It turns out I am officially the last person on the Earth to hear Carlie Rae Jespen’s “Call Me Maybe.” I was subjected to much ridicule on Wednesday night’s book club when I announced my ignorance of this Canadian sensation. Immediately, i-devices were employed and several videos, including President Obama’s version (which appears to be one of the more masterful examples of web-editing) were thrust in my direction. Though perhaps not the most lyrically sound take on this tune, my personal favorite is the one in which the corgi carries the melody. Second only to that is, of course, the Biebs, whom I can almost identify by sight at certain points of the video. Cookie Monster wraps up the medal podium, bringing in the bronze.
I was certain that my life partner, a man who has never shopped at Wal-Mart in his 36.98 years and avoids reality shows, entertainment news, and all things commercial to the point that he listens to German ProgRock on vinyl, would have no idea who this Carlie Rae Jespen person was or have heard of her “Call Me Maybe” masterpiece. But I was sadly mistaken. Apparently he knew all about the song and the genesis of its fame because he heard about it on NPR. So it’s official, I’m the last person to hear it. But now that I have there’s no turning back.
Move over, Party in the USA. I’ve moved onwards and upwards (literally– North– to Canada) and am ready for some Call Me Maybe to motivate me through the mid-morning slog in between coffee refills. It is my 2012 summer jam endorsement. I also will be listening to that on my headphone at the pool while I work on crosswords in between lapswims and chapters of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. This is my general pool routine while I silently judge the slutty cougar-moms sunning their optional c-section scars while reading 50 Shades of Grey in public(!)– at a family pool nonetheless– as if oblivious to the fact that EVERYONE AROUND THEM KNOWS THAT THEY ARE READING PORN!
I don’t understand this phenomenon. The unavowed publicity of the prurient. Last Saturday, not one, nay two, but three(!) women who were not there with each other were each reading paperback copies of this trash in full daylight! I’m trying to convince my “caretaker” (as listed on the pool application form because “life partner” was not an option) to start watching full-fledged porn movies on his iphone at the pool to make a point. He’s flatly denied this request due to [legitimate] concerns that he would be charged with a felony and have to be on a sex-offender list the rest of his life. But that’s my point! It’s weird to read pornographic novels at a family-oriented neighborhood pool. Call me a prude, but it disturbs me to know that the women on chaise lounges flanking my own are all reading graphic, poorly written scenes about vagina balls at any given moment. It’s like being in an office where you knew that all the men in the cubicles surrounding yours were streaming vintage Jenna Jameson. I don’t like it, and I’m pretty sure that violates the employee handbook; just as it should violate the pool rules. But be sure not to get too crazy on those pool rules. I still want to be allowed to bring vodka and cheese plates.
In closing, I offer you this summer collage of terribleness that I made via screenshots and a free app. You’re welcome: