I’m fully aware of the fact that rich people’s ridiculous weddings get written up in places like Vogue precisely because non-rich people will read sentences like, “Everyone gently retrieved their seat assignments from sphagnum moss falling from the boughs of a weeping cherry tree” and go, “Whaaaaaaa?” and then send it to their friends like, “You see this shit?” That’s how I was introduced to this account of Toronto Raptors executive Bobby Webster’s wedding, and now I’m passing it along to you, because the system works.

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So yeah, get a load of this fuckin’ wedding, which one attendee described as “Burning Man meets chic Hamptons garden soiree with Hawaiian bonfire and bluegrass music lovefest.” For sure, man. For sure:

Upon arrival, guests were greeted with sound art, presented as a cacophony of small tinkling bells interspersed with more resonant gong sounds in reflection of the Zen ambiance of the 16-acre reserve. To ensure everyone followed the right path toward the ceremony structure, performance artists donning butterfly headdresses provided directions. Why butterflies, everyone asked? Lauren explained that she and Bobby had been moved by a Radiolab podcast about the transformation of the butterfly in chrysalis, which resonated with them in terms of the transformation that marriage would bring to their relationship.

Also, they put those butterfly people in a pool:

Photo via Vogue


This is why it’s always fun to hear the origin stories behind wild rich-people shit. Imagine being one of those performers, made to stand stoically in a pool with a crazy butterfly thing on your head not because of some deep connection the bride and groom have with butterflies and, uh, shallow pools, but because they were recently moved by a Radiolab podcast. “Yeah I’m having my wedding in a junkyard because I thought Making a Murderer was a pretty dope show” —me, as a rich guy.

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Anyway, the rest of the NBA’s executive class needs to step their lifestyle game up if they want to keep up with Bobby Webster. What I’m saying is, it’s time to send James Dolan’s band to Burning Man.

[Vogue]