By Gili Malinsky
By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
Madonna! Duh! Lookanyone who doesn't love her is completely alienated from culture. But I'm not alienated from mathematics, and Geri Halliwell must be talking about her second childhood: she's 39 if she's a day. Even Kurt Loder sez so, and he's almost as old as Brian Setzer, who closed the show with wheelchair stunts while his medical staff stood by.
And that was the show: Sluts in Recovery and Wizened Guys in Jackets. Madonna is the former's patron saint, copping six moonmen total. Courtney is the queen; thankfully, whatever program she's in is really working out for her. Even Kylie Minogue got some prize.
In the Best Methuselah race, nobody beats the wizened Steve Tyler, whose gray panthers drew a pair including Best Rock Video for "Pink," a song I've never even heard. Not only does Steve have more lines per inch than agate type, he's also a Slut in Recovery. Genius! I finally learned to love Marilyn Manson, simply for falling into neither category.
MTV has turned into an open terror campaign against the youth of America. Despite a Video Vanguard award for the fast-wizening Beasties, the only ones ready to fight for your right to party are the No Limit punks: under the audio censor's trigger finger, Master P's driving, monopolistic "Make 'Em Say Uhh!" grew as unintelligible and ferocious as "Teen Spirit" useta was, plus it had cheerleaders too. Pity poor Brandy and Monica, who weren't even allowed to have a teen spat: at the end of "The Boy Is Mine," the nice men at MTV provide each a "boy" to escort them offstage. No need to argue; we're all adults here.