Month: July 2001

In the summer of 1971, Stanford psychology professor Philip Zimbardo turned a campus basement into a prison. Equipping the prison with hidden cameras and microphones, Zimbardo hoped to record and study prison behavior with “normal” and “healthy” college students. Males responded to an ad in the paper, underwent medical and psychological evaluations, and were then assigned a role as either a “guard” or a “prisoner,” based on the flip of a coin.

As the experiment progressed, guards and prisoners took to their respective roles with alarming speed. Guards became hostile and power-driven, routinely humiliating the prisoners and using physical exercise as discipline. The guards also quickly realized the value of destroying the solidarity of the prisoners, establishing a “privilege cell” where the prisoners could shower and change smocks, sleep on a bed, and use proper toilet facilities. Of course, such special treatment drew notice from the other prisoners and all cohesiveness in the group melted.

The prisoners changed from confident college men to depressed and withdrawn inmates exhibiting sociopath behavior. One prisoner had to be released because he cried uncontrollably and began to behave dangerously. The behavior of both guards and prisoners deteriorated so quickly that Zimbardo called off the experiment after six days instead of its planned two weeks. Zimbardo wouldn’t have done so except for the intervention of another Stanford psychologist, Christina Maslach, who came into the prison late in the experiment.

Maslach immediately recognized that Zimbardo and his study team had lost all scientific objectivity and were acting more as prison authorities than professors. As an example, a rumor had made its way to Zimbardo that the released prisoner would attempt a “prison break” with some compatriots.

Instead of observing the proceedings as observation psychologists, Zimbardo instructed his staff to move the prisoners out of the prison and completely break it down. When the ex-prisoner and his posse arrived, Zimbardo would inform them that the experiment was over and that all prisoners had been released. There was even talk of trying to “recapture” the ex-prisoner. The attempt never happened and the psychology professors did not attempt to record a single amount of data that day, a cardinal sin in experimentation. They were geared toward controlling the prisoners and keeping the game going.

The famous (and infamous) Stanford Prison Experiment has a clear message: One’s surroundings dictates one’s perceptions.

The results are particularly salient in regards to today’s standard fare of reality TV. In these shows, contestants are taken out of their regular lives and thrown into an environment where it is not only encouraged but expected to risk life and limb. Whether these events are based in the real world is irrelevant. The contestants and producers treat them as real.

It isn’t hard to see the parallels between Zimbardo’s failed experiment and reality TV. Hidden cameras and microphones abound. Survivor featured moments where contestants were taken away during the night and indulged with a shower or good food while their group suffered. In The Mole, one contestant does his or her best to make a muck of the group’s ability to accomplish goals. The lack of solidarity frequently provides the shows’ most potent fireworks.

Also prevalent is the work of the producers to keep the game going rather than to care for the contestants. Recently, on Big Brother 2, one contestant threatened to kill another as he held a kitchen knife to her throat. No one in production raised a hand to stop him though they did get the whole thing on tape. It was only after the event that they intervened. It wasn’t as if the guy was a serial killer. He took psychological tests and physical examinations similar to the participants of Zimbardo’s study. In both cases, no test or examination could predict behavior in a radically different environment. The producers of these reality TV shows have no idea who will turn dangerous.

The question is how far we allow this to go. With one show asking contestants to solve a murder (Small Town X), one show asking contestants to face their biggest fears (Fear Factor), and one show (Spy TV) which is akin to Candid Camera on crack, the possibilities are endless. And while we hope no one will intentionally get hurt or hurt another, participants show little ability to discern reality from fantasy. Who’s to say that the next Mole will not take his/her job so seriously that the only solution is to whack the other contestants?

Reality can be a fascinating subject with more drawing power than fantasy. At the same time, some line needs to exist, separating “good, fun reality” with “bad, dangerous reality” before someone gets hurt. Today’s shows don’t rule out that possibility. Participants in all shows must sign multiple waivers eschewing all blame of hurt or even death in exchange for the chance to get Lost in the wilderness while the cameras watch.

This is not a call for a standards and practices for reality shows. If contestants willingly go and do these things and people willingly tune in to watch reality that is more interesting than their own existence, such is life. But it’s not asking too much to pay heed to the work, no matter how ill-conceived, that has been done in the past. If Maslach had not intervened, the Stanford Prisoner Experiment could have likely ended with a prisoner being beaten or raped or a guard being overpowered. Let’s find our Maslach and make sure that doesn’t happen on network TV.

I left high school with an affinity for two things: dark-haired boys who smoke Marlboro cigarettes and the color black, the darker the better. My hair, my clothes, my accessories … all the color of coal.

But recently I broke the first rule in my Goth girl bible: I dyed my naturally blue-black hair blond (a sunny yellow blond, not even platinum). Ever since then, I feel weird. As if I’ve fallen into some parallel universe. Like Morticia Addams goes to cheerleader camp. Or better yet, an episode of The Twilight Zone (part of this might be due to the influence of reality television shows on my psyche).

I’m not sure how a me with blond hair should act. I mean, I’ve spent years and years working on my black-haired personality. I have clothes I wear, things I do. And none of it seems to work with the blond.

The other day I was at the Blue Monkey. It was a Monday; there was a band. I went up to the bar and ordered two beers and the bartender carded me. That’s not that unusual. But then, when I gave him my driver’s license, he told me he couldn’t serve me. I didn’t know what to say, as I am a ripe old 23, so I weakly protested and he said he would send a server over to my table to take my order.

I never really fully understood the logic. But it didn’t matter because he was lying! No server ever came to the table; the bartender thought I was underage and just wanted me to leave. I have never been completely denied, shut down, not served in my life.

Believe me, I’m flattered, but also wondering if I’m ever going to get a drink in this town again. Or am I going to have to get a new driver’s license? Should I get a new driver’s license?

Already my choice in clothing has changed a little bit (as black doesn’t look great with my new coloring) and, as odd as it sounds, I can feel my personality changing.

The other day I was at Zinnie’s with a friend and a man with a laptop approached our booth, asking where we were from. To avoid confusion, we told him Memphis, but that didn’t seem to satisfy him. He asked again and my friend and I give each other a look– you know the look, puzzled, a little wary — and I say, “We’re from Orlando.” (Why Orlando? Why not?)

Laptop Man sees the look and says that he isn’t interested in knowing, but that someone else, someone he doesn’t know, asked him to come over and find out.

With that he leaves, but soon he’s back and asking us again where we’re from. Now, my friend is Indian and after we say “Orlando” once again, he turns to her and says, “No, where are you from? Originally?”

“Who wants to know?” she says.

He then points to an Indian man in the bar sitting with a bunch of friends, so my friend tells him what part of India she’s from and he scurries off (Did I mention he’s still carrying his Laptop around?). But I can see him talking to someone, presumably passing on the information, and it’s not the Indian guy he pointed to; it’s another guy, someone very much not Indian, sitting at the bar.

Again, he comes back a few minutes later, only now he’s carrying a tray with three drinks on it. He gives us each one, but doesn’t sit down. Instead he says, “I don’t work here; that guy sent these over,” and again points to the Indian guy. But as far as I’ve seen — and I was facing his direction the entire time — Laptop man has never spoken to the Indian guy. Ever. And after he leaves the table, I see him go over to Non-Indian guy at the bar and give him one of the drinks. Does he think I cannot see him? Because I can.

Through all this, though, my friend and I are not overly concerned about what’s going on. It’s just so random. Then Laptop guy leaves the bar and in his wake, Non-Indian guy at the bar comes over.

Before, I think raven-tressed me might have told him to go away. But as a blond, I just don’t feel as tough. Which was fine, because that makes this story all the better. Or, at least, it makes this story passable.

“Hey,” he says as he sits down, “that guy told me ya’ll were asking about me and said for me to come over here and talk to you guys after he left.”

He did? We did? Hello, Candid Camera?

I ask: “Did you know that guy?”

And no, he didn’t. It was just some guy who gave him a free drink (and said it was from us, I assume). And then he says, “So ya’ll are from New Orleans?”

Orlando, New Orleans, close enough … especially since we weren’t from Orlando to begin with. The whole thing was so weird. We ended up talking to Non-Indian guy for probably an hour but, during that whole time, probably only told the truth once.

This is all to say, perhaps not very effectively, that this blond thing has its up and down sides (if you consider lying to someone for an hour as an upside, which of course, I do, because it was fun). And I’m starting to really like the upsides. Even if it means buying new clothes and giving up the color black altogether.

Just don’t ask me to give up dark-haired boys who smoke. That’s out of the question.

In the summer of 1971, Stanford psychology professor Philip Zimbardo turned a campus basement into a prison. Equipping the prison with hidden cameras and microphones, Zimbardo hoped to record and study prison behavior with “normal” and “healthy” college students. Males responded to an ad in the paper, underwent medical and psychological evaluations, and were then assigned a role as either a “guard” or a “prisoner,” based on the flip of a coin.

As the experiment progressed, guards and prisoners took to their respective roles with alarming speed. Guards became hostile and power-driven, routinely humiliating the prisoners and using physical exercise as discipline. The guards also quickly realized the value of destroying the solidarity of the prisoners, establishing a “privilege cell” where the prisoners could shower and change smocks, sleep on a bed, and use proper toilet facilities. Of course, such special treatment drew notice from the other prisoners and all cohesiveness in the group melted.

The prisoners changed from confident college men to depressed and withdrawn inmates exhibiting sociopath behavior. One prisoner had to be released because he cried uncontrollably and began to behave dangerously. The behavior of both guards and prisoners deteriorated so quickly that Zimbardo called off the experiment after six days instead of its planned two weeks. Zimbardo wouldn’t have done so except for the intervention of another Stanford psychologist, Christina Maslach, who came into the prison late in the experiment.

Maslach immediately recognized that Zimbardo and his study team had lost all scientific objectivity and were acting more as prison authorities than professors. As an example, a rumor had made its way to Zimbardo that the released prisoner would attempt a “prison break” with some compatriots.

Instead of observing the proceedings as observation psychologists, Zimbardo instructed his staff to move the prisoners out of the prison and completely break it down. When the ex-prisoner and his posse arrived, Zimbardo would inform them that the experiment was over and that all prisoners had been released. There was even talk of trying to “recapture” the ex-prisoner. The attempt never happened and the psychology professors did not attempt to record a single amount of data that day, a cardinal sin in experimentation. They were geared toward controlling the prisoners and keeping the game going.

The famous (and infamous) Stanford Prison Experiment has a clear message: One’s surroundings dictates one’s perceptions.

The results are particularly salient in regards to today’s standard fare of reality TV. In these shows, contestants are taken out of their regular lives and thrown into an environment where it is not only encouraged but expected to risk life and limb. Whether these events are based in the real world is irrelevant. The contestants and producers treat them as real.

It isn’t hard to see the parallels between Zimbardo’s failed experiment and reality TV. Hidden cameras and microphones abound. Survivor featured moments where contestants were taken away during the night and indulged with a shower or good food while their group suffered. In The Mole, one contestant does his or her best to make a muck of the group’s ability to accomplish goals. The lack of solidarity frequently provides the shows’ most potent fireworks.

Also prevalent is the work of the producers to keep the game going rather than to care for the contestants. Recently, on Big Brother 2, one contestant threatened to kill another as he held a kitchen knife to her throat. No one in production raised a hand to stop him though they did get the whole thing on tape. It was only after the event that they intervened. It wasn’t as if the guy was a serial killer. He took psychological tests and physical examinations similar to the participants of Zimbardo’s study. In both cases, no test or examination could predict behavior in a radically different environment. The producers of these reality TV shows have no idea who will turn dangerous.

The question is how far we allow this to go. With one show asking contestants to solve a murder (Small Town X), one show asking contestants to face their biggest fears (Fear Factor), and one show (Spy TV) which is akin to Candid Camera on crack, the possibilities are endless. And while we hope no one will intentionally get hurt or hurt another, participants show little ability to discern reality from fantasy. Who’s to say that the next Mole will not take his/her job so seriously that the only solution is to whack the other contestants?

Reality can be a fascinating subject with more drawing power than fantasy. At the same time, some line needs to exist, separating “good, fun reality” with “bad, dangerous reality” before someone gets hurt. Today’s shows don’t rule out that possibility. Participants in all shows must sign multiple waivers eschewing all blame of hurt or even death in exchange for the chance to get Lost in the wilderness while the cameras watch.

This is not a call for a standards and practices for reality shows. If contestants willingly go and do these things and people willingly tune in to watch reality that is more interesting than their own existence, such is life. But it’s not asking too much to pay heed to the work, no matter how ill-conceived, that has been done in the past. If Maslach had not intervened, the Stanford Prisoner Experiment could have likely ended with a prisoner being beaten or raped or a guard being overpowered. Let’s find our Maslach and make sure that doesn’t happen on network TV.

I left high school with an affinity for two things: dark-haired boys who smoke Marlboro cigarettes and the color black, the darker the better. My hair, my clothes, my accessories … all the color of coal.

But recently I broke the first rule in my Goth girl bible: I dyed my naturally blue-black hair blond (a sunny yellow blond, not even platinum). Ever since then, I feel weird. As if I’ve fallen into some parallel universe. Like Morticia Addams goes to cheerleader camp. Or better yet, an episode of The Twilight Zone (part of this might be due to the influence of reality television shows on my psyche).

I’m not sure how a me with blond hair should act. I mean, I’ve spent years and years working on my black-haired personality. I have clothes I wear, things I do. And none of it seems to work with the blond.

The other day I was at the Blue Monkey. It was a Monday; there was a band. I went up to the bar and ordered two beers and the bartender carded me. That’s not that unusual. But then, when I gave him my driver’s license, he told me he couldn’t serve me. I didn’t know what to say, as I am a ripe old 23, so I weakly protested and he said he would send a server over to my table to take my order.

I never really fully understood the logic. But it didn’t matter because he was lying! No server ever came to the table; the bartender thought I was underage and just wanted me to leave. I have never been completely denied, shut down, not served in my life.

Believe me, I’m flattered, but also wondering if I’m ever going to get a drink in this town again. Or am I going to have to get a new driver’s license? Should I get a new driver’s license?

Already my choice in clothing has changed a little bit (as black doesn’t look great with my new coloring) and, as odd as it sounds, I can feel my personality changing.

The other day I was at Zinnie’s with a friend and a man with a laptop approached our booth, asking where we were from. To avoid confusion, we told him Memphis, but that didn’t seem to satisfy him. He asked again and my friend and I give each other a look — you know the look, puzzled, a little wary — and I say, “We’re from Orlando.” (Why Orlando? Why not?)

Laptop Man sees the look and says that he isn’t interested in knowing, but that someone else, someone he doesn’t know, asked him to come over and find out.

With that he leaves, but soon he’s back and asking us again where we’re from. Now, my friend is Indian and after we say “Orlando” once again, he turns to her and says, “No, where are you from? Originally?”

“Who wants to know?” she says.

He then points to an Indian man in the bar sitting with a bunch of friends, so my friend tells him what part of India she’s from and he scurries off (Did I mention he’s still carrying his Laptop around?). But I can see him talking to someone, presumably passing on the information, and it’s not the Indian guy he pointed to; it’s another guy, someone very much not Indian, sitting at the bar.

Again, he comes back a few minutes later, only now he’s carrying a tray with three drinks on it. He gives us each one, but doesn’t sit down. Instead he says, “I don’t work here; that guy sent these over,” and again points to the Indian guy. But as far as I’ve seen — and I was facing his direction the entire time — Laptop man has never spoken to the Indian guy. Ever. And after he leaves the table, I see him go over to Non-Indian guy at the bar and give him one of the drinks. Does he think I cannot see him? Because I can.

Through all this, though, my friend and I are not overly concerned about what’s going on. It’s just so random. Then Laptop guy leaves the bar and in his wake, Non-Indian guy at the bar comes over.

Before, I think raven-tressed me might have told him to go away. But as a blond, I just don’t feel as tough. Which was fine, because that makes this story all the better. Or, at least, it makes this story passable.

“Hey,” he says as he sits down, “that guy told me ya’ll were asking about me and said for me to come over here and talk to you guys after he left.”

He did? We did? Hello, Candid Camera?

I ask: “Did you know that guy?”

And no, he didn’t. It was just some guy who gave him a free drink (and said it was from us, I assume). And then he says, “So ya’ll are from New Orleans?”

Orlando, New Orleans, close enough … especially since we weren’t from Orlando to begin with. The whole thing was so weird. We ended up talking to Non-Indian guy for probably an hour but, during that whole time, probably only told the truth once.

This is all to say, perhaps not very effectively, that this blond thing has its up and down sides (if you consider lying to someone for an hour as an upside, which of course, I do, because it was fun). And I’m starting to really like the upsides. Even if it means buying new clothes and giving up the color black altogether.

Just don’t ask me to give up dark-haired boys who smoke. That’s out of the question.

It hit me not long ago that I write this column every week under the impression that no one really reads it. I mean, you don’t care that I woke up this morning with an uncontrollable muscular twitch in my left eyelid, which means, I assume, that it is now on its way to matching my other eye, which is permanently lazy. You don’t care that in the midst of all this, before the sun was up, my cat began clawing my head as a means of persuading me to get out of the bed and lay out the Fancy Feast breakfast, only to take one look at it, walk away, get back in the bed, and, literally, stick her tongue out at me. I don’t even care. She does that all the time. I’m too concerned with trying to figure out which force of nature or fate caused me to go out and buy a new crock pot — and be very excited about it — and then run over it in the driveway upon arriving home. Fortunately, I then remembered I already have one and haven’t used it in, oh, 10 years. So because you don’t care about any of this and neither do I and therefore I assume no one is reading this, I am always tempted to just toss in things that aren’t true to see if anyone catches them. Something that is true, and which I greeted with a great deal of delight, was a recent front-page newspaper headline that contained the words “Putin” and “missile shield.” Am I the only one juvenile enough to find this exciting? And then there was this passage from the article: President Bush and Russian president Vladimir Putin agreed Sunday to link discussions of a U.S. missile defense system with the prospect of large cuts in both nuclear arsenals, hinting that if the accord is reached quickly it might give the two more time together to dress up like Carol Burnett and Vicky Lawrence and hit the Moscow nightclub circuit, drinking vodka shooters all night while entertaining the crowds with their ad lib comedy skits from the popular television show Mama’s Family. While non-English-speaking Russians may have missed some of the down-home humor as the two bantered about who baked the best pies to serve at the church bazaar, they did enjoy seeing President Bush in a very curly gray wig, which some thought was his real hair, and a floral print dress. After a long night of cabaret and gay bar-hopping, the two world leaders made one final stop and resumed their talks about nuclear weapons, removing their orthopedic shoes and flesh-toned panty hose but demanding that the deejay continue playing a techno dance-mix version of the Sister Sledge hit “We Are Family.” When the topic of offensive arms came up, the two presidents began swatting at the flab on their lower biceps, each telling the other he didn’t look so bad. Both are expected to end the talks in a few weeks, at which time they plan to focus their energy on getting tickets to the upcoming Madonna concert in Atlanta… See? I could have just slipped that in and no one would be the wiser, except for, perhaps, a woman I used to know whose name is Babe Weiser.