I thought I had found it, the one place in metropolitan Pittsburgh where the colossal noise from Big Ben's little motorcycle crash could not penetrate.

Richard Melvin has been living in a storefront window in the 900 block of Penn Avenue since May 19. He won't get out until Monday. It's the "Looking In, Looking Out'' project, an artist living in a three-sided apartment for all the public to observe, 24/7.

I rapped on Mr. Melvin's window Tuesday afternoon, interrupting his painting of abstract landscapes, and he motioned me to walk into the building and welcomed me in.

It's an oddly serene place, with a full view of Downtown traffic from a Perlora couch as comfortable as your mother's arms. Mr. Melvin, 44, is a down-to-earth native of the eastern suburbs who recently returned to Pittsburgh from Atlanta, and I quickly found he can talk about anything from Picasso to pollution, which we did.

I asked about the TV, which he said was more for show. "The TV can't pick up much of anything.''

Beautiful.

So what did he think of Ben Roethlisberger?

"You mean about what he just did?" he rejoined. "They call him Big Ben, and I thought he was a ding-dong.''

Mr. Melvin has Internet access, you see. Thus it's pretty much official. Everybody knows about the quarterback kissing the windshield Monday afternoon, even the Prisoner of Penn Avenue, and everybody has an opinion ready. Media saturation is complete.

We haven't learned much in recent days other than the fact that Mr. Roethlisberger is a better quarterback than he is a motorcycle rider. Even before the early fears for his life and limb abated, debates on his relative stupidity began in earnest. "Pretty darn stupid'' seemed to carry the day, and that's your price of fame, sports fans.

Had the story a more dire ending, Mr. Roethlisberger's crash may have done more to get motorcycle riders under helmets than 10,000 public service spots. His luck and resiliency, on the other hand, should increase his stature as a tough guy, and give bareheaded riding the same kind of street allure as a new batch of tainted smack.

Or perhaps I'm beginning to sound as if my own head hit a windshield. Overreaching can happen when anyone seeks nuance in a story sucked dry by the snap judgments of millions.

Mr. Roethlisberger has shrunk in recent days from a human being to a talking point. The old rule of thumb always had it that a citizen's right to swing his fist ended where another's face began. Now we're asking whether a person's right to ride bareheaded ends where another person's windshield begins.

The degree of Mr. Roethlisberger's recklessness remains in question. Police sources say he didn't have a valid Pennsylvania motorcycle license, and it's unclear whether he had the experience legally required to ride without a helmet even if he had a license. But the public focus likely will remain on the choice itself because more interesting questions rest there.

Do we want to live in a nanny state? For those who say they don't, does that extend to shooing off the nanny's arrival with an ambulance, disability income and survivors' benefits if an accident comes to that?

These are good questions. There are somewhat muddled by those who say a helmet can cause accidents, too, but having once seen a watermelon splattered on the road, I'm going with the emergency room doctors' theory: Helmets are good.

Were the argument left at there being no skin off your nose (and cheeks, chin, scalp, ears and forehead) if another person uses his own brain to risk that brain, maybe we could all get behind a new state motto: "Pennsylvania: As Reckless As We Wanna Be!'' The "look Ma, no hands'' romanticizing of risk-taking for risk-taking's sake is easy enough to understand.

Some people choose a dangerous game. We get to call them stupid. That's a reasonably fair exchange.

But even in this time when all are compelled to offer an opinion on Ben's bounce, let no one confuse a fashion statement (riding with the wind in your hair) with a courageous blow for freedom. Donning a helmet is no less a choice, and nobody ever advanced the republic by channeling Marlon Brando on Second Avenue.