I’d studied your cartoons, radio, music, TV, movies, magazines

photoIs it Shark Week(tm) and the dead shark left on the subway? Doping players, men who plays children’s games need to take drugs in order to do so in a scientific way. “I’m not gay, but I hate sports,” an old man once told me. Killers posting dead wives on the Book Of Face seem to have filled up the Dog Days of Summer. Men absconding with teenage girls after burning down their family, so sayeth CNN which has devolved into some kind of very intense TEEVEE love child – Maury Movich fucked Morton Downey Jr. fucked Geraldo Rivera fucked Donahue gookie-cookie-ed Cops and Real Housewives. Is it the boys strangled by a snake? Florida Man gets off with murder while Florida Woman gets 12 years for firing a gun into the air? More money more problems, of should I say, in order to capture the notorious words of Notorious B.I.G. “mo money mo problems.” Mo media mo problems. Are these signs enough that in Capitalist America, Newspapers read you? the TEEVEE and Intertubes are serving us more and more and for every little thing the fox tells us, like the old folk tale, they tell the hedgehog one big thing.
In these days with talking heads and fancy faces flatulating frantically on matters of state and statements in support of Guns God and G-Men we need not Shark Week(c) to entertain and entrap, but just to know that as we stare into the media, the media stares back into us, harvesting our ideas as the orgons once believed by that other scion of the human condition, Mr. Freud’s teacher Herr. Jung.
It is a confusing state since we have (many of us) beholden to the Intertubes and the vast and growing network of media – online forms, passwords, accounts, swipes with bancards, pin numbers, cameras, scanners, smart phones, iEveryfuckingthing, and nano-tools that promise to all watch over us gracefully. We test and assess our children in the factory farm schools, factory farm our meats and synthetically manufacture our foodstuffs, and bar code only the best Bartlet Pears(tm Monsanto) so that for all we know each one of us has eaten enough microchips to allow whatever drone will drone us to drone on when we least expect it.
Sitting in an awful transit bar in the Armpit of the Eastern Corridor – Penn Station – I was in the less plastic bar of the three in order to “enjoy” whatever they passed off as beer. There in front of me were the heads of A-Rod the bionic ball player and grey fat face of a certain Wolf sitting in for the other gray man Mr. Cooper, heartthrob of so many genders. Thankfully the sound was mute, but someone, somewhere was fastidiously transliterating every term so that the viewers would not miss a beat of this broadcast.
There was Wolf. His head shone in the spotlight of whatever studio he performs in. And who was on the screen being interviewed? Heads of state? No. Politician thinkers? No. Activists or advocates? No. The cousin of some family that just had lost a mother and 8 year old son in a fire allegedly by a man who absconded with the cutie 16 year old uber-charmer daughter who is now lost into the wilderness. And this woman, who had been touched up with studio makeup was facing the camera being grilled by Wolf. What did she know? Did she know the alleged perpetrator? Was she close with the children? What did she think about her family members dying in agony in a fire?
She knew nothing.
Did not know the man in question.
Did not know what may have actually happened.
But, she knew some of those she loved were dead. Her eyes welled with tears. A family photo of happier times was splashed across the screen. What demanded Manchurian Candidate thought up this? What was this to achieve for us, for her, for what seems a national conversation on killers who spirit away nubile teens.
The woman’s eyes welled up as if she would indeed break. As if the wolves demanding blood would at least get salty tears. However, she remained a stone. Those tears sucked back into her body, she continued to say what she knew. And she knew nothing.
Two men sat next to me. They were discussing some sort of business. The long hours. The travel. The existence.
They did look to the sports screen and spoke of the Rod for a moment. Then back to their lives. Another man sat transfixed by the sports network. The bartenderina milled about enticing people to drink more. One of them mixed some drink part blah blah blah with a splash of sha sha sha over na na na. The woman with the murdered family looked out from behind the bar. Looked at all of us. “I would like to thank you for coming on to talk to us in what I understand is a very trying time. Our sympathy goes out to you and your family and we wish you the best of luck.”
The “best of luck” the white words in black bars hung on the screen as the picture moved on to a commercial for this or that product/service/innovation.
I diminished my drink in steady measures in order to ride out my time in transit without having to purchase anything else. The screen moved on to Uncle O and his cabin, the rounding condemnation of the traitor/leaker/spy Snowden and how he accomplished nothing since reforms were already being considered by our Glorious Commrads in Government, and what he did leak endangered our Brave Menandwomen In Uniform (c MSNBCBSNPRDSDAP) and humadebumbaclotalotasotacumbalota…
photo(1)Out in the field, that is the transit location, Brave Menandwomen in Uniform stood about as bord as the guards of the former SOVIET lands I had traveled to or the not so secret police I encountered in a certain north African country. Except these kiddos were packing some serious heat. As were the regular cops. And the transit cops. And the K9. I could not shake that face of the woman on the verge of crying. Her humanity looking out, what did she expect, why was it she would even go on such a program only to repeat to all versions of every question, “I don’t know. I didn’t know him. I had not seen her in two years. I don’t know what may have happened. I don’t know where she is”?
Snowdon has warned us. Most of it we already knew, we are told. The reforms are not coming. However, the ugly mechanics of the machine, those tools both of state and of media are but becoming more ugly, more obvious in their ugliness so that increasing numbers of people are awakening.
But, even awake… are we to be the patient operated on restrained but aware of the scaple? As we come to, can we take that opportunity when faced with Wolf’s big head, to scream at him, or Agent Anderson Cooper, fuck you. Fuck you with all my might and your media. Fuck your news programe, fuck your NSA, fuck your government “limits and transparency” fuck your talking points and the shit you are trying to serve me. There has always been Yellow Journalism, lustmorts and kinderfuckers, but never have they been able to collect clicks, likes, views, and metadata from us.
But… the media is not all bad. Maybe trading some liberty for some entertainment isn’t that bad. It is shark week. And there is a video of a cat dressed as a shark on a Roomba chasing a duckling. So, maybe the media can look back at us all that it wants. Ah… kitteh…

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