Let me preface this by saying I am the world’s most faithful Hairpin fan, in both site visits and overall story mimicry. Hands down. I have my Safari browsing history and…Life…as proof. I happen to have it on good authority that my brain’s pseudonym is Edith Zimmerman and it operates the site when it is busy letting me down at my other job.
I am not the world’s biggest JoJo fan, and God help me if I ever met him/her (Editor’s note: I feel like they would be similar in temperament and annoyance quotient to Miley Cyrus or the guy in all those god-awful P. Diddy videos). That being said, I do quite enjoy her and rejoice in her above-average talent in the embarrassing cauldron of WhatInTheJesus we call Modern Pop Culture.
The first time I listened to Leave (Get Out), I flipped over the glass end table supporting my laptop, shattering both into one million post-feministy shards, and pinched the nearest testosterone-based life form’s arm. With vigour.
Or… thought about it.
When I saw the video for Baby It’s You, I beelined it to the local Tilt-A-Whirl in my super-seXXXable satin, cropped American Eagle varsity jacket, located the nearest mid-pubescent dude with the precision of a heat-seeking missile and demanded he win me a gargantuan purple bunny.
Irrespective of your musical leanings, we can all admit Bitch (JoJo…Sorry. Got worked up there…) has a voice. This is partially the reason for my excitement in reading one of today’s Hairpin posts entitled “The Wisdom of JoJo" by Bianca Mendez. There is a link to Double J’s newest YouTubeable masterpiece, "Disaster" in which she, according to the writer, "laments the crumbling of a relationship and its heated conclusion”.
Maybe this is indicative of my longstanding relationship policy (*cough* The Scorched Earth Treaty of 2005) or the fact that I recently severed my Action Hymen in a long-overdue “Die Hard” marathon, but I feel like when you call it a “heated conclusion” someone should exit the union in dramatically-emotional fashion. And, on fire.
See how JoJo slyly leads us to believe – at 2:36 – that there is something contained in Archetypal Douchebag’s jean vest. A grenade? Poison ivy? A starved ferret, perhaps? But no. Nothing. TEASE!
I suppose you could call the universally-dreaded “You-Called-Me-Out-in-Front-of-your-Hell’s-Angels-Buddies-so-it’s-OVER-Assface!” Stuff EX-change (See: 0:53–1:05) “heated”. There’s really nothing quite as uncomfortable as returning a dumpy, over-sized, Old Spice-y sweater to your erstwhile pinky-swears-soulmate as they give back your Ace of Base discography – except for, maybe, admitting that you adored any of those three things in the first place.
I…I just expected more from the both of you.
Ever since Women Laughing Alone with Salad left Me Laughing Alone With A (very minor, discreet, warranted) Adult-Pee at my kitchen table early in the new year, my entertainment threshold has been understandably elevated. I just expected more.
I just expected…a bear trap.