Of jazz and France

When I was in college, my friend Stephanie enlisted me to be her Wingman- which, in Girl, translates to the Big Fat Friend (as defined by Stephen Lynch). The BFF’s purpose is to keep her friend from going home with the Wrong Guy.

I accepted. (Lyrics HERE, or click play below. There is a little language and a lot of blatant sexuality.)

We went to Bruno’s, which is a jazz club in San Francisco, to see her Trumpet Player performing. I kept a close eye, and we started chatting with another Mills grad student. He already knew Stephanie, and when introductions were made, the interaction went like this:

Stephanie: French Guy, this is Jasmin. She goes to Mills, too.

J: Nice to meet you.

FG: Zoh, you goh to Meells, too?

J: Yeah. So you’re a Music major?

FG: Yes. What eez your majohr?

J: (Pause) English Literature with a minor in Journalism.

FG: Zat is a stoopeed majohr. Useless! Would you lahk a ceegarette? No! Of course naht! You are frahm California. (Huffs off to smoke outside.)

(I swear, I couldn’t make this up if I tried.)

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