Lately, my mind has been traveling in strange circles. I have been contemplating three seemingly disparate subjects: weddings, Elvis and Washington Irving. An odd combination you must agree, but give me time, I’ll make it all clear.

With June fast approaching, I have been thinking about weddings. In particular, I have been recalling what has to be one of the most bizarre weddings I have ever attended. Just how Washington Irving and the King fit in to all of this will soon become apparent.

Back in the fall of 1992 (I was living in Miami at the time), the daughter of one of the deacons at our church was scheduled to get hitched in the chapel adjacent to our sanctuary. To the consternation of the pastor and several of our church leaders, the deacon’s daughter insisted on having a wedding with an Elvis theme.

In brief, the entire chapel was decked out with Elvis memorabilia including numerous photographs, replicas of the King’s many gold records and, I am not making this up, a life-sized plastic statue of Presley in all his glory, standing behind a plexi-glass pulpit, located just off to the left of the altar.

As one can imagine, this created quite a stir among the congregation and some even feared a church split over what many had come to view as an activity that was, at best, in poor taste and, at worst, bordering on blasphemy.

I will never forget the ceremony. The bride and bridesmaids were all decked out in skimpy dresses like the one worn by Ann Margaret in Viva Las Vegas. The Best Man wore a sequined white suit with a high collar, turned up in true Elvis fashion and a wide purple belt that, mercifully, drew attention away from the equally purple boots that festooned his feet.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the appearance of the Groom. This is where Washington Irving comes in.

The husband-to-be entered the sanctuary just before the bride and walked down the aisle arm-in-arm with his mother, a somewhat portly woman sporting a sparkling violet gown that perfectly matched the Best Man’s shoes.

The Groom, I want to put this in as charitable of terms as I can muster, was probably the ugliest man I had ever seen.

Standing about 6’4”, Roger weighed about 140 pounds soaking wet. Sporting a blue-suede suit with sleeves about three inches too short and the cuffs of his pants riding just above his socks, he created a hushed but clearly audible murmur among those gathered for the celebration. With shaggy hair and beard stubble, Roger looked less like a groom and more like a fugitive scarecrow from some Kansas corn field.

Roger had a slender face, a hook-beaked nose and a forehead that sort of sloped backwards like a ski-jump. To make matters worse, he had lips as thin as vermicelli and buckteeth, giving him a permanent toothy grimace and an expression like someone had just smacked him in the back of the head with a 2x4.

It was at that precise moment that it dawned on me that I was looking at a dead ringer of Icabod Crane, the hero of Irving’s famous short story, the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. If the Headless Horseman had galloped in fast on Roger’s heels, it would not have surprised me one bit.

Roger’s similarities to Icabod Crane were many. His feet, also decked out in purple, were the size of shovels and could easily have doubled as pontoons, while his ears sort of flared out from the side of his head like jib sails under a full wind.

After the preacher pronounced the couple man and wife, Roger didn’t so much kiss his bride as peck about her face with his pencil lips drawn back and buckteeth bared, much like a starving weasel after a week-long fast.

A reception followed and Roger gave more evidence of his true identity. Though lank, Roger, like Icabod Crane, had the dilating powers of an Anaconda. Hovering over a plate of finger sandwiches, Roger looked like Wilt Chamberlain bobbing for apples.

I had no trouble picturing in my mind Roger swallowing whole one of the roast turkeys sitting on the dining table and I watched in morbid awe as he inhaled an entire plate of Buffalo Wings.

During the course of the reception, Roger ate more than any five wedding guests combined.

As the party slowly wound down, I asked the Father-of-the-Bride if he was enjoying the festivities.

He looked sort of dumb-struck and asked me if I had a Valium.