The phrase “horrified wonder” was used by my friend Thudthwacker to describe my expression this past Sunday, and is singularly apt. I was subject to the joys of a cultural Drive-By, as directed by David Lynch: A Russian Jew/ Kentucky Cracker hybrid wedding reception.

There was food in plentitude, and good food, provided you enjoy treats from the briny deep: Salmon, whitefish, calimari, fruit… yes, fruit.

Briny fruit

After the obscene practice of humiliating grapes and watermelon by pickling them was discovered by the anthropogists in question (our table, namely, my animal); I felt it was my scientific responsibility and ethical commitment as a Doctor of Journalism to share this discovery, so I set about getting as many of my friends to bite into one of these bastard swine-brine atrocities as possible. I racked up a pretty reasonable score by the end, and only got hit once for it by an irate mexican.

But really, the show was on the stage.

Not watching my animal quietly seethe and plot the death of Dumberer, not the hulking vogon behemoth of the groom drifting cluelessly and without compass through his own reception, not the were-llama bride (Furry as a pimps car seat, fuzzy as a drunk’s tongue, the heartless murder of dozens of arctic muppets proudly paraded as an ill-fitting skirt), not the raging neandrathal which is our friend Groo fuming in misery like some sort of seafood hating singularity, not even the herculean effort of not mocking our jailbound aquaintance Dumberer about his upcoming state sponsored dating retreat, but the stage.

The entertainment. Oh, and how wonderous it was.

First of all, they were remarkably technically proficient. Voices were clear and trained, not a flat note, not a missed change up, not a late cue, not an ounce of reason, not a failed vocal arc.

Did I mention not an ounce of reason?

One MC- a moderately funny wedding MC, going through the motions gamely, Ed Sullivaovich and his Amazing Language Barrier. One tall blonde in a slinky red dress, mid thirties. skating the edge of respectability and appropriate wedding attire. I know she was skating the edge because right next to her were the two who she knocked OFF the edge: Bambi and Thumper, the jiggle twins.

You know, many brides-to-be become upset at the prospect of strippers at the bachelor party. Not our Frosted Fursuit… she had them at the reception.. fake tits, tight abs, blowdried and frosted in glitter, they looked a little at a loss without a pole or jello tub- but I would still have been tempted to tip them if they lap danced me. (And they should have. I still think we just did not know where the Champagne Room was, is all.) Finally, there were the two male singers- One, a bizarre hybrid of William Shatner and Johnny Bluejeans stuffed into leather pants, a puffy white shirt, leather vest, and gigantic dangling hood-ornament Blingski, and his partner, Boris Swivelhips.

Boris sang like creepy adolescent retarded kids hug- a whole lot of unwelcome and innapropriate grinding. He air-humped his way through several numbers, including a few in italian, which no-one present spoke. One of those was “Gloria”. In italian. With crotch. “You like, yes?” More crotch.

But that was not all… oh, no. There were lights, stolen from the V. Lenin Highschool Committee of The People’s Prom. There was a smoke machine. And there was video. The video was perfectly synched to the numbers being performed as far as timing goes- so I know it was not an accident. But nothing ELSE looked right. My good friend Ah Pook makes compilation video- porn, explosions, medical footage, documentary footage, war atrocities, animation, music videos, and porn, porn porn. He calls them Video Rorscharch Tests. This was like that, but with only softcore “Girls Gone Wild” footage.

Dancing girls. Footage from The Matrix. Inexplicable acid trip monster and techno-fantasy computer animated voyages from the 80’s. Old black and white footage of dancing hassidim and men in blackface and grass skirts chasing people with spears.

All set to “Gloria” in italian, classic wedding music and indecipherable russian warbling.

Through a smoke machine.

By strippers and pimps.

Horrified wonder was all that was left to me. My good friend Thuidthwacker summed it up:

“Sometimes I hear the music and i think I know where I am… but then I look up at the stage and I’m right back in the Land of What-the-fuck?”