If you've looked up there and are not already knee-deep in day dreaming about Michael B. Jordan coming home for the holidays to meet your family or taking you mini golfing or sharing a scoop of sorbet, let me just forewarn you: no, you are not hallucinating; that is his real name. And don't even bother with the "ha ha, like the basketball player?!", because he's definitely already heard the best #23 joke he'll ever hear, even if people keep making 'em.
From a glance, it's pretty understandable why I'd be suffering from a hefty dose of "I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it", but it's a long road to our happy imaginary nuptials that is only happening within my lumpy cranium.
Truth be told, I never got far enough in Friday Night Lights to include him on my class valentines list, nor did I even realize him being a grown-ass version of this lil' tyke on The Wire 'til right now. But, I did watch him be so next-level incredible on Parenthood that the seed was planted for the oh-my-god-if-I-ever-see-you-buying-a-smoothie-in-New-York-i-will-shit-myself-and-then-tweet-like-crazy tree.
When we first fell in imaginary love, he was Haddie's homeless shelter boyfriend, trying to "make things right" (semi-success!) while also "trying to make her family love him" (success!) while also "getting into Haddie's pants despite her parents' best wishes" (extreme success!). He even played basketball with her only-Friday-Night-Lights-cast-members-can-tame hyper autistic brother Max, despite the ever-present fact that someone who has lived with the name Michael Jordan for 26 whole years should know better than to play basketball on camera. (He was so precious I didn't care, nor do I care that there's more of that coming. Maybe it's in the ol' name blood? Who knows.)
The biggest problem I've had with him, besides the athletics, is that he straight disappeared on us. I'm talking now you see me, no you don't style runaway-with-my-heart. After making Romeo and Juliet-style love happen with a girl who had way too frizzy hair to be part of a love story, all has been pretty quiet. Painfully quiet, in fact, until – poo-kow! Cha-bang! other assorted fireworks noises! — his face popped up on all of the recent promos for Fruitvale Station, a movie based on a horrific crime committed in a BART station wherein police went crazy, so to speak.
And here's where it gets tricky. Does Octavia Spencer in the cast mean it's next-level incredible? Uh-yeah. Will this movie be the-next-big-thing and launch him to Oscar status (omg wherein he'll probably wear an amazing Burberry suit ok ok breathe deeply in-out in-out)? Oh hell yeah. Will I see Fruitvale Station? Absolutely not, no way. Way, way too scary. Based on truth. Can't handle it. Too sad. Don't like public crying, don't like public fear, don't like things that are so realistic they could happen to any of us. I almost accidentally watched the *actual* clip of the attack and was so scared that I had to go hum to myself and pretend I wasn't home alone for the time being.
But the truth is, it doesn't even matter what happens past the super-scary scenes I've seen so far, because I'm in. I'm in, after a two minute trailer, I'm in. And, if you're feeling bored, brave, or like the proud owner of two more balls than yours truly, check it out right-a-now, because I've gleaned all I must from this terrifying, intense, inferably amazing movie, and that's that I've got a bad case of the in-loves with Michael B. Jordan.
It's a testament to why he's just so good. If Fruitvale Station was a Wild Wild West-themed fruit slicing iPhone game with his voice-over giving you congratulations and/or directions, I'd play it. If Fruitvale Station was a gay club where MBJ (sounds so presidential) was DJing only Prince songs and there were those "Waiting For Tonight"-style green lasers on repeat all night long, I'd dance at it. If Fruitvale Station was a weird produce mart where all of the cantaloupes were sold out of wooden barrels and oldey-time wagons and the entire grocery was filled with little facts about the Oregon Trail, I'd be a membership card-carrying customer. (And buy some Fuji apples, because they are great.)
This dreamy hunk of man knows quality. And it's safe to say he's outshining cast member Chad Michael Murray (!) in this movie, which any of my back-issues of Teen will tell you is a big mothafucking deal. Whatever Michael B. Jordan's doing, playing or selling, I'm buying. Especially if what he's doing is taking me out to dinner. Then i might not be buying, but good lord i will be turning on the charm like nobody's business.
And hey - if the movie does do well, he's gonna need a red carpet date. I'm starting my camera-ready exercise regimen a-right now, and you should too.