Category: Article

  • Seven Weeks on the Mean Streets

    My brother recently had a job that required him to purchase 231 gallons of gas in seven weeks. Ben was behind the wheel of his 1997 Honda Accord ten hours a day, seven days a week, and he covered 5,500 miles without ever leaving the metropolitan area. But this was no trucking or courier gig; he was getting fifteen dollars an hour to drive his car along every single street in the Twin Cities and their first-ring suburbs.

    Ben had answered a Craigslist ad posted by a technology start-up. They were looking for people in various cities who were willing to spend their days driving. Like Pac-Man on wheels, he trolled every avenue, lane, boulevard, and road, with a Palm Pilot suction-cupped to his windshield, scanning neighborhoods for wireless Internet activity. The company that hired Ben was apparently attempting to create a map of wireless signals on top of a GPS grid.

    Ben is twenty-four years old, and is comfortable whether he’s jostling at Atmosphere shows or shaking hands with real estate pooh-bahs in his present job for a developer. He grew up in St. Paul and thought he knew the Twin Cities pretty well. While driving the streets and neighborhoods, however, he discovered that, beyond the familiar, high-density areas most of us regularly travel through (Uptown and downtown Minneapolis, St. Paul’s Grand Avenue, the lakes, and the Mississippi River) was a largely foreign territory. He circumnavigated downtown St. Paul’s airport, encountered the aftermath of a murder, peed at the shores of lakes you’ve likely never heard of, and witnessed a funeral parade with a crowd of mourners, on foot, trailing the coffin down the street.

    For the most part, however, Ben was mostly a passive observer in the neighborhoods through which he drove; most of the time when he actually got out of his car it was to download his data at a Starbucks. He also discovered that public bathrooms tended to be readily available in affluent areas and virtually impossible to find in poor neighborhoods. He was financially strapped during this odyssey—he wasn’t reimbursed for his gas or mileage, and ended up making about ten dollars an hour—and subsisted primarily on gas station granola bars.

    For the last leg of his journey—driving the remaining un-highlighted stretches on his map—Ben allowed me to ride along. We began our run in a tony Minneapolis neighborhood with elaborate brick pillars at its borders and a number of identical white cantilever porches. From there we swung into Bryn Mawr, with all of its quaint signage (Bryn Mawr Chiropractic, Bryn Mawr Coffee, Bryn Mawr Pizza), and headed out to Robbinsdale, before eventually ending up back in Minneapolis. There, we drove through suburban-style subdivisions with Mercedes in the driveways, hard by scrap yards where men delivered cans piled into garbage bags and stacked onto shopping carts.

    Even on a Tuesday night, downtown Minneapolis was chaotic and bustling with people. Ben recalled his cruise through the streets of downtown St. Paul, where it was so deserted that he drove five blocks in the wrong direction down a one-way street before noticing.

    After three hours, the Honda began to feel like a Tilt-a-Whirl from which I couldn’t escape. The car was constantly changing direction, pivoting, juking, and U-turning as Ben retraced his steps and searched for tiny hidden streets. Long stretches of straight avenues were welcome, but rare; more common were the one-ways, dead ends, and streets bisected by parks or office buildings. “There’s an art to this,” Ben said, and claimed that he’d developed an almost intuitive navigational sense. “It’s become second nature to drive with a map in my hand.”

    Areas that departed from the usual grid—places with lots of single-block streets and dead-ends—required him to drive through multiple times in order to map all the sections. He occasionally got weird looks from people who saw him repeatedly passing by. “There’s definitely some suspicion, particularly in neighborhoods that are real homogenous,” he said. “And especially on cul-de-sacs; everyone knows who lives on their cul-de-sac.” Fortunately, he said, his Honda is an inconspicuous ride.

    As we swirled through a cul-de-sac somewhere in the haze of inner suburbia, we passed a sign that read, “Tube Forming Factory,” another industrial site set incongruously among neighborhoods of low ramblers. One thing that really struck Ben on his travels was the amount of industry in the Twin Cities. “As a consumer, you’re so focused on retail and residential that you never really ask, ‘Where do things get made in the city?’” he said. “And it’s everywhere—places that you don’t normally go or think about, stuff is always going on and things are happening that are different. Everywhere you aren’t is somebody else’s reality.”—Alexandra Kerl

  • Taking the Plunge

    Every winter you encounter them in the news, Minnesota’s perverse answer to Sports Illustrated swimsuit models: pale, shivering people taking part in polar plunges for charity. Huddled like doomed, featherless penguins, their ample pink flesh turning blue, they suddenly rush past the camera men and on-site ambulances to flail briefly in the water of some local lake, then are swaddled and rushed away to warmth. All the while they are oblivious to the fact that what the charities really need is their money, not their sense of shame.

    There is a different kind of ice swimmer, though, a more solitary and humble figure who typically operates in the evening, and who jumps into the frigid water not for attention or duty, but because he actually wants to. Such people are the discipline’s true devotees, freezing their buns off for the sheer love of it. Seeking to understand this demented behavior, I decided to engage in it.

    Thus I found myself on a February night, with the temperature near zero and a brittle moon overhead, exiting a sauna and strolling nearly naked onto Lake Gegoka, near Isabella, Minnesota. A stone’s throw away, the square hole on the lake’s white surface was ominously black, a beckoning invitation to hypothermia. I moved toward it like a zombie—an especially quick zombie.

    Earlier in the evening, Mark Wendt, who owns the nearby National Forest Lodge, had shoveled snow from around the hole, cleared freshly formed ice with a chainsaw, propped a stepladder in the chest-high water, and stoked a fire in the sauna. An enthusiastic proponent of the ice-plunging ritual, Wendt takes pride in creating a quality experience for his guests at the lodge, most of whom are cross-country skiers.

    The Finnish have a word for this business, avantouinti (“ice hole swimming”), and are some of its foremost practitioners. They’ve even got an Avantouinti Society that promotes the benefits of a bone-chilling bath, and Helsinki boasts several public avanto holes with dressing rooms and rubber-treaded steps. Its adherents claim health benefits that range from improved circulation to cold-fighting powers. But the most powerful lure is more fundamental.

    “I’ve introduced lots of people to this, and I’ll ask them afterwards, ‘How are you feeling?’” Wendt said. “And they say, ‘Man, I’m just feeling great.’ And you do—all tingly, super-relaxed, but yet not dulled out. There is nothing like having a big day of outdoor activity in the cold, and then going down to that sauna, getting totally warm, and jumping in the lake a few times. You sleep like an absolute baby.”

    Other ice-plunge veterans offer similarly gushing testimonials that take on a spiritual tone. But Wendt still has a hard sell on his hands, and considers it a high turnout if one-third of his guests on a given weekend actually jump into the icy water.

    “A lot of people just can’t conceive of it,” he admits.

    Merely going from the sauna out into the cold, or even rolling in the snow, are inferior substitutes, he says dismissively. And don’t even get him started on the hot tub, which has stolen some of the ice hole’s box office.

    “It just doesn’t get you to the same place.”

    Wendt stokes the sauna to 160 degrees or so. Thrill seekers might take it to 180, and push-it-to-the-limit types can send the needle to 200—but sauna etiquette eschews heat competitions. It’s a Finnish-style sauna, with dippers to pour water onto scalding rocks. The idea is to stay in as long as you can, sweating your brains out until you absolutely can’t stand it anymore. Then take the plunge, reheat, and repeat. Aficionados say at least three leaps are needed for maximum effect.

    Science backs up some of these claims. Several medical studies have shown that ice swimming makes the hypothalamus release beta-endorphins, the morphine-like hormones behind the “runner’s high” and other feel-good effects of exercise. But other researchers are quite willing to throw cold water on other cherished beliefs.

    “A sauna, even if you exclude the cold water part of it, is a working stress,” says Professor Larry Wittmers, director of the Hypothermia Laboratory of the University of Minnesota Duluth. “It dilates your peripheral vessels and it runs up your heart rate. It’s just like working.”

    Combine this with an icy plunge, he says, and “There is a danger of kind of assaulting your cardiovascular system. You basically are in a situation in which you’re maximally vasodilated, and all of a sudden you hit the water, so you’re going to vasoconstrict, which is going to put a heavy load on your heart.”

    Of course, naysayers like Wittmers were nowhere in sight as I prepared for my debut dip. I was surrounded in the sauna by several other eager ice plungers, and we all egged each other on, steaming ourselves to a state of near delirium. Then I stepped out for my first plunge. The frigid, piney air was enormously refreshing to my heat-wracked body, and my thoughts suddenly crispened in the cold as I took in the shimmering field of stars overhead. It seemed a lot like existential reverie, but it may have just been my nervous system’s dawning realization that I might soon freeze to death.

    When my body hit the water, the shock was profound, but, thanks to my superheated body core, not a lot different from other cold-water dunkings I’ve endured. When I surfaced, I emitted a party whoop that carried an edge of panic. I paused before exiting, because I’d been told staying in the water briefly heightened the effects (though it’s called ice swimming, it’s really more like ice bobbing).

    Back in the sauna, it took a good ten minutes to work back up to a rolling sweat. I repeated the process two more times, then headed for the shower. A warm one. At dinnertime, as advertised, I felt a swelling inner glow and an overwhelming physical calm, as if I’d just had a massage. Mark asked how I was doing. He’d heard my answer before, of course: “Great,” I said. “Just great.”

    —Keith Goetzman

  • Chip Off the Block

    In 1978, Joe Franken had a day job consulting for the Johnson Printing Company of Minneapolis. He also moonlighted as an actor, a model, and a copy writer. Back in the seventies and eighties, his work in TV commercials made him a familiar face to many Twin Citizens.

    Before he got into advertising and printing, however, Franken worked in his father-in-law’s textile business. Originally based in New York, the company, Simon Kunst and Co., moved to Albert Lea in the early sixties. When the company pulled up stakes, it brought along the Franken family: Joe and Phoebe and their two young sons, Al and Owen.

    Albert Lea was a nice town, but Joe and Phoebe Franken were unhappy there. Back in New York, they’d been passionate about theater. Joe had performed in high school, college, and community theater, and Phoebe had been a professional actress. I spoke with Joe in 1978, and he ruefully remembered that Albert Lea’s dramatic offerings didn’t qualify even as off-off-Broadway. “The only theaters they had were two movie houses, which only played on weekends. One played Ma and Pa Kettle and the other … cowboy movies.”

    The slaughterhouse town in southern Minnesota represented quite a culture shock for Joe and Phoebe. They kept their interest alive by subscribing to the American Theater Guild and traveling to the Twin Cities whenever the troupe came to perform. “Every time we came,” Joe said, “there was a snowstorm.”

    The perils of attending the theater and being caught in a blizzard one hundred miles from home ended when Mr. Kunst, Joe’s father-in-law, moved the business to St. Paul. Joe was pleased with the new location, but the business was beginning to wear on him. “I still didn’t like it,” he said, “so I finally quit.”

    He enjoyed being a Minnesotan, though, and his new job at Johnson Printing. Most of all he liked the culture scene of the Twin Cities.

    Some of their friends tried to interest the Frankens in Theatre in the Round, but when Joe heard it was community theater, he said, “Oh, that means amateur. I want no part of it.”

    You couldn’t blame their friends for tricking them into seeing their first performance at that community playhouse. Then as now, Theatre in the Round’s reputation was superb.

    “We enjoyed it so much that during intermission we signed up as season members. We were hooked, both of us,” said Joe. The Frankens not only graced the theater’s auditorium, they went on to perform on its stage. The entire Franken family was cast in a 1963 production of Life with Mother.

    Joe played dozens of roles. One performance inspired an ad man named Sid Rich to cast him in his first television commercial, riding a Toro lawn mower. From riding mowers he went on to describe the virtues of Home brand peanut butter. Joe Franken was especially good at portraying clerks, insurance men, accountants, and bank presidents. He had a broad forehead, kind eyes, and a sonorous, deep voice with just a trace of a New York accent. “A lot of people are afraid that a low voice like mine is hard to understand,” he told me, “and other people think it’s just fine.” Joe said the slight New York accent was liked by some and disliked by others. “The funny thing is, when I go back to New York, they say, ‘Oh, you sound like a dumb Midwesterner.’ ”

    Joe Franken’s face was just as expressive as his voice, and he became a popular model among print advertisers. He portrayed a miserly landlord in an ad for condominiums (“Instead of paying the landlord, pay yourself!”). In an ad for a commercial photo printer called Pako, he played an old codger in a rocking chair, illustrating their motto, “You don’t grow old waiting for Pako.”

    Owen Franken eventually became a photographer and lives today in France. His work has appeared in such publications as Time magazine and the New York Times. Everyone knows what became of Al. At the time I interviewed his father, twenty-five years ago, Al was writing and performing with the original cast of Saturday Night Live.

    Through the seventies, Joe and Phoebe never missed their son’s performances. They often invited friends into their St. Louis Park home to watch Saturday Night Live. In December of 1977, they traveled to New York and became part of the act. In a classic SNL moment, Al sang a song to them and presented each with a photograph, signed, “To my greatest fans.” When Al asked them how they felt, Phoebe said she hadn’t been so nervous since his eighth-grade teacher called to tell her he’d wet his pants. Joe Franken died in December 1993. Ten years later, Phoebe Franken passed away.

    —Dean Potter

  • Eternal Recurrence

    The other day, the Minnesota State High School League decided the public is ready for instant replay at some high school basketball and hockey games. High schools using television replay to fact-check the referees is unheard of, yet at their meeting last week, Minnesota coaches, officials, and athletic directors all patted each other on the bottom for a good idea, well done. That should show you just how seriously we adults take our children’s sports. But it may also indicate a problem worse than bad calls—the unhealthy obsession we all have with the most outward sign of athletic achievement: winning. Then again, if truth is the ultimate goal, and a humble admission of human fallibility is truth’s collateral damage, well, then, this could be one of those teaching moments coaches everywhere are so fond of.

     

    If only life itself had instant replay, a sort of TiVo for reality. The death of Eugene McCarthy on December 10 took us back months, years, decades. The honorable U.S. senator from Watkins, Minnesota, is remembered for engineering one of the most tumultuous moments in modern political history. He was an early and loud opponent of the Vietnam War who, in 1968, electrified the anti-war movement at a time when rank-and-file Democrats and Republicans alike were withering in the public eye for their sheepish support of an unwinnable ideological war on a distant continent. McCarthy splintered the Democratic Party and, in the process, foiled President Lyndon Johnson’s hopes of re-election. Hubert Humphrey won the party’s nomination, was defeated by Richard Nixon in the general election, and the rest is a lamentable tale of criminal misdemeanors at the highest levels of government. Those events also ushered in a long-term identity crisis on the left. McCarthy’s life in the years since became a sort of repeating leitmotif; he was the poet-philosopher who traded political influence for truth. It was a childish truth—war is wrong—yet childish truths are usually the most inarguable.

     

    President Bush has got his dander up lately. He is accusing his critics and “antiwar protesters” of “rewriting history.” Naturally, he’s irritated that certain critics are saying the administration spun intelligence reports and facts in a way that justified a predetermined course of action. In other words, the president’s adversaries contend, the White House conformed the facts to their hawkish plans. We don’t need instant replay to remember that the international community did not support those plans, and that the “facts” were in dispute from the beginning. (And for good reason; they were false.) Nor do we need to reconsider the near-unanimous view that pre-emptive war ought to be initiated for only the most solemn, irrefutable, and righteous reasons. What we would like to revisit, though, is precisely why so many latter-day congressional critics were cowed into following, when they should have been leading.

     

    We frequently refresh our screens at MNSpeak.com, a companionable Twin Cities blog. Its headmaster, Rex Sorgatz, recently realized that the photos adorning the site’s masthead were out of season—lush midsummer shots of uptown tiger lilies, the downtown skyline on a sultry August afternoon, and a view across the Stone Arch Bridge on a spring morning. Here in the deep of winter, Sorgatz said he found those images “oppressive,” and he invited readers to submit something a bit more seasonal. Last we checked, readers remained firmly and comfortably planted in the oppressive past.

    Like a Homeric hero, our old friend Will Steger has returned to Ithaca. His particular life cycle took him on a fifty-year odyssey to both the North and South Poles, but last month he moved back to the Twin Cities. He assures us he is here only “for a couple years”—to raise awareness that the climate is warming much faster than anyone thought possible—the results of which he witnessed, to his horror, on his expedition through the Arctic last winter. The people up north don’t need to be told; they can see the evidence for themselves. It is the people in the cities (particularly one city: Washington, D.C.) who seem to require infinite repetition on the subject of global warming.

    This is the time of year when we look forward. It’s good to make resolutions for the next twelve months. But we think a part of the tradition ought to be a quick look in the rear-view mirror, and a trip back in the time machine. We are an amnesiac nation, so those few who actually learn something from the past may be doomed to repeat themselves, until the rest of us get the call right.

  • The 600 Million Dollar Man

    Jared has a last name, but like Michelangelo, Madonna, and Saddam, he doesn’t need one. When I say “Jared,” you know I’m not talking about actor Jared Leto or Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jared Diamond. Those guys have their constituencies, but uninym status? There’s only one Jared who can make that claim: Jared the Subway Guy, the innovative weight-loss adventurer who, thanks to his ability to shed pounds while eating nothing but fast food, stands as the most improbably enduring icon this new millennium has produced.

    Sisqo, we hardly knew ye. Crabby British lady from The Weakest Link—what was your catchphrase again? These days, celebrity is as ephemeral as a wrinkle on Joan Rivers’ brow. But six years after Jared’s first commercial aired nationally, in January 2000, his special brand of reduced-calorie charisma remains in high demand. “I’m on the road around two hundred days a year,” Jared told me over the phone recently. He was at the Denver airport, en route to Seattle to represent Subway at a Seahawks game. A few days earlier, he’d been in California with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, kicking off a campaign against childhood obesity. When he visited Washington, D.C., last April, as part of an American Medical Association lobbying effort on cardiovascular disease, Senator Barack Obama did a double-take in the halls of the Capitol, then called him over. (“He loves Subway’s new toasted subs,” Jared reports.) At a hotel buffet in Hawaii, Jerry Seinfeld got a little starstruck when he recognized the mythic sandwich pitchman in the omelet line. “This big smile spread across his face, and he said, ‘You’re Jared, right?’ ”

    Such fame generally requires one to star in a few hit movies, or at least an unauthorized sex video with extensive Internet distribution. Lasting fame is even more elusive; like weight loss, it’s harder to maintain than achieve. But Jared has made it look exceedingly easy. He estimates that he’s shot around thirty-five to forty national commercials over the course of his career, including ten in 2005. (He also appeared in another two dozen or so regional ads.) Most of these commercials were thirty-second spots; some were only half as long. Add them all up, and you can’t help but think of the Warhol cliché: Jared’s fame is literally built on approximately fifteen minutes of exposure.

    Of course, Jared’s commercials air thousands of times each year, at all hours of the day, across multiple channels. In today’s vast TV universe, shows like Yes, Dear can run forever without making a single cast member a household name, even in the households of CBS network executives. But unless your TV is a goldfish bowl, you’ve seen Jared holding up his old blue jeans and extolling the virtues of Subway. “We took a trip to the Arctic Circle,” he told me, recalling a journey through Alaska. “This one village we went to, the closest Subway was more than five hundred miles away. But because they get satellite TV, all the kids there knew who I was.”

    Somewhere in Milford, Connecticut, where the Subway chain is based, there are men and women who literally get paid to market baloney. (Or, as they might put it, “bologna.”) In the late 1990s, they were, in the words of Subway co-founder Fred DeLuca, “firmly convinced that consumers were not interested in food that was low-fat.” And, indeed, even after exposés like Fast Food Nation and Supersize Me, fast food remains appealing specifically because it’s not low-fat—it’s greasy, salty fare that tastes like artery-clogging indulgence, not deprivation.

    But as DeLuca explained in a 2002 interview with QSR, a fast-food trade journal, two things happened that helped Subway change its mind about the marketability of healthy fast food. First, a Houston franchisee started promoting the fact that Subway’s menu included seven sandwiches with fewer than six grams of fat. Then, after that franchise enjoyed a significant jump in sales, Subway incorporated the concept nationally. That’s when Jared, a twenty-year-old student at Indiana University, happened to notice a “seven under six” sign at his local Subway.

    At that point, the business major was morbidly obese: 425 pounds and gaining. His knees and shoulders ached under the load of all that weight. There were courses he didn’t take because they were held in classrooms where the seats could not accommodate him. He required two parking spots for his car—unless he could open the driver’s door completely, he couldn’t get out.

    Ironically enough, the local Subway, which was literally on the other side of a wall of Jared’s apartment, was part of the problem. It was open till three a.m., and he used to feast there on steak sandwiches with extra cheese. But when he saw the “seven under six” sign, he decided to forsake such treats for healthier choices: a small turkey sandwich (no cheese or mayo) for lunch, and a large veggie sandwich for dinner. About one year and seven hundred Subway sandwiches later, he’d lost 245 pounds. Subway franchisees in the Chicago area learned about his success via a brief mention in Men’s Health magazine and produced a TV ad for the local market. “The national people never bought into it until they saw that it was interesting to consumers,” DeLuca told QSR.

    Indeed, while Jared’s star was rising over Chicago, Subway’s national team was focused on a campaign featuring Billy Blanks, the fitness trainer who masterminded the Tae Bo craze by mixing ballet, boxing, martial arts, and hip-hop. When it came to selling hoagies to couch potatoes, though, the former superheavyweight kicked the former karate champion’s perfectly toned butt. Fan mail flooded corporate headquarters. The Oprah Winfrey Show, Today, and Good Morning America supersized Jared’s renown. In the first year that Subway broadcast its Jared commercials, sales rose by nineteen percent.

    Jared is fairly circumspect about what Subway pays him. A couple of years ago, in a Washington Post article, he said his earnings would make him a “future millionaire.” All he would tell me with regard to his salary was, “They treat me very well.” No matter how much he’s earning, though, it’s likely that he’s underpaid. Consider that Advertising Age reported in July 2005 that “Subway executives have said when ads featuring [Jared] stop running, sales dropped as much as ten percent,” and that Subway’s revenue for 2004 topped $6 billion. This suggests that Jared is worth as much as $600 million a year to the chain. So it’s no surprise that Subway remains committed to him. What is curious is the public’s enduring interest in the guy.

    Let’s face it—in the canon of commercial pitchmen, Jared doesn’t exactly leap out at you. Hell, in the canon of guys hanging out at your local Best Buy, Jared doesn’t exactly leap out at you. He lacks, for example, Ronald McDonald’s sartorial daring. He has none of the Pillsbury Doughboy’s infectious joie de vivre, or Mr. Whipple’s riveting psychosexual turmoil. Unlike Jimmy Dean, there’s no music career, however dimly recalled, bolstering his reputation. What Jared does offer is a dramatic and inspiring personal story, one with a touch of irony, too: Not only did he lose 245 pounds in just eleven months, but there were no sit-ups involved, no steamed broccoli or soy-protein smoothies—just fast food, pure and simple! It’s diet porn with a punch line, an urban myth that’s actually true.

    But as irresistible as that story may be, it’s a short one, and it’s been going on now for six years. Where’s the sequel? Or even a single plot twist? Jared 2006 is essentially the same as Jared 2000. His is not an Oprah-esque saga involving the loss and gain and reloss of, cumulatively speaking, hundreds of pounds. He hasn’t slapped an ex-con Harley Davidson salesman in the face at an airport, à là Richard Simmons. He’s never even changed the style of his glasses.

    Jared himself attributes his enduring popularity to his authenticity. “I’m not an actor,” he said. “People know what I did was real. When I look back and ask why am I still doing this six years later, that’s one of the only reasons I can think of.” But there’s more to it than that. This is the age of reality TV, after all; prime time is infested with real people scratching and clawing their way into our consciousness. They’re as subtle as silent movie stars, spewing their neuroses all over your flat-screen.

    Jared, on the other hand, evokes an old-fashioned TV professionalism. He’s calm, informal, never hurried. He’s never had a snappy catchphrase, and thus, people have never tired of his snappy catchphrase. He’s also so demographically limber his parents ought to get some kind of advertising award for concocting him. While he grew up in Indianapolis, he seems at home anywhere there is a mall and a Subway. Which is to say, everywhere.

    Those tiny wire-rim glasses of his? Definitely blue-state. The fact that he once weighed 425 pounds? You can’t get any more red-state than that! Women like him, but not in a way that makes their boyfriends or husbands jealous. At twenty-seven, he’s youthful, but there’s something sort of middle-aged about him, too. He knows how to play to schoolkids, politicians, whoever. When he holds up those old size-60 blue jeans—they’re so big, they look like a shower curtain with legs—everyone responds.

    But perhaps what’s most extraordinary about him is his willingness to remain average. The first rule of accidental fame, after all, is that you must try to exploit and extend your celebrity, however possible. But Jared has not only not gone Hollywood, he hasn’t even gone Planet Hollywood. He lives in an Indianapolis suburb with his wife, Elizabeth. If he’s ever had a desire to pursue a career in Rob Schneider movies or go on a drunken bender with Nicole Richie, he’s successfully resisted it. He hasn’t remodeled his face à là Paula Jones, or tried to establish himself as a makeover show host or infomercial fitness equipment guru. He’s simply stuck with what made him famous in the first place: low-key, matter-of-fact commercials for Subway. Year after year, he remains on message, as stalwart as the Nike swoosh or the McDonald’s arches, a logo made flesh.

    And certainly his mission is far from over. Because of the public’s response to Jared and his ads, Subway went from halfheartedly pointing out that some of its sandwiches happened to be low in fat to fervently promoting health as a key part of its identity. It developed additional low-fat sandwiches, and added salads and other health-oriented menu items, such as a line of products for carb-counting customers. It also helped for customers to keep track of how many calories they were consuming, right down to each slice of cheese. And perhaps the most significant sign of success with this approach was that other fast-food chains began adding healthier choices to their menus.

    Nonetheless, all those salads with dressing on the side have yet to have an impact on the nation’s collective waistline. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, about two out of every three adults in the U.S. are overweight or obese. It also estimates that fifteen percent of six- to nineteen-year-olds are overweight. “Obesity is a bigger problem now than it was six years ago,” said Jared. “So I think that keeps my story relevant.” And unlike a lot of celebrities, Jared actually wants to be a role model. “I see how keeping my weight off, and staying on the road and talking to kids, inspires other people,” he said. “When I was at my heaviest, my self-esteem was so low. I never expected to be able to give hope to somebody. It’s such a fantastic feeling.”

    In TV years, Jared is a mere toddler compared to other average-guy advertising icons. The six years and sixty to seventy national and regional commercials he’s got under his (size 34) belt are still no match for Dick Wilson, aka Mr. Whipple, who shot 504 ads for Charmin toilet paper between 1965 and 1989. Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy’s, appeared in more than eight hundred spots for his hamburger chain. Jared’s life expectancy on TV, however, looks promising. “We expect he’ll be with us for a while,” said Subway PR specialist Mack Bridenbaker.

    Indeed, Jared is more than a corporate pitchman now, and more than an evangelist for healthier eating. He’s transcended those roles to become a living symbol of change, a vivid reminder that people can radically transform their bodies, and, along with that, their lives. In a way, he’s a contemporary version of Charles Atlas, the entrepreneurial bodybuilder who, via his “dynamic tension” system, promised spectacular transformation. At a time when America was a land of hungry young immigrants eager to bulk up and prove their strength, the target audience was ninety-seven-pound weaklings who were tired of getting sand kicked in their faces. Now, in the land of supersized plenty, the audience is three-hundred-pound endomorphs who, instead of longing for pecs the size of Big Macs, would settle for being able to see their feet again. To them, Jared offers regular, thirty-second glimmers of hope. Charles Atlas’ first ads appeared in 1929; his image is still today used to sell his system. Perhaps, after six years, Jared is just getting started.

  • How the Doughnut Got Its Hole

    It’s time to celebrate the unassuming doughnut, the stalwart companion of countless cups of fresh-brewed coffee, the humble fried hoop that is everyman’s golden cake. Why now, you might ask? Because January marks the opening of a long stretch of winter contemplation; also, there has yet to be a holiday misgiving that can’t be quietly and sweetly wiped away by that first bite of sticky, warm, sugary dough. The doughnut is the perfect, simple reward for making it through another year and pushing onward into the next.

    Deeply embedded in American culture, the doughnut is believed to have arrived with the Pilgrims. Before they journeyed across the Atlantic, they spent time in Holland, where they partook of the northern European confection called oly koeks—literally, oily cakes of deep-fried dough that were usually associated with the celebrations of saint’s days and town festivals. On these shores, little nuggets or nuts of deep-fried sweet dough—more like today’s doughnut holes than doughnuts—were first mentioned in Washington Irving’s 1809 A History of New-York: “The table … was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog’s fat, and called dough nuts, or oly koeks.”

    In fact, doughnuts didn’t acquire their ring shape until almost fifty years later. Legend gives a craggy Maine sea captain named Hanson Crockett Gregory credit for the innovation. Apparently, Gregory sailed off in 1847 with a stash of his mother’s delicious fried cakes. While navigating some particularly rough seas, he poked out the cakes’ centers in order to slip them over the spokes of the ship’s wheel. The setup allowed hands-free snacking without sacrificing an even keel. Another, perhaps more likely story has the Pennsylvania Dutch pioneering the shape for a less fanciful reason: more surface area led to a faster cooking time, a crispier crust, and a less gummy inside. By 1897, the common acceptance of the ring was evidenced by the Sears Roebuck catalog’s offering of a doughnut cutter.

    Of course, doughnuts have gone far beyond that original design. There are bear claws and braided twists, fritters and long johns, jelly-filled eights and bismarcks. These variations—and, in some cases, complete overhauls—come thanks to cultures from all over the world. Germans fill disc-shaped Berliner Pfannkuchen with custard or jelly. The olliebollen of the Netherlands, filled with dried fruits and nuts, are a traditional New Year’s treat. The Spanish dunk stick-shaped churros into morning chocolate drinks. Italians shake bomboloni cakes in paper bags with citrus zest and spices, while the French enjoy simple beignets with dark coffee.

    Just when it seemed that Americans’ love for doughnuts had waned, Krispy Kreme came along and reminded us that the best and truest time to enjoy a glazed doughnut is when it’s fresh and hot. When the first Minnesota outlet opened, traffic cops had to stem the tides of those eager to sink their teeth into these melty delights, which seem to magically disintegrate upon the first bite. Sure, Krispy Kreme has been perfecting its methods since 1937, but is that enough to create a national obsession?

    Apparently so, as the newfound fervor for doughnuts has escalated into gourmet territory. Innovative chefs have concocted individual doughnut bread puddings, topped grilled doughnut halves with sweetened mascarpone, and filled organic pastries with cabernet jelly. One of the hottest spots in town, Five Restaurant and Street Lounge, offers a dark-chocolate filled beignet accompanied by a black cardamom dipping sauce. Café Lurcat has long served a warm, dense, and crumbly cinnamon-sugar doughnut that beats a flourless chocolate torte any day.

    Of all the restaurants, cafes, and shops that serve doughnuts in the area, a few stand out. Tobies in Hinckley serves mammoth doughnuts with all the traditional toppings—if eating one on the way to a cabin up north isn’t a Minnesota tradition, it should be. If you keep driving north for several hours, you’ll reach World’s Best Donuts in Grand Marais, where you’ll encounter the most delicious moist and spicy cake doughnuts, along with amazingly beautiful surroundings in which to enjoy them. Back here in the city, you’ll want to try the warm, puffy rings of heaven at Valley Pastries in Golden Valley, whose raised doughnuts taste like bakery doughnuts instead of doughnut-shop doughnuts, meaning there’s no greasy tang that nags you for the rest of your day. The best time to get these, and most other doughnuts, is fresh out of the oven, at around 5:30 a.m. Hey, no one said you didn’t have to make an effort. Besides, there is no better reward for rousting yourself early on a dark January morning.

    Krispy Kreme Eight locations in Minnesota

    (plus Fargo, North Dakota and Onalaska, Wisconsin); www.krispykreme.com

    Five Restaurant and Street Lounge

    2917 Bryant Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-827-5555

    Café Lurcat 1624 Harmon Place, Minneapolis;

    612-486-5500

    Tobies Interstate 35 and Highway 48, Hinckley;

    320-384-6174

    World’s Best Donuts 4 E. Wisconsin St.,

    Grand Marais; 218-387-1345

    Valley Pastries 2570 Hillsboro Ave. N.,

    Golden Valley; 763-541-1535

  • In Memory of Richard Pryor

    I had begun writing on an entirely different subject for this month’s column—plea bargaining—but then a friend called to tell me that Richard Franklin Lennox Thomas Pryor III had died. I put all thoughts about plea bargains aside, went down to my basement, and dug out an old Pryor album. Staring at it, I was overwhelmed by how sad I felt, and overwhelmed that I was so overwhelmed. Why should the death of a foul-mouthed drug addict, who blew through six marriages and self-immolated while freebasing cocaine, matter to me? The answer came before I finished asking the question: For thirty years, going back to the first time I heard a Pryor routine, his comedy soothed my soul and gave me perspective. Not to mention that he was bust-a-gut funny.

    I first saw Richard Pryor in the 1972 Billie Holiday biopic Lady Sings the Blues. He plays “Piano Man,” Holiday’s main musical sideman, who dies of a drug overdose. I was thirteen then, and to me, Pryor was just another actor. About a year later, however, one of my friends relayed a riff from a Pryor album in which he theorizes about why Patty Hearst ditched her rich family and joined her captors in robbing banks (if you haven’t heard the routine, it had something to do with race and genital size). I was astounded that someone would make a joke like that on a record. I had to hear it for myself. So I bought the album and, early one morning when everyone was asleep, I crept down to the basement. I turned on the stereo with the volume low and traveled to another, more scandalous world. The next day, I bought two more albums.

    In the months that followed, whenever my sister and I felt like living dangerously, we would mix a batch of “special ice tea” (tea and cheap wine), sneak down to the basement, and listen to Richard Pryor albums. Pryor, born and raised in his grandmother’s brothel in Peoria, Illinois, transported us from our middle-class, good-Negro world to one where people called each other niggas, liberally used the f-word, and put white people in their places. Listening to his brutally funny stories made us feel rebellious, cool, and authentically black.

    Some of Pryor’s routines became permanently etched into our memories. His musings became an underground language for us “brothas” in the “soul patrol,” code for cool in what, for us, was often a very uncool world. When we wanted to navigate a delicate social situation—talk our way into a hot date, or out of a big mess—we would use one of Pryor’s skits for inspiration. What we did not fully appreciate at the time was that he had more to offer than dirty talk and vulgarity, though I admit that was a strong part of the initial attraction. Pryor was also a master storyteller who, with impeccable inflection and timing, commented on the daily struggles of life from an unvarnished African-American male point of view. Unlike Bill Cosby, who sanitized his routines to make them palatable to the mainstream (i.e., a white audience), Pryor was raw and real. When talking about his drug addiction, he commented that he must have “snorted up Peru.” He spoke vividly of the emotional pain in having your woman walk out on you and the physical pain in becoming a human torch while freebasing cocaine.

    What my little posse in Denver was doing—incorporating Pryor’s routines and jokes into a vocabulary—was being done by kids, especially black males, all over America in the seventies. Pryor’s stories and quips fueled a national dialect for African-American men. When I arrived at Harvard in 1977, I found that referring to a Pryor routine usually brought a knowing nod from other black students, whether they came from Manhattan’s Upper East Side or South Central L.A. When I dated a white girl and the black coeds gave me the cold shoulder, I took solace in Pryor’s biting remark that, “Black women look at you like you killed your mama when you are out with a white woman … they say, ‘Yeah, why should you be happy?’ ”

    Obviously, it was not only black men who fully “got” Richard Pryor—he sold too many albums and was too big a box-office draw to suggest that. But there is no question that Pryor fully “got” us because he was one of us. He exposed the challenges of being an African-American man with such wit, and such surgical precision, that he became our collective mouthpiece—the ultimate soul brother. Pryor taught guys like me to use humor as both sword and shield as we make our way through a world riddled with pain. Richard, thank you for being you, because in doing so you helped me, more than you’ll ever know, become comfortable being me. Peace.

  • Giving It Up

    Losing weight and quitting smoking are always the top two New Year’s resolutions for us Americans. Not to brag, but I’ve done both—quitting a twelve-year, pack-a-day smoking habit and losing (and regaining and relosing) a rather substantial amount of weight in my life. I did neither by making a New Year’s resolution. Like most really huge life changes, each event was the result of a series of minor shifts. I’d like to say that these shifts were a series of decisions that I made all by myself. That would be very bootstrappy, don’t you think? In truth, sheer willpower was a shockingly small percentage of the overall picture. In each case, circumstances maneuvered me to a place where change of some sort was inevitable.

    Take smoking. I did decide to quit, that’s true. But not because I no longer wanted to reek of smoke, or because my habit was siphoning perfectly fine cash from my meager bank account, or because people who loved me wanted me to quit before something bad developed. These things were also true. But I only decided I to quit once I started coughing up blood. This was not just traces of pink every once in a while, like maybe with a really bad cold. Nuh-uh. It was more hardcore Bukowski style. Some mornings I’d wake up, shut off the alarm, grab a handful of tissues, and yak up roughly half a teaspoon of blood.

    After six months of this, I knew that the blood wouldn’t just go away like I had hoped. So I decided to quit. But of course, that doesn’t mean that I was able to. Three months after that decision, the best I had done was to cut down to half a pack a day, and the coughing fits worsened, if anything. Instead of hitting only in the morning, they came on any time of the day.

    One creepy component of those last months as a smoker was that I could get the coughing to stop—by lighting up a cigarette. It was as though my very cells were crying out in protest. My body turned traitor, and it wanted its fix, damn it. While I was taking in a drag I could feel some kind of internal smoothing out. Whether this was physical or psychological, I couldn’t tell you. It felt like a vacuum making tracks on a shag carpet. Like something was progressing. Like some kind of change was inevitable.

    Sometimes it takes people that long to realize that even indecision is a decision.

    I quit my job and left my apartment and moved to my parents’ place in Wisconsin for two and a half months. The nearest store was ten miles away. I didn’t have a car, a driver’s license, or the lung capacity for walking more than one city block at a time. The first week, I slept. Then for seven weeks straight I remember having daily screaming matches with my father in his pole barn.

    Every swear word and oath that we belted forth was amplified tenfold by the tin walls and the fourteen-foot ceilings. I don’t remember what we argued about, probably the usual suspects. My lack of direction in life, poor romantic choices, my ever-changing hairstyle. My Dad was a world-class yeller, and I learned the craft at his knee. He could yell about anything, anytime, anywhere. Not everybody can do that, you know.

    Blessedly, it turns out this was just what I needed. Like a priest performing an exorcism, Dad shouted painful truths in plain language and my demons came roaring out to meet him, gnashing their fangs, matching him round for round with sickening retorts. Devious comments were designed to mirror, escalate, and confuse, thereby ensuring the marathon duration of our contest. It got to the point where I could no longer tell what was burning, my chest cavity or my rage. Dad, meanwhile, stood strong. He took what I threw at him and dished out some more.

    People who knew me in those days sometimes marvel at the fact that I no longer smoke. When they ask me how I quit, it’s difficult to explain. Too embarrassing, you know? Admitting the complete loss of control. The terror of the bloody coughing fits and the shame of still being unable to stop. My big bear of a worried Dad tearing into me. So sometimes I tell them the complicated truth. And other times, I smile and say I did it cold turkey, even though I’ve learned that there is no such thing as cold turkey, just like there is no such thing as overnight success. Major change doesn’t happen without many, many minor shifts. I moved myself away from cigarettes. I eventually put myself far away from them, like a child who can’t get to the candy jar. In a way, I didn’t really quit—I just don’t smoke anymore.

  • Su-Mei Tse: Video Works

    Vast and stark, repetitive and meditative, this pair of video installations lulls viewers into transcending their own boredom. In The Desert Sweepers, a crew of street sweepers in orange vests gently rake sand into small piles in an endless, digitally enhanced desert. Tse herself appears in Echo, playing cello in a stunning alpine valley, accompanied by her own echo bouncing off the mountains. Tse came out of nowhere (by international art scene standards) when these works were exhibited in the pavilion for her native Luxembourg at the 2003 Venice Biennale and won the Golden Lion award. Also on view: an installation by Minneapolitan Margaret Pezalla-Granlund. We last enjoyed her wry cardboard models of parking ramps at the Soap Factory; here she offers icebergs that float from the ceiling, accompanied by lighthouses anchored to the walls. 1021 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-872-7494; www.franklinartworks.org

  • "The Sanctity of Marriage"

    "If I see that tie one more time, I’ll shoot myself.” My husband Jon was browsing through photos from our recent wedding, lamenting his last-minute decision to rent a tux rather than buy a suit. “Look at that,” he groaned. “Did I somehow not notice it was made of pressed plastic?” I laughed, but lightly, or he’d think I was laughing at him instead of with him. It’s a fine line, but finer still was the one we crossed by deciding to marry at all. When we stood near the stony shore of Lake Superior, the bees of late summer humming in the organza billows of my dress, promising to love, protect, and forgive each other forever, we’d already been living together for three years.

    In that time, we’d gradually transitioned from sharing a bed and a bathroom to merging our identities in other areas—bank accounts, credit cards, phone service, and, in what was a major late-fee liability for both of us, video rental. Which kid was whose (three from his previous marriage and three from mine) also demanded frequent clarification in the early days, when bloodlines ran deep and fast, and threatened to drag us all down to the slimy bottom and bury us there like rocks. While the kids by turns rearranged and refused to rearrange their bedrooms, their schedules, and their loyalties, Jon and I twisted ourselves like pretzels in our fervor to prove to our children that living together might not be such an unthinkable fate. As it happened, our contortions failed to convince our wary children. Only with time did our newly patched-together family begin to take, eventually leaving us free to contemplate the possibility of marriage.

    When finally we produced an actual wedding invitation, many people were confused. Jon’s eighty-six-year-old mom, who had stopped asking about our plans after the so-called “engagement” dragged into its third year, responded with happy shock: “For heaven’s sake,” she said. “I kind of thought you’d gone off and done it already.” Most others had figured the same thing—that we’d snuck down to city hall and signed some papers without fanfare, or that we (specifically, I) had decided to conscientiously object to the patriarchy, eschew marriage on principal, and cohabit forever.

    For years, then, before we snaked through the queues in the Hennepin County Government Center (to encounter what was, given our ages, a surprisingly snappish premarital counseling lecture from the blue-haired lady handling marriage licenses that day), we enjoyed and bemoaned every normal facet of married life, plus a few abnormal ones. Our eventual wedding day was less a beginning of something new than a ritual that affirmed the stable relationship we’d been establishing for years. The threshold over which we stepped was strictly metaphorical. Except, of course, we were legalizing our union.

    Now that my dress is back from the cleaners, and the sealed marriage certificate has arrived back from the county, I wonder. Does this piece of what appears to be recycled printer paper, solemnly signed by us and three friends (including one who performed the ceremony, because we belong to no church), change anything beyond our ability to add each other to insurance policies or unplug life support someday? Is marriage as sacred as it’s cracked up to be? In fact, is it sacred at all, if you said “forever” once but took it back and divorced after ten or fifteen years?

    Not if you ask those who blame no-fault divorce for the demise of the family. They say that when one spouse holds the power to walk away at will, marriage is downgraded from a lifelong commitment to one that lasts as long as either spouse “feels like it.” And it’s true that while reading wedding books for guidance in developing our own ceremony, Jon and I couldn’t help but notice how some of the newfangled vows—“as long as our love shall last,” or “while our marriage serves the greatest good”—seemed a little less ambitious than the old saw, “till death do us part.” Ultimately we couldn’t stand the notion of watering down a promise defined by its lifelong nature. We boldly vowed “forever” even though by doing so we underscored how short we both fell on that once already.

    We worried about creating a ceremony that on the one hand wouldn’t insult our own (or our children’s) sense of historical truth and authenticity, and on the other wouldn’t dilute or qualify our vows to the point of irrelevance. We were participating firsthand in a massive cultural discourse on the meaning of modern marriage, and we were neither first nor alone in our concerns.

    Worrying about the meaning of marriage is a preoccupation dating back thousands of years. Mutability in the rules and mores of marriage is also age-old. As an institution, marriage has always existed in a state of flux. But the cultural colloquy—what it means, why people do it, and who should be allowed the privilege—has probably never reached quite the pitch it has now. Policy debates, from the controversy about gay marriage to “marriage promotion” programs aimed at low-income families, have pushed marriage onto a battleground. And as impassioned warriors clash over who should be allowed access to the “sacred institution” of marriage, others watch with detachment and ask quietly whether the whole concept of marriage has fallen into a state less dramatic than collapse, but ultimately more deadly—obsolescence. Today’s most brutal fights erupt in the matter of same-sex marriage. But battles about who should be allowed to marry have always been vicious. The last major public outcry on marriage-partner selection only just died down.

    Newlyweds Richard and Mildred Loving were sound asleep in the bedroom of their Caroline County, Virginia, home in 1958 when police officers armed with blinding flashlights woke them up and arrested them. The problem? Richard was white and Mildred was black. The Lovings were charged with violating the ban on marriage for interracial couples. Bans on interracial marriage were still common in 1958—just a single generation ago. The Lovings pleaded guilty to a felony and faced up to five years in prison. Instead they got a one-year jail sentence, suspended on the condition that they leave the state and not return together for twenty-five years. The Lovings took up residence in Washington, D.C., and appealed their case. Nearly a decade after their arrest, the United States Supreme Court ruled that “racial hygiene” laws in Virginia and fifteen other states unconstitutionally sought to interfere with a person’s right to marry the partner of her or his choice.

    Many states claimed that laws against interracial marriage protected “the natural order of things.” But the Supreme Court declared that the “freedom to marry” belongs to all Americans as one of our vital personal rights, essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness by a free people. “The Fourteenth Amendment,” wrote the court in the Loving decision, “requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discriminations. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.”

    In the first half of the twentieth century, forty U.S. states forbade the marriage of a white person to a person of color. Many states enacted bans after 1912, when Representative Seaborn Roddenbery of Georgia introduced a constitutional amendment to ban interracial marriages. In his appeal to Congress, Roddenbery stated, “Intermarriage between whites and blacks is repulsive and averse to every sentiment of pure American spirit. It is abhorrent and repugnant. It is subversive to social peace. It is destructive of moral supremacy, and ultimately this slavery to black beasts will bring this nation to a fatal conflict.”

    By the 1940s, only two of the forty states with anti-miscegeny laws had repealed them. According to the religious doctrine underlying these prohibitions, marriages between whites and people of color were immoral and against God’s natural order. The trial judge in the Loving case justified his ruling—and his state’s ban on interracial marriages—with the sort of God-speak often invoked today against same-sex marriages: “Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay, and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.” Others claimed that allowing “interracial marriages” would corrupt the sanctity of marriage and dilute and weaken the institution overall. This all sounds eerily familiar.

    Meanwhile, the question of gay marriage has also existed since antiquity. In testimony during the Canadian court case that led to that country’s recognition of same-sex marriages in 2003, one historian pointed out that, although gay marriages did exist in ancient Rome, they were exceptional and not well regarded. What he didn’t mention was that when the Romans—who had no problem with homosexuality—argued against gay marriage, it was on the basis that no “real man” would ever willingly subordinate himself in the way required of a Roman wife.

    The same-sex marriage debate in the U.S. began edging its way into the political fray in 1991, when three gay couples from Hawaii sued that state for the right to legally marry. On May 5, 1993, the Hawaii Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling supporting the idea that it is discriminatory to deny gay men and lesbians the right to marry partners of their choice. Conservative response was swift in the form of the Federal Defense of Marriage Act, which passed overwhelmingly in both houses of Congress and was signed into law in 1996 by the lovable philanderer himself, President Bill Clinton. The act defines marriage as a legal union between one man and one woman, and says that states need not recognize same-sex marriages from other states.

    Defenders of traditional marriage say the Defense of Marriage Act is not enough. President Bush has backed efforts to amend the Constitution in defense against gay marriage, explaining,“There is no assurance that the Defense of Marriage Act will not, itself, be struck down by activist courts. In that event, every state would be forced to recognize any relationship that judges in Boston or officials in San Francisco choose to call a marriage.” The federal marriage amendment died in Congress last year, but last November, a newly named Federal Marriage Protection Amendment passed five to four in a subcommittee of the Judiciary Committee. If it survives the debating and voting of the full committee, it will proceed to the Senate for more of the same.

    “But, if and when a federal marriage amendment is ratified, marriage advocates may be surprised to discover that passing marriage protection laws may not be enough to save an institution in free-fall,” said Daniel Allott, a policy analyst for American Values, an organization dedicated to “uniting American people around the vision of our Founding Fathers.” Allott’s views appeared in a Houston Chronicle op-ed article on November 10, one day after the Federal Marriage Protection Amendment made it out of subcommittee. Two days earlier, Texas had become the nineteenth state to pass a constitutional amendment “preserving” marriage as between one man and one woman. The headline of Allott’s story asked, “Traditional Marriage Under Fire: Who’s Really to Blame?”

    That, according to Allott, would be me. He observed that despite a steady decline in marriage rates (nearly fifty percent over the past three decades, and twenty percent since 1995), “people have not given up living together.” Unmarried cohabitation has increased 1,200 percent since 1960, and “people are living as committed sexual partners in shared households without getting married.” These people, said Allott, are responsible for undermining support for traditional marriage. These people have damaged marriage enough, he said, to make room for debate about same-sex unions in the first place.

    “Clearly, the key players in the battle over marriage are not politicians, judges, or homosexual activists,” he wrote, “but rather the millions of heterosexual couples who have thumbed their noses at marriage and abandoned the institution. While same-sex nuptials would certainly trigger further marital demise, they are also a response to, and strong indication of, just how critically weakened the institution has become.”

    If, as some people say, the institution of marriage is practically dead, does it matter who is or is not allowed to partake in it? Massachusetts caused such a ruckus by granting legal recognition to same-sex marriages in 2004 that by the end of 2005, nineteen states had passed constitutional amendments against same-sex marriage. Vermont, on the other hand, has long sidestepped the issue by granting gay couples in civil unions all the legal rights of marriage except for the word “marriage.” Which brings me back to that sheet of recycled paper, and the question of whether or how much it changes anything. Is it the status of marriage—the legal and social benefits it confers—or the ritual of marriage that makes a difference, if in fact a difference exists? According to a website called ReligiousTolerance.org, there are more than one thousand rights, obligations, and privileges that the federal government automatically grants to all married couples. This surprises me. I haven’t, since my recent wedding, felt quite as showered by privileges as that statistic promises. I think Jon and I felt sanctified at our wedding—holy, special, privileged, protected—but we didn’t consciously consider whether marriage as a social institution was strong or weak. I doubt whether many betrothed couples, straight or gay, scrutinize their decision to marry in this light.

    None of these have been rhetorical or abstract questions for me. Jon and I were ambivalent about marriage, and comfortable with an alternative arrangement. We felt perfectly well accepted as a couple, married or not. Not surprising, according to British demographer Kathleen Kiernan. She theorizes that Europe and North America both are moving through a four-stage process that culminates with cohabitation being essentially equal in status to marriage. Sweden has reached stage four, with more babies born each year to cohabiting couples than to married ones, and with cohabiting parents no longer feeling compelled to marry even after the birth of a second child. The U.S. is thought to be in the beginning of stage three, where cohabitation is a socially acceptable alternative to marriage, but where most couples bearing children together eventually marry.

    So Allott and his entourage are right: People are shacking up like never before. In the U.S., they’re also living alone in greater numbers than ever, which is further testament to the changing patterns in how we live, and should probably warrant more concern than whether or not the people who are pairing up are gay, straight, married, or not. After all, consider Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Love and companionship are third in line for urgency, just after the most basic elements needed for physiological survival and safety. Human beings may be driven, biologically, to procreate, but a drive isn’t the same as a need, and what’s needed for survival of the species doesn’t always mirror what’s needed for survival of the individual. In fact, procreation doesn’t even make it onto Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Emotionally based relationships, on the other hand, are essential to human health and well-being. Love relationships take many forms, but marital love is arguably the most intimate and of the highest order.

    Jon and I could have taken legal steps to designate one another as next of kin, or we could have drawn up some other legal agreement to protect ourselves against the ravages of a future break-up. Yet those practical considerations weren’t really our main priorities when we talked about getting married. What we wanted was to participate in the tradition itself and to confirm our commitment in a universally recognized way. The wedding rite, in both civil and religious contexts, is, at its core, a celebration and a pact that hinges on a spoken promise in the presence of witnesses. For us, marriage represented a ritual and a state of being. We wanted to file taxes jointly, to be allowed to speak to each other’s account representatives on the telephone, and to be included as second drivers on rental car agreements without paying extra. We wanted to use the words “married” and “husband” and “wife” without the awkwardness and unease of feeling dishonest. Most of all, we wanted to make a promise to each other and, I suppose, to God, and to know that it was witnessed by others. And we wanted to be held fully accountable to this promise legally, socially, and spiritually.

    Sociologist Frank Furstenburg, speaking not of today’s extravagant wedding industry, but of the institution of marriage itself, has said, “It’s as if marriage has become a luxury item, available only to those with the means to bring it off. Living together or single-parenthood has become the budget way to start a family.” Plenty of people are going the “budget” route. A majority of couples now live together before marrying, and an increasing number of them have no plans to wed in the future. As for parenthood, more women than ever before consider single parenthood a viable route to motherhood in the absence of a suitable marriage partner, and one- third of all adoptions in the U.S. in 2001 were by single women. Statistics like these suggest that under certain circumstances, various alternatives to marriage carry less risk overall than does marriage itself.

    Meanwhile, the married household has lost serious ground as the normative model. In the 1950s, married couples made up eighty percent of all households, compared to fifty-one percent at the turn of the millennium. Many see marriage not as the rite of passage to adulthood that it once was, but as a stage of life that one should enter only after the hurdles to achieving stability—relationally and financially—have been overcome.

    I wonder how it affects people and their relationships to be denied the recognition of legal marriage. Yes, cohabitation has gained widespread social acceptance in the U.S. and elsewhere, but it does not fully parallel the benefits available through marriage. As historian Stephanie Coontz describes in her new book, Marriage, A History, “Arrangements other than marriage are still treated as makeshift or temporary, no matter how long they last. There is no consensus on what rules apply to these relationships. We don’t even know what to call them. The relationship between a cohabiting couple, whether heterosexual or same sex, is unacknowledged by law and may be ignored by friends and relatives of each partner. Marriage, in contrast, gives people a positive vocabulary and public image that set a high standard for the couple’s behavior and for the respect that outsiders ought to give their relationship.” True, many gay activists argue precisely the opposite point: They want no part of these retrograde social institutions, and view them as a form of selling out their movement.

    Catherine Newman, in her essay, “I Do. Not.,” from the anthology The Bitch in the House, cites the Defense of Marriage Act as one of the handful of reasons she herself has chosen to take a political stand against marriage. Instead, she chooses to cohabit with her longtime partner and father of her child: “Because I’d feel like a real A-hole if I put on a beaded cream bodice and vowed myself away in front of all our gay friends—smiling and polite in their dark silk shirts or gossiping wickedly about our choice of canapés—who cannot themselves marry.”

    I understand Newman’s position and commend it. But when I was twenty, I could not have taken the same stand. Eschewing or undermining marriage—my own or the institution—was the last thing I wanted to do.

    I came of age with the sorts of hearts-and-flowers ideas that send people’s eyes rolling back in their heads. I believed in destiny and soul mates and commitment and suffering for the greater good—and to a large extent, I still do, just with a lot more caution and humility. I certainly valued marriage as a sacred institution, and when I got married, it was going to be happy, healthy, and forever.

    But how does a social institution really affect a person’s daily life? How does it influence the decisions and internal struggles, the emotional reality, of one young woman on the cusp of her life as a wife and a mother? My attitudes, like most people’s, were rooted in personal history, which in my case involved my mother’s two divorces. I was too young to remember my dad leaving, so over time I integrated my sister’s mythologized memory: our dad’s legs and his shoes standing beside the marred yellow banister of our open staircase, his stiff suitcase, a pat on the head. Then he was gone. My future children would never possess such a scarring snapshot. For them, everything would be perfect. My childhood didn’t make me bitter, it made me something riskier: idealistic.

    Idealism led me to the altar at age twenty-one. Then, as soon as I descended the church steps, it began picking and tugging at my marriage. I could vaguely see this happening all along, as my real life very gradually unraveled beside the standard of perfection I measured it against. Some marriages withstand the stresses to which ours succumbed—youth, children born fast and many, and financial instability. God knows I wished to join their ranks. It wasn’t for lack of effort or love that my marriage failed—it was for lack of other necessary things, like knowing who I actually was. Barring that, a little forgiveness might have helped. I couldn’t forgive his mistakes, not because they hurt me (though they did) but because they so threatened my image of ideal marriage. Even less could I forgive my own, because back then such a compromise seemed akin to the death of idealism itself. Meanwhile, our mutual unmet needs stockpiled. On the eve of our twelfth anniversary, I lit the match and my ex-husband poured the gasoline. Then we both stood back to gape as the resulting inferno scorched and melted the contents of our shared life until the whole fiery thing collapsed on us and our children. Who can describe that kind of pain? Not me. I was frankly surprised to survive it.

    But I did. Now, I’m a “key player” in the battle over marriage. Along with everyone else I know, married or not, divorced or not. We are all participating in an unprecedented, massive cultural redefinition of marriage, simply by living in this time and place. Ironically, the expectations people have about marriage have never been higher. Thus the institution is both more fragile and more fulfilling than ever before.

    When I first got married in 1989, I did so smack in the middle of a thirty-year period in which marriage was undergoing more change than it had in the previous three thousand years. In Marriage, A History, Stephanie Coontz retraces the evolution of marriage from the beginnings of recorded history through today. According to Coontz, the divorce revolution of the sixties and seventies combined with a host of other factors (the decline of the traditional male-breadwinner marriage; new sexual mores; increased tolerance for out-of-wedlock births; and rising aspirations for self-fulfillment, to name a few) in the eighties and nineties “to create ‘the perfect storm’ in family life and marriage formation. And nothing in its path escaped unscathed.”

    These are not the conclusions Coontz—a respected and widely published family researcher—expected to draw when she began her scholarly research. As hinted at by the title of her first book, The Way We Never Were: American Families and the Nostalgia Trap, Coontz actually set to work on Marriage with the intention of debunking the idea that the institution was undergoing some sort of unprecedented crisis. “After all, for thousands of years people have been proclaiming a crisis in marriage and pointing backward to better days. The ancient Greeks complained bitterly about the declining morals of wives. The Romans bemoaned their high divorce rates, which they contrasted with an earlier era of family stability. The European settlers in America began lamenting the decline of the family and the disobedience of women and children almost as soon as they stepped off the boats . . . . Furthermore, many of the things that people think are unprecedented in family life today are not actually new. Almost every marital and sexual arrangement we have seen in recent years, however startling it may appear, has been tried somewhere before. There have been societies and times when nonmarrried sex and out-of-wedlock births were more common and widely accepted than they are today. Stepfamilies were much more common in the past, the result of high death rates and frequent remarriages. Even divorce rates have been higher in some regions and periods than they are in Europe and North America today. And same-sex marriage, though rare, has been sanctioned in some cultures under certain conditions.”

    Despite all this, Coontz’s research still took her by surprise. As she consulted with colleagues around the world, she gradually determined that the current rearrangements in both married and single life are in fact without historical precedent. But the seed for all this tumult wasn’t the oft-blamed sexual revolution, says Coontz. The trouble got started much, much earlier, in the late eighteenth century, in the form of an idea so radical it immediately began destabilizing marriage on a cultural and individual level: That people should be free to choose a marriage partner based, first and foremost, on love.

    Before love entered into it, marriage had been seen by societies around the globe as primarily a vital economic and political institution. Some cultures considered love a potential side effect to marriage, and others frowned on its presence in marriage altogether. But either way, it was deemed highly unacceptable for marriage “to be left entirely to the free choice of the two individuals involved, especially if they were going to base their decision on something as unreasoning and transitory as love.” If people went around marrying for love, they were going to demand to leave their marriages when love failed. The same notion that could make marriage such an extraordinary relationship could also render it optional and fragile.

    For thousands of years, the aim of marriage had been to establish beneficial kinship bonds and to pool or transfer resources for maximum economic and political advantage. Then suddenly, Europeans and Americans started expecting and even demanding emotional and sexual fulfillment from their marriages. Crises were bound to erupt.

    But this attitudinal shift alone, however cataclysmic, could not have brought us to where we are today. Coontz points to four key factors that made the difference: First, changes in the 1920s blurred boundaries between male and female spheres, and introduced the notion that sexual satisfaction was important for women as well as men. Second, urbanization increased anonymity and made it tougher to control individual behavior and punish nonconformity. Third, advances in birth control and abolishment of “illegitimacy” as a legal designation weakened the sway that pregnancy and childbearing held over marital choices. Finally, the legal autonomy and economic self-sufficiency achieved by women in the seventies and eighties opened up many alternatives to traditional marriage for both sexes.

    In a breathtakingly short time, society’s ability to push people into marriage or keep them there disintegrated. Writes Coontz: “People no longer needed to marry in order to construct successful lives or long-lasting sexual relationships. With that, thousands of years of tradition came to an end.”

    I’m really happy to be married to Jon. Over the years, we’ve built a relationship that strengthens us both, and our new marriage does feel like a sort of shroud of protection. I’m not sure if we could have sustained a marriage had we not spent so much time preparing for it. With our nuptials only a few months old, it’s a little soon to be making proclamations about our marriage’s longevity. I definitely don’t think we would have sustained a marriage to each other in our twenties, just as we weren’t able to sustain our marriages to our first partners. For lots of complicated reasons, we are both people who needed the buffering of time and experience to gain the self-knowledge and skills that marriage requires.

    I think, knowing all that I now do, that I would have felt heartbroken to be denied all this by those who might decree, as Daniel Allott does, that marriage is undermined by people who divorce and cohabit. I’m not saying that Allott is entirely wrong. In fact, he’s not. Marriage as a required construct of modern social life is undermined by those who divorce and cohabit. But marriage as a free and conscious choice is not. Unlike Allott, I no longer assume that marriage is required in modern social life. Love’s inclusion in the equation has complicated matters and weakened marriage as an institution, but it has also elevated the potential of marriage to be something it never was before—a path to fulfillment and spiritual growth.

    At our wedding, Jon’s nineteen-year-old daughter sang with two of our friends. It was a gorgeous Iron and Wine tune, sweet and melancholy, with lyrics full of love and awe: One of us will die inside these arms/Eyes wide open/Naked as we came. I cried as Britta sang, because it hasn’t always been easy and yet there she was, there we were, Jon and me.