a n i m a t i o n . w o r d s & p i c t u r e s . f o r u m
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Wedding Show Whore-FestBy: Ass-Slapper03.03.02 Years ago, the world of sports was outraged when NHL officials mulled the idea of posting corporate advertisements directly on the jerseys of the players, much like that European athletic conundrum known as soccer. Remember that philosophical clusterfuck? It would cheapen the very qualities that the athletic in question stands for! The athlete is NOT an advertisement! How can the sport be taken seriously? Blah blah blah and so forth. Considering my inhuman lack of interest in most professional sports, I decided to stay out of this particular debate. However, I found myself decidedly drawn back into it a few weeks ago, at the Toronto Wedding Show, of all places. In a swift, violent gust of memories, the sights and sounds of marriage merchants whisked me back to those debates - would commercialism cheapen an already commercial and cheap event?  Iım claustrophobic, and allergic to polyester. This is gonna be SWEET! I wonıt lie - I grew up with the idealist image of marriage, and all of the pomp and ceremony that goes along with it. A church with rafters packed tighter than a discount brothel, the flowing white gown, the nervous, tuxedo-clad bachelor and his army of drinking buddies, and an armada of crying elderly women thrown in for good measure. When it comes down to it, I am truly a romantic, and firmly believe that my big day will be one of magic that I will hold close to my heart for all of eternity. My best friends by my side, seeing that lovely lady walking down the aisle towards me - marriage, in my eyes, is that one definitive moment in your life, with everyone you care about, standing by your side to witness your rebirth into the world of maturity and responsibility. At that moment, you are truly a member of society, entering the great race with a partner for life. Such is the way that my thoughts danced in my mind as I walked into that Toronto Convention Centre, wide eyed and eager to see the sights and sounds of sheer love. And, just as in most things in life, all it took was one experience to throw my entire perception of reality into a spinning vortex of mental and emotional ass-juice. In one decisive blow, the world of marriage and "forever" went fucking wazoo. Every terrifying act of media in the past ten years mercilessly assaulted my senses; Hootie and the Blowfish sang their ballads amidst a videography companyıs demo video, a bachelor party planning firm showed film of a stag accompanied by Baha Men (how convenient that they omitted the later footage of the groom and best man tag-teaming a filthy blonde stripper while she snorted cocaine off of her partnerıs bare ass.) Indeed, my first five seconds on that floor were not merely uncomfortable - it was an assault of bad taste, declaring war on everything that I held dear.  A wedding video on a home theatre system? Its like getting to ride in a limo, with a chimp sitting at the helm. The first thing that struck me was the crowd. Like baby cows packed into veal-friendly stalls, a literal hoard of bored men, ecstatic women, and weeping children slowly pushed and ploughed their way through the molasses-like aisles, trying to hide a solemn, glazed- over look in their eyes. I was immediately torn back to memories of the Freeway, 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, trying desperately to find an opening in the merging lane, and fighting tenaciously once I did sink my teeth into one. Could the religious groups be wrong? How can marriage possibly be dead in North America? The sheer girth of the Wedding Show was immediate, solid proof that more people than ever are tossing themselves headfirst into a commitment that most of them donıt intent to keep. This isnıt theory, or simple opinion - if you were there, you could look into their eyes, and see it for yourself. Every woman I passed had an eager, Christmas-morning smile plastered onto her face. For them, it is a childhood fantasy, a right of passage - this is the moment that theyıve all been dreaming of, joining their Barbies and Little Ponies in the bonds of holy matrimony (apparently, few little girls took it further, with a drunken ex-boyfriend, Optimus Prime, crashing the party and slaughtering the best man with his bare, primal hands.) Their minds arenıt on ten years into the future. These women leap from booth to booth, grasping desperately at any brochure that happens to wave in their direction. For two to three hours, they are in Zen - they have achieved absolute nirvana, the pinnacle of consciousness. To them, there is no crowd, no obstacle, no old woman that they just shoved headfirst into a stained-glass window depicting two children kissing. 
And the men? For the most part, they were like myself - frightened, confused, a horrific feeling of not belonging washing over them like a tsunami. They stare in disbelief and quiet awe, periodically smiling and nodding at their significant other when she feverishly displays a dress brochure. Like old, weary dogs, they are led around through the masses, holding heavy bags of disturbingly large catalogues, praying to whatever God they worship that the pain will soon end. For some, lady luck plants wet, sloppy kisses on their cheeks, allowing them to gain a temporary reprieve from their wandering female counterparts; they gather at the back of the convention hall, congregating at the limo exhibit, retreating into a small, isolated world of testosterone. Stretched limoıs, a 1961 Cadillac, and a bright yellow Hummer are all the protection they have, discussing chrome trims and Maple Leafıs hockey, constantly looking into the abyss with nervous eyes. For them, all it will take is a wave, or a call of their name, to drag them back into the swirling vortex of reality, kicking and screaming. One guy, Alex, a very funny, upbeat, late-20ıs computer technician, was the first to get "the call" during my stay in that Garden of Eden. The blinking of my eye saw his smile transform into a frown, his head lower, and a muffled "see ya" our only evidence that he was still the Alex we had met. As he lethargically made his way back to his keeper, the remaining men huddled a little closer, drawing whatever warmth and security they could from one another.  Never enough places to hide. Off in the distance, a stage has been erected. Adorned with blue and white balloons, its black curtains part to reveal waifish, grotesque models parading down the walkway in gowns of white, red, and gold. Thankfully, all eyes are on the garments that they wear - itıs understandable, as they are the only on-stage items worth scrutinizing. Every model that stumbles her way down the catwalk is a culmination of every drama-bitch you went to high school with; tossing their flowing locks, presenting that brow-furrowed pout as if to scold you for daring to look at them, wiping the producerıs jizm from their lips as if to say "Thanks for the job, daddy."  Like the buffet at a Thailand brothel. Their lackluster performance is a fitting commentary on the entire wedding convention - sure, it looks flashy, but after five minutes you not only leave with an empty feeling in your soul, but your skin crawls with an emotional filth that will never quite scrub off. Suddenly, with a flurry of lights and sound, the announcement comes forth. "And now, the men are coming out!" Coming out? Of what? The septic tank that they fell into months ago? One would think that a convention as large and high profile as the Wedding Show could have splurged for some semi-professional male models who looked remotely human. Ladies and gentlemen, todayıs finest tuxedos pranced before me on that stage, hanging upon the bodies of societyıs lowest common denominator. The loudspeakers blared the name of my new best friend, Reggie, happily announcing his recent crowning as CHINıs male bikini champion. Granted, I myself will not win any beauty contests any time soon... but CHIN? Congrats, Reg - Iıll just dust off a spot on your shelf between the Uxbridge Pie-Eating Champion medal and the St. Peterıs Parish Annual Potato Sack King trophy. Go wear another tux, chief. Amidst the "ooohs" and "aaaahs," I made out a faint weeping sound. Soon thereafter, my eyes fell upon a woman - a grown fucking woman - telling her friend that the dresses were "so beautiful" as the tears streamed down her face. And in one fell swoop, what little faith I had in humanity slipped through my bone-white, anger-induced fisted fingers.  The true horror of the whole experience was the exhibits themselves. The subject itself reeked of class - posh, upscale banquet halls, professional photographers, five-star caterers, limousine companies - every service present demanded respect on the part of the visitor, and quiet dignity on that of the vendor. However, considering my earlier foray into the chinsey, 80ıs laser show, the fact that each booth oozed with just the opposite came as a dull, throbbing reminder of hell on earth, instead of the shock most would be expecting. My nose was fooled by the overpowering scents of perfume and cologne, but my eyes were not deceived - suits and dresses aside, I was surrounded by carnies. Each booth glittered with all the colour and pizzazz of Las Vegas, as gussied-up men and women shouted hoarsely from the confines of those dizzying walls. "Come on, come on, luck be a lady tonight - $5!" - "Hello, sir! Win the lady a horrifically overpriced wedding cake!" - "Sign now, and Iıll take $200 off - AND the tax! Ooooh! Iım on fire!" Words cannot convey the terror I felt, nor can they ever do the sight justice. Were there any good deals? Of course there were - but I would be shocked and appalled if anyone took advantage of the bargains. One immediately gets the impression that they are buying a car from a man named Honest Gus - the grease he leaves on your hand after shaking it is almost as revolting as the feeling you leave with - cheap, swindled, ass- raped by Satan himself.  His elation is so terrifying. After several hours of wading through the sewage system of commercialism, a soft gasp of utter relief forced its way past my lips. With approximately 50 pounds of brochure goodness threatening to dislocate my weary shoulders, I staggered towards the door marked "Exit," desperately clinging to what pride and masculinity I had left. So much for idealistic dreams. So much for the beauty and wonder of the moment. My thoughts were no longer on the glory and incredulity of that magical instant, when the words "I do" would seemingly elevate my very consciousness. Instead, I experienced what fresh, conscripted soldiers must feel when they are first thrust into a battle - a total, overwhelming sense of confusion and loss, as all remnants of frail human innocence are torn away with one, decisive attack. Common law sounds pretty damn good right about now. |
