When it comes to longevity in the fame industry, there’s only one quinquagenarian queen of scene—Madonna. For 25 years, we’ve watched her gyrate in mesh with a five-alarm headful of Aqua Net, slither and seduce while getting an ass full of splinters on a canal boat, and deep-throat a bottle instead of telling the truth.

She’s the style setter and mega go-getter who’s rocked and rubbed the boobie cones, done the whole equestrian S & M thing, and made leg warmers and gargantuan ghetto blasters totally awesome again. Who else but the original Motor City babe could ditch her working-class Michigan mumble in favour of exquisitely proper English elocution and change her über-Catholic, God-given name to the more Kabbalah-friendly Esther with barely a hint of reproach from fans and foes?

Slap on the cape—it’s SuperMadge, the fearless new-age celebrity titan who is forever delighting, inspiring, and empowering the Bikram-and-baby-buggies crowd with her tough-girl tenacity, intrepid fashion sense, and intermittent political potty mouth. She’s a pussy powerhouse, having somehow managed to seamlessly transition from pop provocateur to bridging the gap between the PTA and the trend of the day, without seeming any less relevant than she was back in the ’80s.

Having spent half of her charmed life shocking, mocking, and entertaining the masses, all the while continuously morphing into the next best thing—demure British mum, “actress”, activist, documentary filmmaker, children’s author—SuperMadge is part trailblazer, part housewife, and all about getting there before anyone else, except in the case of Dennis Rodman’s dong. She was, after all, cheerleading without knickers long before Hollywood celebusluts made it trendy to flash clam.

Nifty at nearly 50 and nowhere near knackered, she defies age and gravity and still manages to pull off her trademark sex-fiend thing with more than a modicum of believability. If only she would leave that stodgy British filmmaker bloke for Pharrell Williams or Justin Timberlake or Angelina Jolie—or all three. She’s Madonna: perfectly plucked, tweaked, toned, and, miraculously, looking only a couple of days over 42.

When it comes to staying power, Madonna’s critics and contemporaries go on ad nauseam about her superhuman ability to change her hairstyle and colour every three months, but Madge’s real can of spinach is how she keeps one perfectly pedicured foot in the mainstream and the other in the underground without ever falling flat on her frozen face in either realm. With her 11th studio album, Hard Candy, she’s got the moves to J T’s motion and will cause a commotion with the inevitable slew of remixes by high-profilers and up-and-comers alike. Proving she’s on the cultural frontlines has always been a part of Madonna’s shtick. That’s how she rolls.

She was dancing with gay men more than a decade before Dancing With the Stars revolutionized prime-time television, and she single-handedly established Malawi as the new celeborphan hot spot and cause du jour when she swooped in to grab Lourdes and little Rocco a brother from another mother. Most recently came the shocking I-did-it-before-it-was-cool ecstasy revelation that she shared with the audience at her recent Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction.

Imagine—getting caned on ecstasy in a New York City club in the early 1980s. Revolutionary. Maybe if she wins a Grammy for Hard Candy, we’ll get to hear all about Madonna in the middle of a bukkake blowout back in ’91 at Sandra Bernhard’s place with Warren Beatty, Sean Penn, and Vanilla Ice.