A bazillion years ago, I dated a patchouli smelling, guitar playing, ponytail wearing hippie I’ll call Ryan. He was working his way through a double major in music and religion when we started dating. (Look, I went to a Quaker liberal arts college in the nineties. What else did you expect?) He was also a real jewel – a crusty, unbathed, commitment challenged, white-middle-class-guilt-laden jewel. Don’t judge — he played folk songs on his guitar. I’m a sucker for that shit. My business major with an accounting minor ass never had a chance.
At that same time, I developed a wicked non-sexual girl crush on this gal in my “Navigating the World Wide Web” course named Lydia. She was loud, funny, confident and I found her absolutely fascinating. She’s the only person I’ve ever met that made me think, “I HAVE to be her friend.” I decided right then and there to woo her and we’ve been trading snarky insults ever since. If I had to do it all again, I’d still skip the class on HTML programming to nibble iced animal crackers in the library with her. (Why would I ever need that knowledge later in life anyway, right? *sigh*)
As it turned out, Ryan and Lydia already knew each other through the college choir. I didn’t even know the school had a choir. Hell, I was still reeling from learning we had a football team. (Yay Fighting Quakers! Beat ’em Quakers. Beat ’em senseless. Beat ’em til they reach consensus!!) Somehow, the two of them took advantage of my dazed state and convinced me to join,. Suddenly I’d agreed to spend my spring break touring around the North East singing hymns to random congregations rather than sipping margaritas on a beach in Mexico.
With the exception of one horrible experience in Boston, we had a surprisingly good time. Every afternoon, we’d file off the stinky bus, grab some lunch and hit a liquor store. Hopped up on caffeine, highly processed food, and grain alcohol, we’d whip out the guitars and write ridiculous songs. Ryan thought himself a regular James Taylor, but the real talent of the group was a girl named Laura – or Big Lou as we affectionately called her at the time.
Still to this day, every time I see Lydia I croon the song Big Lou wrote for her . This is generally very uncomfortable for Lydia, especially if we meet in a crowded restaurant for lunch. Also, it might have been somewhat inappropriate to scream out the chorus as she walked down the aisle at her wedding. Surprisingly it’s not my horrid singing voice that embarrasses her – it’s the lyrics. Here’s a little excerpt for you kids:
Oh Lydia, Oh Lydia
At the Sizzlin’, Western Sizzlin’
Big as trees, little as tampons.
If you’ve got a nickel Lydia will clamp on.
Biggest mouth, this side of Wallace.
There’s enough of Lydia for all ‘o us
Oh Lydia, got chlamydia.
Sucking pole, at the Western Sizzlin’
I know, right? Can’t you just hear Barbra Streisand singing that bad boy? Crowds would WEEP at the sheer beauty of Big Lou’s composition.
But would you believe that Big Lou wrote a song even better than Lydia got Chlamydia? Would you believe that there is honest to God footage of Big Lou singing the song herself? Would you believe I’m going to share it with you?
You bet your frickin’ asses. Without further ado I give you *drumroll* BIG LOU SINGING “MY FIRST LESBIAN FOLK SONG!”
Do I know the coolest people on the face of the planet or what?!?
I’ve been singing this song on constant loop for an entire week now. I begged Big Lou to send me the recording and for some unknown reason she did. Now you’re going to have it stuck in your head, too. You’re welcome.
Thanks for letting me share your brilliance, Big Lou. Work it. Own it.