So until a few months ago, I knew there was a singer named Michael Buble, and I knew he was in the Harry Connick Jr. vein of light-jazzy-standards-Sinatra-lite-wannabe and had dated Emily Blunt, but I’d never actually heard his music. [ALSO I KNOW THERE IS AN ACCENT ABOVE THE E IN HIS LAST NAME BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PUT IT THERE.]

But I’ve taken to the Pandora in recent months, and one of my channels (you will be shocked to know) is a Glee channel. Pandora thinks Michael Buble belongs on this channel, so I’ve become familiar with a few of his songs. Enough so, at least, that I recognized “Haven’t Met You Yet” when it came on my radio this morning.

And, you know … meh. It’s all right. I do like me the standards and the standard-ish music, so I don’t change the channel (on Pandora or in car) when I hear a little Buble. For a while now, though, I’ve surmised that liking the Buble is much like liking the Connick: an affinity shunned by purists, shameful for its cheesiness, suggestive of facile tastes.

But whatever. I enjoy the Connick too, though I actually like the dude more than his music. He is dry and droll and hilarious! And good to his hometown of New Orleans! And sessy as all get out! Plus:

What could be cuter than that?

And it appears that the Buble might have a semblance of a sense of humor himself. I enjoyed v much this awesomely old-school Saturday Night Live sketch a few weeks back (click link above for good NBC version; watch below for lower quality but embed-able version).

Don’t say I never gave you anything, dear reader(s). Handsome fellows and good laughs — what more do you need on a Friday?

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