Bike Trip - Pittsburgh to D.C. - May 2010

A duel of mind and body.



When searing lactic acid and the painful erosion of joint cartilage combine forces with agonizing seat sores and numbness of the extremities, what is left to propel a man forward? The answer: stubborn, furrow-browed, wild-eyed determination – the kind of which is normally reserved for rabid primates and Kentucky car salesmen. After only the first couple of hours on the trail it became painfully obvious that I needed a lot more practice before attempting a ride of this magnitude. Previously, my longest ride ever had been 20 miles on paved surfaces, whereas our bike ride was to be 335 miles. I had only even been on my bike 4 times this year, and had not even owned a bike until last fall. Yet here I was, punishing my virgin ass and blasting my unsuspecting quads on a monumental bike ride from Pittsburgh to Washington D.C. It was roughly akin to running a marathon with no training… but probably harder.



I decided to do this trip last year when my friend Joe mentioned in passing that he’d like to try it out. Joe is an experienced road and mountain biker, and is kind of mentoring me into the sport. We actually departed from McKeesport, just outside of Pittsburgh, on the Great Allegheny Passage with his friend and fellow cyclist, Jim. Both of them have ridden for years and been in countless races, both cyclo-cross and mountain biking. I quickly realized that I would not see much of them on this trip as I struggled just to make our rendezvous points without wilted body parts dropping from my drooping torso.



The GAP runs for 150 miles of mostly crushed limestone surfacing along former railroad corridors until it hits Cumberland, Maryland, and meets up with the C&O Towpath for another 185 miles into D.C. It hits several small towns, runs along the scenic Youghiogheny River, and rolls through vast tracts of beautiful forest. Since it follows railroad grades the climbs are not very steep. On the other hand, they can last for 20 miles or longer, with plenty of opportunity for weariness and fatigue along the gravelly path. The trail works its way over many bridges spanning huge valleys with stunning views, or alternately goes under railroad and freeway bridges, exposing their iron and concrete supports. There are a few tunnels as well, with a couple of them well over 3,000 feet long.



Day one saw the most road crossings and trail users (both local and thru bikers), as it was a sunny Saturday close to Pittsburgh. This day also had the most road crossings, however they were not as frequent as you might expect, and the vast majority of them were tiny rural routes with zero traffic. I diligently fed and watered myself at regular intervals, constantly lamenting the fact that I could not get the padding in my baggy, secondhand bike shorts with the safety-pinned fly to cover my butt. I could not believe how ragged I was feeling half way through the day with immense amounts of mileage yet to cover. It seemed a reasonable bet that I would not make this whole trip, but I pedaled on like a creaking automaton. I first reconnected with Joe and Jim at mile 15 or so since a large tree had come down across the path. They were hacking at the branches to people could get through. I could barely lift my bike loaded down with gear over the trunk. Happily I took a few minutes to rest before reluctantly getting back in the saddle. I met them once again at mile 50 or so for a much-needed break where I tried to mask my doubts and pains. From there I beat my way to our rendezvous at Confluence. I arrived into this tiny town without cell service at dusk and tried to lift my wooden leg over the bar without tearing up. My hind quarters had been brutally savaged. I could think of nothing I ever wanted to do less than sit on that bike seat again. Eventually I found Joe and he took me to the campsite they arranged. I set up my tent, cooked some vegetarian chili, and passed into the pure bliss of unconsciousness.



I awoke for day two rather refreshed, albeit pretty sore. I scarfed my oatmeal and coffee then hit the road long before my speedy taskmasters. We had done a bit over 70 miles the previous day, and this day was to be longer. It started well. I decided to wear TWO pairs of my good bike shorts at once – a decision I made for the rest of the trip. My ass pain was rather tolerable for the first hour or so, but it soon became excruciating and maddening, along with my other pains and maladies. Most of the day was uphill through remote forest with almost no one on the trail for the first half. Eventually as I passed the Eastern Continental Divide and the Mason-Dixon Line I saw more folks, but still not large numbers. The scenery was beautiful, but my camera had turned itself on the day before and the battery died. Later I would use my phone sparingly for pictures, but at this point I needed to save its battery. At one point I veered up the trail in Frostburg and up a large hill as I followed some other bikers. At the top I saw no sign of the trail, so I followed some other riders down a steep road to what turned out was their own house. While grumbling a few choice words, I turned around and headed back to the trail, annoyed but half-amused by my strenuous detour – as if I my legs were not suffering enough. Later in the day I met up with Jim and Joe in Cumberland where we rested a bit before tearing into the C&O Towpath.



The C&O Towpath was in much poorer condition than the GAP trail. It was basically like a dirt driveway most of the time, with large remote sections seeming barely maintained. We went as far as Old Town before dark, completing 80 miles for the day. Old Town is small. In looking for a place to camp, we found the former high school (circa 1960), which is now a diner/car shop/beauty parlor. We bought a few small things in the cafeteria and asked if they knew where to camp. The old lady running the kitchen graciously offered up the grounds behind the school for us to set up our tents. It was perfect because when we awoke the next morning it was raining, but we had a warm place to eat breakfast and get ready for a muddy slog along the historic canal. The nice thing about working so hard is that you can eat whatever you want. I had pancakes with a side of French toast.



Again, I fell way behind Joe and Jim. This time by hours. It was chilly, it rained the entire day, and the trail was nothing but mud puddles. It was a rough day to say the least. Joe commented later that this was more like mountain biking than anything else. I rode for a straight 10 hours in absolute agony, alternately cursing at myself to keep turning the crank, or else moaning with my dead eyes blurring the trail before me. I had bags on my hands and feet, as well as a rain jacket, but I was soaked. It literally never stopped raining. Pedaling through mud just zaps your energy. There were no towns to cross. Almost no one else on the trail. I just had to make it to Williamsport to meet the guys. The plan was to go further from there, but I didn’t arrive until sundown: a sad, soggy pile of wretchedness. I called them on my cell phone and eventually made it the mile to the Red Roof Inn where they had a room.



Apparently the check-in girl was another kindly Marylander and insisted we could take our muddy bikes into our motel room. We put down tarps, but there was no containing the mess. I ate then took one of the best hot showers of my life before leaving my aching body for the subconscious treats and torments that sleep provides. In the middle of the night Joe woke up with me palming his bald head in my hands, apparently squeezing it the way you would a melon at the market. I have no explanation for this, but I find it endlessly amusing.



We had considered calling off the trip briefly because the day had been rough for all of us, and because rain was in the forecast again. However, we instead decided to break up the remaining 100 miles into two days and stick it out. Day three would take us 45 miles to Brunswick, a small railroad town. Luckily it was overcast but never really rained all day. Nevertheless, the trail was still a muddy wreck, and there was even a detour onto the roads that added some mileage and climbing. The day before a shot of pain had wracked my knee unexpectedly and now continued to plague me as it swelled up and refused to bend without loud protest. Onward I dripped. I became one with my pain and with the trail, as if flowing forward with the inevitability of water to the sea. The first 15 or 20 miles passed rather easily, though, since Joe rode with me and we chatted for a while. He had taken what he thought was a minor spill the day before, but now his leg was injured and he was going easy on it for a bit. Jim, on the other hand, was never seen again. He left a message that he blew through Brunswick and was going to try to finish that day. Unfortunately, he ended up throwing his crank bolt at mile 17. He camped around there, then single-pedaled his way to D.C. the next day.



Joe and I stayed at a hotel two miles off the towpath on the fourth night after being the sole patrons at “El Sloppy Tacos.” The ride to the hotel was not what you want at the end of the day, since it pretty much was all uphill. Every time I thought the climbing would end, we’d turn another corner and it would continue. Finally we got to this place that looked like a nursing home converted to hotel/diner. Even our rooms had this vibe about them, with concrete walls painted white and large showers to accommodate wheelchairs. Apparently it is now mainly a hotel for railroad workers. We got some food at a grocery nearby, and even found a car wash before again parking our bikes in the tiny room.



The next morning we got a relatively early start and hit the still muddy trail with the end in sight. Fortunately, this day featured several sections of trail that were again the packed limestone like in PA. Those bits were heavenly most of the time, but they did tend to have many seriously washouts and very rough patches. We again saw few people this day until close to D.C. Many parts along the C&O were gorgeous, and this day’s backdrop was no exception. There were plenty more locks, aqueducts, historical lockhouses, and wildlife areas. On this trip I saw so much wildlife, including: snakes, turtles, muskrats, snowy egrets, great blue herons, a fox, mallards with ducklings, indigo buntings, orioles, vultures, turkeys, squirrels, millions of deer, and millions of Canadian geese with their goslings. At one point I came about an inch from hitting a chipmunk, and another time a goose chased me for about 20 feet hissing at me.



Strangely, this fifth day did not seem as bad as the other ones and I pedaled relatively strong all day, though I was plenty ready to quit when we hit D.C. It had been a massively grueling ride that left me limping and sore. We finished it all in four and a half days, which is not bad at all for a total of 335 miles. Joe’s wife, Kristen, was nice enough to pick us up and we ended up going out to the world’s worst Chinese buffet that night, then got some stale beers next door. I liked the buffet, though, because I was ravenously hungry, and because the clientele were entertaining. A greasy older gentleman was there holding each shrimp at arm’s length and speaking softly to it before eating it. Aside from the shrimp talker, there were hand-holding, googly-eyed lovers rubbing noses and large black ladies in leopard print overcoats unsure of whether this buffet would serve their culinary needs. Then a group of young guys walked in past the tired row of silent munching men, wearing clothes so fashionable you’d think they were in a band, except they were all clownishly mall-groomed to be the perfect pre-fab ruffians. These displays, as well as the memorable experience of food far below mediocre, made this stop very worthwhile for me.



The next day we walked around D.C., from the main Smithsonian building to the Lincoln Memorial and had lunch at the Native American museum. The food there was delicious. I had spring squash and black bean tamale pie in warm avocado sauce with a side of grilled corn and green cabbage with epozote. I also got some honey fry bread. This was to be a particularly great food day, though, because later we ate dinner at the Udipi Café in Monroeville, which serves the food of another kind of Indian. This place was in a somewhat rural and out-of-the-way location, and had no real ambiance except that it was full of actual Indian people enjoying all-vegetarian South Indian cuisine, which was probably the best I’ve eaten. It was a perfect ending to an arduous of rewarding trip. I got to see some great landscapes whiling breathing in the fresh spring air, I was able to test the limits of my physical and mental endurance, I spent quality time in the company of good friends, and I capped it all off with a day of exotic gluttony. What else does anyone want from life… aside from the obliging company of a high-heeled Korean escort?

Oh It’s Such a Shame:



Jay Reatard
(May 1, 1980 – Jan. 13, 2010)

I never knew what to make of Jay Reatard. I only met him once briefly in New York City. He was extremely polite and soft-spoken. Then he went on stage and berated the crowd as the frontman for his namesake band, The Reatards, while defiantly dodging the beer bottles whipped at his head without ever missing a note. I still do not know if the many bottles thrown at him were an odd sort of adulation, or tossed with genuine malice. Between songs he’d hurl abuse at the crowd - as well as a few return bottles - then juice up the next song with the frenzied feedback of rock-n-roll rapture. The danger this night was palpable; not just an affectation. He was not playing for us, but campaigning against us… letting loose a torrent of personal demons, and at one point tossing a cast iron mic stand into the audience. Using the bathroom later, I saw someone bleeding profusely from the head and speculated that was where it had landed.

For me, The Reatards were something to see live to fully appreciate. It was an ephemeral experience that felt strangely timeless. It spoke directly to the reptilian brain. The vital energy radiating from the stage captured the deep agitation, frustrated id, and existential unrest that people like me keep mostly bottled up all our lives, letting it only come out occasionally in nervous ticks and anxiety disorders. No wonder I like The Reatards; I’ve not yet outgrown that teenage feeling of perpetual dissatisfaction and wanting to explode out of your skin, and here was a man exploding in all the right directions. It didn’t seem like “a show” in the sense that he was posturing or putting on an act. There was something undeniably real in this self-destructive bliss, and it offered a vicarious catharsis to those standing in the blast zone.

But The Reatards were not all that Jay was, and adopting Reatard as his surname soon became oxymoronic as he progressed well beyond a fantastic idiot savant into something more complex. His first full solo album, “Blood Visions” in 2006, was in my opinion probably his greatest work, featuring inventive song structures that stayed sharp with just the right dose of pop hooks and lyrical barbs. There is a whole host of influences you can dissect out of it, but in the end this was a singular work deserving of the many accolades heaped upon it. “Watch Me Fall” came next, and showed him to be one of the only punk artists whose descent into pop found him more of an alienated outsider than his initial blasts of teenage angst did. There is an undeniable melancholy and even self-reproach in the lyrics, which ironically became more introspective and detached at a time when his popularity was soaring and his melodies grew more accessible. Though this album is in many ways his most conventional work, it was still a formidable release, showing again his creative restlessness as he tried new things and refused to be caged by past successes.



I had been fortunate enough to see Jay play numerous times in numerous bands over the years. Depending on the venue, the soundman, and all the other usual variables, his solo shows could sometimes leave me feeling I had witnessed something fleeting and special. I was also at one of the final Lost Sounds shows in Buffalo when personal problems between him and bandmate/girlfriend Alicja Trout went awkwardly public on stage. It was a poorly attended show on a frigid winter night far from home, but somehow the evening’s events felt oddly historic – like I was lucky to see this band just before they imploded. I also saw him in the Angry Angles with his ex-girlfriend Alix Brown, and in The Bad Times with King Louie. I saw him play drums several times with the Final Solutions in Memphis, Chicago, and Austin. Even then he propelled the show, often with his impatient energy that saw no need for stage banter or applause between songs: “Shut the fuck up, let’s go! Come on!”

Even with all these bands I’ve listed, it does not come close to all those he played in, or those that he was a founding member of. He was incredibly prolific as a musician, and his relentless work ethic could have played a role in running down his health. He also ran his own record label, managed a band, and was an outstanding sound engineer who had recorded, mixed, and mastered his own projects as well as many others. I remember an interview with him in Razorcake a few years back when he half-jokingly claimed that he became the de facto recording guy for a bunch of bands, half of which “are really terrible,” because “people are fucking not smart enough to figure out how to use a manual to a fucking machine.” I really admired his ability to self-deprecate with collateral damage.

I started off this obituary of sorts by saying I did not know what to make of Jay Reatard. From what little I have seen, and according to his wider reputation, he could be difficult to say the least. His band actually quit on him during his last tour, he had many physical altercations with audience members, and was known to slam dunk disco balls onto people’s heads whenever possible. These things and many more made him prime garage-rock gossip fodder, and added to his unpredictable and enigmatic allure. Yet I never knew him personally, and this blog is about the loss of a great artist, not a friend of mine. In a recent interview with Spinner, Jay said something very insightful, worth quoting in full:

I don't enjoy the idea that you have to like people to like the music they make […] I don't see a Pollock on the wall and think 'I bet that Jackson dude was great to hang out with.' I look at it and I'm completely engulfed. It doesn't even matter who made it. It's an object to be enjoyed or not. You'd think people who are into independent music, who supposedly have independent thoughts, would be above [gossip]. What's the difference between Pitchfork and Weekly World News? It's usually just sensationalized crap.

No matter what Jay’s temperament was, I will continue to appreciate his music and relate to it as an articulation of some essential quality that we both have in common. I also appreciate the fact that he wasn’t desperately seeking the love and approval of his audience. Though I am sure he wanted to connect profoundly with people through music, he obviously wasn’t willing to pander to them in order to be liked or get his ego stroked. He had artistic integrity manifesting in a purity of expression that was necessarily volatile at times, and he became an atomic counterpoint to the phony piffle adorning the bulk of the musical landscape.

For me, the city of Memphis doesn’t so much conjure up images of Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash as it does Greg Cartwright and Jay Reatard. That’s not to say that the latter are any better than the former, of course, but they are of my generation… and are somehow more real to me. Funny, the one Jay Reatard memory that keeps coming to mind as I write this is when we both happened to be in a small, packed bar on the East side of Austin on the kind of night when the cokeheads barricade themselves in the tiny bathroom for long intervals, making desperate pee-goers run into the streets. We both were by the stage watching The Feelers play, trying to keep our balance in the rowdy crowd and to sing the odd refrain while chaos ensued all around us… in part because of us. In my drunken stupor I apprehended him next to me inside of his, sweaty hair matted to his face with a trickle of blood streaming down his temple. I remember thinking, “hey… that’s Jay Reatard. That guy is alright!” That image of him as just another drunken fan now makes me think that - while he often seemed like someone searching in his music and in his life - the greater tragedy is not that we won’t hear his excellent new discoveries, but that he won’t experience them himself.



* Photos were taken at a Reatards show I went to... Austin, 2006.

* Make sure you check out the video below. It is from his latest solo album and is excellent.

Trimming the Hegemony

Trimming the Hegemony:
Re-shaping the American Dream

There exists two major motivators of the average person – money and the esteem of others – and nothing seems to irk people more than coming into contact with others who are content with being neither rich nor famous. In America we are supposed to always hunger for more, and look up in reverence to those who have it. Someone without this drive toward wealth and notoriety is seen something less than fundamentally human. They are looked upon with suspicion: as lazy, subversive, and loathsome. They don’t conform to the common vectors of psychology, the directional flow of narrative structure. Their life stories are sideways tangents. It is a mistake to think that we are all supposed to be content within the capitalist system, placated by escapist TV and other diversions (although it most often does deter us from meaningful personal and collective pursuits). On the contrary, these things exist to make us want more; to inspire us to consume more. The messages we receive compel us to fruitless action; bestow existential purpose replete with hidden irony. If you happen to find a modicum of contentment outside the official paradigm, you become an irrelevant anomaly and a stain in the economic fabric of the nation. Someone will come along eventually and try to bundle your errant desires into a target demographic, then poison your wellspring with discontent, but invariably there will be those who just can’t muster the requisite enthusiasm for such ribald excess. They feed neither the egos nor the pockets of their alleged superiors, except after deep consideration. These people reserve respect for those deemed worthy for their talent or meritorious actions, and view the purchase of durable goods as utilitarian rather than a raison d'être. Of course, these people – in their purest form – are fictitious, but nonetheless form the template used numbers of folks growing disenchanted with business as usual.

Many ways exist for us to gauge success without resorting to the philosophical tyranny of the dominant culture. There is no real joy or esteem that results from becoming famous for accomplishing nothing other than being born rich or going on a reality show. These things cannot replace the enormous pride of achievement, which requires much less external validation. In the same regard, the acquisition of material goods for their own sake not only harms the environment (and often laborers) in many ways, but also has become a compulsive, mindless yearning that is carefully nurtured within us by outside influences. This results in massive consumer debt, a culture of entitlement, narcissism, and greed… and worst of all: the laborious pursuit of vapid discontent. I see habitual shopping for sport and therapy as roadblock to self development, whether for clothes or electronic gadgetry. It is making us monotonous and superficial. The cheap happiness afforded the purchaser wears away quickly, replaced by yet another dire need aching to be fulfilled with fashionable product. The exception to this is the person that buys things with an actual purpose. These are the people who buy the cars they actually need rather than giant trucks for urban driving, the people who buy fancy binoculars only because they love watching birds, or the people that buy expensive cameras because they are actually into photography. Too often, though, we see people buying things they do not actually require in order to fulfill some psychological need. They want a status symbol that will impress others, feel they deserve the cutting edge technology or the most stylish things, think buying something will elevate their mood, or simply cannot think of another mode of living and have never questioned this one.

There are a myriad of ways to fill the existential void without resort to reflexive consumption for its own sake, just as there are a million worthy goals that do not involve questing for ever greater opulence and fame. It is up to each of us to discover these for ourselves, and to try and use the marketplace as a means rather than an end in itself. By the same token, we should only seek fame as the secondary result of our achievements, and award only worthy individuals with our positive attention. The American Dream should not be the fruitless drive to accrue belongings and wealth, whether through slavish toil, luck, or sneaky shortcuts. That is the advertiser’s dream, and the dream of the product makers and stock traders. The shopping fetish has become our patriotic duty, and it has become a national fixation. Instead, we should begin to think of the American Dream as experiencing the freedom to pursue one’s own path, to follow one’s own interests, and nurture one’s own genius. It is the dream of savoring life rather than foolishly spending it filling our private treasuries with worthless stuff

Political-Correctness Swings Both Ways

Political-Correctness Swings Both Ways

Let me start off by saying that I kowtow constantly to the P.C. police of the right-wing, since I rarely find myself in suitably liberal environments to just be myself without reproach. I constantly have to be sensitive to the feelings of Christians, rednecks, capitalist blowhards, and those with myopic views on the true American character. For example, speaking about such things as antitheism, animal rights, or just about any lefty cause is outright repugnant to the commonest sensibility in the U.S. For a while to take any sort of nuanced view on our current wars was frequently met with extreme anger and sometimes even threats of violence. At the same time, we must be delicately P.C. with the host of minority groups (both ethnic and ideological) that tend to fall under the umbrella of liberalism, which, although I seek refuge there myself, the sheer terror of ever causing offense by stating an unpopular opinion or unsavory fact can get quite absurd. This latter sort of P.C. is generally the one most people think of when they think of political correctness, largely because those who are frothing angry about perceived political correctness are typically right wing. They are frequently infuriated with the idea of having to conceal their true attitudes about people who are, well… not just like them. That said, I must admit sometimes those in the conservative camps do make good points about the avoidance of issues and certain truths because the wider swath of society finds these things to be uncomfortable or inconvenient. At any rate, it is the height of folly to assume that intolerance resides solely at one end of the political spectrum, or only within one social group.

My main point of contention here is that when I hear someone bellowing belligerently about political correctness, it is usually some reactionary malcontent incensed by the idea of having to be civil, fair, and/or accurate. I even hear this onerous phrase attached to environmental issues lately, as though being anti-pollution and waste is a political fashion adopted by tree-hugging hippies. It very well may be, actually, but that does not nullify the concept of environmental health and safety. It is scientifically correct as well as morally correct. To decry environmental responsibility as merely P.C. B.S. is really an expression of one’s unwillingness to responsibly alter one’s own behaviors. On this issue, I will happily takes sides with the tree-huggers who actually try to do something positive rather than refute the notion energy conservation and waste reduction with no better argument than it is annoyingly P.C. and inconvenient. Personally, I am happy that it is finally politically correct to do the right thing in this regard, even if it isn’t the path of least resistance.

Madden, Warcraft, & the New Man

Technological Devolution or Mankind's Final Fantasy?



You are probably already aware of the epidemic of grown men obsessed with video games. This male stereotype has become a cultural cliché referred to in lady’s magazines, TV sitcoms, Tonight Show monologues, and all forms of mass media. Boys like their Playstations, and their poor neglected wives can’t compete with the allure of that pixilated Promised Land. It all seems to be part and parcel of the overall Generation X slacker archetype; they were the first people to grow up with sophisticated and affordable gaming systems. Now it has morphed into a huge industry where grown men essentially play with toys. This should come as no shock, since women have long patronizingly referred to men and their “toys” - whether motorcycles, jet skis, or X-boxes - and the men themselves have adopted this terminology and its implied childishness. As a man not enticed to waste time on video games, I have long resented the stereotype that looms over my gender. However, I cannot deny there is a disproportionate amount of men drawn to this virtual reality, and I wonder why that is. Furthermore, is there anything wrong with it?

The common image non-gamers have of avid videophiles is that the brains of these lethargic soda-pounding sofa-slouchers are going to pudding. In a sense this is true, since most skills are not translatable to real world situations, and unlike many other sedentary entertainments most video games do not require a lot of deep, independent thinking. Many people who read books or watch movies do also passively enjoy a great bit of diversionary entertainment of little intellectual value, however, many others actively engage challenging subject matter. No doubt games can be challenging, but not in a way that involves complex issues that must be pondered with deep reflection. You are not going to learn about philosophy, physics, biology, politics, or economics by deciding what kind of mustache your virtual wrestler should have. However, when video games do require strategic development and spatial reasoning, this type of thinking is perhaps valuable in the way that Sudoku is valuable in preventing mental atrophy. Video games nevertheless get a reputation as somehow being more of a waste of time than, say, board games or chess, probably because of their apparently addictive nature and wider popularity... and because the most mentally stimulating and creative ones are rarely the most popular. Instead people prefer to steal cars and battle zombies.

I am not actually against games - not even those of dubious moral or intellectual value, since they are certainly fun for many people - but I do think that logging too many hours playing Guitar Hero is pretty sad when you could have spent that time actually playing a guitar. Furthermore, when you add up the TV viewing and video game playing times - both likely spent with calorie-laden foods and drinks - you have can begin to account for the staggering amount of obesity in this country and the colossal rise in juvenile diabetes. It is amazing to me that we are seeking to solve this by making games that force the players to be more active. It’s a nice free market answer: selling people more products to counteract the effects of your other products. I am not blaming the game companies for heart disease and diabetes, but at the same time I’ll wager very few people are clamoring for the Wii Fit that are not already avid gamers.

Indeed, a recent study by the CDC found that the average gamer is overweight and more likely to be depressed and shy. This correlates well with studies of teenage gamers who are also introverted with the same physical and mental health concerns; although this study found that the average gamer is 35 years old. Researchers are not certain whether those who are socially awkward and depressed are more likely to become obsessive gamers, or if the games themselves play a role. However, I would strongly suspect anything that encourages withdrawal from social interaction and facilitates idleness only compounds those problems.

As for the gender question: how do we account for this modern “man of (in)action”? Well, we know women are raised to be more social creatures, and there is also a strong biological basis for why they excel at language skills and communication (including brain differences). It stands to reason that plunking themselves down in front of a TV to play the role of an axe-wielding dwarf would not appeal to them. This also explains the findings in the aforementioned study that found female gamers were even more likely to be depressed and in poor health, since interpersonal dynamics are more important for women. The ladies may also prefer other sedentary activities, such as watching TV, since plenty of shows focus on human interactions (often minus weaponry and machines), whereas most video games involve some sort of goal-oriented activity through which one can sublimate their aggressive instinct. These games are an effective way to placate the masses and, in addition to television, further reduce our human-to-human contact. For this reason they are also probably good to control male violence in the real world. Women certainly also enjoy some aggressive catharsis, but nature and nurture have not conspired to make this an almost pathological necessity for their gender. In a weird way, that groggy guy in the bean bag chair playing a first-person shooter with pizza sauce on his collar and cholesterol in his arteries is actually one less guy out causing trouble and getting into fights. Not only is he removed from social situations, but his sedentary lifestyle keeps him from feeling froggy or being physically formidable when he does go out. It’s a great plan; so long as the game hasn’t prepped him mentally for some real-world shoot’em-ups.

The Army already uses video games to indoctrinate teenage gamers into Army culture as an aid to recruitment efforts. There is also ample scientific evidence that exposure to violent TV programming at a young age is predictive of actual violence later in life. Naturally, as the quality of video game simulations get better, and since these games have a firsthand perspective where the user gets to directly engage in virtual violence, one would expect gamers starting at a young age to be even more desensitized and prone to aggressive acts - especially since they are not spending time with real humans and developing social skills. For adult gamers, though, perhaps video games do make the world a safer place by offering an escapist outlet where the frustrations of reality can safely be vented. At any rate, I think a survey of either the top-selling computer games or of average woman’s pastimes will show that game developers overwhelmingly target a male audience. The ancestral impulses of the primal hunter resonate in the thumb-work of the modern man as he stomps through the artificial jungle with his trusty Cheetos by his side.

Video games certainly are not the only reason people are increasingly insular and detached from one another. We have all sorts of technologies that purportedly bring us together, but more often keep us from talking to the person right next to us or knowing anything about our neighbors. There is very little feeling of community in modern American life, which has an effect on everything from our empathy and concern for each other, the safety of our neighborhoods, our political beliefs, our narrow worldviews, and even our health. It seems to me that we too often stay home nursing our suspicions and misanthropy. I am not exempt from this. For instance, TV often substitutes for real human interaction for me. We choose programming that appeals to our sensibilities and have virtual TV friends that we identify with, rather than going through the trouble of dialoguing with people that may have opposing viewpoints. Even our news has become catered to whatever reality we chose to believe in. Connecting to the world primarily through niche media has not necessarily expanded our horizons, and in many cases it makes us more susceptible to political and corporate manipulation. Video games also contain implicit worldviews that can bias or influence us cognitively and emotionally.

People also like TV because it is passive and easier than conversing. Video games are likewise passive, even though you are hitting buttons and solving problems. They are passive because they do not provoke critical thinking, but rather pacify the user with a trivial, asocial activity. Again, I am not against triviality and escapism, but I think we have it proportionally wrong in this country… and that comes with many ill-effects as we plug in and tune out.

In a deeper sense, a person might ask what the difference is between “real” reality versus “virtual” reality. Both are based solely on sensory input, and some have argued that as artificial environments become more convincing, why should we care if we are engaged with the actual world or a stunning facsimile that is even better? In fact, philosophers and scientists are still trying to work out what the nature of the so-called “real” world even is, so why not inhabit a computer-generated illusion? This is fine reasoning for a hedonistic narcissist, I suppose, and there actually isn’t much of a rational argument in favor of one apparent reality over the other (other than every “life” decision in a simulation would have the significance of a crossword puzzle – a wonderful work of inconsequential mental masturbation if we are aware of the artifice). Perhaps someday we will all be happily plugged into a matrix “manned” by machines, but that technology is not quite here yet, so persistently avoiding reality at this point is still injurious both to society and to oneself. We should all probably ask ourselves if we can do something better for the world and others in it besides withdrawing from it.

The Road to Heaven

Intentions in the Pavement


(Photo by Ben Lybarger © 2007)

It is often said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so the converse might also be true. In fact, that is what Ayn Rand and Milton Friedman might tell you. The road to heaven being paved with bad intentions is the basic argument for laissez faire capitalism, where greed and selfishness is thought to function for the greater good. But rather than take that laughable and self-serving notion to task right now, I’d like to address the idea of intentions being irrelevant and behaviors being paramount.

On the surface this seems quite true. Whether I intend to help or hurt someone is seemingly irrelevant to the actual outcome. The missile strike that caused collateral damage and killed someone’s children was not intended to do this, but the children are dead just the same. There can be a million hypotheticals just like this, either positive or negative. In the end, what matters is what happens.

Or is it? Is the accidental killing of someone just as bad as premeditated murder? Is the person that inadvertently helps improve someone’s life through mere chance worthy of accolades? Our intentions are, in fact, the only thing we ultimately have control over, so they make all the difference when judging humans and corporations. I am not suggesting that we can all be shielded from responsibility for our actions by saying that we did not intend the negative outcomes, but that is only because it might excuse criminal negligence. Furthermore, the desire to do good in the world is a noble impulse rooted in empathy, but it needs to be paired with intelligence and some good luck to be effective. At any rate, I think that old saying needs to be retired since any road paved with intentions is a two-way street.

Broadcast Identity

Is TV changing Society, or Vice Versa?



All but the most oblivious among us have long ago acknowledged the role of television in framing the way we see the world. It both reflects the current culture and creates it. To be sure, much of television is still pure escapism void of substance; and this in turn helps create the ignorant and complacent population that keeps the ghost of Edward R. Murrow angry and vengeful. But sometimes shows pop up that deal with real issues and combine social awareness with the standard fluff. Could TV programming be getting slightly smarter, or at least more engaged with the real world? Probably not, but I am going to go ahead and dream the impossible dream for a few more minutes.

While most shows will strive to remain politically neutral, a few break into the mainstream that seem intent on social engineering. Shows such as 24, which had once sought an informal mandate on torture, come instantly to mind (though it seems to have backed off that position… even going as far as to add reviled lefty Jeanine Garafalo to the cast). On the other end of the spectrum there is an ongoing gay revolution involving a multitude of mainstream programs over the last ten years or so. While often the representations are caricatures used for comedic value, it nevertheless seems obvious that the ubiquity of humanized gay characters and gay-themed programming is caused by, and results in, a broader acceptance for this marginalized population.

Just as it would be a monumental task to enumerate the ways popular programming has worked to advance gay acceptance, so has it explored conventional sexuality and challenged traditional gender roles. A prime example of social engineering at multiple levels is, oddly enough, Rescue Me. This is Dennis Leary’s successful series where he plays a New York City fireman whose life is forever altered by 9/11. As you may recall, Leary was most famous in the 90s with his stand-up act that borrowed heavily from the now deceased Bill Hicks. He was an icon for conservative rage, although it was never clear what the level of irony was in his act. With this new show, it seems he is using his blue-collar cred to open dialogue on a myriad of social issues, including endless, blunt, and often crass discussions of the aforementioned issues of sexuality and gender identity.

In Rescue Me, male psychology is both celebrated and (consciously) parodied. Whether it is Leary raging against his apartment furniture, silly bouts of testosterone-fueled machismo, repressed emotions (“real” men only comfortably display anger and aggression), crude sexuality and homophobic bonding, or the interplay of gender dynamics and power relationships, the show pulls few punches. Furthermore, uneasiness and hostility toward homosexuals is explored through a main character’s bi-curiousness and a fire chief’s eventual pained acceptance of his gay son. More recently, one of the firemen (Marco) has been dating a lady boxer whom the guys think is a lesbian due to her manly demeanor, and who additionally challenges his traditional masculinity by dominating him sexually. There are so many examples of how this show reflects and reinforces our cultural shift from rigid gender roles en route toward a more egalitarian society, that they can hardly be fully listed and explored in this short article. And while such themes occur incessantly with the subtlety of bulldozer, I still wonder how many people consciously engage the show on that level. Perhaps even passive viewing by individuals can slowly alter the prescription of our cultural lens.

Rescue Me does not exhibit the great writing of some transcendent program, though it does have its moments of witty banter, hilarious scenes, and engaging characters. For the most part though, it remains a guilty pleasure with wild and ridiculous plot twists and over-the-top situations that make it an addictive comedic melodrama. Leary’s character is even haunted by ghosts of dead people and sometimes religious figures (or maybe these are hallucinations of conscience and the product of mental illness). It is basically a soap opera for men, and that is its genius. The target audience of presumably disgruntled working-class males is treated to entertainment that lovingly deconstructs that very same population. It is a delicate juggling act they perform, since this blatant deconstruction requires the conveyance of a politically-incorrect, no bullshit attitude, along with ample displays of rugged maleness. Of course, I do not know if they are actually reaching their obvious target demographic, which they alternately pander to then challenge. It could be that only college professors and tax accountants watch this program in order to both vent their repressed primal nature while also feeling superior to it.

A newer program that touches on political and social issues is Royal Pains. In this series, a doctor is fired for treating a poor minority kid in need of emergency care rather than tending to a billionaire hospital trustee recovering from surgery. After that, a sequence of events leads him to become “concierge doctor” for the extremely rich in the Hamptons, while also doing work for the poor community with access to far inferior healthcare. He is kind of the Robin Hood of doctors, subsidizing the medical treatment of normal people through the hefty rates he charges his wealthy clients, although the glamorous rich get infinitely more airtime. The premise is a microcosm of a much bigger picture, since our country is one of many that try to attract wealthy foreigners to subsidize treatment for indigent and uninsured patients, while current healthcare reforms may involve tax hikes for the extremely wealthy at home.

What strikes me most about this show is not just that it illustrates our inequitable system of health care, but that it does so in program aimed at a more wholesome demographic. It is decidedly not a dark, gritty, hard-hitting drama, but rather basks in the sunny aura of those living in the lap of luxury, as well as the love lives of the picture-perfect cast. The historic predecessors of this kind of show would normally leave it at that. However, some complexity is introduced into the life of this moral main character as the rich people he encounters are not all just arrogant and privileged, but also troubled, sometimes decent, and/or insecure people. The show doesn’t glamorize the poor either, although taking up their plight is framed as highly ethical. More often the focus is on the elite clients and their problems and excesses (including a “Bark-Mitzvah” for rich lady’s dog). The Haves are not demonized, though, even while the program points out their inflated senses of self-importance, and often their essential unhappiness.

The premise enables some health care commentary (though watered down) that is carefully weighed against the abundance of sexy people, flaky romantic tensions, and comedic relief, in order to keep the show from becoming overly didactic. What is most promising about this show is that even when an episode’s plot is hackneyed or cheesy, the dialogue is often clever, the characters likable, and most social commentary is structural rather than forced into actors’ mouths. Other peripheral issues occasionally come to light as well, such as in the pilot where a woman almost dies from smelling chemically-treated flowers. In the end, this is classic light-hearted mainstream entertainment that sells itself through the shallow glitz that coats its moral center. We get to satisfy our cultural need to gawk at gorgeous people and marvel at incredible mansions, while these things are (at least somewhat) put within a socio-economic context. Many of us apparently admire those who own their own private islands and can hire their own private doctors to come to their house on a moment’s notice, but this gets undercut when these economic elites disparage the level of care available at hospitals for common folk. Even those most deeply mired in the American mythology of a grand meritocracy will become uneasy at the thought of wealthy people “deserving” better health care.

While the star of USA’s Royal Pains is the prototypical hero sans any real character flaws, the protagonist of NBC’s The Philanthropist is a narcissistic, womanizing billionaire whose transformation of conscience is spurred by the death of his son, and by an ill-fated trip to Nigeria that took him out of his comfy bubble of safety and solipsism. While every episode does unfold the same way with someone telling a story in flashbacks, sometimes such formulas are comfortably familiar (though Rescue Me’s habit of lengthy musical montages got really tiresome). Often what is most interesting is the riffage off the basic song structure, as well as the idea that propels it. Here they use this format to touch on global politics and various humanitarian crises. The inspiration is from real-life entrepreneur turned philanthropist, Bobby Sager, who speaks of the hollowness of accumulating material wealth, and still practices hands-on giving through his charitable foundation. Unlike his fictional counterpart, he was never a playboy party animal, and no catastrophic event was necessary for his empathetic engagement with the less fortunate. However, what fun is that for a TV show?

Aside from the Teddy Rist’s uncanny ability not to get killed, my biggest problem with this show is that it occasionally gets too melodramatic. I say that not because the tragedies herein don’t deserve reverence, nor because self-actualizing moments don’t deserve wonder, but because here these things sometimes seem too pat or postured. The emotional impact can be duller when the director is desperate to make you feel it, and falls back on impersonal clichés to make it happen.

What is good about this show, however, is how it engages with empathy in world politics, from Kosovo to Myanmar to Haiti, bringing issues and criticisms to a mass audience in the U.S. that is notoriously oblivious to such things. What’s more, this show isn’t polemic. All sides of the conflicts are humanized, and there is an attempt to understand the roots of these problems.

For example, the episode set in Kosovo even bravely touches on the role of religion in the conflict, wars, genocide, and continued animosity and instability in that region - going as far as to have the apparently agnostic main character state that fanaticism by Christians and Islamists is big part of the problem. In this episode the frustrating conflict is explored, showing how a culture of revenge and distrust is deeply entrenched and difficult to transcend, and how this is both personal and aligned according to ethnic/cultural/religious lines. It also illustrates how some opportunists seek to maintain the status quo in order to benefit financially. The role of transnational companies in the mix is almost ambivalent, even though Rist touts the job opportunities his company would create in the mines he wants to open there. He also makes reference to the fact that the inability of Kosovo’s people to cooperate and co-exist peacefully has kept them from improving their own economy. The country isn’t exactly a shining opportunity for foreign investors either, due to frequent terrorist acts and sabotage, but it is interesting how Rist sees himself as more determined and effective than the local government and businessmen, and even the UN. It is an unusual take on international business ethics, where profits from resource exploitation getting funneled back to a rich country is seen as almost virtuous. Of course, the enrichment of foreign investors in exchange for mining jobs is not exactly an equitable exchange, and the actions of a maverick CEO do not necessarily countermand institutional corporate wrongdoing, but the situation in Kosovo seems bleak enough that he could make a difference.

A similar ambivalence can be seen in the Nigeria episodes, which do humanize the rebel resistance as well as the government, but is likewise uncritical of Rist’s oil company there and their direct and indirect complicity in the humanitarian crisis, let alone the environmental one. (It is not hard to see parallels with Shell Oil’s controversial presence in that country.) Just because you are a billionaire putting money to good use doesn’t negate how you earned it.

It may seem like I am being hard on this show, but in truth, I think it is one of the better programs on TV right now. For a network program, it does an amazing job hitting important issues in a way that is not too dumbed-down. Furthermore, it has a progressive conscience and is much bolder in its critiques than one would expect. A cynic might say that the episode in San Diego where the recipient’s of philanthropy were Afghanistan and Iraq war veterans was to an attempt to expand the show’s political demographic, since only a complete asshole would object to such charity, but I doubt the America First crowd will ever fall in love with Teddy Rist.

It is interesting how the image of the American Dream is changing; how instead of TV simply depicting lavish lifestyles or worshipping decadence and material excess, we are seeing a shift of conscience as we progress through end-stage capitalism. Sure, there are still those who still dream of gross wealth, and there are plenty of shows that cater to them (including two of the three I mentioned), but in my more optimistic moments I think this may be the slow beginning of a more mature humanity transitioning toward better pursuits. While the reality programming craze of the last 15 years has demonstrated that we will do anything for a moment of fame and a crack at a pile of cash, I think this is waning as more people realize there is also pleasure to be had in helping each other, and that the lifestyle of the over-consuming hedonist comes at a tall cost to others, the planet, and our dignity.

This shift in the cultural zeitgeist was spawned in part from the plethora of comforts and conveniences now available to us, thanks to rapidly evolving technology. While those living in extreme deprivation or working miserable jobs can look at wealth and all its trappings with great longing, most middle-class Americans these days realize there is little happiness to be gleaned from it. Now even families of modest means in North America have TVs, computers, cell phones, and a myriad of other luxuries unimaginable just a couple generations ago. Being rich is no longer the carrot it used to be. Sure, a comfortable level of income will always be desirable, but becoming a millionaire doesn’t seem likely to solve all of our problems, and its gaudy excesses appear increasingly wasteful, pathetically egocentric, and even immoral. The implicit premise that sating human greed is our highest purpose is fading fast. And I think that is a good thing.