Somewhere between 1996 and 1998, or maybe it was 1997 and 1999, or perhaps 1995 and a half and two or three years after that, Olla decided that every 70s song was a kind of instruction manual made for her. Somewhere between 2002 and 2004, or perhaps 2003 and, what might be more accurately described as “later,” Olla then decided she wasn’t actually a brick house and that letting it all hang out while she wore a “Lady Marmalade” name tag and she shook her grove thing and burned the mother down did not get her any closer to wanting to boogie oogie oogie like a dancing queen.
And how hard should she look for three more like herself to take a free ride in a tuneful time warp in the four-part B flat a capella of a bohemian rhapsody? Nevertheless, moreover and consequently, she did have a residual fondness for leaving her cake out in the rain and had thought more than about calling Rocket Man and packing her polyester pumps and riding the soul train to Funkytown. Or maybe Hotel California. But most likely the Y.M.C.A.
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