Yes I know there was very important news in the presidential election today, but I’ll get to that tomorrow. First, I have to talk about something much more meaningless and inconsequential.
Because here at the Weinblog, meaningless and inconsequential is where we shine.
Over the last few days you may have heard a lot of chatter about the Met Gala. And if you’re wondering what that is, then you can take solace in knowing it’s exactly as precocious and obnoxious as it sounds.
Even the name is infuriating. The Met is already known as the most famous art museum in the world. So if you’re not into art — which includes most people — then you probably don’t care about it. I get that art is cool and inspiring and expressive, but, hallway after hallway lined with paint-spattered canvasses just doesn’t do it for me.
And then … gala. If you want to invite me to a party, a dinner, a gathering, a shindig, a barbecue, a soiree, brunch, or even a banquet — yes that’s right, a banquet — then I’d say OK. That’s fine. I’ll come.
But don’t ever, ever, invite me to a gala. I’d sooner go to a Lamaze yoga class then accept an invitation to a gala.
So combine the Met and the word “gala,” and you pretty much get the worst thing ever.
The event originally served as a standard fundraiser for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But then Anna Wintour, the editor-in-chief of Vogue — or in layman’s terms, the real-life Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada — took it over 17 years ago and since then it’s become the most exclusive, desirous party of the century.
Remember in high school when you heard hallway gossip about the Friday night party that someone on the football team was hosting? And then you wished you were secretly invited because it meant you belonged to a certain group? Well, the Met Gala is the celebrity equivalent to that.
Only the elite of the elite attend. Tickets cost $30,000, and even if you can afford it, you have to be invited. In this case, money doesn’t buy acceptance. This year’s event was also co-hosted by a few others, one of them being — you guessed it — Taylor Swift.
Basically, it makes the Golden Globes look like a college keg party.
And that’s what makes it so unbearable. It’s bad enough that this party exists, and that celebrities have even more reason to fawn over one another while they bask in their feelings of self-importance.
But it’s even worse that the media covers it to death, basically giving these people the attention they so desperately desire, and then force feeding it upon us. It’s on my Facebook. My Instagram. On Google after I search the words “Met Gala.”
You know what? On second thought, I just thought of one thing that’s more insufferable than the Met Gala.
People who say “May the fourth be with you.”
They’re definitely the worst.