Arguably, the vote has surpassed the duel and the deathmatch as the most popular way of settling things. Election year means that (about 55% of) people act in their patriotic duty to make a choice and have a voice in the excellent (at evoking discontent) political staple, democracy. Though the presidential vote is in November, Twitter rocked the important vote on July 5th, exercising their right to hashtag guaranteed in the 1st Amendment and electing the final two participants in the 2012 MLB All-Star Game.
The tag #FreesePlease was an Ovaltine-esque campaign that carried St. Louis Cardinals third baseman David Freese onto the National League squad. Freese rose to prominence during the 2011 World Series, hitting .545 with a playoff-record 21 RBIs and a Game 6 walkoff homer. Freese’s hot bat reduced Albert Pujols to discardable flotsam, casting the former MVP off to Los Angeles.
Freese has a checkered past preceding his sudden stardom. He quit baseball at one point in college, endearing to the slacker generation more likely to participate in a daytime Twitter vote than a government one. Freese’s blew a .232 in 2009 while driving in a St. Louis suburb, higher than the batting average of both of the team’s second base starters. Freese is hitting .285 on the season, eclipsing the Mendoza line on both the field and the road.
For a man whose name is is synonymous with chill, Freese is hot under the collar. His 2009 arrest violated a 2007 probation for “Public Intoxication plus Obstructing and Resisting an Officer.” And as a 19 year old, Freese earned his first DUI. That’s three strikes, but the catcher must have dropped the third one; the Cardinals enrolled Freese in a substance abuse program and he has been incident-free since 2009.
The creative hashtag may have added to Freese’s electability. His opponents (Aaron Hill #FinHillVote, Bryce Harper #Brycein12, and Michael Bourn #VoteBourn) went with less alliterative slogans. Freese is literally the William Henry Harrison of the All-Star vote.
Now that I closed with my strongest joke, an ode to 19th century politics, we can move on to the American League representative, who…actually isn’t an American at all. It’s Nipponese hurler Faridyu “Yu” Darvish, the Far-Eastern import who inked a 4.47 billion yen contract to practice his craft in Texas. Yu is also inking American headlines. He wore this shirt on his inaugural flight to Texas, a marijuana leaf with the words “I will survive” printed on it. Bee Gees fan? Flower Child? Medical Marijuana Bear Gryllis? The shirt caused quite a stir among the press, but raised more questions than answers.
And Yu was involved in another T-Shirt controversy, this time a shirt that he wasn’t even wearing. Teammate Mike Napoli attended a press conference wearing a “Yu is My Homeboy” shirt manufactured by a fan. As Deadspin reports, since Yu wasn’t profiting on the shirts, his lawyers sued the guy selling them. Chinese basketball guard Jeremy Lin experienced a similar thing, with many shirts of questionable origin popped up online using “Linsanity” and “Linning” taglines. It seems the Far East just can’t appreciate a good cross-cultural pun.
The website AngryAsianMan.com is an eponymously curated site that found another media storm brewing around Yu. A Rangers analyst classified weak hits during a Darvish start as “a couple of chinkers” , provoking the incensed Asian-American running this site to highlight the questionable diction. This again parallels Lin’s ascension, when an ESPN staffer was fired for running the headline “Chink in the Armor” describing his turnover-laden play.
In Yu’s group of selectable AL pitchers, Jake Peavy (#TakeJake) had the catchy campaign, while the other eligible pitchers, Jonathan Broxton, Jason Hammel, and Ernesto Frieri, joined Darvish in running the conventional #Vote(Name) candidacy. The monumental outpouring of overseas support that got the Yankees’ Hideki Matsui and Red Sox pitcher Hideki Okajima voted into the game (in 2004 and 2007, respectively) with pedestrian stats likely boosted Darvish’s totals. The Chinese contingent voting for the NBA’s All-Star game picked Yao Ming in 2011, his 8th appearance. That year, Ming played in a grand total of 5 games and averaged 10 points per game, yet was nominated as the starting center for the West.
Not to suggest that Darvish’s stats weren’t worthy; he posted a decent 3.59 ERA with a strong 10 wins in the first half of the season. But his overseas support dwarfs the other choices, elevating him to a Godzilla-esque vote total.
By taking the vote to the tweeters, MLB acted like the hip league for once. America’s nostalgic pastime is typically conservative and traditional in the sporting world, but their official Twitter isn’t as stuffy, promoting giveaways and fan interaction. By being early adopters of this new medium, MLB is approaching the YOLO generation at home plate, turning in the lineup card, and hollering a resounding “#PlayBall” @theworld.
Some 440s and 216s scoffed when the Browns moved up one spot to ensure Trent Richardson landed in the Dawg Pound. They sunk their teeth into Holmgren and Heckert, even though the franchise had an abundance of picks and only sacrificed low-value selections that would have been forced to battle for a roster spot.
If people cared about the Blue Jackets anywhere near as much as the Brownies, Jackets GM Scott Howson might have formed Triple H on the chopping block.
As GM, Howson’s pedigree includes continuous speculation on star winger Rick Nash’s seemingly imminent departure (Nash was denied his trade request in February) and a botched deadline deal that sent floundering center Jeff Carter to the LA Kings, where he improved his output and now gets to slurp cereal from Lord Stanley’s cup.
Locals were too busy watching (and swag-rating) the Buckeyes to support the hometown Terrible-On-Ice crew in their freefall to the NHL cellar. After dealing Carter for a pick, Howson did everything he could not to label the trade with the loathsome R word, but it made it in the sentence.
“I think I said it was the beginning of the reshaping of the team, which doesn’t necessarily mean rebuilding. I expect to be very busy here, very active.”
In spite of a woeful season that convincingly cemented themselves at the bottom of the league, the Jackets missed out on the first pick, losing out on surefire stud Nail Yakupov in favor of the #2 choice. Parallels to the Charlotte Bobcats abound, but the Bobcats are ran by a former MLB minor leaguer who moonlighted as the greatest professional basketball player in history, Michael Jordan, while the Jackets are managed by a man more famous for his stint on the Toledo Goaldiggers* than his 18 games on NHL ice.
* I’d like to stop here and point out that the Toledo Goaldiggers are by far the best-named defunct minor league hockey team of all time. In what sounds like a Sandler plot, 1980 Miracle on Ice captain Mike Eruzione played on the Goaldiggers for two years before headscratchingly advancing from the minor leagues to leader of the US Olympic squad.
With the second choice, Howson played it safe, drafting coveted defenseman Ryan Murray. No complaints about the pick; Murray is genreally considered the best of the 7 denfensemen selected in the top 10. It’s what Howson didn’t do that is so head-scratching, mind numbing, and jaw-droppingly brazen.
Jackets beat writer Aaron Portzline’s report makes both Howson and Islanders GM Garth Snow seem of unstable mind:
How highly did the Blue Jackets value defenseman Ryan Murray before taking him with the No. 2 overall pick in Friday’s first round of the NHL Draft? Enough to turn down an eye-opening offer from the New York Islanders, who, according to numerous NHL sources, offered all of their picks — one in each round — for the right to move up from No. 4 to No. 2 for Murray.
That’s right, for the Jackets’ No. 2 pick, the Islanders offered pick Nos. 4, 34, 65, 103, 125, 155 and 185. The bounty would have given the Jackets the following picks: 4, 31, 34, 62, 65, 95, 103, 125, 152, 155, 182 and 185. And if that weren’t enough, the Jackets could have had the Kings’ No. 30 if they wanted it.
Or maybe it isn’t brazen at all. Perhaps cold feet froze Howson, or the fear of messing up, or past trade failures. But for a mere two spots, in a franchise where talent flees town like a fugitive, Howson shot down an entire additional draft.
The Philistines would trade Goliath if they were getting all of the Jewish forces. The only comparison in the history of humanity is when Mike Ditka, best known for playing Will Ferrell’s dad’s coffee praising neighbor in Kicking and Screaming, traded a whole draft and two picks the next season to move up and draft Ricky Williams. Though it might seem like a bad move, seeing Ditka in dreads might have made it all worthwhile.
And at least Ditka moved up 7 picks; Snow’s attempt to mortgage the future was a mere two spot climb. Sitting at 4, Columbus could have had their choice of any of the 6 defensemen drafted in the top 10 along with Murray. Howson and Snow’s increasingly poor choices makes it seem like they were competing to see who had the smaller brain, a backwards affair that crowned Howson champion of cerebral deficiency. Maybe he’s one of those guys who is comedically bad under duress?
If there’s a silver lining (albeit, ripped, tarnished, and threadbare), it’s that Howson fired most of the Blue Jackets’ scouts immediately after the draft. See, guys, it’s not that Howson is an irrational GM, it’s just that his faith in his scouts is 100% agnostic.
How can Jackets fans feel good about their squad when the GM just demonstrated that he thinks his scouts are worthless? Prospects of future success rest on “prospects” recommended by people who apparently had no clue how to properly evaluate players. But at the end of the day, Howson had the final call. The scouts are the goats for not accepting the offer; Howson is basically saying that thanks to terrible intel, they would have just wasted all of the extra picks anyway.
As for Ryan Murray, he laces up his skates with the expectations of two full drafts planted on his shoulders, the encumbering weight of a terrible decision.
It boils down to a fascinating dichotomy: either Scott Howson is YOLO, or he needs to listen to teenagers parrot Drizzy more often. His fortitude (or lack thereof) on draft night will determine the future of not only the franchise, but his own employment. Howson, and the Jackets, are skating on thin ice.
Chris Perez has guts. This weekend, he emptied them.
The Cleveland Indians closer recorded his league-leading 20thsave of the season Sunday against his old organization, the St. Louis Cardinals, and has now converted on every save opportunity since opening day. Despite opponents hitting below the Mendoza line, rock-and-roll buff Perez has an appetite for disruption, oft getting twisted into a bind before creating order from chaos. Perez lost command at times, drawing jeers when runners reached base and sarcastic applause when he wiggled out of jams. His control was spotty enough that Indians brass may have wondered if they needed to dust off the skull frames. Perez called out the Indians fans for their lack of support for himself and their MLB-low attendance.
Tribe fans rallied around Perez’s public criticism, cheering him to continued success. But this Sunday, Perez fell victim to that dastardly gastrointestinal terror, warm water, and hurled a bit more than just balls and strikes.
0:01 The beginning of the clip features commentary of Perez’s grooming habits, pre-Pure Rage era, which certainly takes precedence over something like calling the actual game.
0:11 After accepting catcher Carlos Santana’s 5-finger plaudits, Perez’s head starts to thrash around like he’s in the pit at a metal concert, in hindsight the first indication of what is about to transpire.
0:12 The geyser at Yellowstone. The first burst of a volcanic eruption. The expensive mist sprayers at Cedar Point. Santana must have quipped something hilarious, because Pure Rage looks like he was mid-gulp of Diet Sunkist and laughter forced it to evacuate.
0:14 Doubled over, Perez’s initial reaction is my favorite part of this melodrama. He wryly turns to Santana and apologizes for making his battery mate abruptly clear the blast radius with a simple “My bad.”
0:16 The TV producers, put on the spot because their focal point has just violated the eyes of America, switch to Asdrubal Cabrera and Jason Kipnis embracing. Kipnis appears to notice the scene, and looks on stoically, unmoved by Perez’s projectile bursts, begging the question: Does this happen often? Is Perez notorious for vomiting? Do they have Fear Factor-esque challenges in the bullpen? “Yeah, I knew Chris was in trouble when he had to chug the atomic wing sauce from Masterson’s sock in the 7th.” The Bullpen Mafia could be doing Man vs. Food competitions, but I’m pretty sure that we only started that because of a clause in Bob Wickman’s contract.
0:25 Apparently they thought Perez was done, but an ill-fated cut back reveals evidence to the contrary. My theory is that they believed Perez was going to Tebow, and every telecast in America is legally obligated to capture tributes to Timmy as they occur. Instead, Perez unpleasantly surprises viewers with a relapse.
0:27 Perez obliges the fans who yell for him to “leave it all on the field,” finishing with a grand finale.
0:30 Changed my mind, my new favorite part of the clip is Shelley Duncan (a player whose interview escapades could launch a thousand blog posts) tenderly rubbing Perez’s shoulders, comforting his ill teammate in a brilliant overture of camaraderie sure to boost team chemistry. Duncan braves the landing zone as the rest of the Wahoos from a stunned semicircle. Perez battles to his feet and the Tribe head to the locker room in solidarity.
After the game, skipper Manny Acta said “As long as he gets the win, we’re okay with it.”
Perez embodies YOLO, from his Miami Hurricanes roots (the U tradition is profiled in this earlier post) to his explanation, blaming lukewarm water for his post-outing ails. “I took a couple drinks of warm water and it didn’t really sit well…when the game was over I just let it out. Nothing serious, I’m fine.” Perez is actually a repeat offender, yacking against the Cubs in March of 2011 in an aborted save attempt. You might only live once, but with Acta’s consent, Perez can hurl as much as he pleases.
May 2010: My first period Algebra II class is abuzz over some rapper named Machine Gun Kelly who’ll be freestyling in the parking lot after school. The situation becomes considerably fuzzier when I call upon the services of Wikipedia, only to see this: “George Celino Barnes, better known as ‘Machine Gun Kelly’, was an American gangster during the Prohibition era. His nickname came from his favorite weapon, a Thompson submachine gun.” Okay? The Lake Catholic parking lot didn’t typically double as a concert venue, and I was dubious about the event’s likelihood to be approved by administration. Also, Wikipedia said Machine Gun Kelly died in 1954, which seemed to be problematic. But if this guy’s ghost was gonna put on a show for us, I was all for it.
April 20, 2012: A New York Times article detailing Hip Hop Squares—MTV’s forthcoming reincarnation of Hollywood Squares—features Machine Gun Kelly, now shortened to MGK, prominently, to the point that it includes the following picture/caption combo:
MGK’s meteoric rise has been well-documented (read his rags-to-riches tale here), and is epitomized in the anecdotes above where, in the span of two years, I went from thinking he was a firearm-loving thug to reading about his status as a celebrity game show contestant—albeit as a thuggish one—in the nation’s most prestigious daily.
When, precisely, did MGK crossover from misidentified murderer to Cleveland head-receiving rap luminary? Some say August 3, 2011, when he signed a two-album deal with Bad Boy Records. Others point to last year’s BET Hip Hop Awards, where he performed in a cypher alongside Diddy. However, neither is correct. The answer, August 20, 2011, is the day the Shaker Heights grad organized a flash mob (this was very in vogue at the time) on Twitter.
Now, MGK’s avant-garde use of social media is probably the overarching reason for his remarkably passionate fan base. Though he’s achieved a significant level of fame, Facebook posts like “Just played a kid in rock, paper, scissors outside Smoothie King for what songs I perform tonight” allow him to maintain the salt-of-the-earth vibe that initially endeared him to so many people. MGK goes to Smoothie King! MGK takes the time to play rock, paper, scissors with fans! Is there a decent chance this never happened? Yes. Does that matter? No. His disciples—the ones with “Lace Up” and “EST” tattoos—won’t entertain this possibility because MGK is one of us. So the flash mob craze was right up his alley.
(Social media side note: It should be mentioned that in his Twitter bio, MGK says, “I like threesomes, chocolate milk, and social studies,” but then again, who doesn’t?)
MGK narrowed down the site of his flash mob to three strong candidates: Strongsville’s SouthPark Mall, Beachwood Place, and Mentor’s Great Lakes Mall. I was pulling for Mentor, obviously, hoping to bear witness to the looming spectacle, so my emotions got the better of me when MGK announced that SouthPark had won. Unable to go, I took solace knowing that several videos of the event would emerge on YouTube, permitting retroactive flash-mobbery in the comfort of my own home. This arrangement was satisfying enough until I caught wind of what happened, which really got my YOLO juices flowing! As we mark the flash mob’s eight month anniversary, I felt obliged to revisit that fateful August day.
0:02: I can’t decide if the chauffeur is in on the joke or if he’s cursing the life decisions that led him to this moment.
0:18: Man, this crew is so Cleveland it’s a goddamn shame!
0:38: Pause the screen and reflect on the man in the white polo who takes it upon himself to catch a flailing MGK. Not many people would have done this.
0:50: I love how one of MGK’s minions brazenly adds to the chaos by brandishing a boombox. Looks fun!
1:10: The kid standing up in the yellow shirt is either on drugs, drunk, or a combination of the two. Vote here:
1:26: This is MGK’s best bit of acting. Content with the pandemonium level he’s caused, he throws up one final L and plays the part of the complying, unjustifiably handcuffed citizen, as if he had nothing to do with what just happened.
1:42: This guy in the red shirt can’t be a cop, right? Maybe he just wants to show this video to his grandkids one day and brag about how he had a hand in MGK’s arrest.
2:32: This chick equates bailing MGK out of jail to doing God’s work.
2:50: Is it bad that I was kinda rooting for the blue-shirted girl to trip on the back of the car? Not like I wanted her to sustain life altering injuries or anything.
3:00: Free at last!
3:10: Father-son bonding if I’ve ever seen it.
3:25: MGK “gives a f*** about these kids,” but why won’t he acknowledge the adults that showed out for him? Seems like a double standard.
4:10: MGK, struck by the audacity of his detractors: “And they say EST wasn’t a cult!” Really? I’ve never heard anyone say that, but I’ll take your word for it.
4:16: The video concludes with a five second sample of “Wild Boy”, which raises a pertinent question: Does anyone actually like MGK’s music? I mean, I’m sure some people do, but that many? Occasionally, I’m asked this at Ohio State and feel obligated to answer yes out of civic pride. Oftentimes I’ll praise him at the expense of, say, Pittsburgh native Wiz Khalifa the same way I perennially declare that the Browns will beat the Steelers even though I know otherwise. It’s the classic heart versus head conundrum, and I’ll go with my heart every time. MGK puts on for the city – that’s good enough for me.
By Matt Lardner
I always thought a based god was the eccentric but under the radar guy strumming in the background of rock bands. Then, Brandon McCartney (no relation to Paul, if you were wondering), a prolific hip-hop artist who performs under aliases such as “Lil B” and “BASEDGOD”, made my definition of the term obsolete.
He first became a blip on my radar on Twitter, where I would occasionally see #oomf, as the kids like to hashtag, entreat this person to fornicate with their domestic partners. “Unusual,” I remarked as I absently stroked my chin. “He must be a model.”
It was a red herring. But then I noticed another important detail: People were thanking him for good fortune in their lives. It all started to make sense– Lil B was a deity, and these profane, sexual shoutouts were from modern-day Josephs, calling upon Lil B to impregnate their partners Mary-style, so that they could raise a Based Son.
So I confirmed what many already knew– that Lil B was a Based God. But a God based on what? I turned to the place I usually go for spiritual guidance and information: the hallowed grounds of Myspace.com. The Word according to Brandon McCartney was longer than the King James Holy Bible on audiobook, and came from a larger amount of sources. Over 155 Myspace pages hosted 3000+ tracks of Based dogma, dwarfing the 40 writers of the book LeBron James (aka Disgraced God) got his nickname from.
After listening, I understood why so many people gave up other deism to embrace B-ism.
I extracted many valuable tenets from his work: The acceptance of alternative cultures and lifestyles, wholesome family entertainment, and gender equality. “Wonton Soup,” Lil B’s most-viewed song on Youtube, opens its welcoming chopsticks to Asiatic cultures, with the culinary choice tying into the imagery of America as a cultural melting pot. Lil B also volunteers to cook, assuming a role historically done by women, and teaches the value of bringing joy to others by preparing meals. In “Ellen Degeneres,” B shouts out a LGBT pioneer and host of a family-friendly daytime entertainment option. A freestyle called “Caillou” champions a bald cartoon protagonist, letting children know it’s OK to look different and be different. Paradoxically, Lil B titled one of his albums “I’m Gay,” despite being a self-described heterosexual. This was done both to stamp out homophobia and to restore the meaning of the word to its original use, meaning “happy.” The question we need to be asking ourselves is, why aren’t mainstream religions as open and tolerant as Lil B?
So with Lil B’s ascent into the mainstream came scholarly acclaim. More philosopher than artist, Lil B’s ideals have been lauded by the academic community, so much so that prestigious New York University invited him to lecture to a capacity crowd of 500, composed of scholarly movers and shakers poised to change the world.
Most of the crowd remained on their feet from start to finish, clearly understanding the importance of this art-meets-academia mindgasm. Lil B opined on politics, advocating against fracking and promoting the inherent joy of being a taxpayer. On the upcoming election, McCartney related himself to the leading Republican candidate. “I’m out here trying to get my Mitt Romney on,” B stated, presumably because he admires Romney’s rendition of America the Beautiful. I know that Lil B made his name in hip-hop instead of centuries-old patriotic hymns, but late in the lecture, Based God announced his intent to make a rock CD, which he describes as “garage-punk.” If he can jump genres like that, who knows when our classic American songs will undergo a Based revision?
Remember when Lil B tried to change the modern meaning of gay? Well he also looked up the original meaning of black, claiming that it means “something like coal.” That would be like saying that the word blue used to mean sky. Eccentric at first, but I can explain it for you: Lil B is emphasizing the non-linearity of time and space, and making a social commentary about how structural speech is becoming less clear cut and more blurred (a point he reiterates in the metamorphosis of the word based.)
I highly recommend that you listen to the entire speech, free for the world to absorb. This ideological cultural diffusion has been criticized by detractors as “unintentional comedy” and “baseless,” but they clearly aren’t Based enough to understand that the lecture was based on Based ideals of unity, individual Renaissance, and most importantly, swag. From the people at NYU who invited Lil B, to the 500 lucky witnesses of this life-changing event, to Lil B himself for bestowing his guidance and perspective to the world, this entire lecture exemplifies YOLO. Now who wants to cook wonton soup?
Yesterday, I attended the Indians’ home opener, and, once again, exited Progressive Field without seeing a no-hitter. Obviously, there was no need to save my ticket stub.
Wednesday, my friend/former English class co-conspirator/Ben Roethlisberger enthusiast Alex went bowling and witnessed history—a neighboring bowler (who I’ll refer to as Dre) was outfitted in a denim-on-denim ensemble. Of course, he will not only frame his receipt, but donate it to the YOLO Hall of Fame.
In a display of characteristic Steeler fan braggadocio, Alex posted a photo of Denim Dre on Facebook so fast he nearly excreted, captioned “The double-denim combo.. Never thought I’d see the day.” The image confirmed my longstanding suspicion that Alex was the type of person to frequent bowling alleys on Wednesday nights and engendered comments like “Canadian tuxedo.” If that’s the case, I want a Canadian wedding with at least three of my future wives.
The denim bodysuit is not without its detractors. It was singer Jessie J (of “Domino” fame) who announced last month, “Don’t trust people that wear denim on denim!” Beliefs such as this are surprisingly widespread, and render Dre’s fashion sense all the more commendable. Dre, a modern martyr, knew full well that he’d be immediately ostracized by the bowling alley’s close-minded patrons upon seeing his getup. This didn’t matter. Dre was committed to shattering the Scores Fun Center denim-on-denim barrier. They would love him for his ambition, he reasoned.
A poll conducted by Harris Interactive showed a wide range of opinions on Dre’s antics. Academics are currently tabulating the societal ramifications that stem from a jean buff gone wild. The skeptics/haterz wish Dre would have donned the elusive denim hat to attain the highly sought-after triple crown. Dre devotees claim that such a hat would obscure his immaculate head of hair. Call me a fanboy—I tend to agree with the latter group.
When the news about leaked via Alex’s Facebook page, an unforgiving media blitz firmly entrenched itself between Dre and the life he once led. I didn’t want to bother the poor guy; instead, I prodded Alex with a few questions.
What emotions coursed through your veins when you saw Dre for the first time?
I did a double-take, then immediately thought, “I need photographic documentation of this.”
In your wildest dreams, did you ever imagine witnessing something like this?
Actually, I wasn’t that surprised. I was at Scores, so I couldn’t be, ya know?
I know. Did you talk to him? Did he seem approachable?
Nah. No verbal contact. I didn’t feel safe doing that since his team consisted of guys wearing Battlefield 3 and Mushroomhead t-shirts.
And yet he chose denim-on-denim. Ain’t that something?
Last question: My female readers are clamoring to know if Dre’s single or not. Tell me—was he with a lady friend?
No. I assume he had a fellow Mushroomhead-loving companion at home, though.
What can we learn about life from Dre? A lot, really.
One shouldn’t make style decisions based on social precedent alone. Blaze trails.
The best place to flaunt the denim-on-denim look is at a quasi-sketchy bowling alley’s Wednesday night league.
And finally: You only live once, but you can certainly wear denim twice. In one night. At the same damn time.
In a recent interview with Seventeen, tween sensation Carly Rae Jepsen dished on, among other things, ingredients for the perfect slumber party: “Definitely a comfortable pair of pajama pants, some good girlfriends who know how to laugh at themselves and be silly, and Skittles!” Thankfully, she remembered Skittles. These days, too many partygoers arrive armed with M&M’s. M&M’s!
Of course, Carly Rae Jepsen has the platform to address an unsettling sleepover faux pas because of her momentous hit “Call Me Maybe”, which currently ranks fifth on iTunes. The interview turns into a no-holds-barred confessional when Ms. Jepsen bashfully admits, “I’ve never actually asked a guy for his number.” Okay? But what about his Voxer username?
Call Me Maybe’s hypnotic chorus goes something like this:
Hey, I just met you,
And this is cray,
But here’s my number,
So call me, maybe?
These lyrics ooze YOLO. If Carly Rae had multiple lives to fall back on, would she impulsively distribute her digits to the man with “ripped jeans” and “skin showin’”? I think not.
Hypotheticals like this demand a closer examination of the song. The following thoughts ran through my mind as I watched the official video:
0:04: Hey, starting a lawnmower is sexy! Does that make John Deere the nation’s most eligible bachelor?
0:13: Literary recommendations, courtesy of Carly Rae Jepsen: Skylar’s Outlaw, by Linda Warren, and Love at First Sight, by B.J. Daniels. Great books, both of them.
0:27: If I saw a guy with a tattoo across his chest claiming “The Sky is the Limit!” I’d punch him in the face.
0:50: Is that vodka? Or water?
1:17: Poor car washing technique. Doesn’t Carly know that you have to hose down the vehicle before applying soap?
2:09: Has anyone pointed out to Carly that missing someone before meeting them is chronologically impossible?
2:25: I can’t WAIT to buy this book. Catch me at a midnight release party somewhere, somehow.
2:35: This reminds me of the Sandlot scene where Wendy Peffercorn is hoodwinked into kissing Squints.
3:08: OMG he’s gay! This is like that Train video’s ugly stepsister.