I just finished reading "I Want My MTV," a book so briskly paced, super-informed and volcanically entertaining that it makes the Hunter S. Thompson oeuvre look like a government air filter RFP by comparison. Have any of y'all read this thing? It's an oral history of the channel's genesis and pre-Snooki glory days, during which a bunch of people who had no idea what they were doing birthed a massively influential cultural behemoth and, inadvertently, loosed Johnny Hates Jazz on our collective consciousness.
The clip's genius is its simplicity. It consists of a 75-second close-up on an infant's super-ninja-adorable face, which is framed by a hoodie so puffy and comfy-wumfy that I plan to order a cheap Internet knockoff version the second I finish this column.
Chevron, which has plenty of coin to spend on self-insertion into the Twitter feeds of mumbly shut-ins who like baseball, Bruce Springsteen and not much else. Chevron's videos find me without fail. They haunt my feed as reliably as the incident with the Segway and the lawn gnome haunts my insurability.
The Converse video, in support of its reconstructed Chuck Taylor All-Star model, does exactly nothing a sneaker ad is supposed to do. It doesn't depict sweat-misted jocks levitating for a senses-reorienting dunk. It doesn't show hip young urbanites executing involved skateboard stunts. Heck, it doesn't even show the hip young urbanite's hip young urban buddies reacting loudly to involved skateboard stunts.