College . 06/02/2008 01:06 AM . David Sessions

As of last weekend, I am no longer a college student. But to prepare myself for the wide, frightening world of adulthood—the world of sushi, sandwiches and salads—I spent my last three months of higher education as a daily patron of McDonald’s.

No, you don’t understand.

I don’t mean that in the clichéd, college-kids-aren’t-healthy sort of way. I mean it in the “I prepared a total of four meals at my house from January to May, and God knows I can only afford to spend $3 a meal” kind of way. The other were consumed, usually with ticking watch in hand and flashing cops in tow, en route to wherever I was late. From what I’m guessing, that’s around 300 five-minute meals.

I was okay with that. I’ve never been one who believes eating red meat every day and dessert every night will result in premature death. I’m not afraid of cancer. I don’t smoke, drink only in moderation, and have never tried an illegal drug. That alone puts me ahead of 65 percent of my demographic in the longevity department. I figured I would keep eating fast-food until a) I started getting fat (not likely) or b) I made enough money to eat every meal at a sit-down restaurant (also not likely). So I was fully prepared—read: conscience bound and gagged—for at least another decade of occasional Big Macs and more occasional binges on salty French fries.

That was before Thom Yorke finally got to me.

In one final act of twenty-somethingness (okay, you got me, probably not-so-final), I was undergoing furtive preparations for my first time to see Radiohead live. Blissfully unaware that show night in Bristow, Virginia would turn into a rain-and-misery-drenched disaster, the Radiohead collection was on heavy rotation in my car—particularly OK Computer, which, since the release of that shiny, colored new album, had gotten the shaft. I’ve always met Computer’s nihilistic paranoia at arm’s length—with artistic awe, but not much eagerness to commiserate. I’m not afraid of technology or of society in general, after all. I didn’t stock up on SPAM or spend thousands on a generator before Y2K. I pay my bills and buy most everything I own online. I heart Facebook. What’s there to be so unnerved about, Thom? Come on! You’re a genius, but seriously. Have a little fun. Pretend Karma doesn’t exist. Stop fantasizing about car crashes. Only rabbits get myxomatosis.

One particular afternoon, I was late to class and starving. I eat as little as I can get away with, but I knew I’d be in for a vicious, irreversible headache if I waited until 3 p.m., the end of my class, to have lunch. But I already had only five minutes to make a seven-minute trip. Without regard for the bloodthirsty vampire bat of a Virginia policeman probably waiting around the corner, I roared out of my development toward the highway on-ramp. As if watching me from above, Thom wailed, “Heyyyy, maaaaan! Sloooow downnn, sloooow doooown!”

For once, I actually heard the lyrics I’d listened to so many times—heard them for something besides an abstractly brilliant selection of nouns, verbs, and modifiers. Not to get all voice-of-God on you, but I did need to slow down. Chronic irresponsibility was leading to dangerous behavior, and Radiohead, my new choir of shoulder angels, were watching. I slowed down.

By the time I made it through into the McDonald’s drive-through, inching impatiently toward the vehicle ahead as class began without me, Radiohead resumed the lecture: “Fitter, happier, more productive, comfortable, not drinking too much, regular exercise at the gym…”

I sighed. Shut up. I really can’t take this right now. I reached for the skip button.

“…eating well (no microwave dinners and saturated fats…”

I hit “pause” instead while I handed over my $3 and accepted my paper bag of food-flavored toxins. I roared out of the parking lot—sorry, Thom—only to have to stall mid-lane until the light turned green. I laid on the horn and the “resume” button simultaneously.

“…a patient, better driver, a safer car…”

What can I say? I wasn’t in tears, but somewhere close, in that intense sensation of climaxing frustration and conviction. It hits some people at altars or in confession booths. I guess it takes a spoken-word Radiohead track to tell me my sins. Isn’t that original.

But there, wedged into honking traffic and munching synthetic beef, I finally had my This Is Not Okay moment. I identified fully with batty, ‘fraidy Thom Yorke, and longed for something—even some sort of saturated fats ban or other you-can’t-run-your-own-life public policy—to rescue me from my slavery to my country’s swallow-it-down-on-the-way-there lifestyle. Sure, I could have awoken an hour earlier, made myself a healthy lunch, eaten in peace, and driven slowly to class. But to do so would have meant sleeping less, and I was already sleeping less from the two loads of physics homework due the night before. Even with common-sense solutions in place, I’d still face some sort of unhealthy, rushed discomfort. Sure, my lack of time management and overall concern for my health contributed to the problem. But what if we were never supposed to have to schedule our lives in 15 minute increments? What if our hundreds of healthy choices are collectively enabling us to make one colossal bad one?

Which is why “Fitter Happier” is such a perfect “song.” It is a sarcastic reading of the self-help litany—a recitation of the solutions amidst the full awareness of their utter uselessness. An admission of defeat. An awareness that the need for so many trendy life solutions suggests we simply don’t know how to live in the first place. Finally, I bought what Thom Yorke has always been selling. Self-help and self-discipline can cure a cold—but what if there’s a disease? And since we know our fixes will ultimately fail to change much, what is to be done?

And all at once, I realized Radiohead isn’t about nihilism. Well, maybe they are. We all know we’re going to die eventually, and probably without changing the system. But while Thom knows beating the man is a lost cause, he’s mostly nudging us toward figuring out what to do in the meantime.

For now, the first thing I can do is stay away from McDonald’s. At least I’ll know I’m eating well.

David Sessions is deputy editor of Kritik.

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