Below, you’ll find a photo of a unicorn cake with one very distinguishing feature. You’re not here for my writing. You’ve already scrolled past. I get it. I promised you a dickacorn, and a dickacorn you shall have.
Behold:
The photo was shared to the Instagram account @awkwardfamilyphotos, which seems appropriate, because that’s awkward for a family, that’s for sure. Metro UK, which directed us to the post, also has a roundup of some of the more colorful, droll, or downright filthy comments, if that’s your thing.
It’s not my thing. Bear with me a moment. My thing is this: Last night was the Met Gala, the annual benefit for the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum Of Art. Last year, the rich and famous attendees dressed like popes. This year, the theme was “Camp: Notes On Fashion,” inspired by Susan Sontag’s 1964 essay “Notes On Camp.” It was a tricky theme, because camp is hard to define. It’s not just fabulousness. It’s not just being ostentatious. Sontag cites Swan Lake, Tiffany lamps, and The Enquirer as all being camp. Camp, like pornography, is something you know when you see it—and it usually involves a balance of self-awareness and a lack of self-awareness.
Kim K is campy, but that is not camp.
Fabulous, but not camp.
That is camp. High camp. Sublime. Heady. Exquisite. In the last 24 hours, I have seen only one thing campier than Billy Porter being carried into the Met Gala on a litter by six shirtless men, and it is this:
Camp.