PrintI remember visiting Columbia University for the first time in my junior year of high school. My perky tour guide pointed out the many advantages of attending a university in the Big Apple.
“One of the great things about Columbia is that we have free access to New York’s finest museums, including the Museum of Modern Art and the Met!” Overzealous parents perked up at the mention of an opportunity for their children’s cultural immersion, while I compared this freebie with those that were offered at the other universities I had visited, such as free laundry and regular visits by C-list stand-up comedians. Of course, today I do greatly appreciate these locations to which Columbia students have free access, as well as the wealth of cultural institutions that New York City offers in general. An afternoon at the Guggenheim or a night at the theater adds much-needed excitement to a weekend spent mostly poring over readings and watching Internet television. But sometimes, I do worry that the city lacks offerings that can only be categorized as “entertainment.” I had yearned for the anti-cerebral, and was unable to discover a satisfactory opportunity for such among the film festivals and gallery openings—I guess the tour guide forgot to mention we have New Jersey next door.
Spotting the perfect opportunity to hurl myself off of the ivory tower, my partner and I snagged discounted tickets to “Monster Jam Freestyle Mania,” a monster truck show. If you are unfamiliar with the “sport,” monster truck shows are the equivalent of a talent show for pick-up trucks given a healthy dose of HGH and Americana. Our night began with a convoluted journey to East Rutherford’s IZOD Center via the infamous NJ Transit. Our travels took us from Penn Station to the newly constructed Secaucus train station, which was built with a New Jersey-appropriate bloated budget. Offering a Dunkin’ Donuts and a chain sports bar (one of the fancy types, with a salad bar), the rest of the station was open walking space outfitted with glossed tile that the Real Housewives would be proud to have in their own homes.
Once we had entered the actual arena, we immediately noticed the gargantuan vehicles and their indoor playground. Excavated car bodies were lined up to form the aerial incline from which the trucks would demonstrate the amazing tricks man can play on gravity. If only Darwin were born a couple centuries later, he could really see where evolution has taken us. I was particularly intrigued by the trucks’ choices in nomenclature—with names like “Prowler,” “Predator,” and “Grave Digger,” I assumed that either the names were chosen based on their intimidating properties, or the drivers were simply making the audience aware of their alternate career paths, just in case the whole “running things over” job didn’t work out.
The audience was mostly composed of families, although it was often difficult to tell whether the entertainment was meant for the children, or the fathers. The children’s reactions to the action fell into three categories. The pre-adolescents fist pumped in tune to the engines’ roar, while the younger ones cowered in fear, and the remainder gnawed contentedly on their $10 snow cones.
As I attempted to take everything in, the lights dimmed and the audience started hollering. The event’s announcer, sporting sideburns of which Abraham Lincoln would be jealous, kicked off the event with a ceremony of tear-jerking patriotism. After honoring those who service our nation, I felt a discomforting mix of emotions—moved by the national spirit, but disturbed by the ambiguous “other” when the host exclaimed, “You can’t take away our freedom!” Then the games began.
A pattern eventually revealed itself with each competition—the same vehicle, Grave Digger (also known as “the purple and green, mean machine”), won every single competition. I was especially enraged when it earned first place in the “donut” contest, the judging of which I found most suspect. But I could easily see that the results pleased the audience, most of whom wore mocks of the truck as hats while brandishing the truck’s signature Jolly Roger flag. Its driver, Gary Porter, had a generous soul, however. After each of his victory speeches (delivered in an unintelligible Southern accent), he would climb into the stadium’s audience and hand over each trophy to a lucky fan. He was a crowd-pleaser through and through, even though he didn’t vary his routine very much.
At the competition’s halftime, the show’s sponsor, Ford Advance Auto Parts, took advantage of its Second Amendment rights, launching T-shirts into the stands and satiating an audience starving for swag. After being assaulted by advertisers, we were given a surprise performance by extreme athletes, who acted as a testament to the strength of America’s life insurance system. The show started off slowly, with some impressive stunts using an array of vehicles. The amount of risk in the show quickly escalated, however, until a point during which all the vehicles were on display simultaneously. I nearly soiled myself as I watched motocross bikes and all-terrain vehicles flip over BMX riders, all of whom were circled by people riding motorcycles by sitting on their handlebars.
The remainder of the show didn’t vary from the event’s formula (by the end, six individuals had their own Monster Jam trophies), but there was not a moment at which I was bored, during my three hours there. Should I be admonished for indulging in low-brow cultural voyeurism? Possibly. But I can’t deny that I had a hell of a time at Monster Jam.