#2 - L.L. Big time.

Photo by Michael Wilson, hijacked from
Lyle's facebook page because I stalk him like that.

Who:  Lyle Lovett (Not the L.L. you were thinking of, eh?)

Why:  All of my friends think I am quirky in the least, but mostly batshit crazy, for my obsessive worship of this man. I'll tell you just like I told them, "Bite my ass, I love him." Period. He is beautifully obscure. He is different and tasteful and eclectic. He writes brilliant lyrics and is arguably one of the best song writers ever born in Texas. Sure, he's wiry and not extremely good-looking by some standards of measure. (Although not good-looking by most standards of measure is actually attractive to me because I don't like cookie cutters or molds.) But his brain... I would secks that brain silly.

I haven't always been into him. I didn't actually yield to his resplendence until I was at the Big State Festival in Texas a few years ago with the douche bag of colossal magnitude that I used to be engaged to. (We will just call him DB in fond remembrance of his douche bag ways.) We were there to see Willie Nelson (who is also the dog's bollocks), but Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing on one of the stages at the time. I wasn't feeling it, and I got tired of sweaty dudes with weird accents showing off their underarm hair, so I started to walk around. I was extracted from my people watching by Lyle's soulful, folksy delivery. I walked toward his stage, opposite the corner Skynyrd was on, mesmerized by this glorious man that stood beside his choir of brethren. Tears rendered me almost visionless as my eyeballs stang with the salty product of my eargasms. I could hear my brain, "Lyle Lovett? Are you fucking kidding me? You're crying over Lyle Lovett?" Granted, my brain was familiar with the greatness of the kings and queens of classic country, soul, and blues and such, and that was really what she was taught to love all her life. But this was something different. I retorted, "Brain, you simple little bitch, shut the fuck up and listen."

Lyle lulled me into an actual place. It was a completely different world where people and lines and colors were smeared, and all that was left were beautiful strokes of sound, softly caressing over one another into a vibrant, harmonious masterpiece. I forgot how much of a jerk DB was (for a second, until he scratched himself). All I could listen to were the velvety vocal harmonies and minimalistic but impeccably timed and blended trills of the masterful instrumentalists. I was transported. I fell completely in love with Lyle, not exactly as the person, but as the artist. The guy standing in front of some infinitely delicate thing, contemplating on letting the droves in, maybe worried that they won't appreciate the essence of the spirit of the thing, but not hindered because he would rather the few see the beauty than noone at all. I don't know if you realize this, but I will tell you as an artist and writer myself, that takes monstrous balls. I have bathed in Lyle's brilliance ever since, and that is that.

If you've never given two shits about music or Lyle Lovett, you really ought to dabble. Do a taste test. I started with the, "It's Not Big. It's Large." album, then I worked my way back. His latest, "Release Me," is brilliant, too, and I'm pretty sure everything he touches turns to gold and that he pees pure liquid gold. He is into charities of various sorts and also loves to travel and has pictures of peacocks and pretty animals. But that is neither here nor there. I think the world would be a shithole without his music. Well, maybe not a shithole, but definitely a less interesting place for me, and that's reason enough. See for yourself in his completely classy and untarnished performance of the National Anthem:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h61Zi-8evsg. If this doesn't move you, and you are an American, there is something wrong with your soul.

How:  Slowly on a fluffly cumulus cloud with a dimmer switch on the sun and golden candles afire all over.