Culture Clubbed

Ever since my Kenyan buddy Phil-O hipped me to what I'd heard was THE "American Song of Summer 2010" a few weeks ago, I can't get the danged thing out of my head.

Sitting at his desk watching the video for Cee-Lo Green's "F..k You," I felt kind of silly. First, the song has been out for ages apparently, but beyond reading about it on a couple of US gossip websites, I hadn't tried to track it down. Plus, I was bobbing and weaving to the retro-soul sound, really feelin' it, until he crooned "F--k You and, uh, F--k her, too," and then the guilt crept in, like maybe my favorite teacher from fourth grade, Mrs. Flewellen, was peering down at me in utter shock and embarrassment.

I won't apologize for grooving to the music, or for absolutely LUUURRRVING Cee-Lo Green's smoky wail of a voice. Sometimes, when things get especially tense, I put "Crazy" on a loop until I calm down. ("I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind, There was something so special about that place...") But I think I do need to apologize for succumbing to the siren call of what I've been considering the coarsening of American culture in recent decades.

Even as I wrote that last sentence, I could feel a new crop of gray hairs sprouting from my scalp, and a surging tide of vinegar flowing through my veins. Yeah, I'm officially an old lady...deal with it! But I think I have some fairly credible evidence to back up that opinion. The first time it really hit me was about five or six years ago, when I was flipping through network TV channels and stopped at one of the 10 billion sitcoms where some fat schlub and his model-grade wife get caught in a web of hilarious hijinks each week.

Well, during this particular episode, the fat schlub and his pimply son were both drooling over the hot new single lady neighbor who'd moved next door. (Come to think of it, it may have been Bo Derek in a very special guest appearance, but at this rate it could be any of a broad range of bony, fake-boobed, cougarish, bleached blonde D-List actresses.) Since I can't remember most of the inane plot, I'll just invoke the one element I found particularly objectionable. At one point, the father and son stood outside the neighbor's window watching as she did some sort of yoga type exercise, and they both got, shall we say, stimulated to the point of nearly shouting their orgasms in unison.

Now, even though I don't have kids, and recall thoroughly enjoying sex back in the day, I found myself shocked that a scene like that was being depicted during what the networks call "The Family Hour." I simply couldn't imagine being a parent sitting there with an 8 year old kid trying to explain why the Dad and his son were moaning so loudly while they looked at the lady. But I COULD imagine feeling pissed at having to do that during a viewing time that's supposed to be "safe."

Then I happened to catch an episode or two of "Two and a Half Men," which is only missing One and a Half Horsemen of the Apocalypse as far as I'm concerned before the Lake of Fire opens up and swallows us all. Forget the fact that show's the jillion dollar per episode "star" is an erratic, allegedly sex-obsessed, knife-wielding drug abuser who gets paid handsomely to basically portray himself every week. What I understand least about that show is how the kid star's parents allowed him to utter completely inappropriate sexualized dialogue, or to be exposed to it, on a regular basis. And then I remembered that the kid probably shagged a six-figure salary every week himself.

I could go on and on with these kinds of examples, but it almost seems too quaintly absurd. I mean, I'm the gal who thought my best friend Faith would be surely singed by a thunderbolt for the poster of a half-naked, leopardskin wearing Prince in her Northwestern dorm room 31 years ago. The way musical lyrics have been sexualized and degraded since then, vintage Prince almost sounds like Mr. Rogers. Come to think of it, my boy Cee-Lo crooning "F--k You," is almost a balm to my ears.

But then the other day, I was wasting precious moments of my remaining lifespan watching another American reject sitcom on cable, and I had an epiphany about why most Africans blame Western culture for spreading its sinful influence around the world. It was a scene from some banal bulls--t program called "Romantically Challenged," already canceled but most notable for highlighting the tragic arc of the less-than-talented Alyssa Milano's career. Anyway, the scene was a couple in the bedroom, and she was on all fours on the bed, and to paraphrase the zany dialogue, she was ordering him to treat her like a dirty girl.

I sat there stunned into a sort of psychic paralysis. I mean, that show was on ABC. Free Network TV. Okay, maybe it ran during the 9 to 11 time slot, which I believe is beyond "Family Hour" (if that concept even exists anymore). But I'm sorry, I look for that kind of fare on Showtime or HBO. I can even appreciate the artistic value of such a scene if executed skillfully. Whatever, it just ain't appropriate for a situation-comedy on Disney-owned ABC. No way, no how.

So, to use a phrase I've learned since living in Kenya, American culture needs to pull up its socks. But then, I suppose since I'm still groovin' to Cee-Lo every chance I get, maybe I need to pull mine up, too.