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It may not be new, but stereotypically “bad taste” is having a moment. A recent piece in Time magazine lists the evidence: Selling Sunset, hyperpop, Pete Davidson, micro-miniskirts, cocaine decor, revisionist retellings of maligned ’90s women like Pamela Anderson, Britney Spears, and Monica Lewinsky. Writer Judy Berman posits that the renewed interest is possibly due to, like many things, Americans’ growing sense of doom. “Nothing kills numbness like a sensory onslaught of color, sound, hedonism, melodrama, and sleaze,” she writes.

There is something that feels very of-the-moment about the pursuit of lowbrow pleasure, particularly to women who have never seen themselves in the quiet, willowy millennials who go to barre classes, drink smoothies, and journal (a trope that, unfortunately, continues to be repackaged and sold on TikTok). In an essay on the relation between tackiness and fatness, writer Margaret Eby notes that “Tacky is a way of saying, ‘That is too much.’ It’s a way to say, ‘Hush.’ You’re too loud, too bright, too attention-seeking. You take up too much space. You’re too costume-y. You’re too dramatic. Your excesses are not welcome here.”

Rax King, the author of a collection of essays called Tacky: Love Letters to the Worst Culture We Have to Offer, covers the topic as it relates to sexual promiscuity, adding in her book, “To my mind, every tacky loudmouth of a girl is behaving strategically. For a girl, a scream is a potent reclamation of space that cannot be claimed any other way. Everybody wants to sidle up to a pretty young girl all the time unless she’s screaming.”

The first time I visited Very Famous, I immediately thought of the Dollz. The Dollz, for those outside my precise age and gender demographic, were little Bratz-like digital avatars you could dress up in thigh-high boots, schoolgirl skirts, and cut-out crop tops, essentially all the clothes I could hardly fathom wearing myself as a then-12-year-old, but liked to imagine I might someday. Needless to say, the Dollz were tacky as hell, and I loved them: They were everything that was antithetical to the culture I grew up in, which valued functional, sensible design that withstood the outdoors; athleticism; and granola self-reliance. Nobody wore Juicy Couture at my mid-aughts high school, so as the resident “prep” who preferred polo shirts and wore too much makeup, if anyone embodied tackiness, it was me.

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When we talk about tackiness, what we’re often talking about is an excess of something deemed too feminine, too indulgent. But there seems to be a growing chorus suggesting that perhaps indulgence (at least the way normal people experience it, and not, like, billionaires) is not the human condition’s most shameful sin. The world doesn’t care that you’re wearing a scent from Bath & Body Works or that you ate a Lean Cuisine for dinner just because you like the taste. Our own individual choices, be they stylistic or financial or even political, seem to matter less than they ever have; most trends move too fast to be even a little bit meaningful anymore. Just because something’s tacky today doesn’t mean it will be tomorrow. Why even bother paying attention?

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