm speaking for a lot of 50-something women here when I say that Madonna had no business at the Super Bowl. There she was, all Miss High and Mighty, dressed like Cleo-friggin-patra, surrounded by a plethora of gay men in all shapes, sizes and colors. Oh, and Celo Green. What was she trying to prove? What was the NFL thinking? I'd rather see Pat Boone in leopard skin. Did you see her at the Golden Globes when she didn't win for W.E. standing there all snooty and entitled, with puckered biceps that looked like Jaws had got to them? Her, with that fake English accent? My, you've come a long way, Ms. Ciccone, since Susan was Desperately Seeking You in downtown 'Troit. Who could forget the old days with your lace gloves and hair frizz? Takes me back, alrighty. Now your claim to fame is being friends with Demi Moore while making terrible English bedroom dramas that even Elton John hates. Wait! You got to play the Super Bowl! Women over 50...