Song remixes are basically music magic

There’s perhaps no other song that represents the 2010s musically than The Chainsmokers ft. Halsey song ‘Closer.’

If you haven’t heard it yet–do you not have radio or go literally anywhere where music is played?–here’s the lyric video. It’s quite catchy, and even if you’re not a fan of this type of electronic synth-pop music it’s the type of song that is somehow much more magnetic than it should be.

Let’s be honest: Halsey is a big reason why this song is successful. She has a unique, colorful, strong voice, and is as confident and purposeful an artist as any in the music industry.

As far as why this is sort of a scion of 2010s pop songs, well, there is a kaleidoscope of reasons. First, it almost exclusively uses synths, keys, and programmed percussion. Second, the synths that it uses aren’t afraid of being electronic, unlike the 80s when synths tended to imitate other instruments like piano or guitar.

Third, the song uses the ‘drop’ in its song form, which is a decidedly recent phenomenon. The term ‘drop’ comes from electronic music and DJs, and you might have heard of the ‘bass drop,’ which is used in dubstep as a sort of chorus. Closer uses a drop, an instrumental break after the pre-chorus, in the same way. Its chorus is not sung, rather being played by the synths, which is an odd choice traditionally but something you’ll find a lot nowadays.

It’s a good song because it’s catchy and, like any good pop song, knows how to ratchet up tension and excitement as the song progresses to lead to an exciting climax.

So you’d think that Closer would be such a 2010s song that it would sound out of place in any other context, right? That its structure and core is definitively in a modern soundscape?

Well, you’d be wrong.

I was clicking around on YouTube and found this. I clicked on it for a few giggles and, guess what? It’s AMAZING.

It’s also fascinating, and it illustrates that pop songs are a bizarre, weird animal. Whether you think that the 80s version of the song is better or not is immaterial, because we can all agree that the 80s version, while completely different, is the same song.

Pop songs, of whatever flavor–rock, rap, metal, whatever (and yes, those all fall under the umbrella of ‘pop music’)–are different from art music because pop songs are their recordings. A Beethoven symphony is what happens when you play what’s on the page, but a Beatles song is the recording that they spliced together in Abbey Road studios.

That difference is gigantic, because any deviation from the written music for a symphony is a deviation from the piece itself. But the same isn’t true for pop music. When Taylor Swift performs a song in front of a stadium of people, she and her band do not just press play on a recording; rather, they play the song live, which everyone agrees is the same song despite it not being a note-for-note and instrument-for-instrument recreation of the song’s recording.

What that means is that even songs tied to a specific decade sonically can be re-arranged to fit an entirely different decade’s structure, harmony, and instrumentation and still retain its soul.

So what is a pop song? What is the song itself? The core part that can be transported and tucked into a snug bag of an entirely different size and color? The amazing part is that I have no idea. I’m not sure anybody else does, either. But we know it when we see it.


Movie tie-in novel covers need to go away forever

There are a lot of sad things in this world. Homeless kittens. Cleveland Browns fans. Income inequality. The color taupe. Political corruption. Musicians whose audiences can’t reliably clap on two and four.

But one of the saddest things in this world, just gosh-darn tragedies, is when book publishers feel the need to slap a logo on a book which is going to become/is becoming/has become a featured film or–even worse!–when book publishers create a new version of the book with promotional pictures from the film.

I have an omnibus of the Chronicles of Narnia. It is a beautifully-designed book, just a paperback, but it’s very nice. It looks like this:

chronicles of narnia, aslan, fire

This is a fabulous cover. Aslan (who is the lion, if you’ve lived under a rock for six decades) is more or less the centerpiece of the entire series. This cover portrays him with the requisite gravitas. I mean, his mane is literally fire here. Lit.

Well, I lied a little. It looks like that, but has one tiny edition that threatens to ruin all of it:

major motion picture, narnia, lion the witch and the wardrobe

This little thing is a travesty. It’s 2018. NOBODY CARES THAT THERE WAS A THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE MOVIE. These things just rapidly become quaint anachronisms very quickly. Like the little patches that appeared on Lord of the Rings books before Peter Jackson’s trilogy. Aw, honey; the first movie is almost old enough to vote. Everyone already knows that they’re movies, dear. All that patch is doing is ruining your nice book cover.

Not all patches ruin the cover, thankfully. I bought Ready Player One to read before watching the movie, I’m pretty sure that it has some sort of “Spielberg is making this into a movie” patch, and the fact that I don’t remember is a strong testament to how thoughtful they were with the design. Furthermore, some of these patches are actually stickers, which can be removed and tossed into the fire and brimstone from whens they came. Unfortunately, most are not, and are printed into the book like some sort of demonic branding.

What’s worse is when publishers change a perfectly good cover, swapping out marketing images from the movie it inspired. At best, it’s tacky. At worst, it’s a bait-and-switch that torpedoes great cover art for images that could possibly be totally unrelated to the book.

As an example, take a look at this. It’s the cover for Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer. I bought it alongside Ready Player One. Its cover is gorgeous. And its inside cover is almost better:


Ohhhhh yeah. Fantastic.

The film Annihilation is fantastic, too, but it is its own thing. It isn’t strictly an adaption, although it technically is one. Rather, it is a story inspired by the book. Its core story is only tangentially related to Annihilation’s core story, and it features practically none of the plot beats in the book. Again, that’s fine; the film is smart enough to do its own thing, and it’s a great movie.

But inflicting this horror on the book is just one step too far:

horror, not safe for life, the biggest problem in the world

My feelings for this cover can’t be put into exact words, but let’s just say this is legitimately one of the worst book covers I have ever witnessed when you take into account the cover it takes the place of.

Not only does it feature three characters on the cover who aren’t even in the book you’re about to read, and not only does it also feature an inane review quote at the top, but it also slaps the “NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE” badge in the corner for good measure, as if you didn’t already surmise that from NATALIE FREAKING PORTMAN being front and center.

This is depressing me too much, so I’ll just leave one more example that’s probably equally as egregious and then go eat some chocolate.


Ugh. Hold me.

Facebook’s vestigial organs and pages are nostalgic ghost towns

Facebook, undisputed king of social media for years, has been more or less the same way for a long time. The ubiquity of smart phones, the Facebook app, and access to 4G or LTE data has coagulated the experience into one that has remained remarkably similar in a fast-paced internet ecosystem.

It didn’t used to be that way. Facebook was originally a social media website for college students, and you had to have a university email ending in .edu to join. After its immense success, Facebook slowly opened its doors more and more, allowing high schoolers to join and even some hip adults.

When I joined Facebook in the summer of 2007, the site had already went through multiple iterations. It had rapidly acquired millions of users by that point. And in 2008, Facebook rolled out a major new redesign. The name ‘New Facebook’ will send shivers down your spine if you were an active user of Facebook at that time. It was a cataclysmic and highly divisive event.

Facebook, like all social media, is a digital scrapbook. Part of its fun is going back and reliving what happened. But unlike scrapbooks, which stay the same once they are completed, Facebook changes, morphs, evolves. None of it is in your control. And as such, the rapid alterations can and do leave behind vestigial pieces–appendixes and wisdom teeth and dude nipples–things that don’t matter now, even if they used to, and things that are forced to the periphery by the forces of Zuckerberg.

It is these pieces that are the true nostalgia of Facebook, ghost town elements that were once something but after countless redesigns barely function if they do at all.

I was looking through my groups, managing notifications on some of the new ones I had joined, when I truly recognized the extent of this. Seven years ago, Facebook essentially eviscerated groups created before 2011, when they mandated that groups be transitioned to the new format. If you didn’t, your poor group wouldn’t continue to function.

But while they didn’t functionally survive, they technically survived. They’re now ghosts. Distributed among the legitimate groups of which I am a member are these ghosts.

I vaguely remember creating a page called “The horn is the best instrument ever” and inviting my horn friends to join. It is entirely empty. I am the admin. No posts survived.

Apparently, my 16-year-old self though joining a page called “Sorry to burst your buble, but it’s ‘Merry Christmas'” was a good idea. I am the admin and only member. Eight posts from 2007 still exist, somehow.

My high school debuted a ‘Health and Wellness’ policy which took away many of the sweets and snacks from the vending machines. Of course there was a group. Four complaints litter the ground of the discussion tab. I am the admin. One other member technically exists, but it looks like he has since deleted his Facebook account.

A few more exist. Some groups from college, with actual members. Some without admins, Facebook pleading with me to become an admin to ‘help the group thrive.’ Some groups which revealed that friends of mine had defriended me for reasons unknown.

I’ve found that there are two types of nostalgia, and while both including pining for something that you can’t have again, the point of view between those types is entirely different. One type is happiness that the event happened. The memories have color, sounds are sharp, and they are almost alive.

But these broken Facebook groups force you to remember memories through the second type of nostalgia. This nostalgia is aware that those moments are dead. You will never experience them again. To remember is your only tool in accessing those moments, and if the tool you use to remember those memories purposefully breaks them, what’s the point?

My top 10 favorite coasters

I once lived less than an hour’s drive away from Coaster Mecca: Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. I rode my first coaster there. I fell in love with coasters there. And, like real life Mecca, I make a pilgrimages there, usually every four years or so.

It’s cold and dark winter, which means no coasters. But when it warms up, the screams of riders, the smell of hot asphalt, and the joy of climbing into the first coaster of the season will occur.

This is not necessarily a list of the best coasters I’ve ever ridden, but a list of my favorite coasters. When putting this list together, I thought about three things: the ride experience itself, the atmosphere of the ride, and personal context. I present to you my favorite roller coasters.

10. Griffon – Busch Gardens Williamsburg

Over the past 20 years or so, there has been an explosion of ride varieties, due to the globalization of the amusement park industry as well as leaps in technology and construction skill.

One of the most interesting ones is called the ‘dive coaster,’ and its hook is exactly as it sounds: it dives. Straight down. About 200 feet or so on average, depending on the ride. Furthermore, these coasters feature oversize tracks and few rows with many seats–between two and four rows and between six and ten seats, again depending on the ride. This means that some riders won’t have any track below them for the entire duration of the ride.

For some of you, that might sound completely insane. For those of us who love coasters, it’s a recipe for a great ride. Griffon is neither the tallest nor largest dive coaster I’ve ridden–the other two being Sheikra in Busch Gardens Tampa and Valravn at Cedar Point–but it is the first one that I rode, which counts in the nostalgia factor. It is also the best experience among the three, as it swoops under a bridge and features an exciting splashdown, and its ten-wide rows make the outside few seats truly special.

9. Raptor – Cedar Point

I can’t fathom being a coaster enthusiast prior to the 90s, as there was just too much innovation that happened during that decade. The biggest one was that of the now-ubiquitous suspended roller coaster designed and built by Swiss company Bolliger & Mabillard. Good ol’ B&M are titans in the industry today, as they should be.

But despite a few decades of honing their suspended roller coaster craft, the Raptor remains my favorite. You begin with a fantastic view of Cedar Point’s beautiful midway, and then are immediately plunged down and into a quick loop, and off you go. What sets the Raptor apart is its intensity: it’s unrelenting, has lots of inversions, and curls in and around itself which makes it seem even faster.

Certainly better than one of the ten billion Batman rides built by Six Flags. Design something new already for Pete’s sake.

8. Prowler – Worlds of Fun

I know that a lot of coaster enthusiasts love wooden rides because of their old-timey feel that is impossible to replicate by steel rides. They are simple, with few gimmicks, and each one is bursting with history.

Personally, I find this to be hogwash. You know what else is old-timey, impossible to replicate today, and bursting with history? Dying of smallpox. While wooden coasters won’t kill you, most are borderline un-rideable due to their shakiness and roughness. Steel is just a much better material.

That being said, there are newer wooden rides that capitalize on wood’s strength and minimize its weaknesses. One of those rides is the Prowler, my favorite wooden coaster that happens to be in my backyard of Kansas City. It’s not too big or fast, limiting its roughness, but it is devilishly compact, swerving and dipping like a panther in pursuit of its prey.

This is also, hands down, the best coaster to ride at night. It’s in the woods and purposefully not lit up. You can’t see anything.

7. Behemoth – Canada’s Wonderland

This ride is my most recent addition to my top ten list. I took a road trip with my wife and two of my best friends to a handful of theme parks last September, and this beauty was one of my favorites.

Like Raptor, this ride is a B&M ride, one of the so-called ‘hypercoasters’ due to its size. Hypercoasters are relatively simple: they feature no inversions, and have uncomplicated out-and-back layouts. But they are my favorite type of coaster, because they do the two best things a coaster can do better than any other coaster type: 1) speed and 2) airtime. Speed is self-explanatory–hypercoasters are fast because they are over 200 feet tall and feature large drops. And for those of you who don’t know, airtime is the feeling of weightlessness you get at the crest of the hill as you experience zero downward Gs.

Behemoth is a great ride, but what places it here is our experiences on it. We rode it a lot: in the day and at night, with no wait and a long wait, with all four of us and with a stranger or two. Two nights in a row, our train was the last to go through for that night. It was cold, we were tired, but our fraying sanity made for funnier experiences than should have been possible on a simple roller coaster. Long live Behemoth.

6. Apollo’s Chariot – Busch Gardens Williamsburg

A lot of parks are situated in boring places. Highways and houses are all well and good, but they do not make good scenery on a ride.

And while that doesn’t affect most rides–coasters are coasters, after all–great scenery can take a good ride to the next level. It’s part of why Cedar Point is so magical, and it’s part of why Canada’s Wonderland is, well, not.

Apollo’s Chariot is a great ride. It is B&M’s first hypercoaster, and while it doesn’t have as many bells or whistles as some of their other ones, its scenery takes it to the next level. There are no other rides near Apollo’s Chariot after you go down the first hill. All you see are trees rushing by, a lake beneath you at the turn back towards the station, the purple track glistening in the sunlight. The woods add a feeling of speed and immerse you in the ride.

5. Top Thrill Dragster – Cedar Point

Top Thrill lasts all of 17 seconds. You go out, you go up, you go down, you come back. The whole thing is in view. There are no tricks. It is what it is and that’s that.

But what it is is a completely unique and exhilarating experience where every part of the ride adds to the suspense and release once you rocket down the track. You can see every car as you wait, watching the faces of the riders before and after The Launch. Once you get to the station, sound effects and music keep up the suspense. You get in the car, continuing to hear the varying noises and a voice recording. Keep your arms down, head back, and hold on! You think you are prepared. After all, you’ve seen it a bunch of times as you waited your turn. Despite that, your heart races. The suspense is building.

You are launched from zero to 120 miles per hour in four seconds. You go 420 feet straight up, glimpse a beautiful view for two seconds, and go 420 feet straight down. Turns out you were not prepared for that.

Top Thrill is a ride that you must experience once, but should experience at least twice. It’s such a gigantic and unique rush that you need to ride it multiple times to fully comprehend the thrill. If that’s not a good coaster, I don’t know what is.

4. Mamba – Worlds of Fun

I was nine years old when I first rode the Mamba. It was my first Big Ride, my first hypercoaster. When I stepped onto the train after waiting excitedly, a voice came over the intercom…

Welcome to the Mamba, one of the tallest, fastest, and steepest roller coasters in the world!

Eighteen years later, there are taller, faster, and steeper roller coasters on this list. No longer does a disembodied voice boast that to a station of riders.

That doesn’t change the fact that the Mamba is a great ride. It has a fantastic, 205-foot drop that immediately shoots you up a second hill, almost as large, for some intense airtime. It ascends again, descending into a tight spiral with a cool effect. As you go down and around, the coaster supports get lower and closer to the train. When the supports almost seem close enough to lop your head off, you pull out of the helix, and then the coaster merrily sends you back a bunch of nice bunny hills before lunging back towards the station.

But what really separates the Mamba in my mind is my relationship with the ride, which at this point can almost vote. I’ve ridden it with friends, family, and total strangers. I’ve ridden it in rain and in sunshine, in daylight and in the dark. I’ve ridden it once in a trip, I’ve ridden it a dozen times in a day.

Yes, there are more intense rides, faster rides, better rides than the Mamba. None represent the coaster comfort food that is the Mamba. I know that ride inside and out, and I get excited to ride it every time I walk to the station.

Welcome to the Mamba…

3. Diamondback – King’s Island

I rode the Diamondback in 2011, during a college road trip in May. It was dreary, with slight drizzle going on every once in a while. We went there before school got out for the summer, so there weren’t too many kids there.

So, obviously, my friend John and I road this eight times in a row. Without any wait.

Diamondback is a B&M hyper, just like Apollo’s Chariot and Behemoth. It features an odd seat configuration–two up front and two elevated behind, but further each side so that the formation looked like a trapezoid. All four seats have a full view of what’s in front of you, and the side seats let you stick out your arms and legs as far as they will go.

Those seats were a revelation for me. They are the best seats that exist. And they made a great ride even better.

2. Maverick – Cedar Point

There’s nothing quite like riding the Maverick. Most rides either go big or go loopy (sometimes both), but the Maverick does neither. Rather, the Maverick feels like you’ve been placed on a metal stallion that has lost its heckin’ mind.

You start on a drop that’s greater   than straight down–meaning it curves back into itself–and off you go. You twist, you turn, you slide around a lake and between giant rocks, giving the appearance of even greater speed. While you go upside down, the ride’s signature sections are the instances that it snaps you sideways and back straight before you can comprehend it.

Then, halfway through the ride, you slow down into a shed and are catapulted from 0-70 MPH in three seconds. Outside you go again to finish the ride. The result is that Maverick never slows down, and the ending sections are just as quick as the first ones.

Ride it in the very front seat on your first ride of the day sometime. It’ll really wake you up.

1. Millennium Force – Cedar Point

There are few rides with the cultural significance of Millennium Force. Built in 2000, it is an icon that is known even among those coaster fans who have never been to Cedar Point. It represents the great coaster arms race of the time, and its giant sleek track have come to also represent Cedar Point in general.

To this day, it remains one of the biggest and fastest roller coasters in the world. It ascends to 310 feet, offering a stunning view of Lake Erie and the Cedar Point peninsula, a view that is unmatched by any other ride I’ve ridden. From there, you drop 300 feet, and then the ride is on. It reaches a max speed of over 90 MPH, and sends you zipping through tunnels, over hills, and hanging off overbanked turns. It’s a long ride, and it snakes through and around the woods and over water.

The Golden Ticket Awards are the amusement park industry’s Oscars or Emmys. There are a bevy of awards, including Best Steel Coaster. Since there are so many coasters, they supply a ranking of the top 100. Every year since its construction, Millennium Force has been either first or second. That’s 18 consecutive years.

Unlike some of these rides, I don’t have a specific emotional connection to Millennium Force. It’s just the best one.





I have no desire to see Whiplash again, and that’s a testament to how perfect it is

Whiplash is one of the best movies I’ve seen in years. Heck, it might just be one of the best movies I’ve seen in my life. Critics loved it, too; it has a 94% Certified Fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and picked up three Academy Awards out of five nominations (one of which was for Best Picture).

Look no further for an example that financial success is no indication of the quality of the film: despite its critical acclaim, Whiplash grossed only $13 million domestically and an additional $35 million internationally. With a budget of only $3.3 million, it did make its money back and then some, but it wasn’t as if millions of people were rushing to see the film.

At its core, Whiplash is both a film about one human relationship, that of main character Andrew Neiman and his teacher Terence Fletcher, and about the relationship between Andrew and his drive to become the greatest musician he can be. The film explores the morality of certain types of teaching, how professional drive can affect a person and their relationships, and what it means to try to be truly great.

There are two lines that define the conflicts in the film. Fletcher presents one:

There are no two words in the English language more harmful than “good job”.

Neiman himself presents the other:

I’d rather die drunk, broke at 34 and have people at a dinner table talk about me than live to be rich and sober at 90 and nobody remember who I was.

Whiplash is as much a perfect movie as can be. It’s shot beautifully. It is wonderfully acted (with J.K. Simmons rightfully earning that year’s Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his portrayal of Fletcher). The music is impeccable from every angle. The plot, pacing, and ending are masterfully done.

Like I said in the first sentence of this post: Whiplash is one of the best movies I’ve seen in years.

That I don’t want to see it again–at least, not for a long time–is just another feather in its cap.

The movie’s plot exists because of Fletcher’s abusive teaching style. The film’s most favorite scene is one of its best: it encapsulates the relationship between Nieman and Fletcher perfectly.

It’s also a great example of why I can’t watch this film again.

This scene is such a perfect recreation of what happens in rehearsals every day throughout the country that it is really quite uncanny. Music directors like Fletcher exist everywhere, and every musician who has continued to perform into their college years, like Nieman, has encountered a situation like this.

Well, not quite like this. Fletcher’s explosion of anger is greater than what most people see. But the brilliance of Whiplash is that all the emotions are there, and so believable. Even non-musicians can empathize, as similarly hard-nose teachers and coaches exist outside the music sphere.

Whiplash’s greatest strength is its uncanny ability to channel intensity directly into your soul from the pixels on the screen. You can feel Fletcher’s anger. You can feel Nieman’s cocktail of emotions in response. You can feel the effect of Nieman’s drive to be great on him and his relationships. You know the stakes in lots of movies. But to feel it? All the pretty cinematography in the world can’t substitute for strong emotional communication.

That is, I think, what makes Whiplash truly great. Yes, it’s well-written, well-acted, etc. etc. Those are all parts. The whole is a deeply emotional journey, and its glaring intensity is recognizable and persistent. Watching Whiplash is almost like having somebody yelling at you in your living room.

Not everything is sunshines and rainbows. Whiplash isn’t. It’s why it’s great. That I don’t want to see it again is proof of how great, proof of how well it communicates its emotions.

Sports games let us make unique connections with real people

Mario isn’t real.

Lara Croft isn’t real, either, neither the triangle-breasted adventurer of yore or the gritty explorer of today. Star Fox has no equivalency in reality. Rivia isn’t a thing, and Geralt of said Rivia isn’t, too. Luke Skywalker is vaguely real, in that a real life person played him in a movie, but there are too many degrees of separation there for Luke Skywalker to be real. Likewise with Mass Effect’s Miranda, whose shared visage with Yvonne Strahovski is purposeful–but it doesn’t make Miranda the character any more real in our world, the one in which we move and breathe.

Our connection to video game characters is well-documented and real, but the characters themselves aren’t. Making a character feel real is one of the great achievements of a developer.

Dragan Bender, however, exists both virtually and not. Bender was born in Croatia and grew to be a giant of a man, a 7′ 1″ behemoth who plays in the National Basketball Association for the Phoenix Suns, ostensibly because he can touch the sun if he gets a running jump.

I have never met this man, who would tower 15 inches over me. But Bender is just the best. I love the guy. I acquired him to play for my basketball team in multiple alternate realities.


Of course, I’m referring to a sports game; in this case, the game to which I am referring is NBA2K17. The game, which I bought on a whim during the Summer Steam Sale, has a mode where you take over as the General Manager for any of the 30 NBA teams or for one of a handful of hypothetical expansion teams.

The great thing about sports games is that, through interaction with an intermediary medium, sports games can forge a connection between the player and a real life person. It’s the transitive property at work: the player likes an athlete in the game, which translates to enjoying that athlete in real life. No other medium allows for this.

I’m incredibly fond of Bender, a spindly man from eastern Europe who can dunk a basketball by barely hopping off the ground. That fondness is a direct result of my virtual time with his likeness. The actual Bender didn’t play for my team (at least I hope not), but rather an avatar in his image.

And that bizarre connection can have very real consequences. Bo Jackson’s legacy is influenced in part due to his godlike status in the game Tecmo Bowl. Troy Aikman and Ken Griffey Jr.’s stardom was solidified by having legit video games named after them.

That video games can in some capacity forge a real fondness for real human beings through a digital avatar of that person is nothing short of amazing. It’s weird, too; don’t get me wrong. But it’s a great insight into the relationship between real people and a fictional world in which they exist, at least in part.

This is the best tweet of all time

For a good half decade, the social media landscape has been relatively stable. Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram are the Kings, and though others have risen and fallen (Vine, Snapchat), the bedrock has remained mostly untouched.

Importantly, though, it didn’t used to be that way. In the early 2000s, after the Dot Com Boom and when broadband internet gained widespread usage in the United States, entrepreneurs created a bevy of social media websites and services. Their names will conjure intense nostalgia for those who lived through it: AIM, Xanga, Friendster, Myspace. Generation X will not remember this, but at one point Myspace was as ubiquitous as Facebook is now.

One of the bands I was into in high school–The Afters–included a song called Myspace Girl on their 2008 album Never Going Back to OK. At the time, it was a sweet and quirky tune about how one of the band members met his future wife by finder her on Myspace after a chance meetup at a fast food restaurant.

Now, the song seems incredibly outdated, which is fascinating because it is only nine years old. Myspace terms like ‘Top Eight’ and a play on words about turning ‘Myspace’ into ‘Ourspace’ are bizarre, and after almost 15 years of social media etiquette having developed this seems more like a particularly egregious case of digital stalking than something that deserves to be a song.

The point is: back in the late ’00s, social media was new. Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook in 2004, and it wasn’t until 2006 that anybody could join; it didn’t turn from ‘place where high school and college kids hang out’ to ‘place where adults make racist remarks in the comments section of a news article’ until 2009 at least .

And Twitter–oh, Twitter–Twitter was a totally different place in 2007. People were just learning to use it. At the time, it seemed idiotic, at least to me: what’s the point of Twitter at all? It’s just the ‘status’ line from Facebook? Laaaame.


I joined Twitter less than five years later and it is so much more useful than Facebook has ever been, especially for my work with Royals Review. Suffice it to say, this status did not age well.*

*In multiple ways! Remember when statuses said by default ‘YOUR NAME is’ and then what you put? Then, remember when they got rid of the ‘is’ and you could use any verb you want? Now, your name is not even attached to any status–or ‘post’, I suppose it is now. Social media is whack.

Twitter was lifted out the primordial internet soup in 2006, and it will celebrate its twelfth anniversary this month. As for any social media service, it took people a few years to learn it and utilize it properly.

And that led to this, the Greatest Tweet of All Time:

Yes, that’s the official National Football League team the Los Angeles Chargers tweeting about needing to go to PF Changs. And before you ask–yes, that was the Chargers’ official Twitter account back in 2007.

How did this happen? Well, Rodger Sherman over at SB Nation looked into it and has an explanation. Essentially, Joel Price, a digital media employee for the Chargers, snagged the @Chargers handle and began tweeting both personal and Chargers things. After a few months he got his own handle, @joelprice, and the @Chargers account became the official account of the team, as is standard practice nowadays.

But they never deleted Joel’s early musings. So now, it just looks like the Chargers have an undying love for PF Changs.

This tweet is also just pure comedy gold. Everything is perfect. He’s not ‘so’ hungry; he’s ‘soo’ hungry. He could have said he needed to ‘meet his wife’ or ‘go with the wife,’ but he used the much more colorful ‘find my wife,’ as if exploration is a common precursor to food consumption for him. And PF Changs is the type of perfect specificity that makes comedians’ jokes work: it’s well-known enough that pretty much everyone has seen one or been to it at least once, but it’s off-the-wall enough to add a level of ridiculousness to it all that makes it even funnier.

Are their funnier tweets? Sure. Are there better ones? Sure. But this is the perfect tweet: it’s an insight into the history of social media, a hilarious declaration of hunger, and a bizarre anachronism all at once. It is the best tweet of all time.