I remember thinking in my mid-20s—right when it seemed as though there were 6-7 weddings per summer and I felt like I couldn’t get my shit together—that weddings were these small, impermanent nations of crazy. That their people rally around couples instead of flags.
Every attendee—every single one—seemed insane. The couple is driven to mental/emotional instability by the planning and execution of the event and every person there has his/her own reason to be a little nuts, conditions which are heightened by the collectivization of dark energies. (And booze.)
The attendee scrolls through their own patchwork of an internal monologue about the pageantry, the drinks, the dancing, the food, the anxiety, their partner or their lack thereof, work, the surrounding attendees, the drinks again, the music, the game, the love, whether or not another drink is one too many… Then proceeds to look for someone to dance with and/or fight with and/or engage in other eff-word behaviors.
Going to a wedding felt a bit like what I imagine spending a couple of hours in Dennis Hopper’s psyche might have been like, sans all that blow (depending on the wedding), plus bad dancing.