#the extremely tacky Twilight joke

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

You ever have those moments where an idea just... won't leave your head?

[anotherghoul666]

Dude! (I always use this word in a gender neutral way by the way, but if you dislike it still just let me know)

I got a question, cause I’m really unsure of your opinion on something. Either you like them and find them funny or you dislike/hate them, but I somehow got the feeling you know them.

What‘s your opinion on Steel Panther?

~owlish anon

Ooooh now we're just trading special interests back and forthhhh XD You hit me with that sweet owl knowledge, now it's my turn to hit you back with some metal history and Opinions hahahaha (I also use dude for everybody in a gender neutral way, you're good!)

Steel Motherfucking Panther dude. I have so much to say about these guys xD The tl;dr version of my answer is this: it's nuanced XD Because everything is with me hahaha. I loved Steel Panther in the early 2010s. I have had some of the wildest, completely unhinged, off the wall crazy VIP parties with those guys. Some of my most fun "hagning out with bands" memories. Plus they give one hell of a live show. They have a special place in my heart. That being said, I fell off of the SP wagon around 2015-2016, and it's not a band that I can see myself going back to or continuing to support in the future. I'm a very different person that I was over a decade ago, my values have changed, I'm not a party person anymore, and I just don't align with this kind of act or message anymore.

I shall now proceed to write an entire damn essay, as I do, to detail my journey with the band and explain my takes, if you're interested XD

Typically when I hear people hate on Steep Panther, the dislike stems from one of three things:

The music reason: people don't like them because they legitimately don't like 80s glam rock / glam metal. They don't like the sound, they don't like power ballads, etc. That's 100% a valid reason, it's musical taste, you gotta be into the 80s cheesiness to like SP because they dial that shit to the max. If you don't like bands like Motley Crew and Poison and Guns N' Roses, etc. you're just not gonna like SP, the music's the same.

The toxic masculinity reason: people (and by that I mean straight, white, cis men 99% of the time) think the band is "gay" (used as the derogatory term) and they can't get over their internalized issues. Insecure men see other men on stage, very secure men who are not afraid to wear glitter and barbie pink and makeup and nail polish and heels and spandex, and they feel threatened. They see the confidence the SP guys have, they don't see it in themselves, they hate themselves for it but because of cognitive dissonance they have no clue, so they spew hatred and insults and derogatory terms at the band. And it makes them loose their shit even more when they see women respond to the vulnerability and feminine side the SP guys display and be attracted to it. Glam rock in the 80s (and by extension SP today) are seen as "girl things" and vehemently shat on by cishet men the same way "girl media" like Twilight for example is. It's a desperate and quite pathetic attempt at covering up their insecurities and it stinks from miles away. 0% validity, unpack your shit, man, and go to therapy.

The "they're inappropriate / problematic" reason: people think Steel Panther are tacky or unfunny or they take the joke too far. SP are a parody band. They are a caricature, an exaggerated to the extreme version of 80s glam rock / glam metal bands and groupie culture. Whether you find the joke funny or not is entirely gonna depend on your sense of humor and what genre of humor you like. If you think sex jokes are gross and uncalled for, stay away from SP, that's the whole shtick. If you think penis jokes are funny, stay around because there will be a million more of those. It's a taste thing. 50/50 valid and invalid reason here, and I can see both sides. I myself have straddled the line of both of these sides throughout my life.

People get angry at SP because they say their lyrics and skits, on stage and in their videos, are misogynistic, abelist, racist, homophobic, fatphobic, etc. There is so stuff that people can accuse this band of, and they think the band members themselves are making fun of women and other marginalized communities. If you think that, that's alright and I respect that your feelings were hurt. But dude. You missed the joke. You didn't understand what the band is doing. SP themselves are not shitting on women. They are shitting on 80s glam rock and groupie culture. They are magnifying the issues that this culture had and putting them under a modern microscope and light. The point is to be shocking, because groupie culture was shocking. It's as much of a celebration of the music as it's a criticism of the over the top way of life of these bands, and humor is the vehicle for the lessons. If you think any exposure of these topics is dangerous, then sure, absolutely you'll hate the band. If you see the value of poking fun at the type of shit that went down in the 80s, then you'll love SP. It's a matter of sensibility I feel, and whether you're able as a listener to sit with your inner discomfort to find the joke and find value in the caricature / exposure of problems through humor, or if the discomfort is too strong and you wanna leave. Both reactions are ok.

Ghost does the exact same thing as Steel Panther, but they target the christian religion instead of tour bus sex orgies and cocaine. We've seen how wildly uncomfortable Ghost can make people with their easter jesus talk / the new video. Discourse has exploded and it's the exact same thing: there are those of us that get the joke, and those of us that take it too seriously. Anyone that takes Ghost seriously, just as anyone that takes Steel Panther seriously, is bound to get offended. That's the point. SP does not allow for indifference. They'll make you laugh to tears or they'll shock you and put you in an outrage, but either way you're gonna feel something about them.

Now, personally, I used to be in on the joke. I found them hilarious in 2010. I have also changed, my values have changed, my levels of tolerance for things being "just funny" versus things veering into problematic territory has changed. Am I down today for some of the language Steel Panther use in their songs? Nope. Are there songs from theirs I still adore and will unapologetically blast / sing to / drum to? Abso-fucking-lutely dude. Not all the songs have what I personally consider problematic content or language. But I wouldn't buy their albums anymore or buy merch or pay to go to their concerts. I'd go if they were in town and my mag sent me to cover the show, but I wouldn't support them monetarily anymore.

I was born in '91. I was just a bit too late to live through the '85-'88 hay day of glam metal, but I was steeped in the culture from when I was a baby. My dad's a rocker, his whole "old life" before my parents had me was touring with bands and importing music. He's lived through the creation of rock and prog in the 60s. He's been instrumental in importing international (and mostly British cause the UK scene was popping back then) prog and rock bands for the first time in the country in the 70s. He's played with bands throughout the 70s and 80s where he was the one having groupies crawling over him. That was his world. So I grew up on his stories and memories of the sexual liberation and living in communes, of flower power and Woodstock-like festivals, of the glam rock life. That was my ideal, that was my childhood dream, this world, and back then the social discourse was very very different from how it is today.

So when I discovered Steel Panther around 2010 (I think it was with the release of the first singles for the Balls Out album that came out the year after, with 17 Girls in a Row), that band sounded like it was 1987 but in 2010, all day every day. The sound, the look, the attitude, it was spot on. And of course it was played up for the joke, the lyrics and themes were crazy blown out of proportion, but I also felt like these raunchy lyrics in 2010 must've been how the relatively tame (to my ears) lyrics from Poison and Def Leppard etc. felt to people in the 80s. What shocks a population 2-3 decades apart won't be the same. I felt Steel Panther upped the absurdity and raunchiness of the themes to shock the modern crowd at a similar level. I thought it was brilliant.

I caught up with their previous album Feel the Steel from 2009, I liked it ok, some songs were great, some were meh. Nowadays I can see how Feel the Steel is by far the most problematic SP album in terms of content so it doesn't right with me so much anymore. I'm attached to tracks like Community Property because 2010 me (who still identified as a woman and monogamous at the time because I didn't know I hadthe right to be anything else) felt a deep, deep satisfaction singing about how "my cock is community property / my dick's a free spirit" for some reason (ha haha hahaha turned out the reason was probably because I was Not A Woman and also Not Monogamous XD In the end my cock is indeed somewhat community property today XD). I'm also attached to Death to All but Metal cause I basically learned how to double bass drum on that song, and the dig on early 2000s MTV culture is hella funny, but there are lines of lyrics in there dude, wheew. Nope. Anyway.

Balls Out in 2011 was one of my favorite albums of that year. Supersonic Sex Machine, 17 Girls in a Row, It Won't Suck Itself dude? That song FUCKS!!! People can say whatever they want about Chad Kroger and Nickelback, I also grew up on that band and I think they get unecessary hate. From then I was all in. Went to shows, hung out with them, VIP parties (I could talk for an hour about what a VIP with Steel Panther looks like, if you wanna but in another ask cause this one is Too Long already XD ), and so much hype for the next album.

2014's All you Can Eat blew me away, also one of my best albums of that year. Pussywhipped and its femdom vibes; Party like Tomorrow is the End of the World dude what a stellar single and video; Gloryhole is a catchy motherfuckewr; Gangbang at the Old Folks Home actually spreads the message that old people still have a sex life which is legit a good message; The Burden of Being Wonderful is the perfect stupid egotistical power ballad and I adore it, listennnn. Bangers across the board.

The true talent of these guys was was that, behind the stupid jokes, they were super talented musicians. Legit good musicians across the board, because to recreate a song from 2-3 decades ago this perfectly, to pinpoint guitar tone and amps and song writing structures and vocal techniques like a damn time machine? That takes so much talent. The guys joke around, but they don't play with their music quality.

2015 I did start to notice the band was getting stale. They didn't renew the jokes as much, they started to recycle songs and themes, I wondered where it was gonna go. Lower the Bar came out in 2017 and I was not about it. I found it very boring and, I don't have another word for it, stale. That's when I started to loose interest. Lexxi leaving in 2018 was kinda the nail in the coffin for me. He was a huge part of the band for me, a bit part of the balance of the band's energy especially on stage, and who they replaced him with just felt cheap and overplayed. Good on the guys for still doing their thing today, but past 2018 I have not touched Steel Panther and I have no clue what they're doing anymore. So to loop back around, today SP is not, as I said before, a band I'd spend money on nor keep listening to. But it doesn't negate the wonderful years and memories I have with there guys. I'm just not down for their message and vibe anymore. I learned, I evolved, I changed, the past still holds value, but I'm not doubling back to 2010 me anytime soon.

And that, my dear Owl, is my unecessarily long opinion about Steel Panther XD Thanks for asking, this was a fun blast from the past to revisit!

[jaeminscoffee]

6:45 PM

Pairing- Lee Jeno x reader.

Genre- Angst, Fluff.

Word count- 1.91k

Warning- False accusation, Jeno seems a little thick headed but he was just caught up in the heat, mention of breaking up but not really :))

Summary- Not the ideal off day with your loved ones that you were looking for.

"You need to tell me what's wrong, Jeno."  you demand with a stern voice, having had enough of the way your boyfriend was acting. 

Earlier today Jaemin, a good friend of yours, a best friend of Jeno's had come over, reason being missing his two best hype mates and not getting much time to spend with you after having a hectic schedule. 

Jeno was fine the first two hours, interacting well, cracking stupid tacky jokes, sometimes even ganging up with Jaemin to make fun of you. But you noticed the gradual strip out of his patience, furrowing his eyebrows or gripping the pillow in a death grip. His subtle glares towards his friend was not given a blind eye, you noticed it all. Typical Jeno. He's always been a little jealous over your slightly curved affection for others. 

It was only when he did something he's never done throughout the years of one, your relationship, two Jaemins friendship that had you completely shocked. 

"I have nothing to tell you, Y/n" He replied with the same tone he held an hour ago after the guest left the house. You weren't going to buy his bullshit. 

"You screamed at Jaemin asking him to get out. Do you still have nothing to tell me?" you ask, walking up to where he sat by the edge of the bed. 

"I said i have nothing to tell you." Voice hoarse, the veins on his neck protruding prominently from how strained his jaws were. "Well you do." You spit out as soon as you stood in front of him, his gaze still fixated on the floor. 

"I. Don't." he repeated the words through gritted teeth. For a normal person, he'd be extremely intimidating and would've had the other weak in their knees from how threatening he sounded. Fights are normal for any couple but the last you'd heard him use this tone was when someone tried to touch you at a club you went to for the weekend.

"Then I do. Jaemin's your best friend for god's sake! He came in here, wanting to spend some quality time with us and he was an absolute sweetheart throughout even! And what do you do? Scream at him? For what? He seemed so hurt! What must he be thinking right no-!" 

"Enough!" Jeno stood up, towering over your much smaller figure with his as he narrowed his eyes down at you, nose flaring. You wouldn't be shocked if he started breathing out flames. 

You jump from the sudden raise of his voice, having to crane your neck to look up at him, hands shaking the slightest from the flinch you just experienced. 

"Jaemin this, Jaemin that. Who's your boyfriend, huh?" He started walking forward, almost stepping on your toes if you hadn't moved back, "Actually, he might as well be! You're always on about him and now you even want to go defend him" he poked at your right shoulder, pushing you back as you gaped at his words, completely taken aback by his assumption. 

"All i wanted was one fucking day to spend with you but nope! You want your dearest Jaemin with you. All the fucking time! Do you not love me anymore, Y/n?" Jeno let out an exhale, pushing you back with a single finger still on your shoulder, making you step back, "Jen-" "No you wanted me to tell you what's wrong right? Hear me out then!" 

"Is Jaemin all you think about, Y/n? Is that why you're getting so worked up over me shouting at my best friend?? Emphasize the word, my. My best friend, why is it affecting you? Huh?" He raised his voice once again, you turn your head to the side, crunching up the facials trying to make out why he's making this a big deal. It was his fault to begin with. 

"You want him that much then just go to him right! Or you want both of us because i won't be shocked at that, you're a sucker for anything remotely good looking anyways you won't hesitate to run your mouth all over town-!" Jeno stopped midway to completing his sentence, now noticing your glazed eyes and the heavy puffs of air you took. 

"are you done?" you ask with trembling voice, Jeno opened his mouth to speak but you held your hands up, stopping him, "If this is about Jaemin-" Jeno took in a sharp breathe, hands going from poking at your shoulder to holding your shoulder in a tight grip at the mention of his best friends name. Though the grip was bruising, you muster up all the strength you had, removing his hands from you, quickly stepping back to create some space between the two of you. 

"Then he's my friend too." you step back once again as Jeno stood his ground. "But if you heard yourself and actually think of me that way. You're more than welcome to just break things off." you grab the door knob as a tear slipped out, turning away to shield the weakness from your boyfriend who's head is stuck up his butt at the moment, and dashed out the room. 

"Y/n wait-" you hear him call out for you, footsteps shuffling close behind but you grabbed the car keys, wanting away from him to clear your mind the least. One of you should stay sane. 

Driving away to your safe space, the old library that took a journey of around 25 minutes, which is most likely to be 'anything living and breathing'-free as not many knew of that place, which made you love it even more. 

Whiffs of old bookcases are calming.

 You were pleased to find out your assumptions were correct, not a single soul other than a tired out cashier who seemed long passed out, given he failed to hear the ringing of the entrance opening. 

You make your way to the extreme back, not particularly wanting to read anything with your thoughts clouded, allowing yourself a seat you found at a secluded corner. 

You take your phone out, that had been vibrating since you left home after Jeno's sudden outburst, ignoring them, wanting him to feel bad for what he's done throughout the day, you scroll through your phone searching for Jaemin's contact, opening up messages to type in a quick apology for your boyfriend's behavior, explaining it must've been the the fatigue that got to him, but made sure to tell him not to wave off this behavior and screw him when they meet later. 

Getting a reply almost immediately, you were shocked to find out Jaemin was still as bubbly as ever, saying it's fine and that he didn't take anything to heart which just made you feel even guiltier than you already felt. 

Texting back and forth, Jaemin being more than ready to keep you company after you narrated what had happened back home, cracking jokes to make you feel better when you wantedly missed out on a few parts to tell him, you jolt when you feel a hand tear you away from the screen and the table in front of you, pulling you into a tight embrace. 

Warmth being familiar, you resist the urge to hug him back, not even bothering to ask him how he'd known where you'd be at as this is known to be the place you go to calm your mind, rather all those cliché places like the bridge or a cliff, or the beach, or taking a stroll in the twilight whatsoever. 

"Y/n I'm so so sorry, please don't run off like that again" he spoke, Jeno mimicked your voice from before, this time quivering with guilt. "Let go, Jen" you spoke with a voice void of all emotions, tables turning as you mirrored his voice from the time of the argument.

"No, I won't, I'm so sorry, I meant nothing of what I said! Trust me, I was just being unreasonable and petty, i would never want to let go of you. I'd be an idiot if i did so" he spoke against your hair, grip around you tight, yet delicate, soft enough for you to step out if you'd wished. 

"Yes you were." you reply, slowly raising your hands to feather over his elbows as he pressed you further against his chest, "I know. I'm really sorry, love. I was just jealous is all. And it had been a rough week at work and all that got to me but trust me when I say I'll do anything to repent just, please don't let my words get to you" he caressed your back. 

"Those were all words of spiked up anger, and i really want to throw myself off a cliff, I'm really sorry, i am" he pulled away enough to place a peck on your forehead. 

"you'll do anything?" you repeat his words for confirmation, finally allowing yourself to throw your hands around his torso. You look up at him, seeing a faint crimson at the white of his eye, the hue being really pale that you'd not make out if you stood a couple yards away. He must've shed some tears, just like you. 

"Anything." with a nod, he hesitantly placed a delicate kiss on your lips, scared you'd shatter if he'd pressed any harder. 

"house chores for a week." you narrow your eyes at him, not wanting to drag the fight for long as it'd only take a negative toll on your relationship. 

"Okay!" Jeno's face evidently lightened up, quick to think he's forgiven, "thank you for forgivin-"

"Don't be so sure on that, boy. You still have one thing left to do until I completely forgive you" you step back, turning to walk back towards the exit, fishing for the car keys from the back pocket of your jean, turning around and throwing the keys at him swiftly, his reflexes allow him to catch it. 

"You're driving to Jaemin's house and begging for an apology, right now." it was only the right thing to do even after the lad insisting on not being hurt. Jeno is his best friend, it's always sucky when you have your friend mad at you without knowing what you did. Worse if you didn't actually do anything. 

"You have it." Jeno exclaimed, walking towards you as the two of you made your way to the exit. "you're doing it the way i want you to, though", you turn your body towards him after both of you stood by the door of the passengers side. 

"And how do you want me to do it?" He inquired, leaning against the car. "First tell him exactly what you said to me" Jeno nodded, agreeing to do that, "Then give him a tight hug and repeat sorry until he swats you away" he contemplated for a moment, but eventually ended up agreeing to it too. "And then.. Give him a kiss on the cheek." Your boyfriend let out a sound of protest, leaning back further onto the surface. 

"Do i really have to??" he asked, whining. 

"Yes."

"Like, really? really?" 

"Mhm"

"for real? Real? Is it that important?" you let out a sigh at his constant poking at your side as he pushed further with the question. 

"Do you want me to forgive you or not?" you ask, voice demanding, a hint of teasing evident. "Yes!" he was fast to reply. 

"Then give him a kiss. "

[thenovelartist]

Wedding Nights - MLQC headcanons

Steamy but SFW

I saw some post on tumblr begging for wedding night stuff after these wedding cards were released. I don’t write NSFW, but still kinda want something along those lines, so here. XD

 Gavin

While the boy DID spend hours agonizing over finding the perfect engagement ring before ultimately getting a custom one, Gavin could not have cared less about the details of the wedding.

As long as he got to marry the love of his life, he was fine with anything.

He doesn’t care about the details of the wedding night, either.

Much.

He wouldn’t argue, but he would prefer if said wedding night just took place at home. No hotel, no anything big or fancy or frilly. Just them safely tucked away in their new place where he knew it was secure.

Only decorated with candles and flowers because Minor (And Kiki and Willow) told him to.

Doesn’t get the appeal, but if it made his bride happy, then he’d do it.

After the reception, Gavin literally flies home with the love of his life in his arms.

They enter through the window. Because of course they do.

When he closes the windows and curtains, his wife takes the opportunity to hug him from behind, pressing a kiss right between his shoulder blades.

He feels it through all layers of clothing and immediately colors red.

The night starts off innocently for a wedding night. Sweet, fluttering kisses that are interrupted by soft giggles as they held each other close.

Then one of those kisses lingers a little long, putting aside the innocence of their actions.

Gavin realizes he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the wedding night when his bride runs her hands up his abs to his shoulders, slipping under his jacket to slide it down his arms.

He’s going to die. A sweet death, but he’s dying, nevertheless.

By the time his bride is unbuttoning his shirt, he realizes he should try getting her out of her dress.

Thankfully, she had taken pity on her new husband and had found one with a zipper in the back.

Not that lace or buttons wouldn’t be pretty, but he wasn’t well adept to such things.

He was thankful for the consideration.

When the dress hits the floor, Gavin’s already shirtless.

He’s backing her up to the edge of the bed. Her knees hit the edge, and she collapses onto it.

Gavin has two seconds of clarity to realize he should help her undo her shoes and hair.

He kneels before her, taking off her shoes and kissing the tops of her feet. He loves her and will happily shower her in attention.

Then he attempts to help her with her hair.

He only got four of several pins, but he was at least gentle in doing it.

Only then does he go back to kissing his bride, laying kisses on her cheeks as the occasional “I love you” falls from his lips.

And right before she yanks him down into bed with her, he uses his evol to snuff out all the candles.

Come morning, Gavin’s plan was to make his new wife breakfast (he’d been practicing).

But when it came down to it, he didn’t want to leave her warm embrace for a long while. No reason to rush a perfectly good morning snuggling in bed with his wife

(Others under cut: long post)

Kiro

The wedding was something much different than most people expected. Small, private, close friends and family and a few important people only.

Most importantly: no fans or press! This event was specifically for him and Miss Chips. End of story.

The fans could hear about all the details at a later date.

Probably a destination wedding.

Meaning he booked the nicest room of the coolest hotel.

He personally set up everything in the room beforehand.

Roses and rose petals everywhere. Lots of candles. Music he composed himself specifically for the night. Whole shebang.

They escape their reception in a white limo, streamers decorating it along with a sign on the back that says “Just Married”.

And of course, he carries her bridal style all the way from the limo into their room, the duo laughing and giggling all the way.

They don’t settle down when they get to the room, either. They laugh and joke a bit before Kiro starts tickling his bride, meaning she retaliates until they’re both lying on the bed, snuggled together, stupid smiles on their faces.

To Kiro, it partly feels surreal. Like it was too perfect.

He can’t help but want to prove it’s real by pulling his wife closer to him, holding her tightly in his arms and laying a few reverent kisses on her face.

One for each eyelid. One on her forehead. The tip of her adorable nose. The apple of each cheek…

Then she reached up to hold his jaw, guiding his lips to hers.

That’s when the fire sparked.

He pins her to the bed, still fully clothed, kissing her like his life depends on it.

One intense kiss turns to two turns to four. Within moments, they’re already breathing heavy despite the night just starting.

Gently turns her to her side so he can get at the back of her dress.

She whines, but then those whines of protest turn to pleasure as Kiro kisses every inch of her shoulder blades.

The laced-up back of the dress is easily tackled by Kiro, who had worn practically every kind of outfit and dealt with every kind of fastener under the sun.

He’s able to undo it with his eyes closed; feeling for the edge of the ribbon and tugging the bow free before hooking his finger onto each cross section of ribbon, slowly working it looser and looser.

It’s not a mad rush to get free of their clothes. Instead, it’s a piece of his tux here and there that his bride works free before tossing to who-knew-where while he slowly slides the dress lower and lower on her body, kissing her newly revealed skin as it went.

And this went on until the only fabric on them were the sheets.

The morning found these two fast asleep. There were no phones or alarms to wake them up.

And neither wanted to wake the other, meaning they pretend to be sleeping for another hour and a half just so they can relish the feeling of being with each other.

  Victor

The wedding was big and traditional and the classiest event of the freaking century.

Victor let his lovely bride decide on most of the details, though he occasionally vetoed something he didn’t like.

The one thing he was extremely picky on was the catering and wedding cake.

For their escape afterwards, of course he found the classiest honeymoon suite in the area.

Had the staff handle setting the room up per his request.

Champagne and candles. Vases of flowers decorating the room, but no petals covering the bed. That’s just a mess.

Carries her to the awaiting black limo to escape from their reception. Not decorated in anything tacky, thank you.

He escorts her like a gentleman up to their room, laying a couple kisses on her hands along the way.

Carries her over the threshold.

Sets her down in their room and lets her marvel over the finery of it as well as the stunning view.

He couldn’t help but offer her the champagne, and so, they sit together, his wife curled up in his lap while they sip the sweet booze that they didn’t get a chance to enjoy much of at their reception while they watch the twilight fade completely to night.

Honestly, Victor enjoyed this more than their entire reception. Private quiet time holding his wife? He could get used to this.

Eventually, it got chilly, meaning it was time to migrate inside.

After Victor shut the door and curtains, his bride asked him for help getting out of her dress.

So. Many. Buttons.

And they’re so small and round, traveling from her shoulders to past her hips. How long did it take to get her into this?

After struggling with three buttons, complaining all the while, Victor gave into the desire of ruining the perfectly good dress that she was only going to wear this once anyways.

At the sound of fabric ripping, his wife gasps as she spins around, looking at the buttons that are now bouncing across the carpeted floor.

The horror on her face actually amuses Victor, though he doesn’t let out a chuckle until she herself starts laughing.

It’s an unrestrained laugh that Victor knows he has the privilege to hear the rest of his life.

Can’t help but cuddle her close, pressing a couple fleeting kisses to the side of her face.

With her dress barely hanging off her shoulders, she helps Victor with unbuttoning his shirt.

Once he’s stripped down to his underwear, he leans forward to finally press an actual kiss to her lips for the first of MANY times that night.

During which, he’ll slide the barely-hanging-on dress off her shoulders, leaving her in her undergarments as well.

He picks her up off the ground, and though she gasps in surprise, she ends up looping her arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, allowing him to carry her off to bed.

Morning is signaled only by the time on the clock, a time Victor has programmed himself to wake up at every morning.

But unlike any other morning, he happily stays in bed beside his wife, cherishing this time with her as he smiles down at her still sleeping form.

  Lucien

He would be happy with anything. But, preferred (and got) a smaller, quieter wedding.

Outdoors would be lovely, on a nice, spring day.

Has no preference where the wedding night takes place.

If at home, then he spends time decorating. Like, the whole house. Because it’s now theirs as a married couple.

Trail of rose petals into the bedroom, which is now set up with candles and flowers and music. Lucien even put up a canopy on the bed.

He drives her away from their reception. This is their getaway, and he really doesn’t want a chauffer intruding. Just them is how he wants it to be.

Though the orphanage kids had a fun time leaving notes for them in the back seat and decorating the outside of the car with streamers and cans and the “Just Married” sign on the back window.

They walk up to their apartment together. Then Lucien holds his hand over hers as they put the key in the lock to open the door to their house, together.

Then swoops her up in his arms and kicks the door shut behind them.

He hadn’t planned on carrying her to the bedroom, but that’s what ended up happening.

Set her gently on the edge of the bed.

Long. And. Slow. Kisses.

Each kiss is reverent on her, because she’s the most precious thing in his world.

He’s got patience in spades, so he’s going to take his sweet time lavishing his new wife with love and affection.

As for the line of buttons on his wife’s dress, there’s no problem with that.

Because with every button that’s undone, more skin that he can kiss is revealed.

He starts at the neck of her dress, his kisses landing on her ear and jaw as he works on undoing the buttons one by one.

And when he gets to the middle of her shoulder blades, he moves that attention to her neck, leaving lingering kiss after lingering kiss on every inch of skin that’s revealed.

By the time he’s at her hips, his wife is laying face down on the bed, whining and whimpering at his attentions to her spine.

Does not help that his hands are wondering up the skirt of her dress, rubbing her legs as he continues to undo the buttons one handed.

He pretends he’s got this all under control when in reality, it’s actually a little hard on him.

He did not anticipate how severe a reaction to his wife’s reactions he would have.

When he frees her from the dress, slowly pulling it off her, she seizes a moment to tackle him back to the bed and return the favor.

Thinks he can hold it together.

Is proven wrong and flips her back over on the bed once she finishes unbuttoning his shirt. Restraint is at a new low for Lucien the rest of the night.

Morning sees the rare sight of his wife awake before him.

However, he was awake later into the night when she was asleep, so just as he got to watch his bride sleep and relish the preciousness of something so simple, his wife got to return the favor that morning.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/lifestyle/is-it-camp/

Is It Camp?

Explainers

This year’s Met Gala theme has us wondering about things we treasure.

May 4, 2019

In 1964, Susan Sontag defined camp as an aesthetic “sensibility” that is plain to see but hard for most of us to explain: an intentional over-the-top-ness, a slightly (or extremely) “off” quality, bad taste as a vehicle for good art.

“Notes on ‘Camp,’” her 58-point ur-listicle, builds on that inherent sense of something being “too much,” and also fences it in. Camp is artificial, passionate, serious, Sontag writes. Camp is Art Nouveau objects, Greta Garbo, Warner Brothers musicals and Mae West. It is not premeditated — except when it is extremely premeditated.

Her list of camp dos and don’ts has grown since it was first published. Some, including the filmmaker Bruce LaBruce, have updated and expanded it to include references as categorically specific as “Twilight” (bad straight camp) and Sarah Palin (conservative camp). Still, Sontag’s treatise remains the top-cited attempt to define a slippery concept.

The essay is also the founding document of this year’s Met Costume Institute exhibit and its attendant gala. On Monday, when Anna Wintour’s campers ascend the Met’s steps for a first look at “Camp: Notes on Fashion,” few of us will be among them. But that doesn’t mean we can’t camp on our own terms. What, among a random sampling of our exciting and tacky enthusiasms and passions, is — and what is not — camp?

Dog shows began alongside county fair-type events: cow and poultry shows and the like. Today, they show no trace of the messier side of animal behavior. Perfect doggy specimens are pampered and fawned over like models, but tragically the dogs themselves never know exactly what’s going on, or realize how hot they are. Personalities and desires are projected wildly onto the furry celebrities by owners, announcers and spectators with pure and unbridled enthusiasm.

For every Westminster Dog Show brought to you by Purina Puppy Chow, there are thousands (more than 22,000, actually, according to the American Kennel Club) of smaller events happening across the country where you can find handlers trotting around bright green synthetic show rings wearing every shade of pastel suit jacket and A-line skirt you can imagine. It’s a world of caricatures, of fans who identify with a breed as strongly as a religion. The dog show ring is also the only place where one can win the covetable title of Select Bitch. EDEN WEINGART

Cher was the picture of camp long before she discovered plastic surgery. Rhinestones, bugle beads and feathered headdresses — furnished by her partner in kitsch, Bob Mackie — helped build her outsize persona in the ’70s. Over time, Cher developed a reputation for humor and almost self-consciously terrible taste.

For every movie in which Cher wowed critics, there were half a dozen songs establishing her as the sultan of schlock. The one she’s most proud of is “Believe,” a trifle of pop music that sounds like Everything but the Girl’s “Missing” as reimagined by Nancy Meyers. But even Cher can’t take Cher seriously. “I’ve made millions of albums, and most of them are absolutely no good,” she told The New York Times in 2018. Of course, that’s what made them good. It wasn’t an accident that she became the first bona fide A-list diva to razzle-dazzle audiences for years at a time with residencies in Las Vegas. Or that a show of her life ultimately made its way to Broadway. Sontag asks, “When does travesty, impersonation, theatricality acquire the special flavor of camp?” The answer is: whenever Cher appears. JACOB BERNSTEIN

Donatella Versace

Is it camp? Yes.

She is hair (blonde), she is tan (tan), she is jewelry (gold), she is gloss, she is heels, heels, heels. She is Versace, both literally and proverbially, and yet she is so much Versace, so impossibly anything but Versace, that she is never called Versace. She is Donatella or, to her staff, DV. The Versace, like a radiant halo, announces itself.

If Donald Trump is a poor person’s idea of a rich person, Donatella is a fashion victim’s idea of a fashion idol: everything skintight, everything bellissima, the jets, the parties, the famous friends, the Milan mansion, the gesticulating cigarette (she quit, but a cigarette, like a phantom limb, will always trail DV). This idea, which in lesser hands could be gaudy or merely glitzy, is sewn into each of her garments; once, at a private showroom appointment in Milan, a designer at Versace described to me in utter seriousness the “important shoulder” that distinguished a jacket.

Improbably, all of it works. Fashion critics, even the harrumphing ones, love her, love it. The people love her. Versace is one of the few places where they agree. She has the operatic grandeur of public tragedy (she took over Versace after the murder of her brother, Gianni) and personal struggles (the drugs, the rehab). And so she has been taken up, by drag queens and YouTubers, Penélope Cruz (who didn’t do her justice) and Maya Rudolph (who did). A benevolent queen, DV proved herself in on the joke and joined faux-Donatella onstage, shoulder to important shoulder. Bellissima. MATTHEW SCHNEIER

Kathie Lee Gifford

Is it camp? Daytime television camp.

Morning show anchors are inherently campy, having dedicated their lives to sprucing up news — information that is by nature alarming or, on a good day, banal. Among such campers, Kathie Lee Gifford is a counselor. Her sentences are delivered as smoothly as if they were lines she memorized years ago for her starring role in a play about herself, a role she is perpetually reprising for one night only as a treat for fans. Take her final (ever) seconds on “Today.” “Am I supposed to say something?” she wondered. “Might as well!” said Hoda Kotb. In an instant, Ms. Gifford, champagne in hand, was delivering a voluminous bible quotation directly into the camera (Jeremiah 29) while, beneath her, a cartoon Kathie Lee toasted a credit reading “PROMOTIONAL CONSIDERATIONS FURNISHED BY CARNIVAL CRUISE LINE.” She closed the program by singing a composition written by herself. Cheers. CAITY WEAVER

Villanelle

Is it camp? Hot assassins are always campy.

From the instant Villanelle, the lightly self-mocking assassin of “Killing Eve” played by Jodie Comer, dispatches a Mafia don by plunging a hairpin into his eye, her predilection for theatrical extremes is plain. In fact, you can’t really miss it. After all, for Villanelle, murder is nothing more or less than a high-style form of playacting.

Watch with a mixture of horror and mirth as this wily assassin, dressed in a pervy variation on a milkmaid costume, eviscerates her victim in the window of a brothel. Could you be faulted for taking her performance as a brazen joke? Even Villanelle doesn’t seem to be taking it too seriously — her approach to the kill is so comically efficient, so artfully contrived, that it rises to the level of self-parody.

That archness extends to her wardrobe. Villanelle dresses for excess, effusively wicked in pink tulle or satin, a high-collar Edwardian shirt, or a regal negligee worn by day with gilded chandelier earrings. She represents the essence of extravagance, the hallmark of an aesthetic that Sontag likened to “a woman walking around in a dress made of three million feathers.” RUTH LA FERLA

John Waters

Is it camp? He is the king of camp.

No one channeled the joy of bad taste as efficiently as the director John Waters. His muse was Divine, a 6-foot-2 drag queen who, in the director’s self-described “trash trilogy” — “Pink Flamingos,” “Mondo Trasho” and “Female Trouble” — treated sexual assault, foot fetishism, coprophilia, incest, baby kidnappings and murder as big jokes. While Divine’s bouffants reached to the heavens, her outfits barely covered her crotch. She did not so much act as perform onscreen karaoke. Her gestures and facial expressions were almost as big as her appetite. Only rarely did Divine play characters who could easily be described as likable. But empathy was not Mr. Waters’s top objective. “If someone vomits watching one of my films, it’s like getting a standing ovation,” he wrote in the opening of his autobiography. JACOB BERNSTEIN

[Read about the king of camp’s sleep-away camp for adults.]

Russ Meyer

Is it camp? Thoroughly, albeit a straight-male subset.

Before there was John Waters, there was Russ Meyer. The grindhouse king of the 1960s made low-budget sexploitation films with titles like “Vixen!” and “Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!” that contained a Pride Parade float’s worth of campy costumes, not to mention campy dialogue by campy female characters whose over-the-top vampiness was so broad that they might as well have been played by Divine. Never mind that Mr. Meyer’s soft-core sex films were targeted to straight men looking for any opportunity to gaze at large, bare breasts in the days before pornography became widely accessible. Eventually, the dirty-raincoat crowd abandoned this auteur, known as King Leer, for more explicit, and boringly literal, films starring Linda Lovelace and Marilyn Chambers. Mr. Meyer’s legacy was left to those who could most appreciate him. John Waters said that “Pussycat!” was “possibly better than any film that will be made in the future.” If he was kidding, that makes it even more camp. ALEX WILLIAMS

Internet Astrology

Is it camp? It is artifice, but not camp.

If calamity defines this moment, internet astrology is a potent antidote. It’s a pseudoscience exaggerated with a wink through memes, an everything-in-quotation-marks lens for culture. Photos of Rihanna with a wine glass, Lady Gaga posing with her Golden Globe in a periwinkle Valentino gown, and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Nancy Pelosi with the cast of “Queer Eye” become a way of understanding — with questionable specificity — the habits of the signs. Do Leos “despise taking orders”? Are Geminis people who “aren’t easily offended by jokes”? Are Sagittariuses merely defined by the concept of “athleisure”? It doesn’t matter. In a world fated with no future (see: threats of authoritarianism, climate change and the impending artificial intelligence takeover), astrology’s assured predictions ease collective anxiety while allowing us to indulge in a shared identity, however absurd. LOVIA GYARKYE

In 1933, Mae West cemented her status as Hollywood’s original queen of camp in the vaudeville-esque film “She Done Him Wrong.” The story takes place in a boozy saloon, where West’s character Lady Lou rules the roost, chewing up and spitting out every scoundrel who’s “warm for” her. Back then, female sexuality onscreen was largely synonymous with vulnerability. West changed that. She makes her cinematic entrance in a carriage, wearing a giant feathered hat and holding a parasol. Hands on hips, eyebrows raised, the term “woman” doesn’t begin to describe her; she’s a broad. Her dresses have almost as much sparkle as her jewelry. Her greatest distaste is seriousness. Not even a visit to a boyfriend in the clink rattles her. When one of her many suitors tells her that her life is in danger, Lou says, “You’re going to protect me? From what?” Then she adds: “When I need protection I’ll write you a letter.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

‘Strangers With Candy’

Is it camp? Yes.

“Strangers With Candy” stars Amy Sedaris in half a fat suit as Jerri Blank, a 40-something dropout who returns to high school after years as a junkie, prostitute and eventual inmate. In a format modeled (loosely) after the “ABC Afterschool Special,” our heroine encounters hardships both universal and specific: impressing the popular kids, resisting the temptation of drugs, finding out she’s Native American, getting lured into a cult. Each episode ends with Jerri breaking the fourth wall to tell the viewer what she has learned, which is usually nothing. But there are some take-aways. Having someone to make out with supersedes self-respect; violence doesn’t resolve conflicts, but it wins them; being a single mother is easiest when one is neither single nor a mother. It’s a highly aestheticized work of absurdist comedy. Jerri’s makeup is thick. Her overbite is pronounced. Her hygiene is questioned. So if these parables leave you scratching your head, do as Jerri says: “Think about it — I haven’t.” THOMAS LOTITO

Supreme

Is it camp? Not exactly, but it’s definitely “too much.”

When The New York Post, for a long time the most camp of the city’s daily papers, placed an ad for Supreme on its front page, the brand’s acolytes rushed to pay $20 for a paper that usually goes for $1.50. This kind of excess is wrapped up in the fact that the people who want to own Supreme far outnumber the people who can actually buy it. Every time the brand has a “drop,” hundreds of people swarm its stores just to wait in line to spend hundreds on a pair of boxer shorts. In a Supreme devotee, we see how one can be “serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious,” as Sontag puts it, to the point where even the founder James Jebbia is dumbfounded. In a phone interview with GQ, when asked if he ever thought Supreme would become as globally recognized as it is today, he compared the unlikely outcome to the election of Donald J. Trump. ASTHA RAJVANSHI

President Trump

Is it camp? Much political theater is camp, but he’s upped the ante.

Camp “can be actually a very sophisticated and powerful political tool, especially for marginalized cultures,” Andrew Bolton, the curator of the Met’s Costume Institute, told The New York Times when that show’s theme was announced. We tend to associate “marginalized cultures” with underrepresented minorities, but if you think about it, the frustrated white men who make up Donald J. Trump’s base would certainly describe themselves that way, and he has been their blunt-edged weapon. An orange-hued one, with tanning-bed-goggle eyes, an elaborate blonde pompadour and extra-long ties — because, well, you know what they say about ties: long ties, long … What? What’s that you say? They don’t say that about ties? Well, in the alternative universe of Trumpland, they do.

Born from the camp crucible of reality TV, President Trump has become synonymous with behavior that elicits exactly the kind of reactions Sontag deems key to camp: “It’s too much” and “not to be believed.” Superlatives rule the president’s speech — his crowds are the biggest ever, his memory the best — and his aversion to political correctness is practically a signifier. He’s a Louis XIV for our times. That he has his finger on the button just makes it more jaw-dropping. VANESSA FRIEDMAN

‘Riverdale’

Is it camp? Like many other programs on the CW, it’s intentional camp.

“Riverdale” is the love child of every teen soap in history and “Twin Peaks.” Accordingly, it makes no sense. Are the characters living (and dying, once by crucifixion) in the present, or in 1960, as the anachronistic décor suggests? Is Riverdale an hour outside of New York City, or somewhere near the Canadian border? How are the parents so evil, and their children so hot? The flimsy dramatic arc, conflicting details and distractingly attractive cast serve to foreground the show’s look and feel. There are foggy drives down forest roads, after-school milkshakes in a retro diner, cult initiations with all-white dress codes, practically unwatchable musical episodes. That’s fine. “Riverdale” isn’t here to make its viewers more intelligent; it’s visual candy, a comedy dressed up as horror. BONNIE WERTHEIM

Queen Elizabeth II

Is it camp? The British monarch is the most camp at Buckingham Palace.

The hair. The hats. The handbags. The extreme matchy-matchiness of it all. Queen Elizabeth II doesn’t just rule over Britain and the Commonwealth — the world’s longest-serving female head of state also does head-to-toe monochrome more thoroughly, and multi-dimensionally, than anyone else. She has inspired legions with her signature rainbow shades (the better to stand out in a crowd) and her favored off-duty tweed, silk scarf and pearl get-ups.

One of her more outspoken style admirers is Alessandro Michele, Gucci’s creative director and a co-chair of this year’s Met Gala, who in 2016 told The New Yorker: “The Queen is one of the most quirky people in the world. She is very inspiring. It is clear that she loves color.” Insofar as camp is about extravagance, her preference for unmissable outfits, along with the vast palaces, ornate state banquets, glittering horse-drawn carriages and decades of polished public performance, surely fits the bill. ELIZABETH PATON

Jim Steinman

Is it camp? His songs are pure schlock.

The producer Jim Steinman specializes in excess. He helped bring us Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “Holding Out for a Hero,” Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now,” plus every song on Meat Loaf’s albums “Bat Out of Hell” and “Bat Out of Hell II.” He is implicated in the Barry Manilow catalog and the Air Supply discography. He is in the Long Island Music Hall of Fame.

A murder of academics have nearly defined camp out of existence. But schlock, Mr. Steinman’s specialty, has less nuance. Camp’s shuffle-footed, irony-free cousins, objets d’schlock are in such poor taste that they repel even regular viewers of the television network CBS. Even for those who love them (me), Mr. Steinman’s miniature operas of heartbreak and desperation are critically irredeemable — too solemn and silly to even pretend to sophistication. But when “so bad it’s good” is a commonplace, maybe the irredeemable is the only refuge left. JONAH ENGEL BROMWICH

‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’

Is it camp? Decidedly.

Nothing says camp like getting to watch two aging divas go to war with one another. That’s what happened in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?,” wherein Bette Davis plays a drunk, deranged and delusional former child star who seems to have caused the car crash that cripples her prettier, kinder, and more successful sister (Joan Crawford), whom she holds captive in the once-glamorous house they share. For more than two hours, Davis wears jealousy on her frayed chiffon sleeves, turning away her sister’s visitors, plotting against nosy neighbors, even murdering her sister’s pet bird. “I’ll clean the cage,” she says before literally cooking it up as a meal that she serves to her sister. JACOB BERNSTEIN

Ed Wood

Is it camp? Maybe too campy to be camp.

He used hubcaps for flying saucers, cardboard for sets, and had a bad habit of leaving the boom microphone in the shot. He’s been called the worst director of all time. Ed Wood’s Z-movie science-fiction project from 1959, “Plan 9 from Outer Space,” is often called the worst movie of all time, although his 1953 ode to cross-dressing, “Glen or Glenda,” starring Mr. Wood himself in resplendent angora, gets votes too. But maybe he was better than we think.

Since Tim Burton’s affectionate 1994 biopic, “Ed Wood,” starring Johnny Depp, Mr. Wood has been the subject of a critical reappraisal of sorts, with defenders casting the director’s crude productions as a kind of outsider art. “What comes over isn’t directorial competence,” the writer Johnny Mains told The Independent in 2017, “but exuberance in abundance, enthusiasm and I would take that any day over a film that’s technically brilliant but lacks any soul.” “Plan 9” manages a not-terrible 67 percent on Rotten Tomatoes, where it’s described as the “epitome of so-bad-it’s-good cinema.” And some have lauded the sympathetic portrayal of gender nonconformity in “Glen or Glenda” as decades ahead of its time. At the end of the day, the film is 60 years old and we’re still talking about it. Maybe sometimes bad is actually not bad enough. ALEX WILLIAMS

Moira Rose

Is it camp? Yes.

“Schitt’s Creek” follows a family of uber-rich narcissists who’ve fallen on hard times. Moira Rose, played by Catherine O’Hara clad in reflective fabrics, is the show’s matriarch and chief brat. As is typical of “artistes” who compulsively seek the spotlight, Moira has many secrets. Why does she have a North American accent with scattered Shakespearean and French vowel sounds? What’s going on underneath her elaborate wigs? What combination of pills is she on, and can I have some? Why does she wear waistcoats and brooches to bed? In her bombastic totality, she embodies the grotesque effects of extreme wealth. Moira Rose makes me want to burn the rich to a soundtrack of her saying “bebe” on repeat. ELEANOR STANFORD

Liberace

Is it camp? Yes.

If the center of American culture has historically been New York, Las Vegas is its capital of camp. It’s where Siegfried and Roy made magic macabre. It’s Cher’s spirit city, home this summer to yet another of her concert spectaculars. It was also once home to Liberace, the piano peacock known less for the music he made than for his $300,000, 16-foot, 175-pound sequined capes and giant bed underneath a $50,000 replica of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Liberace never had any doubt who he was. He is also remembered for his aphorisms, including: “Nakedness makes us Democratic, adornment makes us individuals.” “When the reviews are bad, I tell my staff they can join me as I cry all the way to the bank.” And, of course, “Don’t wear one ring, wear five or six. People ask how I can play with all those rings, and I say, very well, thank you.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

Professional Wrestling

Is it camp? That is the only explanation.

Imagine Liberace on steroids, donning his most Vegas-ready sequined ensemble to pantomime a parody of a professional athletic event. Or, you could just check out any old WrestleMania video on YouTube. (“Macho King” Randy Savage and Hulk Hogan are good entry points.) To fans of regular sports, World Wrestling Entertainment and its ilk have always been a mystery. The costumes? Ridiculous. The action? Ludicrous. The emotions? As artificially stylized as the masks of comedy and tragedy.

Pro wrestling makes perfect sense if you accept an Urban Dictionary definition of camp as “something that provides sophisticated, knowing amusement, as by virtue of its being artlessly mannered or stylized, self-consciously artificial and extravagant.” Oddly, however, there is no clear evidence that anyone involved with the sport has ever made the connection. Google “professional wrestling” and “camp,” and you find numerous sleep-away options for Junior to practice his or her back breakers and power slams. The sport — spectacle? — seems to have escaped critical study since 1972, when the French literary theorist Roland Barthes called wrestlers “the key which opens nature, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil.” Academia, it turns out, can be camp too. ALEX WILLIAMS

‘Clue’

Is it camp? Maybe not, but it’s good.

A dinner party coalesces inside an old mansion on a stormy night in 1954 New England. All of the usual suspects are present: Mrs. Peacock with feathers in her hair and cat-eye glasses; Miss Scarlet in her off-the-shoulder satin dress, chiffon shawl and oversize rhinestone necklace; Professor Plum, dapper in a bow tie and pocket square, smoking a pipe. All are from the D.C. area. Each one has a secret. And they’re being blackmailed because they are, in their extortionist’s estimation, “thoroughly un-American.” As the night progresses, characters are mysteriously murdered by violent means: In the kitchen with the knife! In the study with the wrench! In the library with the pipe! Everyone is a suspect.

“Clue” the film was a box-office flop but ultimately rose to cult-classic status. Initially it was perceived as a gimmick. Perhaps rightly so — it’s based on a board game, after all. It evokes its precursor in every scene: The narrative is full of misdirection, secret passageways and a complex array of outcomes. The movie has three different endings. Which did you see? If the answer is none, you’re in for a treat. KAREN HANLEY

‘Coronation Street’

Is it camp? This show should get its own Costume Institute exhibit.

“Coronation Street’ is the world’s longest-running soap opera. Set in a fictional neighborhood of Manchester, it’s a celebration of Northern British working-class culture. The enduring popularity of “Corrie” (as the show is affectionately known) seems to rely most on its feisty, gossipy female characters: Elsie Tanner, Bet Lynch and Liz McDonald. Strong women who got by on their wits, sassy one-liners and style. There’s huge bouffant hair after a day spent at the pub in rollers; fake eyelashes and long red talons; nosebleed high heels, leopard print and shoulder pads. Queens of shade with hearts of gold, these women have captured the imagination of the British fashion world for decades (and our drag scene too). If you get on their bad side, though, they’ll happily smash your front windows with their handbags. ELIZABETH PATON

Paul Verhoeven

Is it camp? Yes.

Sharon Stone’s star turn as an ice pick wielding serial killer who revealed her nether regions to police officers in “Basic Instinct” had nothing on the performance Elizabeth Berkley gave in Mr. Verhoeven’s next film, “Showgirls.”

Her alter ego, Nomi Malone, hits Vegas with dreams of making it big and ends up removing her clothing with great frequency. Critics reached a near-consensus of disapproval, drag queens lampooned it and world-class film professors such as Wesleyan University’s Jeanine Basinger placed it in their syllabuses.

Mr. Verhoeven’s next brilliantly terrible (or just plain brilliant) social satire, “Starship Troopers,” also bombed in theaters but was later critically reassessed. The premise: A testosterone-fueled military unit is assigned to save the world from insect-like aliens who basically bomb earthlings by farting asteroids. Over the course of the movie, the costumes worn by the leaders of the “federation” become increasingly S.S.-like. The war is sold by a nationalistic, Fox News-like network (that also broadcasts criminal executions live). The film stars Denise Richards, whose subsequent marriage to and divorce from Charlie Sheen led perfectly to her turn on reality TV’s biggest camp franchise, “The Real Housewives.”

The negative reviews perplexed Mr. Verhoeven. “‘Starship Troopers’ was at least a reflection of elements in American society that were visible at the time, a kind of neoconservative thinking that became dominant in the Bush administration,” he said in a 2007 interview. “Showgirls,” he added, was meant as a “hyperbolic” commentary on the “absurdity of a certain American reality.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

‘Wet Hot American Summer’

Is it camp? It takes place at camp, but no, it’s not camp.

A day at camp can crawl along like beads of sweat under the summer sun, or unravel in a frenzy of hormones and expectations. At Camp Firewood, in the summer of ’81, time mutates and age is a costume — a young camper counsels a 30-something arts-and-crafts instructor through her divorce, while an associate professor makes a machine to shift the course of space debris using doughnuts and cans of Spam. In the space of a day, multiple romances are destroyed and resurrected, rescue operations are undertaken, and one person learns to control the elements. Halfway through the film, several campers and the director head to town, where they smoke weed, drink beer, steal money, buy cocaine and go on a heroin binge. When they return to camp, looking no worse for the wear, one character says: “It’s always fun to get away from camp, even for an hour.” VALERIYA SAFRONOVA

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