What with all the gentrification and family-friendlifying of New York, it’s easy to forget the city was and still remains a tiny space crammed full of people. Whether created in a higher being’s image, the fact remains one out of every one humans has weird predilections, quirks, beliefs and tastes, some of which, depending on the focus, get labeled ‘perversions’, and when you have this many humans jammed together there appear to be more perversions in the big, scary city than in the ‘safe’ suburbs. Really, it’s just a density issue.
Which might explain the casual strangeness strewn around New York- unlike the suburbs, there’s just not room to hide it.
Innocently strolling into one of the many party stores on Grand Avenue, I came across rack after rack of this:
Yep, candy molds for what I’m presuming are bachelor and bachelorette parties. Although, really, let’s just say bachelorette parties because I can’t think of any guy who’d put the extra mile towards making his own lady bit candy just for his special guys’ night out.
Ok, this is just stupid redundancy right here. Presumably the intended humor comes from the candy/mouth interaction and the candy’s resemblance to something sexual. When you throw a mouth already in there, what does that mean? Cannibalism? Whatever, I’m already thinking way too much about something that’s geared towards a 6th grade sense of humor.
Really though, the sheer variety of these available (and believe me, this is but a small sampling of a wall that included 3-D molds, larger sculptural items, and different levels of detail and size) bothers me more than anything. Bachelor parties have become staid, dull affairs where it is presumed gentlemen will join their fellow males at some local strip club and watch naked ladies for a while. Varieties include drugs ingested, themed bars, and perhaps some sort of rifle range.
Bachelorette parties, on the other hand, are repression unleashed- not just of provin’ you are a LADY WHO LIKES SEX!!! WOO! YEAH! SEXY!!!, but of some weird need to outdo males at what you are assuming is their own game by upping the ante to a level of cartoonish ridiculousness. Unless you are actually at the strip club, I challenge you to pick out a bachelor party group off the street. You probably can’t, because they look like normal guys.
Bachelorette parties, if you didn’t hear their penis-shaped airhorn blasts, screechy catcalls at teenage boys, or general shrieking, are often marked by spangly feather boas, some sort of penis tiara (possibly light-up), penis balloon animals, an ungodly amount of sequined tank tops (potentially with ribald phrases), fake veil dragging behind the bride-to-be, and at least 5 other women periodically yelling sassy things. Or possibly just yelling, depending on how late it is. Ladies! Outdoing men at their own worst habits is no way to equality! Oh, one longs for the good old days, when everyone was nicer and babies were made by holding hands too long after sunset.
Here are some pretty examples of 1920s marriage certificates, on display at City Hall. Now that’s what I’m talking about! Lovely flourishing script, handwritten bureaucracy…
Wait, what’s that fine print say?
I have not to my knowledge been infected with any venereal disease or if I have been so infected within five years I have had a laboratory test within that period which shows that I am now free from infection from any such disease.
This guy was parked right in front of the Public Library. There’s no better way to assure the world of your heterosexuality than a scantily-clad air freshener dangling from your rearview. I don’t even want to know what scent it is.