A few hours before the 24-year-old blonde girl walked down a red carpet in a dress made of meat, Camille Paglia was picking on her. Apparently one of America's foremost cultural critics—a "dissident feminist," published author and professor at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia—isn't a big Lady Gaga fan. Who knew?
In her article "What's Sex Got to Do With It?," which ran front and center in this past weekend's Sunday Times hours before the VMAs, Paglia indicts Gaga as the awkward and ugly end of the sexual revolution. She doesn't miss a chance for insult along the way—she calls the pop provocateur a thieving sycophant and a robotic representation of sexless sexiness.
But her real ire seems reserved for the millennial generation who let it all happen. Paglia comes off like little more than a cranky old bully. Besides, with our pop stars vanishing as fast as their own album sales, we'd be smart to recognize a messianic, over-the-top superdiva like Gaga as the novel gift she is slowly becoming, if only by default. We're not getting another one—like it or not, this is the last megastar of music. Warts, meat dresses and all ...—Robbie Mackey