What Others are Saying about The Idi-Odyssey
5.0 out of 5 stars - A COMIC TOUR DE FORCE
By laurasin
This review is from: The Idi-Odyssey (The Wedding Master) (Paperback)
I can't remember the last time a personal memoir stayed in my head so long after I put it down. Stram unflinchingly recounts the details of his journey from ceremonious "wedding master" to unceremoniously betrothed, all while bringing humor and the occasional tear (from laughing so hard) to his audience. A must-read for anyone in need of a satirical page-turner.
5.0 out of 5 stars - Hilarious; Waiting for the Sequel,
By E
This review is from: The Idi-Odyssey (The Wedding Master) (Paperback)
Stram's writing in The Idi-Odyssey is a reminder of Joseph Heller's hilarity in Catch 22. Strams excels at taking the stupidity of the mundane and turning it into hilarity. Only in The Idi-Odyssey, the mundane is actually real -- you can't make this stuff up!
5.0 out of 5 stars - Made me laugh out loud on an airplane,
By Ari C
This review is from: The Idi-Odyssey (The Wedding Master) (Paperback)
Written in a prose not seen in many books out there. Laugh out loud kind of funny. Impressive for a first time author. I certainly hope he follows this up with another novel. He certainly has added to a genre that is rare, the male perspective of relationships and real life.
5.0 out of 5 stars - Great read!
By Nettana S
This review is from: The Idi-Odyssey (The Wedding Master) (Paperback)
I didn't know what to expect when I first picked this up, but once I did, I couldn't put it down. It was highly entertaining, riveting, and thoroughly enjoyable. I would recommend this to anyone who wants to get a good laugh while enjoying some excellent writing and awesome storytelling.
5.0 out of 5 stars - Very Funny Book
By jddy
This review is from: The Idi-Odyssey (The Wedding Master) (Paperback)
Although the book is entirely about actual events and occurrences, it is laugh-out-loud hilarious and a very entertaining read. The story follows the unusual journey of author Scott Stram as he moonlights as an ordained minister at weddings for various friends and family. Along the way, the reader is introduced to colorful friends, exotic foreign foods, wild naked barbecues, and of course, the absurd "Idiotarod" race. Scott also chronicles his history with women from C-Lo to the Clam, and the reader is treated to a roller coaster of sweet romance, painful break-up, delightful reconciliation, even more painful break-up, betrayal, forgiveness, and on and on it goes. And the story is told in a witty and satirical tone throughout along with amusing literary and cinematic references (required reading for all Braveheart fans). The book even has pictures too, so no reason not to get involved!
Additional reviews and information available at Home Page
The Idi-Odyssey
(Book One: The Wedding Master)
By Scott W. Stram
Smashwords edition
Copyright © 2010 by Scott W. Stram
ISBN: 978-1-4502-3443-6 (ebook)
This book is available in print at most major online retailers.
This book is a true account of stories and events that have occurred. However, most names (other than nicknames) and places, as well as certain situations, have been altered to protect the innocent and guilty alike. Any resemblance to a specific person, place or thing is coincidental (or on purpose), and should be regarded as such.
Introduction
“Actually, I could ordain you right now if you like.” Ten simple words, spoken to me by the most confusing and unlikeliest of “holy men,” presented newly blonde, non-religious me with a unique opportunity that would ultimately shape much of the idiocy of the years to follow.
In the United States over the last ten years, twenty-three million couples have married. (http://www.soundvision.com/info/weddings/statistics.asp). This is the story of my random journey through .000003% of those weddings. Within nearly every one of those “special” occasions, I was, for reasons unknown, called upon, sometimes thrust into, a role outside of the normal everyday guest.
Documenting the Idi-Odyssey came about as a direct result of the “Year of the Wedding” in which my younger brother married the same girl three times. Bombarded by questions from family and friends after wedding number one, where only six people were in attendance, I wrote a captain’s log to memorialize the details for everyone. While this fended off the questions in the short term, it led to greater and greater expectations after every wedding. Requests were coming in for the Japanese wedding log while we were still in Japan.
Coupled with a chorus of “What are you doing in law school? You should be writing,” all of the random scenarios led to an eventual melding together into an idi-odyssey of idiotic proportion.
About the Author
Dubbed the Jack-ass of All Trades by several of his peers, Scott Stram has worked as an attorney, bartender, editor, high school English teacher, loss prevention consultant, non-religious minister, aquatic educator (aka, swim instructor), head of security, college radio disc-jockey, billing coordinator, rock band manager, Vice President of business development, intellectual property enforcer/monitor, mediator, lifeguard, Chief Operations Officer, underwear designer, referee/umpire, community relations coordinator and more. He is currently a Chief Security and Compliance Officer and an attorney licensed in New York and New Jersey.
An English major in college by default, Scott has published many (several) articles in major (minor) news outlets (i.e. law school newspaper). His work has also been featured in college recruitment materials, New York City classrooms, medical center newsletters and brochures, as well as countless corporate contracts, confidentiality agreements and employee manuals.
A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, his “body” of work was also featured in a photo from an article in the February 4, 1992 edition of the Daily Pennsylvanian entitled “Woman Runs in Streak.” Despite shrinkage, he was not referenced in the title.
Scott competed for years in track and field (cross country, 3000 meter steeplechase and javelin). After changing his training regimen to dodgeball leagues, flip cup tournaments and fried foods, he completed the New York City marathon (barely) in just over three hours despite staggering the final 10K with a walrus and elephant mating on his back.
Scott hails from and resides in New York. This is his first novel. The stories in this book can be indirectly traced back to his career ADD, the random persons, places and relationships along the way. He may be contacted at theweddingmaster@yahoo.com.
Part I – The Ascension
The San Francisco Treat
The first time I traveled out West, I married a box of Rice a Roni. The second time, a few years later, I was ordained. Both trips included San Francisco and Lake Tahoe, but that was where the similarities ended.
On that second trip, (See Appendix, Part 1, The San Francisco Treats, for the story of the first trip and first wedding), I would retrace my steps back to the west coast, this time with a non-starchy girlfriend, Tara, for her cousin’s wedding. Weddings often forced a re-visiting of places previously explored. Like Sisyphus, doomed to roll his stone up Mount Olympus, it was my destiny to continuously re-live past travels through wedding destinations, rather than use precious vacation days to discover new, uncharted territories.
After visiting and sightseeing for a few days, Tara and I left the city by the bay to drive to Lake Tahoe for the wedding. On our way out of town, we stopped at a non-descript barber shop so I could get my hair cut. We were in the Castro district. The entire area (shops, trees, benches, pets) was completely draped in thousands of rainbow flags flapping flamboyantly in the limp-wristed breeze. At the time, I had no idea what that meant. I knew San Francisco was a gay ol’ town, but had no idea that flying a rainbow flag was their Jolly Roger, so to speak.
I walked past the rainbow colored barber pole into the hair salon. It was filled with large muscular Australian dudes who were cutting, shaping, flexing and humping about to songs by the Village People (the songs may have been in my head). Either way, it was raining inside; raining men, that is. Macho men; macho, macho men. And for some reason, certainly the odds were against it, amongst all the male hairstylists, a petite Asian woman who barely spoke English cut my hair.
Tara left to take a walk. Feeling sassy and a bit gay but mostly in the happy and free sense of the word, I asked my Asian hair samurai if she would dye my hair blonde. I was in a weird mood and felt like doing something new and different. Tara and I had reached a calm level of boredom in our relationship. So to fill the void, I would change my hair color. Genius! Haircut equals attitude adjustment.
As a strictly “just cut the hair, no wash, no styling, no product, type-A haircut person,” it was a foreign experience watching this woman mix the coloring, paint brush it onto my head, and put foil in my hair. But something must have been lost in translation. Possibly as a result of her poor English comprehension, or that she was just a terrible stylist, slightly blonde looked a lot like completely bleached-blonde, boy-band platinum.
To further transition my weave from brown to blonde, there were a few additional steps added to the process. Tara returned from her walk just in time to spot me under a heat lamp, legs crossed, gossiping about husbands and children with the other sassy housewives I imagined were sitting in the heat lamps next to mine, while simultaneously flipping pages of a glamour magazine I was not reading.
New ridiculous hair in place, girlfriend’s laughter at me (not with me) ringing in my ears, we drove to Lake Tahoe; the handprint goodbyes from my new rainbow flag-waving friends still stinging my butt. We were greeted by Tara’s parents at the townhouse condos where we were staying. And before the car was even in park, Tara’s old school father noticed my newfound blondeness and sarcastically exclaimed, “Great, my possible future son-in-law is gay.”
The car window was open. Speaking without thinking, as was so often the case, I responded, “I’m with Tara just to get to you, fancy boy” and blew him a kiss.
A Soggy Rehearsal Dinner
Tara and I had arrived late in the morning of the day before the wedding. We were just in time to join in a traditional pre-wedding rafting expedition. So after waking up at the ass crack of dawn to drive three and a half hours from San Francisco, we would now turn around and drive halfway back to the American River.
Tara’s cousin, the groom, was a ski instructor during the ski season, and white water rafting guide the rest of the year. He enlisted his co-worker friends to take the entire wedding party and out-of-town family members down a bunch of rapids. All in all, we were forty or so people crammed into four rafts.
Less than ten minutes into the excursion, as we were navigating the first real set of rapids, I got the chance to introduce myself to Tara’s large floatation device Aunt. She had fallen overboard (walrus off the starboard bow) when her boat hit the first wave and nearly drowned going under our vessel.
Everyone else seemed disturbingly calm as I frantically groped under the raft and grabbed at body parts that will forever haunt my dreams before finally pulling her large, bloated carcass into our already very full raft. “Hi, you must be Tara’s Aunt. I just grabbed your vulva by accident. How are your cats?”
But the rest of the day was smooth sailing and uneventful. We gracefully navigated through the level three and four rapids with trusty Yukon Dave, the groom’s co-worker and river buddy, the epitome of Lands’ End meets J Crew, crunchy, outdoors, granola guy, as our guide. Eventually, Tara’s Aunt dried out, but she never did sober up.
Here
Comes the Bride
Minister; A New Beginning
We woke early the next day and drove straight to the wedding site. We were among the first to arrive. Standing on a beautiful hillside, I looked out upon the calm, glassy waters of Lake Tahoe. It was one of those perfect days where the skies and the water try to outdo each other’s shades of blue. A cool breeze rustled through the pine trees above.
The ground was covered in a bough of pine needles that made a crunching noise when you walked. Wedding guests began to arrive and as they walked down from the parking lot to the open seating area, it sounded like thousands of cereal nut clusters being chewed all at once. I had skipped breakfast again.
Large posses of squirrels frolicked in the trees above. They seemed to be giggling like Japanese school girls at the goings-on below. Every once in a while there was a much louder, almost gunfire-like sound, when a softball-sized pine cone was trod upon by a guest. Each pine cone explosion caused a tremendous commotion above as the school girl squirrels panicked and raced higher into the sanctity of their tree homes.
The guests filled up the seats which were all lined up on the side of the mountain; perched at a forty-five degree angle it seemed, making you feel like you were riding on a stationary roller coaster. I played with the last chair in the last row in the back, imagining that tipping it over might create a domino effect that would result in Tara’s Aunt, sitting all the way in the front, careening down the mountain and ultimately landing in the great lake; getting soggy for the second day in a row. But her Aunt was already sloshed and Tara, like a mind-reading Jedi, sensed what I was considering and told me to cut it out.
I noticed Yukon Dave, our rafting guide from the day before, standing somewhat awkwardly off to the side so I strolled over to him. We spoke for a few seconds before he abruptly excused himself saying, “Scott, let’s catch up later, I need to go take care of this.”
I watched in confusion as he walked up the aisle, crunching with every step. He marched past all the guests in their precariously angled chairs, stepped under the Chuppah, [1] and turned to face us all. Yukon Dave had looked so experienced and trusty the day before as he had confidently guided us down the river. But on that day of the wedding, he looked tiny, bewildered and lost. In what must have been his only big-boy suit, a loosely fitting sports coat with way too thin trousers, he looked like a trout [2] out of water, or perhaps more accurately, a white water rafting guide out of water.
The processional music began to play. I quickly took my seat, poked Tara to get her attention and whispered, “What the crap is Dave doing?” She whispered back “I don’t know. Stop poking my butt.” I looked all around and at the other guests but nobody else seemed to think anything was out of place.
The groom looked calm and confident. The bride, when she appeared, looked stunning in her long flowing white gown with a bough on top of her head and a bough of pine needles over her head all pointing at her. Yukon Dave, on the other hand, looked nauseous; like he was going to be the one to make a run for it. “Is there anyone here who thinks these two should not be united this day…by Yukon Dave,” and Dave would raise his hand before high tailing it back to his riverside home.
But then, a look of zen-like calm came over him. He took a deep breath and imagined, I supposed, that he was merely in a very large raft taking a whole bunch of tourists in tuxedos, suits and prom gowns down a ceremonial river. And other than fleeting moments of discomfort throughout the ceremony, his only obvious flaw was when he butchered the Jewish blessing of the wine. Yukon Dave, Jebus bless his soul, was clearly not a member of the tribe.
I caught up with Dave after the ceremony. He had snuck past the wedding couple greeting line and made a bee-line straight for the bar; which was really just a large table set up directly behind the ceremony. As people closed in all around us fighting for drinks, I purposefully marched right up to Dave with a forefinger raised in the air as if to say “What the crap, Dave,” with multiple exclamation points and question marks included.
Before I could get a word out, he lifted his face out of his pint of courage and said “I know what you’re going to say. What the hell is a guy like me doing performing a wedding ceremony?” He was exactly right. I noticed he, the wedding’s minister, said hell, and I responded with another exclamation of my forefinger in the air to wordlessly say “Yes, for crap sake!”
Dave proceeded to tell me of a church in Modesto, California, the Universal Life Church, the most wonderful church in all the land, a magical place that believes “in that which is right. Each individual has the privilege and responsibility to determine what is right for him, as long as it does not infringe on the rights of others.” And blah, blah and blah, and they will ordain anyone.
A small flock of wedding goers and well-wishers had gathered around us but I did not notice. Before I could interrupt with several thousand questions, he continued “Actually, I could ordain you right now if you like.” Those simple words, spoken to me by the most confusing and unlikeliest of “holy men,” stopped my interrogative line of questioning before it could even begin.
A cross-road of idiocy had been reached. My secular life passed before my eyes. There was growing up in the Boogie-Down Bronx, then Money-Earnin’ Mount Vernon, and then most of high school in Scarsdale. There was also the University of Pennsylvania; competing in the three thousand meter steeplechase in England and Ireland; teaching scrappers (wee ones, aka children) how to swim; streaking; throwing the javelin; running the New York marathon; bartending; the various jobs/careers at Mount Sinai Medical Center, Iona College and Jobson Publishing; teaching high school English in the Bronx; masters programs in communications at Iona and guidance and counseling at Hunter; the failed stint as a rock drummer; and managing a rock band.
I was non-religious Jewish. I wondered, “Do I take this opportunity to become a minister, a holy man of the cloth? Ministers aren’t celibate right?” I had always considered myself very holy, but purely in the church of idiocy where I followed the creed of jackass-ivity.
But really, in the end, there was little to consider. It was clear to me that it was my duty, it was my destiny. So I raised that finger in the air one more time, and with an affirmative triumphant gesture, confidently gave Dave my blessing, “Ordain away my friend, ordain away.”
Hundreds of people of mixed ethnicities and religious affiliations wearing long white baptismal robes miraculously gathered around inside my head, clapping their hands and singing “wade in the water; wade in the water children…” And Yukon Dave retrieved from his river guide, discount rack at Filene’s Basement, sports coat pocket a plain postcard with the Universal Life Church’s name and address on one side. He then pulled from his ultra thin trousers a mini-golf pencil, and like a mini-golf scorecard, filled in my name and address.
Two weeks later, in the mail, I received a very official looking manila envelope which contained my certificate of ordination. [3] It also included my clergy parking pass, which nobody should ever leave home without. And perhaps most surprising of all, it was legit. From their website, I discovered additional titles available for purchase. They included:
Abbe, Reverend of Rock 'n Roll, Abbess, Abbot, Angel, Apostle of Humility, Apostolic Scribe, Arch Deacon, Arch Priest, Archbishop, Arch cardinal, Ascetic Gnostic, Bible Historian, Bishop, Brahman, Brother, Canon, Cantor, Cardinal, Chaplain, Colonel, Deacon, Dervish, Directress, Disciple, Druid, Elder, Faith Healer, Evangelist, Emissary, Father, Field Missionary, Flying Missionary, Free Thinker, Friar, Goddess, Guru, Hadji, Healing Minister, High Priest, High Priestess, Imam, Lama, Lay Sister, Magus, Martyr, Messenger, Metropolitan, Minister of Music, Minister of Peace, Missionary, Missionary Doctor, Missionary Healer, Missionary of Music, Missionary Priest, Monk, Monsignor, Most Reverend, Mystical Philosopher, Orthodox Monk, Parochial Educator, Pastor General, Patriarch, Peace Counselor, Preacher, Preceptor, Priest, Priestess, Prophet, Rector, Rabbi, , Revelator, Reverend, Reverend Father, Reverend Mother, Right Reverend, Saintly Healer, Scribe, Seer, Shaman, Soul Therapist, Sister, Spiritual Counselor, Spiritual Warrior, Starets, Swami, Teller, Thanatologist, The Very Esteemed, Universal Rabbi, Universal Religious Philosopher, Vicar, Universal Philosopher of Absolute Reality, Wizard, Gothi, Gythia, Psychic Healer, Minister of Rock 'n Roll, Rock 'n Roll Missionary, Rock Doctor (R.D), Rock 'n Roll Minister, Child of the Universe, Prince, Princess, Spiritual Healer, Saint, and last, but definitely not least, Pope.
Though mightily tempted by several options, especially those devoted to the religious right to rock, or being the Pope, I stuck with being a simple, humble Reverend/Minister.
So to tally the score, besides being non-religious Jewish, looking Scottish, drinking Irish, balling like the brothers, I had become and would evermore be a minister, keeper of the faith (whatever that might be), protector, healer and lover of all things. [4] Blessings to all.
The Congregation
A few days after the wedding, feeling much more in touch with the spiritual side of the universe, I triumphantly returned home to New York City, a blonde minister. The prodigal son returns. Anti-climactically, I did not get a Pope’s reception or even a bullet-proof vehicle to cruise around in. In fact, nothing seemed different at all until I met up with my grandparents.
I showed up at their apartment in the Parkchester section of the Boogie-Down-Bronx to bestow upon them the great honor of providing me with lunch. We had eaten lunch together in that apartment countless times before. Only that time, they were serving lunch to a minister, and would be forced to treat me with the utmost respect and deference as was proper for a man of my position.
Upon seeing me, my grandfather Henry immediately bellowed “What the hell did you do to your head? You look ridiculous!” I forgot I was still blonde. Gramps had always complained about my haircuts. He would ask me where I went and how much I paid so that he could then wonder why I would go to that place and pay them just to get butchered or scalped. The conclusion was always the same; I should go with him to his barber.
And yet, this man, for as long as I had known him (my entire life) had never had hair on the top of his head. It was as if Krusty the Clown and Yul Brenner had mated. Bald on top with pure white tufts hanging off the side and back. And what tufts! Like thousands of cotton balls glued together in a cloud of marshmallow fluff around a horseshoe shaped noggin. And so I simply said to him, in a most Zen Confucius Dalai Lama manner, “He who lives with glass haircuts should not throw stone clippers.”
Henry, never one to back down from a comment without one of his own, started to go into stories of his majestic golden locks from when he was my age, when I abruptly added “and you, sir, shall address me with the respect appropriately due a man of my decree, my stature, my place on this earth.” I paused for effect before continuing, “For I am a minister. I am a holy man, magi, guru, shaman, a seer of all and doer of some, a man of the cloth (Banana Republic cloth). The prophecies bespoke of a Heebish man who would become a minister to lead all the strange haired men to freedom. Follow me. So it is written, so it shall be done. Amen.”
Perhaps it was the length of the soliloquy or simply that he was trying to gauge my level of seriousness, but my words momentarily silenced him. And that in itself was scary; Henry, speechless. Rumors surfaced from time to time of grandparents being silent in the wilderness but it was not something you ever expected to encounter in person or in an urban setting.
He paused, perhaps noticing that indeed there was something different. Though my frame had filled out to where I no longer looked like a larger than normal long-distance runner, I still appeared very young for my age; it was perhaps the round face, the ruddy complexion, clear blue eyes that flew on wings of sorrow and could see inside tomorrow. I stood five foot eleven, but the ascension to the ministry lent an appearance of someone much taller, someone who could dunk a basketball.
Apparently, the blonde hair, by itself, was a surprise. But a Jewish minister, and blonde hair, and being a minister, a blonde minister; the blonde hair mixed with being a minister equaled grandparent sensory overload. In his world, which included all people over seventy, and ninety nine percent of AARP (American Association of Retired Persons) members, it was clear that I had joined a cult.
From that day on, I always made sure to greet him with some form of holy-ish gesture; the sign of the cross, devil’s horns, clasped palms, the sign that signified it was time for the human sacrifice, etc. And he would respond by trying to slap me upside the head.
As word got out about my ordination (that Henry could gossip) people wanted me involved to greater and greater degrees in their spiritual needs. At the least, I was their back-up minister; the security blanket in case the official rabbi or priest got called away for a last second exorcism or some other emergency of biblical proportion.
I had not specifically set out upon that path, but I had found my calling nonetheless. I took my new title and spiritual duties very seriously. With great power comes great responsibility.
Tara’s friend Beverly (Beaverly) was intrigued by my new role. With the sweet sincerity and naiveté of a baby deer caught in a car’s headlights, she asked if I would be able to perform a baptism ceremony for her. I was honored and also horrified that she would think I should do this for her. It was a situation that needed to be handled with dignity and care, territory Minster Stram was unfamiliar with.
We spoke at length about her reasons and why she felt it was important. As we were close to finalizing the details, setting the date and time, I could hold out no longer. I calmly informed her in a deep voice and in my most holy and sacred way that my baptism ceremony involved a toilet, her head, and a whole lot of flushing. The royal swirlie!
Beverly never spoke of getting baptized again, which was sad because it would have been a very important moment in her young and beautiful life; a moment that she, and especially I, would have cherished forever. “Bathe in the water; bathe in the water children…”
Part II - Trilogy of Horrors #1
The Prom King
My ascension to holy power did not bode well for my relationship with Tara. As my blonde hair faded, so too did our relationship. We started to fight and get on each other’s nerves, usually about silly things. There was the prom, for example.
My cousin Shelly was graduating from high school. She and her boyfriend abruptly broke up mere weeks before the end of the school year. That conversation that was supposed to take place shortly after the prom, the one about college, long distance, seeing new people, had happened prematurely. And then her best friend also broke up with her boyfriend around the same time. It was like they were getting up to go to the rest room together for crap sake.
Someone at some point somehow someway got it in their head (Uncle Rich) that it would be a good idea for my brother Russ and his former college room-mate Seth to go as their dates, despite the fact that Russ and Seth were twenty five years old. Russ and Seth felt a little weird about it but good naturedly agreed to go. Besides, neither of them looked or acted more than twenty years old.
I gave them moral support in the form of incessant harassment. I made up a song with lyrics including “twenty-five year old losers going to the prom,” with lines about being magically transported to the Deep South where it was more appropriate to date your cousin.
A week before the prom, Seth bailed for one of his typical BS reasons. Step in Uncle Rich again, this time to convince everyone who the older replacement should be. That completely messed up the lyrics to the song I had written.
Despite being the older brother, I allegedly looked younger than Russ, so the crusty age factor wasn’t going to save me. I protested that it was inappropriate for a minister to take on such secular tasks, but the smirk on my face didn’t help sell that excuse. Ultimately, just as Russ had stepped up, I too wouldn’t let my pride stand in the way of something ridiculous.
Tara was less understanding. She was mortified that her boyfriend was going to a high school prom. She did not understand it. In fairness to her, I wasn’t sure I understood it either.
Prom night approached. Russ and I drove upstate to Binghamton for the “Dreaming Under the Stars” Vestal High School prom. Upon arrival, we learned another friend of Shelly’s had just broken up with her boyfriend. There seemed to be some sort of upstate anti-relationship, pre-prom conspiracy going on. It was a freakin’ prom pandemic. Now Russ and I were escorting three young ladies. It was hard out there for a (dirty old man) prom pimp.
First we all went to dinner at a Japanese hibachi restaurant called Kampai, a fancier version of Benihana. We were seated at a table with other restaurant-goers and the chef prepared our food right in front of us. He did tricks with the skrimps and eggs, tossed things in his hat, set an onion tower on fire, and accidentally set himself on fire.
Since there were five of us, our table was filled out by a very nice young couple who appeared to be in their early twenties. They were recent college graduates living and working in Binghamton. Put me in a tux with high school seniors heading to the prom and apparently I blended right in. They did not blink when I informed them that I was a sophomore communications major at Syracuse University.
Although in real life I was the Director of Operations for a rapidly growing, New York City dotcom company, there I was being advised about college and the job marketplace by two very sweet, younger and much less experienced people. I had successfully infiltrated the prom; it was Twenty-One Jump Street.
After dinner, we headed to some nondescript hotel ballroom for the actual prom. As we were checking in with the parent volunteers out front, Russ made a classic rookie undercover prom mistake. He gave his real name. The parent-volunteer who wore her PTA membership proudly on her sleeve, saw Shelly next in line and exclaimed, “Oh, Shelly, you two must be related!”
Noting the “kill me” look in Shelly’s eyes, I rolled up next. The woman confidently said, “And this must be Seth.” Channeling a jealous boyfriend, I angrily replied, “Seth, who the hell is Seth?” and turned to Shelly, “Is that the guy you met last year at the lake?”
The woman panicked and backpedaled. I told her my real first name and enjoyed watching Shelly flinch in anticipation of hearing the woman say “Oh, Shelly, you two must be related too!” Instead, I continued with “My name is Scott. Scott Johnson.”
After dutifully escorting Shelly inside with Russ and Shelly’s friend number one, I went back out and got back on the incoming line with friend number two. This time, to the same parent who was now thoroughly bewildered, I announced that I was “Randy, Randy Johnson.” She knew I looked familiar and was confused so I added that I was Scott’s evil twin brother.
We all danced to the senior class cheesy prom song “I’ll Remember You” by Sarah McLachlan. Someone had apparently switched the prom music program with a Lilith Fair concert.
Other than one awkward moment with a parent/volunteer with whom I accidentally discussed my real job, my secret identity was safe. And somewhere in the annals of Vestal High School memorabilia, there are pictures from that prom, and amongst those pictures, are two couples, one with Scott Johnson, and one with Randy Johnson, both being idiotic me. Scott was voted worst haircut, Randy was least likely to succeed, both of us got class clown.
A Non-religious Minister’s Path towards Celibacy
Tara didn’t see the humor in the story, even the part about being twins. She did say something to the effect of me being a big enough idiot for two people. That was true, but nonetheless, things had changed. It was the kind of thing that would have amused her earlier in our relationship.
Adding to our difficulties was my new job. When we had first met, I was teaching English at a high school in the Bronx. While it was the most draining stressful job of my random but colorful career, the schedule at least aligned well with Tara’s nine to five, entry level job at a large publishing company.
But I left the teaching gig after only one semester. A friend’s husband had created a start-up dotcom company that specialized in gifts that magically took certificate form. He made me the Director of Operations and my work hours changed drastically.
In addition, Tara and I had moved in together shortly after the new job started; to a one bedroom duplex apartment in the sky. Unlike the Jefferson’s Park Avenue sky, this was an East End fifth floor walk-up. The tight quarters, the stereotypical male panic associated with moving in together, along with my sixteen-hour days at the new job all helped me in my sabotage; disconnecting from the relationship. And by the time I realized what I was doing, Tara had moved out and we were on a “break.”
At first, I was happy. I could breathe again in my own home. After a few weeks and some time to think and clear my head, I realized I had made a huge mistake. The stupid, little things that had become large obstacles were put in their proper perspective. I loved Tara.
Why had I repeated the idiocy of so many idiots before me? What was it about men and their inability to appreciate what they have until it’s gone? And why was I asking myself so many stupid unanswerable questions?
So we had issues, but now, after only three weeks of being on a break, I wanted to try to work through them. I wanted a break from the break.
I dove one hundred percent into repairing the relationship. Tara had just returned from a trip to Australia. I called her parents and told them I would pick her up at the airport, and then like one of those idiots from the movies, made a sign with her name on it and waited for her outside the terminal with flowers. She was surprised at least.
On the ride to her house, she told me she was not sure she was ready to get back together, that she loved me but that I had hurt her very much. I was surprised. I naïvely and innocently (if innocent equals stupid) thought all I had to do was ask her to come back and everything would work out fine. Where was the happy ending sitcoms and massage parlors promised?
But I told her that I understood, even though I didn’t, and that I was willing to do whatever it takes to get her back. The next few weeks were spent trying to do that elusive undefined “whatever it takes.” Shortly thereafter, she started making excuses and blowing me off with lines like “I love you, but I love myself too and I need to take some time to just be by myself.”
Tara scheduled time to come to the apartment to pick up all her stuff. Of course, she brought her friend Lauren, the Take It in the Can Girl [5], thus insuring that we wouldn’t be able to really talk about anything. After we all finished packing up and Lauren left, Tara’s car broke down and she was stuck with me alone. Ominous mystery music like the theme from Jaws cued in my head, but I didn’t hear it.
As we waited for her mother to drive in from Long Island to get her and her stuff, she asked me “So, are you seeing anyone?” I looked at her like she was crazy. “No, of course not. You know I want to be with you.” And then after a few moments added “Why would you even ask that?” She said she was just curious.
After a minute or so of confused silence, it dawned on me that there must be something else behind her question. Afraid of the answer, I asked her if she was seeing someone else. She replied with righteous indignation, “No, I told you, I just need some time for myself.” Trying to read her face for clues, I asked her to just be honest with me. She looked me in the eyes and assured me that she still loved me, was absolutely, unequivocally, positively not seeing someone else and just needed time to sort things out. I wanted the truth but I also wanted what she was telling me to be the truth, so I believed her.
Not the next morning, but the one after, I was on my way to work, riding the one/nine train from eighty-sixth street down to Penn Station. It was the same commute that I was herded along every morning. It was a quarter after eight am and I had not yet recovered from the agony of waking up. My pillow and blanket had bravely fought to save me from the outside world, but eventually the evil alarm clock won.
The subway car I was on was relatively empty for the morning rush hour. After a stop or two, I realized I had been blankly staring at a couple who got on the train at seventy-second street. Suddenly the girl gave a slight, almost imperceptible wave. It was a partial wave, not her whole hand, just her fingers.
That woke me up. My eyes cleared and I realized, to my horror, I had been staring at Tara who was with some random dude. Her hair was still wet from a shower, the glistening droplets winking me the truth she had refused to tell me just two days before. My heart fell through my ass.
Tara and her special “friend” moved to the other side of the car and sat down. What are the odds, with all the millions of people riding the subways every morning that Tara and I would be on that same train? With each passing station stop, my shock subsided and made way for bottled up, ass-cheek clenching rage.
When the train finally pulled into Penn Station, I walked past her on my way out, leaned in and quietly said, “You got your stuff back. I’d greatly appreciate you giving me back all of mine. Thanks.” And that was the last time I ever saw or spoke to Tara.
I numbly walked into my office five minutes later feeling like I might throw up. After staring at the wall for about five minutes, I finally turned on my laptop and waited impatiently for it to log-on. Thanks to co-workers Frodo and Captain Idiot, I had to wait longer than usual. They had rigged the laptop to loudly question, “Crusher, the Nambla (North American Man Boy Love Association) site is down. Do you still want to log on?” (They called me the Crusher because the back of my neck reminded them of the Bugs Bunny cartoon wrestler).
When it finally loaded up, I sent Tara an email that said, “Now I understand,” before shutting it back down and promptly walking back out of the office to go home and straight back to bed. It should have ended there; unfortunately, it did not. Waiting for me at work the next day was a computer virus in the form of an email response from Tara.
Her message started off as an apology. But she then continued with a long defense of her actions; essentially saying there was no point in telling me she had moved on, that I did not need to know, and that I should have read between the lines anyways and figured it out.
Infuriated, I responded with a fifty thousand word treatise on her sluttiness. Tara responded with a similarly lengthy pontification on my level of assholiness. And then we started being mean to each other.
I decided to cc everyone who knew the both of us. I wanted them to stop bombarding me with questions as to why we weren’t together anymore and let them see the truth. What great moronic breakup would be complete without making a complete ass of yourself for all to see?
But better judgment, as well as the advice of a few people in the immediate vicinity, prevailed and I started to angrily delete the names I had added to the cc distribution. But before I could remove everyone, the computer, clearly attempting to dodge my angry slap typing on its keyboard, sent the email.
I had accidentally (moronically) hit send before removing about ten or fifteen people from the cc distribution list. One of her friend’s jackass husbands had the temerity to lecture me, and I almost let slip the fact that his “out of his league” wife was cheating on him, but I bit my typing finger tongue and ignored him. I’d done enough damage for one day.
At least I no longer wanted to get back together with Tara. She had given me closure. And for that I shall always be grateful, bless her slutty heart.
Part III - A Minister Gets His Robes Wet
Frodo and Captain Idiot
Although
things with Tara had ended in a horrific fireball of crap, I at least
had her to thank for my ordainment. The first time my wedding
ministrations were unofficially called upon involved
the Captain.
Captain Idiot (See Appendix, Exhibit C, Photo 3) and I had started working together at the dotcom gift company within one week of each other. I had previously been teaching English at Evander Childs High School in the Bronx, and going to graduate school at Hunter College. On New Year’s Day, Noah, my friend Helen’s husband, told me he needed a right hand man to work in his company and he would pay me double what I was making. It was a very tempting offer.
I had taken the teaching job merely as a stop-gap in the first place; to get away from working in the dead-end editorial job at Mount Sinai Medical Center and to make barely survivable money while getting my master’s degree in guidance and counseling (the blind leading the blind).
But it was very unpleasant being a slave to the New York City Board of Mis-Education and the systems/methods it was forced to resort to as a result of parents’ ridiculous lawsuits, and underpaid, unhappy teachers all swarming to the suburbs the second they could. So I took the job. I had no idea what I was getting myself into and it really did not matter; no matter what it was, anything had to be better.
Evander’s English Department actually had a going away party for me. The head of the English Department was shocked and ecstatic that I waited out starting my new job until the end of the semester. (Apparently, most teachers quit the exact moment they can, regardless of whether it’s the middle of the semester, school day, or even class period. Two weeks notice doesn’t apply when you’re escaping the Board of Ed. Freedom!) And everyone else was just happy to see someone make it to the other side. So many of those teachers were like Brooksie from The Shawshank Redemption; stuck on the inside for so long, they’d been institutionalized (Board of Educationalized) and could not imagine life outside their classroom’s prison walls.
And so they closed off a section of the school library (students were never there anyways), got a big sandwich, a bunch of sodas, and applauded me on my last day like in the final triumphant scene of An Officer and A Gentleman. [6] And within two weeks, the least institutionalized all sent me their resumes to see if I could save them by getting them new jobs. But it was too late. They had specific skills that were difficult to translate to a life on the outside, as well as a pension they could not imagine giving up. It was sad and I felt bad, but I had to leave them behind and move on.
Two days before starting the new job, Noah called to congratulate me and let me know I had been “promoted” to Director of Operations. The promotion meant that instead of working at his apartment in Manhattan, I would be working with Frodo,(he was shaped like a Hobbit), the Vice President of Operations, at Frodo’s house in Edison, New Jersey. No pay increase plus an extra forty-five minutes added to my commute equaled the best promotion ever.
On the first day, I rolled up five minutes late to Frodo’s house thanks to the ridiculously bad directions he had provided. I stood outside the front door on that frigid morning and was confronted by a doorbell that rang and rang.
Two disheveled people, Frodo and he who would come to be known as Captain Idiot, finally answered the door. They greeted me with two of the most ridiculous bed-heads I had ever seen, not to mention some weird adult jammies. Frodo’s first words were, “Way to make a good first impression. You’re late.”
The three of us settled down to work in a small room upstairs. Frodo dumped a pile of crap on my desk which was really just a small card table and I started looking through it. I asked some questions. The answers were very short and made it clear that nobody knew anything about what we were doing. I was going to have to figure things out on my own.
Then, still within the first sixty minutes of my arrival, and as I was on the phone with American Express trying to understand what the crap we were getting charged back for, as well as what the crap a chargeback even was, I sensed something over my left shoulder. I swiveled in my chair to see both Frodo and Captain Idiot standing right behind and over me, staring at the back of my neck. The Captain turned to Frodo and said “Look at his neck, don’t you just want to fwap your penis against it.” I had found a home.
The Day of the Great Damp
Immediately, the Captain and I were like long lost idiot brothers. He was like a member of the family, even taking part in making fun of everyone in the family, including me. By way of example, the following was a response to an email I sent him while traveling with the family to Banff and Jasper in the Canadian Rockies.
From: Captain Idiot
To: Scott Stram
I have been there; I spent two weeks backpacking through that bitch a few years back. Have the Male Caribou taken a liking to Big D? [7] I would hate it if he got hurt because he got too close to a female and had to kick some Great White North Ass. Or got a splinter of horn stuck in his tuchas. (I can’t stop laughing now…the image, oh the image) How great would it be if D got attacked by the animal on his t-shirt every day on the trip? [8] Fortunately for him, most large North American animals hate mustard and sawdust with a passion matched only by D’s skepticism on daily showers.
Lets pick a time to swap photos and stories (not fluids – I’m on to you buster – remember that Greek busboy you had to remove with pepper spray and a long stick. Remember? He fell into a fit of passion by the way you pronounced matzo ball soup and insisted you carry his future children in your bottom. Remember? I think his name was Fritz. I ain’t that way)
You will be missing Berman and I at Andy’s bachelor party Saturday. Me plus Berman plus a bunch of good golfers plus a healthy dose of idiocy – what could be funnier? Where is my knee length “Frankie says” style “Golf is for pole smokers” t-shirt? I need to find some gunpowder, dog crap, white paint and gloves…
So jealous of your trip…even more jealous of you getting to see D hit the earth like a meteor of white flesh. I’m surprised he wasn’t arrested. It’s illegal in Canada to jump off of private property naked if you are over three hundred pounds.
As further example of this bond based in idiocy, there was the “day of the great damp.” The Captain had crashed in the city one weeknight to watch Braveheart. The next morning, the rains had been so severe that flooding closed down the subways. So we were forced to slog along amongst an enormous crowd, seeking out alternative transportation to get downtown.
During the search, we ran into one of our co-workers, the great North American, large breasted, tight sweatered Kleban. Kleban was famous for her boobs and very much enjoyed their companionship. Despite the implied sexual harassment, I encouraged her to use her special assets to get us a cab.
The Captain, still basking in the glow of his first Braveheart viewing, employed an old crotchety Scotsman’s brogue as if he was the cabdriver to be so enticed, and insisted “Don’t be waving yon taxi-catchers (breasts) at me Lassie. It’s naught gon work.” He kept up his Scottish rant the entire time, as we walked all the way from the Upper East Side to our offices near Penn Station.
Since the newly developed Scottish accents hadn’t doubled well as umbrellas, we were thoroughly drenched by the time we neared the office. So we stopped at K-Mart to buy some cheap, dry clothes to wear until our clothing dried out.
Just as I sat down at my desk, Microsoft Outlook reminded me that I was late for a fraud prevention meeting with our executive management team and the guys from a leading fraud screening software company. The Star Wars t-shirt and guido wrestling pants suddenly seemed less of a wise fashion choice than fifteen minutes earlier.
I paused for a few moments at the door before Captain Idiot walked up and shoved me in. Too late to turn back, I strode confidently into the midst of the suit filled room, my Darth Vader t-shirt screaming dotcom competency.
Noah, in his stereotypical dotcom CEO all black, big boy clothes seemed to die a little on the inside as he was forced to introduce Darth Stram, his fraud and loss prevention expert. “Will you guys stand behind your product, guarantee zero percent fraud loss, and back it up by covering us for any fraud loss that your system does not catch?” queried the weirdo in his thirteen year old dungeons and dragons sleep-over garb.
From that day forward, not only did Captain Idiot and I address each other as noble Scottish warriors, but it became our mission to acquire kilts; he was Irish, I was Heebish, we would both be Scottish. We had the graphics department morph our faces onto a picture of two Scottish highlanders, printed that image and put it on a cardboard collection box with a message that asked “Won’t you help make our kilt dreams come true?”
From time to time, we would amble around the office soliciting donations. We were not above some good-cop, dumb cop routines; strong-arming some of the tech weenies into donating, claiming it was protection money. Dover, first name Ben, the Vice President of Technology, once threw a five spot our way, and from that day on, none of the big kids were ever permitted to pick on him, whether on the playground or in World of Warcraft. [9]
In one month’s time, our kilt fund had raised one hundred dollars in small change. It was surprising we got that much, but it was nowhere near enough. Who knew kilts cost hundreds of dollars? So we improvised.
I found and purchased a used kilt at a secondhand store. The Captain went much more authentic. He read somewhere that Scotsmen traditionally made their kilts with eight yards of cloth. They got “dressed” by laying all eight yards out and then rolling themselves into it. I taunted him that while I would be racing into “battle,” he would be rolling about on the floor like an idiot on fire, trying to wrap himself in a huge bundle of cloth.
But when the Captain of Idiocy gets an idiotic idea in his noggin, it gets stuck there for good. He looked up his tartan colors, ordered his eight yards of cloth from some on-line company, and then skipped about like Shaymeless O’Toole until it arrived.
He was extremely excited when he first unrolled all that cloth in my office. And I was extremely happy with my kilt purchase when we saw how much cloth eight yards contains.
He rolled, and rolled, and then rolled into that thing some more. Sausage pie! There was enough cloth to make an Irish Captain into a Scottish Mummy. But it was good enough. We had accomplished our goal, for the most part. We had our kilts. And none too soon, indeed, for the great gift wars were upon us.
The Gift Wars of ‘99
Something like ninety percent of the gift industry’s sales occured during the winter holidays, from Thanksgiving through Kwanzaa. Noah had decided for that “all hands on deck” period, that everyone (Marketing, Finance, Technology, Human Resources, Sales) would work in Order Fulfillment, Fraud Prevention, Customer Credit or Customer Service. In other words, everyone would be reporting to either the Captain or me. Pay heed and click your mice lively, Captain Idiot and Admiral Stupid were steering the dotcom ship.
Two weeks before Thanksgiving, the Captain and I divided the entire company between ourselves. We handled it professionally, like we were in the school yard at recess, choosing teams for dodgeball. “You can have Gabay but I get Dicky Stanton Cub Reporter,” and “I’ll trade you two techies and twistin’ and turnin’ squirmin’ McBerman for E-DotCommerceIdiotMoneyLove.”
As we reached the end of the Human Resources provided employee list, we did not even know who the last twenty or so people were. They were either part-time consultants or new hires, so we were just drafting and arguing over names, not knowing the person or any particular skills that accompanied them. Fatefully and randomly, I selected a part-time consultant named Kate. Tubular Bells, the scary theme music from Halloween, was playing on some tech guy’s computer, accompanying that pick, but I ignored the sign.
The Captain and I wasted several minutes in preparation for the battle to come. We sent out an email to alert the draftees of their pending enlistment.
To: #All Company
Subject:The great, great, great draft of ‘99
The time has come, lads and lasses of the great dotcom Empire, to unite for our glorious holiday battle to achieve U.S. domination in the gift industry. This Friday, three weeks removed from the first annual Dicky Stanton Cub Reporter Day[10], is a day that will live forever in e-commerce storybooks. Your children and your children’s children will speak of the work that was done, the gifts that were mailed, and the brave, noble, proud, pigeon-chested office warriors who made it all happen.
From ten to eleven am, please make sure to be on either the sixth or the eighth floor of our humble village so that you may receive your battle station assignment from your squad leader.
“Gods of War I call you, my sword is by my side.
I seek a life of honor, free from all false pride.
I will crack the whip with a bold mighty hail,
Cover me with death if I should ever fail.
Glory, Majesty, Unity.”*
Cookies and milk for everyone.
* From the song “Hail and Kill” by the greatest heavy metal band of all time, Manowar. “Other bands play, Manowar kill.”
We researched hiring the Emerald Society Pipers to help us divide and conquer but like the kilts, that too was costly and we had no budget for bagpipes. We instead enlisted our redheaded step-child and Director of Fulfillment, Lady Cinnamon, to aid our cause. She was to follow us around with a compact disc player playing outlawed tunes on outlawed pipes on cds you can purchase for four dollars and ninety-nine cents out of the bargain bin in most cd stores.
Everything was in place. But just days before the day of dotcom reckoning, a core component was missing; the Captain’s kilt. He had lent it to my friend Bartacus for his trip to New Orleans, where Bartacus wore it up and down (literally) Bourbon Street. And that led to the following exchange prior to its safe return.
From: Scott Stram
To: Bartacus
Bart, I am the deliverer of a message. Angus McStupid has sworn upon the honor of his clan that he will take a sixteen ounce piece of meat and tenderize your face with it at the upcoming meat festival, should his kilt not materialize immediately in a presentable fashion.
From: Bartacus
To:Scott Stram
CC: Captain Idiot
There’s no need to be hostile, lad. You’ll be happy to know that your kilt has been dry-cleaned and kept in its original plastic protective coating. Though since we’re all of a sudden into threats, I’m tempted to prance about in it in less than pants.
From:Captain Idiot
To:Bartacus; Scott Stram
Please try to understand that to borrow a man’s kilt is like borrowing his penis. He doesn’t want to do it in the first place; he worries about it while it’s gone. He damn sure wants it back ASAP.
Let me address your threat to my kilt from two sides.