Action

It’s a perfectly gorgeous day in the lower east side of New York’s Manhattan district, smack dab on the edge of Elizabeth Park to be precise. Here begins a seemingly traditional Jewish wedding (official Hebrew tongued Rabbi and all) introduced by an eclectic ensemble of humble musicians warmly performing a symphonic rendition of the infamous James Bond theme song. The soon to be certified twosomes’ stoic Bengal kitten is costumed in leather and feathers on a velvet pillow, escorted by a baker’s dozen mélange of nearly nude magnificent participants that commence formalities to the matrimonial exhibition; and while somewhat unconventional, an absolutely exquisite blend of eccentric aesthetics. His bride to be floats then perches. A most radiant rare bird, she is poised and delighted and giggles at the altar when their eyes meet. Pregnant and beaming, draped in ruby red regal silk, an ankle length egret-embroidered custom kimono contours every nurturing curve. Her untamed kinky ringlets hoisted upward, pinned against gravity with a mesmerizing glitz from the 12-inch hand-pressed, golden origami crane that frames her face so elegantly.

Following their ceremony the whole lot of us parade and weave across 5 city blocks behind what I’ve been told is called “Second line” – a flamboyant marching mob that thumps their instruments leading act one to part two of nuptial (or other type memorial) celebrations. We arrive as a unit and pour into the reception hall, a space better known as “The Box,” an alternative performance cocktail bar coincidentally co-owned by the groom. With ambiance comparable to an upscale version of Moulin Rouge: balconies, terraces, open bar and lavish entrees, roped off private rooms to sniff ketamine, it was quite a posh spot. The freshly sprouted spouses had prearranged a series of orchestrated acrobatics for our entertainment.

Performers striptease to live music, sing, dance, deliver surprises like the muscular machismo who slowly undresses and shows us what it is to be a full fledged hermaphrodite. One of the artists is an extraordinary ballerina who delicately steadies herself on the tops of cascading beer, wine, and champagne bottles that are set loosely along a folding table, her calves bulge like those mini watermelons you get for $4 every summer. She pirouettes without a wince or wobble. Shortly after her set, an MC from our day party rips off his tear-away outfit to reveal pasties tasseled on his chest and buttocks. He calls to the new couple from stage, finds them cuddled on a couch near the front row, points to them and without hesitation heaves himself from his platform and starts pelvic thrusting their happy heads. He rolls left, french kisses grandma, wiggles his bum on grandpa’s nose, jumps to the terrace, dangles there for a second, does a handspring that returns him unto stage, half backflips into downward dog and does the worm while the mammoth purple curtains close. Fucking Incredible.

The frequency between Laura and Richard is a thick visceral magnetism that compliments as much as it parallels their inimitable style. A charming display exchanged amongst eachother, silent yet obvious.

Mazel Tov young lovers <3