The virtues of raw-dogging

Why this silly internet trend might actually have a point

Relax, this isn’t what it sounds like…

Or maybe it is, if you’re the kind of person aroused by the idea of simply existing—airborne—for hours on end, in total abstinence from all forms of entertainment. But it’s not what it sounds like if you’re a member of the other, more widely coveted ‘Mile High Club.’ Sadly, I’m a member of neither exclusive faction of society... for now.

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Two weekends ago, on a flight home, I noticed something odd. Well, odd for 2024…

I had four flights that weekend, all to or from Dallas. None were particularly eventful—at least, not in the 'turbulence, rude passengers' kind of way. In fact, the flights were pleasant—or as pleasant as speeding along at 500+ MPH, 35,000 feet above the ground in a pressurized metal tube propelled by turbine engines can be.

Historically, my flying routine looks like this:

• Make a beeline to the TSA Pre-Check line, given that I’m not exactly flush with Clear money

• Slip through security as quickly, quietly, and efficiently as possible

• Secure hydration and maybe a bag of trail mix at a cool 75% mark-up to retail

• Find terminal seating as socially distant as possible (and not for health reasons)

• Ready my boarding pass for scanning as I board the plane with my AirPods in, because if I don't hear you, I don’t have to talk to you

This time was no different—until I stowed my carry-on and strapped myself in with the ever-so-reassuring single-strap seatbelt that will definitely save my life in the event of a catastrophe.

I was assigned a middle seat and, as the window seat remained empty while dozens of passengers were still filing in, I figured I’d have to get back up before takeoff. Indeed, several minutes later, the window seat occupant (baby in tow) kindly gestured for access to the coveted cloud-watching spot. As I unbuckled, maneuvered my way back into the aisle and stepped aside to allow for the safe passage of mother and child (not all heroes wear capes), I noticed a middle-aged man fastened into the aisle seat a row ahead.

Dressed in a pilot’s uniform—likely connecting to his next flight—he showed no visible signs of a reliance on (much less an interest in) in-flight entertainment. Rather, even as our Airbus A319 was yet to be in tow from the tarmac to the runway, he was intently staring at the back of the seat in front of him. No headphones, no smartphone, not even a magazine. Stoic and almost unnervingly mindful, it was like he was preparing for a silent battle. ‘Interesting,’ I thought.

Then it hit me: Was I about to witness the raw-dogging of a flight?

Indeed, I was, as I watched this absolute legend—Marcus Aurelius reincarnated in pilot’s garb—locked in an existential battle with the seatback in front of him. For the entire 90-minute flight, this gentleman hardly even budged. No phone, no movie, no music—just raw, uninterrupted existence. I started to wonder: Why would anyone willingly choose to do this? Could I do this? Could I face a flight without the comforting hum of my playlist, the steady distraction of a podcast, or—most significantly—the ability to read or write? I wasn’t sure, but the question stuck with me.

To be clear, there are rules to raw-dogging a flight—strict criteria, if you will:

• No headphones or music

• No movies or films

• No snacks or drinks

• No phone

• No sleep

• No bathroom breaks

• Flight map watching is, apparently, allowed.

For the raw-dogging pilot whom I had the honor of observing in the flesh, this method of flying seemed to be par for the course. In a world where we now have the option to drown ourselves in digital stimulus—even while flying—raw-dogging, to me, feels like an homage to those who got by just fine before the internet, a nod to the olden days.

Before this flight, I'd only encountered raw-dogging through social media posts, where it’s treated like a badge of honor within the internet’s ‘manosphere’—a rare feat of endurance in an era of endless distraction. Even Manchester City’s star forward, Erling Haaland, has recently jumped on the trend:

Podcaster, comedian, and certified ‘bro’ Strider Wilson took it even further—raw-dogging the DMV, just for shits and giggles (probably more shits than giggles, but this certainly made me giggle):

stridershredsallday

A post shared by @stridershredsallday

While detractors may dismiss it as another silly ‘sigma male’ internet trend (and to be fair, when it comes to an agenda-less visit to the DMV, they may have a point), I think there’s more to it than proving one’s ability to white-knuckle a flight or people-watch at the DMV.

First, it doesn’t have to be a ‘guy thing’. At its core, raw-dogging is a subtle rebellion against our overstimulated, hyper-connected lives. Second, it challenges us to cope with discomfort and boredom—to see how we manage when left with nothing but our own thoughts.

Sidebar: To those calling it dangerous: literally, kick rocks, and stop being boners. It’s not like we’re eating Tide Pods here. Aside from the obvious risks (dehydration, bladder damage), there’s no reason for you to be hating.

So, when I got home, I started small, taking the raw-dog philosophy off the plane and onto a 2-mile run. I was intimidated at the notion initially.

Am I really afraid of being left in my surroundings with an unimpeded stream of consciousness for a whole fifteen minutes? No, I’m not.

Turns out my lack of fear wasn’t unfounded. Free from the cognitive bombardment of my usual lyric-heavy running playlist, I found myself present—able to ponder and reflect, deeply and with clarity.

Even after the run, I realized that raw-dogging isn’t about mainlining boredom from runway to runway—it’s about facing discomfort and finding fulfillment in overcoming it. It can be applied to life’s smallest endeavors: from ditching the AirPods on your next walk to turning off the TV before bed. As for raw-dogging a flight, stay tuned for part two.