Because You Never Asked

(This essay was written around 2000)

     Have you ever had that metaphysical experience whereby an image or thought of someone you haven't seen for a long time pops into your mind and, unbelievably, within a day or two that person actually appears in real life?

     Most recently in this work of dubious philosophical patter, I made a wise crack about the "hair pulling girly fights" which seem to be the foundation of the business enterprise known as the Jerry Springer Show. If we retreat a bit further into essay land history, one might recall a piece describing the diversionary stimuli provided at the local Laundromat --- newspapers, pin ball machines, video games, and yes, televisions (see essay "Why People Like Motion Pictures").

     A few days after mentioning Jerry Springer in this work, burdened with the unavoidable chore we are all so familiar with, I walked into my local Laundromat . and there he was, in the synchronized triple image provided by 3 televisions hung precariously above a long row of dryers; there he was, mediating what was to become yet another "hair pulling girly fight"; there he was, the king of trailer park fratricide himself, the one, but far from only, Jerry Springer!

     I had never seen the Jerry Springer Show. What I knew of it had been gleaned from advertisements and other bits and sound bites which periodically pass through the media realm. My original concepts, based upon these smatterings, were so correct, that actually viewing it turned out to be a superfluous exercise. If these initial impressions were at all in err, it was because I had given the show more respect than it deserved. This is almost always the case when I find myself involved in the anthropological study of what entertains the masses.

     Although the incessant washer-dryer din, along with the daily symphony of traffic and commercial endeavor outside the Laundromat made the audio aspects of the show unsatisfactory, a thorough understanding of its essence was not prejudiced by this less than adequate verbal communication. The images provided on the screen were more than enough to fully understand that what we were watching was a well honed product which could be defined as "emotional pro wrestling". One might even say that pro wrestling and the Springer-like show are husband and wife in the social system of working class entertainment.

     Social class, like some embarrassing alcoholic uncle, is something we really don't like to talk about in the United States. Such a thing is generally not compatible with the official rhetoric of our national self concept. We pride ourselves on the motherhood and apple pie embodied in ideas like freedom, democracy, equality, opportunity and the like, all abstractions which do not comfortably share the same bed with the segregated  cultural laminations inherent in social classes.

     In America, "working class" is more a stigma or embarrassment, like acne or halitosis, that we are all trying to flee from. The Yankee idea of "success" does not sympathize with physical labor, which is something reserved for those lesser beings lacking the talent or ambition to become junk bond salesmen. We don't like unions. We don't like strikes. We prefer shysters in silk ties to hard hat laborers trash talking the local feminine finery. Quit complaining, you live in America, shut up and go to college if you want to exploit rather than be exploited.

     It always amuses me how the European unions can bring a country to a stop in 5 minutes whenever the trolley barn's water cooler is not cold enough. These people know who they are and are not ashamed of it.

     In spite of our cultural denial mode, social class does exist in America. There is a "lumpen" underclass of substantial proportions which underpins the well being of everything else. It is an intellectual desert of Saharan immensity with hazy but enduring frontiers. It is the oxygen supply for spectacles like Jerry Springer and pro wrestling.

     (At this point, it is relevant to mention the following: I add this essay to my web site just one month after the hurricane disaster which has just about put an end to New Orleans. The horrifying images we've all seen of the great tragedy are documented proof of class distinctions in the United States.)

     My most immediate and lasting impression of the Jerry Springer Show was its similarity to pro wrestling. Most striking in this relationship is the constituency they both prey upon.

     Although, to our nation's credit, trying to draw a perfectly surveyed Mason-Dixon line between the social classes is a difficult task, when it comes to the consumers of the Springer-Hulk Hogan product, we are not operating in muddied waters. One cannot feel too insecure in saying that the vast majority of those enthralled by such vaudeville fall within the ranks of our most humble citizenry. These people do not commute from Scarsdale or Great Neck. They are not "soccer moms", nor do they send their kids to tennis camps. Their literacy skills lean more towards the National Inquirer than John Grisham. They are easy marks and the media moguls of our day have no trouble tapping into this ocean of wage income.

     In addition to the uniformity of their consumers, the physical ambiance and "modus operandi" of the Springer-Hogan orb are strikingly similar. It doesn't take long to realize that the dramas played out on the Jerry Springer Show --- like its emotional husband, pro wrestling --- are semi-scripted set ups with predictable outcomes. In essence, what we are watching are extremely low grade passion plays that could almost be considered Shakespeare in its most lowly intellected form. Unfortunately, whereas Shakespeare is uplifting for the human spirit, Springer-Hogan degrades it. It retards rather than improves, not helping us escape the idiocy of the emotional problems portrayed, but rather, it keeps us mired in them.

     Much like our more classic passion plays that have been handed down through the Ivy League elements of our society, the theater of Springer-Hogan revolves around the age old struggle of good and evil. The rabble is encouraged to take sides. Perhaps most at the center of this whole performance is who the crowd loves to hate. The villain is the catalyst, the spark of energy which lights the passions of the mob. The bad guy is the witch to be burned at the stake who serves an essential role; he makes the insecure "plebe" feel better about themselves.

     After studied deliberation, it could be said that Springer is an even crasser form of exploitation than Hogan. It must be remembered that both these enterprises are multi-million dollar industries. If we examine who is making the money, it soon becomes clear that virtually nobody from the exploited class is making off with anything in the Springer case. Oh sure, the stage participants are probably receiving a decent stipend for their "hair pulling girly fights", perhaps enough to have some fun at K-Mart, but this is not what we mean by "money". The real money is carted away by Springer and his media cronies, none of whom are one of "them". They are like people who sell cigarettes but don't smoke. They know what they are doing.

     In the case of pro wrestling, undoubtedly, the media moguls are profiting most from these Neronian spectacles, but at least some lower echelon types are being cut in on the booty. The wrestlers themselves, along with their promoters and loud mouth henchmen, are generally cut from the same tree as their salivating patrons. They are making "money". At least to that extent, there is a measure of good old fashioned American equality and opportunity in play.

     Perhaps someday, those attending the Jerry Springer Show, both the participants on stage as well as those in the audience, will finally realize who the real "bad guy" is, and, like the mobs at the Bastille or the Winter Palace, will leave their studio seats and come down from the stage and trample Springer under the weight of their enlightenment.

     Amen.