Culture is weird.
No one knows
how it started. A bunch of nomads hiking around in the desert thousands of
years ago didn't just decide to invent culture because they were tired of
living in tents and wanted to speed up the invention of board games. Culture
permeates everything, from music, to status, to the proper etiquette regarding
moist towelettes (a complex, layered process).
Despite all
this, people STILL don't have a clue how it works. We all follow a set of
nonsensical, unwritten rules that seem designed by a cruel mastermind in order
to confuse us and cause us emotional turmoil when it comes to tipping the taxi
driver.
Case in
point: the happy birthday song. You know exactly the one I mean, don't play
that game. Chances are you've heard it hundreds of times in your life. Muttered
your way through its lyrics as you eye the delicious culinary creation that has
for some reason been set on fire to celebrate the anniversary of birth. A set
number of times you will have borne the weight of having it sung to you, your name
inexplicably slotting perfectly into the song's third line as if it were penned
for that very occasion (unless your name has anything other than two syllables,
in which case you're in strife. Heaven forbid your title contain only a single syllable, thus forcing the
assembled well-wishers to perform an awkward feat of elongation. Thanks for
ruining the party, Mr Monosyllabic.)
My point? No
one likes the happy birthday song. No one person is even vaguely fond of it. It
is arduous and childish to sing. It is embarrassing and cringe-worthy to have
it sung to you.
Part of this
derives from the song itself; in case you hadn't noticed, three of its four
lines are identical. Including the substituted name, the entire composition is
comprised of six words. The melody is grating. Its chances on the iTunes
charts, were it introduced today, would be nonexistent.
And then
there's the context. Despite the inherent silliness of it all, the happy
birthday song is not limited to children's parties. People all across the Western
world are compelled to belt out its crude lyrics as if fearful of offending the vengeful god of
birthdays, blissfully ignorant of the fact that their misplaced devotion is
causing anguish of the highest degree. Having the song sung to you is nothing
less than torment for most. To have your family do so is bad enough. Enduring
it at a party leaves the average person with a savage desire to see the
furniture set ablaze, purely to divert the attention.
And then
comes the birthday-ocalypse. The shameful scenario to rule them all. The
restaurant.
If you
haven't forcefully torn the memory from the chasms of your mind, the scene
probably looked something like this.
The meal was
finished. It had been wonderful. Let's say it was honey chicken, doused in
vinegar with a side order of sweet potato fries, and a wine glass of vanilla
milkshake, because it is both my birthday and my imaginary scenario and I'll
eat whatever I like. You were pleasantly full, possibly even anticipating
dessert. The latest Michael Buble song drifts through the speakers, because restaurants and contemporary jazz have a bizarre, almost symbiotic relationship that defies science. But still, a twinge of doubt tugged at the corner of your consciousness. A whisper had been passed to the waitress. Inexplicable smirks appeared on the faces of your companions, only to vanish like the morning mist moments later. You'd seen it happen to other poor souls, of course. You'd never imagined you yourself would become a victim. You may have even begun to rise, signalling that the night's revelries were to be relocated to a more private venue. Then you saw it. A cake, borne aloft on a doom-laden plate. It was a plate of doom. The plate's inherent evil shall be discussed another time.
It drew ever closer. It was as the accursed cake was placed on the table, the light from the flickering candles illuminating the abject horror in your eyes, when it began. Those who had once been your friends were singing happy birthday. The entire restaurant turned to watch as Michael Buble's crooning was drowned out by the song which named you as the object of shame. The sweet honey taste turned to ash in your mouth. And then, as quickly as it had begun, though to you it had seemed an age, the song ended. Possibly, there was scattered applause from particularly vindictive onlookers before they returned to their garlic prawns. And when all was said and done, you looked down at your slice of cake and knew that all you would taste was cold, bitter shame.
I can't help but feel like Western culture dropped the ball on this one.
The simple fact that anyone must in any way participate in the happy birthday song beyond the age of eight stands as a testament to how a sliver of culture - despite being comprised of 98% puerility- can become so embedded it transcends criticism. It may be universally hated, but traditions dictates that we don't notice. We carry out our robotic compulsion upon the anniversary of every birth and go about our business, willfully forgetting what an unpleasant experience the song was for everyone.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you mass-produce ignorance.
Don't even get me started on 'hip-hip hooray'.
(and thus ends my blog post on the subject of ridiculous Birthday traditions. That's what the title says, right?)
