Much like the poor, the charity ball has always been with us, but lately it’s turned into a freak. Something is rotten in the state of New York, and the name of it is the Met Gala. Once upon a time, the Metropolitan Museum’s gala ball was fun. Serious social-climbing multimillionaires competed openly for the best tables and for proximity to blue-blooded socialites such as C.Z. Guest and her ilk. Pat Buckley, wife of William F., ran the show with military precision, allotting the best seats to those who had paid a fortune for them, but also to those who were young and handsome and whose pockets were not as deep. I used to be a regular. Then something happened. Anna Wintour took over after Pat’s death and the party turned into a freak show that no self-respecting circus would allow on its premises.
Last week the uglies were out in force, and the newspapers and glossies revealed themselves to be fake-news purveyors by calling the show exclusive and impossible to get an invitation to. Do the people who write this crap take the rest of us for total idiots? The Met Gala is reserved for a few D-list celebrities, fashionistas and advertisers. Proper souls wouldn’t be caught dead on the premises, especially near the Kardashian table. The ugliness of some of the attendants assaulted one’s frontal cortex — and I only saw the photos; imagine the horror of witnessing it live. Clinging like a barnacle to the Met’s hull, Anna Wintour’s horror show diminishes a great American institution. It should be staged in Times Square, on the exact spot where the peepshows of old used to be. Actually, the whole shebang should have been charged with public lewdness. It was all drugs and thugs, but the worst of all was the extremely unsightly Lena Dunham.
But why am I writing about such ugly and pretentious people? Let’s move on to comedy and the French farce for a change of pace.