Chuck Thompson - The Status Revolution: The Improbable Story of How the Lowbrow Became the Highbrow

The Status Revolution

The Improbable Story of How the Lowbrow Became the Highbrow

Chuck Thompson

Author of Smile When Youre Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer

This and everything else to The One and Only Joyce

THE WOMAN ON THE RIVERBANK really wanted us to know it was bin Ladens dog.

Well, first she wanted us to know it was a rescue dog. Of course. No one can introduce you to their pooch anymore without letting you know four seconds into the conversation that good ol Shasta or Quinoa or Sir Barks-a-Lot is a rescue.

I was a late adopter to the phrase. For several years after rescue dog became part of the popular vernacular, I assumed we were talking about animals that sniffed survivors out of earthquake rubble. Or charged twenty-five miles through blizzards and leapt through snowdrifts with mini-kegs of brandy around their necks. Gradually, I figured it out.

Ohhhhhh! Rescue dog? You mean you got Crazer from the pound?

Not long ago, people described dogs they picked up from animal shelters as mutts or mixed breeds. Somewhere along the linemid-nineties, near as I can tellpeople began attempting to confer a new kind of status upon themselves through the acquisition of orphaned animals. It still took me a while to sort out that the rescue bit refers as much to the owners pedigree as the dogs. I mean, if that wasnt the case, wouldnt they more accurately be called rescued dogs? As in, I, in signaling my empathy for all living creatures as well as a bottomless well of selflessness, rescued from barbarian euthanasia the princely beast presently interrogating your pants.

The lady on the riverbank, though? Her dog was apparently a noteworthy save.

This was along the North Fork Tongue River in Wyomings Bighorn National Forest. Id met up with my buddy Chris to do some camping and fishing. The woman was probably in her mid-fifties. Husband same. Both dangling with all the freshly unwrapped Smith/Simms/Sage gear youd expect to find artfully strewn around an Orvis catalog shoot.

The dog looked like a medium-sized German shepherd. Deep fawn and mahogany coat. Powerful shoulders. Long, dark muzzle. Those half-feral, silvery eyes certain herding breeds have. The moment wed gotten out of our truck, the inquisitive animal had raced over to sniff out any signs of trouble.

Shes the dog from the bin Laden raid, the woman called from across the gravel parking area. This salutation was unexpected. Were we meant to be intimidated or reassured by the dogs bin Laden bloodline?

The dogs owner ambled over to chat up Chris. She launched right into Bridgers backstory. Dog used in bin Laden raid. Rescue animal. Superintelligent. Great with kids.

I kept my distance. But as we headed toward the water, the womans astonishing claim kept nagging at me.

Hold up a sec. This dog, this very dog right here in an obscure pullout along Highway 14A on the North Fork Tongue River, this is the dog famous for taking part in the 2011 Navy SEAL raid on Osama bin Ladens compound in Pakistan? The dog that helped take out the most notorious terrorist of the century? The dog the New York Post celebrated beneath the headline Zero Bark Thirty? A rescue? I know we treat our veterans like yesterdays trash in this country, but even a hero of this stature had been kicked to the curb? That dog was this dog? What were the chances?

The womans story was a whopper, even for fishermen. I needed confirmation. I crunched across the lot in my rubber boots, keenly aware of the inadequacy of the forthcoming attempt to present myself as a fellow dog person.

Excuse me, hi, hey, hello, whoa there poochie, nice doggie, good doggie, down girl, I said, brushing away a determined snout. I couldnt help overhearing you saying your dog took part in the raid that killed Osama bin Laden. Thats amazing. Though I didnt actually add the words and total bullshit, the mirthless coda running through my mind was pretty clearly implied.

Oh, no, no. The woman walked back the brag with a little smile. Shes a Belgian Malinois. Thats the breed of dog that was used in the bin Laden raid.

Ahhhh, okay, I said. That makes more sense.

I stood there trying to pet Bridger, but she kept bobbing and weaving like a welterweight warming up in the locker room. I didnt really need any more information, but the woman was eager to embellish.

She might have some German shepherd in her. And lab. Were not sure. Shes a rescue, she said.

Yeah, I heard that.

Okay. So one mystery solved. Not the actual bin Laden dog. Just the same type of dog. More or less. But larger questions remained.

Why would anyone in Gods green acre (folksy idioms tend to roll off the tongue when youre in Wyoming) feel an appropriate way of breaking the ice with a pair of strangers would be to associate their pet with the architect of the most notorious foreign terror strike since Pearl Harbor? Were Chris and I simply in the presence of an unusual overreach at virtue signaling? Was this just typical pleased-with-themselves rescue owner braggadocio? Have pets finally replaced children as the fallback conversation starter of the times? Or was something more meaningful going on?

EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK, Americans are signaling status in new ways. We live in a time when ugly shoes (Balenciaga-issued Crocs, as of this writing) and flashy water bottles (VitaJuwel for the gym) inspire envy in the way a pair of Louis Vuittons or a Baccarat Harmonie crystal whiskey decanter might; an era in which your CEO might just as easily show up for work in baggy jeans and a hoodie as a set of snazzy Tom Ford separates or Louboutin heels.

Nothing is uniform. But its not just a matter of replacing networks with Netflix or Testarossas for Teslas. Shifting tastes indicate shifting values.

Shortly after my encounter with the bin Laden dog, a pair of startling stories that appeared in news feeds across the country illustrated the point. They caught my attention for offering immeasurable new information about status; a commodity, Ive always assumed, thats perpetually in short supply.

The first was from the Columbia Business School in New York. It made an astounding claim. According to a study conducted at the school, a busy and overworked lifestyle, rather than a leisurely lifestyle, has become an aspirational status symbol.

Overwork as a status symbol? Hey, great news coal miners, hotel maids, and burned-out staff in every streamlined American workplace employing fewer people to do more work: you guys clocking sixty-hour workweeks, answering texts from colleagues on the john, and checking work emails in bed are moving on up!

The idea sounded preposterous. Werent the studys authors simply retrofitting an optimistic aspirationelevated social statusto the dismal reality that companies are working their employees harder while keeping wages stagnant and providing substandard benefits? By promoting a fantasy of grindstone prestige, werent the Columbia professors complicit in corporate Americas HR snow job of an increasingly powerless workforce? I tracked down one of the professors involved in the research to ask.

Nowadays work has become more than when Charlie Chaplin used to go to the factory to work a shift and earn his wage and go home, Columbia associate professor of business Silvia Bellezza told me. Especially for white-collar people, its gone far beyond a workplace where you earn a salary and go back home. Work is where you build social bonds and receive other benefits from employment. The paradigm of spending money on expensive stuff or spending time on leisure as a status signal, theyve basically become obsolete.