"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you might as well make it dance," said George Bernard Shaw.

——————————

Some weeks ago, when word broke that Christopher Ciccone was about to publish a book on his sister, Madonna, I wrote that no matter what the book contained, I hoped Christopher would not use the word "catharsis" as the reason he did it.

I hoped in vain. On the very first page, in the introduction of Life With My Sister Madonna,Christopher writes … "it has been a catharsis."

Give me a break. Catharsis is for a therapist’s couch. Bitter tell-alls are written for money and revenge. The sad thing about this book is that it is so … boring. It is co-written by Wendy Leigh, whose last tome was a rather lurid, scoop-less take on Princess Grace.

In between Ms. Leigh’s cut and paste, there are no shocking revelations within. Christopher wanted the world to know his sister is manipulative and stingy and an egomaniac. She embellishes the truth. She can be ruthless. She has had more than her share of lovers. The surprise is … what? (More often than not, this is the story of many iconic stars.) No hardcore – or even casual – fan of Madonna’s will be startled by anything in this book. No new lovers are revealed; there is no fresh take on the personality she and the media have fashioned over the decades. Oh, wait, one thing — for all the display she has made of her body, professionally, the private Madonna is actually rather modest. One reason she wanted her brother as her dresser on early tours? "Christopher, I can’t let strangers see me naked!" That was amusing.

Christopher gives her credit for sincerity in her AIDS fundraising, for having really loved Sean Penn and her current husband, Guy Ritchie (despite Christopher’s intense dislike of Guy), and for random nice gestures and generosity here and there, but basically this book is about how he always felt dwarfed by his sister’s shadow and ambition, underpaid for his artistic contributions to her career — which he says are massive — and disrespected by her constantly. That’s his story and maybe every word is true. But why does it deserve to be put between the covers of a book? How about keeping it confined to the therapy he says has helped him so much in recent years?  There are anecdotes dropped in about people he met and befriended while in Madonnaworld – Donatella, Demi, Gwyneth, etc. These are not enough to give the book a real oomph factor, however. And while he obviously wants to stick it to his sibling, he doesn’t really want to be brutal. The bitchy comments are often rather tentative.

Christopher insists, page after page, he loves and cherishes and admires his sister. I believe him. I saw them together many times over the years — you can’t fake what they had. He ends his book saying he and Madonna are "inseparable in spirit," that he holds no grudges and bears her no ill will. Denial is a not a river in Egypt, kid.

Rather than being titillated, I am sad for Christopher and for Madonna. If they reconcile after this, it will be a bigger miracle than Madonna winning an Oscar.

——————————

I have learned the hard way that people don’t "get" irony or satire. They used to, but times and brains have changed. I was reminded of this when I saw The New Yorker’s cover illustration of Barack and Michelle Obama — she dressed up as a radical revolutionary, he in Muslim garb. An American flag burns in the fireplace, a portrait of Osama Bin Laden hangs on the mantle.

Will the powers at The New Yorker recognize that this "satirical jibe" at the right-wing perceptions about the Obamas will be used as a poster, a clarion call to all who believe the worst about Barack and Michelle? Yes. And they don’t care. When was the last time anybody really talked about a New Yorker cover?  They are in newsstand hog heaven. Editor-in-Chief David Remnick insists: "I would never run a cover just to get attention." We now have to find a new dictionary definition for disingenuous. And not only for Mr. Remnick. When the usually explosive Hillary Clinton surrogate James Carville went on CNN to discuss the cover he was all, "Oh, it’s satire … everybody should relax, I see nothing wrong." He was so sanguine you’d think he was on a Valium drip.

I wonder how Carville would have reacted if Sen. Clinton had been the presidential nominee, and The New Yorker ran a "satirical" cover addressing some of the more awful rumors about her — perhaps a cartoon showing Mrs. Clinton standing over Vince Foster’s body, with a gun in her hand. (Thousands of idiots believe Hillary was responsible for Foster’s death, just as they believe the Obamas are terrorists out to destroy America.) Boy, would James have been singing a different tune.

I liked columnist and pundit Mike Barnicle’s comment: "Five people who live on Manhattan’s Upper East Side said, ‘Oh, this is sooo funny,’ and The New Yorker editors went with that."

Perhaps the cartoon might have worked better as a sketch within a sketch — the cover being held up by Karl Rove, and presented to John
McCain? The Republican candidate could have been shown in an oxygen mask, with Cindy McCain hanging around, maxing out her American Express card, holding a beer and a bottle of pills. Equal opportunity witty satire.

But wait, there’s more. Within minutes of the story breaking, the Internet blogs were ablaze with Obama supporters who insist this is all the work of … Hillary Clinton. You just can’t win, even when you lose.

——————————

All the above said, I do wish Barack Obama had released this as his reaction: "I understand The New Yorker’s attempt at satire. Call me too thin-skinned to appreciate it fully in the midst of a presidential campaign. Still and all, I celebrate freedom of speech and this country that allows it. I hope, of course, that Americans realize my wife Michelle and I are not cartoons, but real live human beings. As banks collapse and gas prices soar, I won’t be talking again about doodling on magazine covers. Thank you."

Click here on this text to read my nationally syndicated daily column.