The Daily

Arts & Culture

The Wedding Party

January 5, 2012 | by

As Kim Kardashian recently reminded us, marriage is no longer the inevitable result of a wedding; the ritual is easily divorced from the institution. This is a source of some comfort to the single person approaching thirty, bombarded by engagement announcements and Facebooked wedding photo albums. Just a few more years of this, you tell yourself, and people will start getting divorced.

So this fall I was tickled to receive an invitation to a fake wedding in New Orleans. With all the phoniness announced up front, there was no need for jealousy (I’ll die alone!),  anxiety (She’s making a terrible mistake!), or expensive gifts (But I can’t even afford health insurance!).

The fake wedding was organized by my younger sister and her friends, a group of artists, actors, filmmakers, and writers in their twenties. Most are from the East or West coasts, having migrated to New Orleans in search of low rent and the kind of fun that withers in a climate of high property values. Part of the lost generation that graduated from college just as the economy collapsed, they have not even attempted to pursue traditional careers. In this spirit, the wedding was organized on a shoestring budget, with homemade food and homemade dresses and a pay-as-you-go bar at the usual rock-bottom New Orleans prices. The organizers paid something out of pocket, but it wasn’t much. The fake wedding was, among other things, a reminder that ingenuity is still a valuable asset—that you can still get married on the cheap.

As I flew into Louis Armstrong Airport in early November (first stop: the daiquiri stand), I prepared myself for a sardonic, booze-fueled critique of the bankrupt institution of marriage. But I soon discovered that the fake wedding wasn’t about satire or cynicism. It was a sincere effort to organize the kind of communal joy that’s in such short supply these days. When I asked my sister how they’d come up with the idea, she told me, “We were sitting around and talking about how much fun weddings are, and how much we love love. But none of us are getting married any time soon, so we decided to have a fake wedding.”

The idea caused contempt or bafflement in many of my friends from New York, but in New Orleans a fake wedding seemed perfectly reasonable. At the fake bachelor party, the fake rehearsal dinner, and the fake Jewish ceremony on the waterfront, onlookers were never surprised to hear that we were having a fake wedding. The natives smiled indulgently and the tourists were perplexed (Is this an authentic custom? I didn’t see it in the guidebook), but no one was shocked. This may explain why it was so easy to find people to participate.

At brunch the day before the wedding, Sam and Paul—handsome best friends on the tail end of a postcollegiate cross-country adventure—overheard the following conversation between two well-dressed women with Southern drawls. Paul recounted it to me as follows:

“Uncle Rat is dead,” said the first woman philosophically.

“He put my baby in the washing machine,” the other commented.

“But he didn’t turn it on.”

“It made a great picture.”

“This was his favorite restaurant.”

“He loved the quiche.” Making sure that the waiters weren’t watching, one of the women sprinkled Uncle Rat’s ashes into the flowerpot beside her.

Sam and Paul invited the ladies to join the groom’s family. The ladies, who were quite tipsy, accepted without hesitation; weddings and funerals are a natural pairing. At the fake rehearsal dinner that night they played their parts with gusto, clutching the groom and pretending to sob into their handkerchiefs. Raising their beer cans high, they warned the bride that they’d kick her ass if she broke the heart of their darling boy. Everyone applauded, even the people who weren’t wedding guests and had only come for the restaurant’s Vietnamese po’boys.

That evening marked the bride’s first meeting with her groom. They’d been nominated by the organizers, with the strict requirement that they’d never met and wouldn’t see each other until the night of the rehearsal dinner. I had first met Matt, the groom, the day before, at his fake bachelor party. He was feeling anxious about his first encounter with his intended. We’d been dancing to the brass band at the Hi-Ho Lounge; Matt was soaked with sweat and in an advanced state of intoxication.

“I’m nervous, man!” he said, wiping his brow. “What if she’s the girl of my dreams? What if this is it?” The zipper on his wedding pants had broken and he was holding them up with his hands. From time to time he lost his concentration and the pants fell down around his ankles, revealing the sparkly pink spandex shorts given to him by the wedding’s costume designer. On the sidewalk he struck up a conversation with Calvin, a New Orleans native.

“Calvin, man, I’m getting married!” Matt slurred. He was putting Calvin on, but it didn’t seem that way; he radiated all the euphoric anxiety of a true bridegroom.

“You gettin’ married for real?” Calvin asked, bemused. “Matt, tell me, who decided you were gettin’ married?”

We invited Calvin to the waterfront ceremony. Then somebody saw the bride approaching from across the street and hustled Matt back inside.

“You know, it’s more real than fake, if you think about it,” Matt mused drunkenly as the bachelor party ended.

This observation seemed more and more accurate as the weekend continued. On the second day, some of us went out for an oyster lunch. As the meal ended one friend sighed, “I don’t have to go to the dinner, do I? I mean, I’m not a family member.”  He had forgotten that, in fact, no one was a family member. Here it was, classic wedding fatigue—nothing fake about it. I became depressed that I didn’t have a date. Why hadn’t I found a fake boyfriend? It was a failure of imagination. I had another Bloody Mary.

Things picked up that evening at a concert that included rockabilly covers of the Beatles and Roy Orbison and an all-male choir singing sea shanties. When the choir leader cried, “Who’s here for the fake wedding?” the whole room screamed. The bride and groom circled the hall, grinning and drunk on the attention. Whether it’s real or fake, your wedding is your chance to be a star. Some of the nonfake love interests of the giddy new celebrities became offended. Someone started to cry.

Because I had no fake boyfriend, I danced with Paul, who told me that he and Sam were planning to move to New York.

“What will you do there?” I asked.

“Well, Sam plays guitar. He wants me to start a record label so I can release his albums,” Paul said earnestly. With his big eyes and tousled blond hair, Paul looked like the kind of boy who could have made it big in Warhol’s Factory. He was all youthful hubris, so confident that he didn’t even know it. Realizing that I was now old enough to find this charming, I remembered Mayakovsky’s famous lines:

There’s not one gray hair in my soul,
Not a bit of senile tenderness!
Shaking the world with the power of my voice,
I pass—handsome,
Twenty-two years old.

All the margaritas and sea shanties in the world couldn’t make me forget the gray hairs that had already sprouted in my soul. I was tired. The band started to play “Crying.”

“I love this song!” I said to Paul. He looked at me blankly: he didn’t recognize it.

The wedding ceremony was held the next day, on the waterfront at sunset. The zaftig bride wore an elaborate cheetah print and gold lamé confection. With the bridesmaids in matching cheetah-lamé minidresses, the entourage achieved a kind of Flintstones-at-Studio-54 effect. The fake rabbi made obscene jokes and Matt’s vows were drowned out by a medley of New Orleans standards honked out by the cruise ship nearby. A flock of black birds swarmed against the colorless sky.

When it was dark, we second-lined through the French Quarter, dancing to the wedding band’s New Orleans klezmer. Tourists poured out of hotels and bars to film us on their iPhones. Our rabbi danced at the head of our ragtag procession, smiling ecstatically, stopping only to light another cigarette.

At the after-party a beak-nosed boy in a black suit threw his arms around his friends, crying, “I’m not a guy who has fun—but this is the most fun I’ve ever had!” All night people congratulated each other. “You’re all so beautiful!” they yelled. “Isn’t this amazing?” I remembered a melancholic Russian friend who once asked me why Americans were so immoderate in their adjectives. “How can everything in America be so amazing?” she had asked morosely.

The wedding was followed by an amazing hangover, if not by an amazing honeymoon. Scores of pictures were posted, liked, and discussed on Facebook, fond memories of group happiness. Next year’s wedding is already in the works.

Sophie Pinkham is a student of Russian literature who lives in New York City.



  1. Meg Hurtado | January 5, 2012 at 11:36 am

    This is one of the best ideas I’ve ever heard. May I be friends with you and your sister?

  2. Christopher | January 5, 2012 at 11:44 am

    Only in NOLA can a fake wedding go down like you’ve told us. Awesome. I love that city. Who Dat.

  3. Sharanya Manivannan | January 5, 2012 at 12:38 pm

    I hate weddings, usually. Real weddings, anyway. But this – now this is a very interesting idea…

  4. eye_roller_in_her_thirties | January 5, 2012 at 1:34 pm

    One thing I find more tedious than “engagement announcements and Facebooked wedding photo albums” is people who assume that their neurotic fixation on what their breeder friends are doing is shared by the general populace. Please stop perpetuating this idea that all (or even most) people in their 30s are guardians of the tradition-minded obsessions that the author and her friends are anxious about. It’s wrong, for one, and it’s also just not necessary. The author could easily have written about this party without trying to impute her feelings to “the single person approaching thirty.” I’m seeing more and more of this sentiment with the growth of lady-blogs purporting to be about lady-issues and it makes my skin crawl to see it parroted this way. Yes, I see that the author (or her editor) made a point of referring to “the single person” and not “the single woman,” but the effort to build consensus around these anxieties has a terrible whiff of reflexive lady-blog hand-wringing about it, and, more important in my view, I don’t see how it helps anyone in any way to perpetuate the idea that this is the norm. And in a more selfish and personal sense, I really hate the way this particular flavor of social conservatism has spread to parts of the internet where it didn’t used to be. By “this particular flavor of social conservatism” I am referring not to the idea that marriage can be satisfying and terrific but to the idea that there is a consensus of anxiety among people who are not married.

  5. GZ | January 5, 2012 at 3:56 pm

    Eye-roller, your commentary is truly Kinbotian and in that slim sense, it is appropriate for a literary blog. To respond; surely you don’t suggest the type of anxiety you rail against is a total fabrication? The purity of your ideals notwithstanding, it’s a big world. Then again, I won’t be alone in thinking thou ‘doth protest too much.’

  6. Joan | January 5, 2012 at 4:16 pm

    A film about the fake wedding:

  7. Don | January 5, 2012 at 4:46 pm


  8. Kevin Duong | January 6, 2012 at 12:46 am

    Eye-roller is spot on, though. The kind of collective anxiety these kinds of antics are channeling are expressive of a wistful and romanticized nostalgia for marriage. For people who are perfectly happy with being single or in non-marriage intimate relations, and for whom a misty-eyed attachment to marriage (even in its “fake” or ironic turns) is experienced with indifference, the idea that “we” all self-evidently know the kind of collective anxiety this article presumes is baffling and reeks of a reactionary romantic sensibility. Which is fine if you also buy the conservative politics that this sensibility underwrites, but if you don’t, it seems perfectly justified to point out the fact that, well, this article has exactly this conservative sensibility.

  9. Lesly | January 6, 2012 at 12:43 pm

    Um yea, I dont get it.

  10. GZ | January 6, 2012 at 1:33 pm


    Very well stated. Some further thoughts: The article and event described are indeed brimming with ‘romanticized’ nostalgia; a hallmark of the post X generation. Unabashed nostalgia is not necessarily reactionary but it might be a reaction to the collective anxiety which you call fictitious. I see it as an expression of ennui and psychic dispossession. Is Don Quixote’s madness reactionary? If anything, the childrens’ play relegates the late 20th century occidental notion of marriage to the realm of fantasy.

  11. Hilary | January 6, 2012 at 2:22 pm

    Sounds like a fluxus wedding to me.

  12. Sarah D. | January 6, 2012 at 4:03 pm

    GZ, what a thrill (really) to see someone use the term “Kinbotian,” and so perfectly aptly, too. Your response to Kevin is right on, too.

    I am far, far from conservative, 58 and never married, but I can still revel in the humor, joy, and mixed emotions of the piece. It is a harsh world out there. There’s nothing wrong with longing for the lifelong connection and commitment implied in a wedding, even knowing that it is a fiction for most people. As to the supposed conservatism: as I read the piece, I was imagining the partiers as latter-day hippies, not social conservatives. Eye-Roller and Kevin have interesting things to say, but they sound humorless and scolding.

  13. casey jay | January 8, 2012 at 3:34 pm

    Sarah D., you are officially invited to next year’s fake wedding.

  14. Noel Cavnar | January 9, 2012 at 11:50 am

    Brilliant! Wish I had been there!

  15. eye_roller_in_her_thirties | January 9, 2012 at 3:15 pm

    Hey GZ. I’m late in checking back here so you’ll probably not see this, but: I never said I thought it was a total fabrication. To the contrary, I acknowledged — or meant to acknowledge — that it seems to be a real thing among the author and her friends. I simply don’t feel that the fact that such anxiety exists among actual people obligates me to be pleased to read about it in The Paris Review. Are such “ideals” truly so pure? Affectionately rolling my eyes again over “Kinbotian.”

    Sarah D., I suspect that your “latter-day hippies” are my social conservatives. Aren’t most latter-day hippies just social conservatives wearing posh latter-day hippie costumes? We are both speaking of people who like to make their own pickles in mason jars and post Instagram photos of their weddings and their friends’ weddings on their Tumblrs, are we not? Actually I prefer to think of them as neo-Victorians.

  16. Studios saas fee | January 10, 2012 at 2:23 am

    I should admit that I never even thought that a fake wedding could be organised just for fun but it seems that it is a great way to gather all your friends one place without putting some special point in the marriage.

  17. Tara Bogart | January 10, 2012 at 9:16 am

    Fun story!
    Wish you would have posted a few pictures. Did you have a fake wedding photographer photograph your wedding?
    I will do if for you next year if you need one. That would make a great series…
    Let me know!

  18. Dana Leong | February 20, 2012 at 9:12 am


  19. Wedding & Party Center | September 20, 2012 at 9:11 am

    Upload more pics of this story, is this really true to life?

  20. Simple Weddings | March 20, 2016 at 2:05 am

    It’s a great Helpful story.How this fake wedding was organized by my younger sister and her friends, a group of artists, actors, filmmakers, and writers in their twenties? Please write more about your sister.

2 Pingbacks

  1. […] See original article: Paris Review – The Wedding Party, Sophie Pinkham […]

  2. […] jQuery("#amzncart_continueshopping").button(); jQuery("#amzncart_checkout").button(); } }); } Paris Review – The Wedding Party, Sophie PinkhamParis Review – The Wedding Party, Sophie Pinkham .social_button { […]

Leave a Comment