Met Ball Perusal

Leandra Medine | May 8, 2012

The last time I covered the Met Ball for Man Repeller was two years ago, the post was called “The Met Saw Many a Soft Peen Last Night,” and I think it was my fifth or sixth post in all time history. Last year I intended to do the same and perhaps give it a more concise title but as it happened, few dresses were elaborate and engaging enough–by the standards of my demented ambiguous style, at least–to warrant some incoherent prose. This year, however, the wheels of creativity, they are a’back in motion and for the sake of rehashing an old time phrase: my lady boner is in full swing. Ring, a ding, dong. Peep the below for a series of photos sectioned by teams, see: peplum pal, caped crusader, Lena Dunham x Hamish Bowles.

The caped crusaders: Bianca Brandolini and Lana del Rey in Dolce & Gabbana and Altuzarra respectively. There’s an air of resurrected Cleopatra about the blunt middle part and excessive sequin to the left, Hocus Pocus witch if that movie read more like Fifty Shades of Grey to the right. But can you smear matzah?

Peplum pals: Solange Knowles–a personal favorite human specimen and Elizabeth Banks bask in the glory of harvesting a fabric gut in yellow Rachel Roy and ambiguous(ly awesome) Mary Katranzou.

Feather fiends: Yesterday I tweeted that if I were going to the Met Ball, I’d have worn a live gorilla and called it “Interactive Prada,” what I did not know is that from the trenches of Alexander McQueen’s extensive closet, see: Cate Blanchett, and the same of Prada’s, see: Diane Kruger, the idea was already well into execution. On another note, one that is equally important as interactive couture: if my hair were purple, I’d likely skin myself so to replicate Kruger’s robe-de-nuit.

Well here’s a mixed bag of the nuts. Anja Rubik stands a thousand feet tall and her expression says this: Fuck the Angelina, this is the Anya. Go big or go home. To which I respond: I think I see your uterus. Oh, oh, wait, just kidding that’s actually the top of Christina Ricci’s dress. This could make pregnancy very awkward.

It ain’t an ensemble recap on The Man Repeller without important cameos by honorary dick deflector, Chloe Sevigny (at right)–though it must be said, she’s more mod hot chick with rad footwear in reflective Miu Miu than Book of Mormon in the photographed–and Coachella fairy turned McQueen cakeboss, Florence Welch. They say a picture is worth a thousand words so, insert caption here. I’m still trying to amount for the tiers of crushed dreams manifesting inside both myself and Welch’s couture. Does she feel what I feel? Florence, I speculate that we are like a mirror into each others souls. A mirror.

And at last, I’ve saved the best for, you know, last. The irony of this photo is that there is no sign of a fetal me exiting from the crevices of either Lena and Hamish’s legs, or somewhere between both right there wrapped in pink brocade and green satin. That was probably poor execution but what I mean is that if Hamish Bowles and Lena Dunham had a baby, I am pretty sure it would be me. And since Mother’s Day is right around the corner I will take the liberty of inviting Lena to lunch so we can celebrate her womanhood. They’re not paying me at all either. All adventurous women do. Girls terets, that’s what that is. The end.