"Four-letter word for "pompous" or "newlywed..."
If you want to take the island of Ibiza, burn the boats. But not RH3. That one’s mine.
–Gary Friedman, possibly.
In case you haven’t heard, the world’s most self-aggrandizing, spray-tanned, ripped jeans, bizarre burning people analogies, stolen quotes, arm party pygmy bachelor is officially off the market (sorry, Jim Cramer). Yes, RH visionary and Napoleonic dynamo Gary Friedman tied the knot last month. As I was not invited, Town and Country was kind enough to document the entire ostentatious exercise in excess.
A friend texted me the link to the story with the message, I can’t. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to dig in. When Gary takes his ego for a walk, I like to follow along to make sure he picks up his shit. A four-day, destination wedding with a bride half his age promised to produce a lot of excrement–even if it didn’t stink.
First, a magazine feature on anyone’s wedding is too much for my tepid romantic settings. However, this was especially rank. Gary Friedman has spent the past twenty years redefining pompous. Now, we are treated to his piece de pomposity resistance as a sexagenarian groom hosting a multiday blowout on the island of Ibiza.
Before we get into the ridiculous details, let’s flip back a few pages in the sourcebook. Ten years, to be more precise, when Gary met Australian electronic musical artist/singer-songwriter/model/DJ/designer/social climber, Bella Hunter at a polo party in California. Bella claims polo was the scene of neither, though Gary had to feel a semblance of home among the horses’ asses. Evidently, a romance was born.
Though Bella wears many hats, she lists her primary occupation as musical artist. I’d never heard of her, so I checked Spotify where she has three singles, one being an extended mix of another. Her work could be described as skin-baring disco biscuit music that is heavy on repetition. Put more concisely, it sounds like something you might hear on the DMX at Ulta.
While tooling around off the coast of Spain, the two were engaged onboard Gary’s yacht, RH3. I don’t know what happened to machs one and two, though I could envision something going horribly wrong during a store manager’s conference with Gary citing a passage from Bartlett’s, inspiring his fervent sycophants to go Cortes on the first two boats.
It was only fitting that
they return for the wedding. Ibiza is Bella's favorite place on earth.
However, the exotic destination makes me think that the 272 guests didn’t
include many store gallery associates. And four days? Who needs
this long to get married? Well, Gary does. This was a celebration
of ostentatious indulgence. More dollars than sense, as my mother used to
say.
I know what you are saying. It’s just jealousy and sour grapes from a former employee. Sure, I’ve heard Gary’s rags-to-I’m-better-than-you-fairy-tale ad nauseam, but if you can reproduce a dilapidated winch crate, invert it, and sell it to the uppity deep-pocketed as a side table, it’s a win. Bully for you, G.
Despite these wins, I view Gary as a McMansion among the nouveau riche. Now, I also think of him as the narrator in "Hey Nineteen." This guy possesses the ability to make wealth actually appear unattractive. It makes me yearn for the days of the US Magazine at-home features on those hokey valentines, John Tesh and Connie Selleca.
According to the copy, a cadre of planners put the protracted event together. Personally, I find a scripted wing-ding to be at odds with the very concept of island time. This fact only reinforced my opinion that this was a party for wealthy people who don’t know how to have fun. Kind of like the Republican National Convention, but without the balloons and delegates. I would learn, however, that these love birds are of the cuckoo variety.
The bride didn’t wear shoes. She wanted to feel grounded and at one with the earth. She likely didn’t want to tower over her pipsqueak groom, either. Gary found the hair dye but not his razor, confirming that it really is five o’clock somewhere. In this case, along Gary’s jawline.
The bride’s gown had quotations sewn into it. What is it with these two and their fondness of other people’s words? The only words sewn into my wedding attire were PROPERTY OF THE MEN’S WEARHOUSE. I’m certain the lining of Gary’s tuxedo had carpe diem stitched in it somewhere. Probably near the zipper of his trousers.
Gary wore a white jacket/black trousers tuxedo and looked like a wine steward at a three-star Italian restaurant. The jacket matched the color of his lips that appeared to have arrived via FedEx at the very last moment, leaving no time for an attendant to color them in. Or maybe it was hypothermia. My guess is Truth or Dare: Botox Edition. For the ceremony, he stood on a reproduction of an authentic Grecian olive crate ($185-495. Catalog and web only).
The ceremony was held at dusk and was followed by a multi-course dinner, fireworks, and yet another all-night bacchanal–which is an overnight drunk in nice clothes. Explained newlywed Gary, "We just wanted to be completely present and focused on each other.”
I’m calling bullshit. Completely present and focused on each other. That can be accomplished with a hell of a lot less pomp and circumstance. Probably without a national publication dicking around snapping photos and noting your choice of pocket square.
Gary continued, “The entire wedding was very much a reflection of our vision to simply honor each other and celebrate our love.”
Oh swell, funny face used the word vision again. Everything’s a vision with this egocentric twerp–whether chandeliers, bed linens, or weddings. To simply honor each other and celebrate our love. I may lose my lunch. And, yo, Gar, there’s nothing simple about a ceremony that requires multiple planners and four days to put on. Let me take a crack at what I think he really meant to say.
I had a vision to put on the most ostentatious show we could. A flex of my wealth–the kind you plebians will never approach. And yeah, she’s half my age; how’s that for rizz? I wanted to impress my famous friends and have the whole thing covered by a magazine so that those not invited could see what a successful motherfucker I’ve become. Carpe diem, full stop.
The couple’s first dance was to Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” This was a callback to the lame-ass polo party. In addition to divot stomping and talking about the most recent chucker, we must assume DJ Ambien was up in the hizzy, and boring everyone to death. Hard to keep the bacchanal going all night playing snoozers like that. Still, Gary called it the best weekend of his life.
I bet he says that to all the lifestyle journalists.
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