The Radio is a Rude Boy

It's always enlightening to take a deeper look at things that don't require it.

Pop culture is one such scene where anything that pops sticks and anything that sticks sticks hard. But their ephemeral nature says something itself.

Radio is particularly vengeful in drilling hit songs into our ears until our heads fill with nonsense and danceable beats. Sometimes, though, a step back helps my consciousness a bit, recognizing the crap I do indeed love.

Jay Z and Alicia Keys are a good example. Their endlessly played smash-hit "Empire State of Mind" was good at first. Even gave me tingles when I saw the performance live on the TV. But too much of a good thing is never great, and now I can thank radio for making me think Jay Z and Alicia Keys really, really want me to hate New York. Ramming it down my throat every day, all that song reminds me of now is that New York is not that glamorous in endless, heavy doses. Much like the song. Thanks Jay Z and Mr. Radio.

Likewise, thanks to the Baha Men for tainting the word "Who" by barking it at me. Thanks Usher for honoring the work of Lil' Jon with "Yea!". Thanks Outkast for partnering the catchy "Hey Ya!" with clapping, forever. And, as Ice T famously remarked, Soulja Boy can eat a dick.

So we let the simplicity wash over us until we hate the songs for their radio repetition, basically no fault of the artist's own.

But Rihanna's "Rude Boy" has given me an ever ruder awakening.

Currently, the song to be played every half-hour on the radio, Rihanna's "Rude Boy" does much to challenge my love of some pop music.

First off, "Rude Boy" clearly portraits Rihanna's stutter as a speech impediment to be exploited. The song is called "Rude Boy," but her chorus repeats, "Come on, Rude Boy, Boy". She proudly proclaims, "What I want, want, want is what you want, want, want." Does no one else see a problem here?

Rihanna kicks off the song by submitting to her Rude Boy as the "Captian" in the bedroom. Great. But then the tables quickly turn and Ms. Rihanna barks orders, like "Relax, let me do it how I wanna." Wait, what? Who is in charge here? Does Rihanna need some kind of freaky role play? Probably.

And my favorite line Rihanna chucks in among the other nonsense goes something like, "If I don't feel it, I ain't fakin', no no." My masculine insecurity has so many problems with this statement that I don't know where to start. I'll suffice it to say that clearly this is the thing to do, Rihanna. But both you and your Rude Boy sure have talked a big game up by now.

Crashing Through the Window, Renouncing our Culture God

Billy the wannabee astronaut and Sally the next hopeful President of any random third grade classroom would have never thought they could grow up to be wolves. Sadly, by the time they could sound out their career dreams, their chance to be wildlife had already ran off.

There is believed to be a small window, a critical, irreversible period where all human development depends on for us to break into the world of humans. While we learn that crying gets us some delicious breast milk, our brains are analyzing, like little robots, the culture around us. We might see pain as something to panic over when our father slams his foot on the leg of a chair. We might learn that pennies aren't swallowed so easily. But, most important, we become humans when we learn to understand language. And, as babies, we're living life in the fast lane, pooping and crying; if we never learn language, the window is slammed shut and we might as well be thrown to Mother Nature's wolves and their snapping jaws.

Feral children are different. Feral, or "natural" children, are the Lost Boys of the Jungle Book, not Peter Pan. Tarzan was a feral child turned ape-man adult. But feral children exist in this world, and not just in the happy stories of the cartoon jungle. Abandoned by their parents for some personal or societal circumstance I hope to never understand, feral children either die in the wild or become wild. Oxana Malaya was the Ukraine girl raised by dogs. John SSebunya ran away from his murderous father at age 4 and grew up with monkeys. They show that we learn from our surroundings with or without language, and if that means wolves, you better believe you'll learn to growl, howl and eat raw meat. And that window for language slams closed.

What this boils down to is the simple fact that Culture is God. It's frightening and fascinating to know We were all one short step away from being unleashed animals left to our own biology. Language opens the window we need to swallow the culture around us. We end up looking to culture for guidance, knowledge, reason. We work forty hours cause America says we do. We buy breath mints and deodorant, HDTVs and sports cars. And that's all fine, if you're happy with it.

My understanding, though, is that we're not happy. I feel endless guilt to remain part of the Culture-fearing society. If I tweet and jerk around on Facebook all day at work, I feel the enormous pressure to do something for the company. When I'm unemployed and trying to enjoy the day I feel enormous pressure to search endlessly for a new one. It's all to repeat the cycle my brain has developed understanding.

But what if there was a small window for us to renounce Culture? What if there was a window slamming when we're stuck being "productive" humans and not something more? While science has yet to show us how declining a Starbucks mocha frappe could be beneficial for us, besides our waistline, it might be worth it to think outside the culture we live in each day.

It raises long lists of questions as to how we could live if we just realized that everything we know on this Earth might not matter. Likewise, the idea of renouncing your God, whether it is culture or religion or wolf, is never easy. But you might want to consider it before that big ol' window slams shut and there is no looking back.

Cell Phone Power

Has too much time passed that we can't marvel at the ubiquity and utility of the cellular phone? Like modern cowboys of communication, most of us can sling our Swiss Army talkmachines out and easily yammer away with the rest of the Cell Wild West.

We all knew the day would come that the telephone would improve, but once that cord was cut there was no looking back.

No longer do we need to mentally calculate tips for Flo at the local diner. We don't need Uncle Lou's lousy, long-winded directions to savor the sweet meats of a family BBQ. We don't even need to buy a hundred dollar camera to remember the globs of carnivorous honey we ate at Flo or Lou's expense. It seems to all be in the palms of our hands, the key to a digital world of convenience.

With great innovation sure does come great change, but we're not oblivious to the changes. We giggle at the thought of speed dial being an added feature while understanding numbers are no longer meant to be remembered or written down. Somehow cellular devices make sharing nude pictures or dirty love notes much, much easier and without much more guilt or shame. Which lead me to think that maybe these handy devices may be changing the world for the better. We become more open with one another and spend less time remembering sequences and math our brain doesn't need to compress. With all that cleared space, we have more room to think and act on the meaning of life, as long as the batteries stay burning.

The power of the cellular phone gives good enough reason to weary, though. When a device can hold your personal information, image and innermost thoughts, you can't help but wonder if someone can peep in.

For a second, I want to imagine the anarchist destruction people could do with the power of the cellular network.

Waitresses around the world could tamper the tip calculators ever so slightly to forcibly raise their incomes and feed their kids. Porno directors could hound you down like college admission committees solely based on your performance in private cell sex videos. Hell, even TomTom would cutcut the power to the GPS systems in newer phones just so he could tell you how to get where you're going himself. Selfish bastard.

Whether or not we all admit it, we want some sort of power. It is easy to get. Simply reach into your pants pocket or purse, answering that hip, crunchy, new ringtone, begging for your attention and love. We hold power in our hands everyday but if we don't use it, someone will abuse it.

Mein Blog: Hitler on the Internet

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld has a joke about fear in America. To his knowledge, the fear of public speaking in America ranks higher than the fear of death, meaning, as he proclaimed, people would rather be dead, rotting in a casket, than giving the eulogy.

There is something about face-to-face connection that haunts the average person. There is nothing like looking into someone's eyes and watching their pupils fill with boredom. Multiply that by a given amount and the thrill is almost pants-wetting. We have a need for acceptance.

You can't please everyone, sure, but if you're lucky enough to have a platform you better have something to say.

NOTICE: The World Wide Web has no such rules, though. The fear of judging eyes melts away as we spread our smalltalk on the Internet. Disdain for our jobs or updates on our exhaustion level float freely through cyberspace, building a flimsy digital connection between us. We all feel we have the right to a platform now, whether or not what we say is vapid or mindless. But those who actively use the Web to engage an audience with more than common complaints slowly start to confront the fear of judging eyes and, gasp, public speaking in reality.

SIDE STEP: It made me wonder how Adolf Hitler would handle the Internet. A man unafraid of criticism or public speaking, for sure, the Internet would be just another stage for Hitler to spew his hate. But would it be effective?

Hitler's ideology thrived in part due to the secrecy of The Third Reich. The Internet wasn't available to spread photos and video of concentration camps and warn the world of injustice. But you have to wonder how the Internet has shown us world crises all over and we still seem to roll over.

Of course, in our politically correct and progressive society, hate is not tolerated through Internet popularity. While viral videos may flirt with the idea of racism or hate, as with the most recent scuffle on an AC Transit Bus with Epic Beard Man, Hitler's hate speech would send red flags immediately. Screaming and sweating on YouTube, Hitler's talk of a Final Solution would be a toss-up. While I can easily see a video as offensive and disturbing as that striking fear into American hearts, I could also easily see my buddies sharing a laugh over a goofy-mustachioed foreigner in a tight uniform, blasting such irrational hate. He would either be considered armed and dangerous or be laughed off the Internet.

What it really boils down to is passion. Hitler would use the Internet, but he would do so strategically. We wouldn't hear of his struggles with organizing Nazis or the cost of milk in Germany. I don't even think his random, hate-filled thoughts could fit in a single tweet. What I do believe, though, is Hitler was talented. You can't argue that he knew how to manipulate and motivate a crowd. He had an audience close to the size of a powerful nation without the use of the Internet. And he stared down the fear-mongering eyes of boredom and lashed out with passion.

In my own twisted and garbled way, I'm trying to say that what the Internet's stage needs is passion. Where Hitler succeeded, we have the tools to progress way past hate. Belly laughter over a song about delicious rainfall or a fat kid embarrassing himself imitating a classic movie series may serve as instant gratification but when it comes to updating the world, why share the same bullshit?

We need to save the smalltalk for the times when it is necessary: as a diving board for getting to know someone. When we jump right into our late-night thoughts or deepest fears we tend to turn people off with informality. I think we need to drive toward our fear of public speaking, battle it, and realize that we all can be boring sooner or later but we don't always have to be.

**props to Jess on the title joke