The Answer to Hipsters

I've caught wind of an apparent and rampant Interweb craze straight out of post-apartheid South Africa. Die Antwoord, or "The Answer", is a hip-hop faction of Zef (translates mysteriously to "common", cause they are anything but) culture on the "next level", as they say. Made up of MC Ninja, Yo-Landi Vi$$er, and the mute DJ Hi-Tek, Die Antwoord recently performed at Coachella and are now signed with Interscope Records.

There is plenty more to discuss about the rap sensation (like Ninja's tattoos, Tsimfuckis, their child(?) or their future) but I can let Pitchfork do the footwork for me: Who the Hell are Die Antwoord?

Running in circles to determine authenticity, there are whispers of Ali G and performance art. Are they fo' real? Are they the "Williamsburg hipsters of South Africa" seems to be bubbling on the lips of the Blogosphere as far as I can tell, but what I think is much more frightening to the non-hipster crowd.

We don't need to hate hipsters. We mean even, gasp, need to embrace them.

Let's get it straight: We can all despise the trustfundarians, as the New York Times once called them, or those who live in the hip part of The City because their rich parents can fund them through their career ventures in all things media. We can shun those who act pretentious, like their shit don't stink, and those who generally stink, for some odd reason.

BUT why do we HATE the costume, the parties, the lifestyle, and the Fun? Hipsters dress like it is Halloween every day and they get away with it! Girls can wear their comfortable pajama shirts with neon leggings and guys can get away with rocking it like Burt Reynolds in a library. They have jobs where they can socialize day and night, and all the while celebrate the moment like we all wish we could.

They still seem pretty boss to me. Or, I mean, not boss, but you know what I mean. Right?

The fashion of previous generations keep dragging me back to this point. We've had cocaine, disco, big shoulder pads, bigger than big hair, baggy pants, and tribal tattoos. And we laugh plenty of it off as us "just being kids".

I want to look back at pictures of my youth and scream bloody murder. I'll smack my forehead, trying without success to recall what went through my head as a twenty-something, but, for most, I don't think they'll remember. But they just might miss it. Or worse, we could all just miss out. And be boring. And then die.

So when it comes down to tests of whether or not Die Antwoord or hipsters or you or me are "real", we will never know. Or do we already?

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.