by Chris Veritas
January 05, 2016

from ChrisVeritas Website

Spanish version

 

 

 

 



Mediapharmaphilia is a neologism this journalist has invented to describe the complex relationship that exists between the Television user and his drug of choice:

A dependency which leaves the poor addict dazzled and bedraggled, subjected to spectacle; and above all else, beholden to the Dealer for future installments of TERROR.

Like the erstwhile Media Sensation Patty Hearst, America has fallen in love with its captors, and seems to have come to expect the shock and awe and fear and trembling as a matter of course; except that it's not so much #ISIS that's delivering it.

 

No, it's Wolf Shepherd and Blitzer O'reilly, our anchors in the restless sea of infinite (in)formation.

In the deep subconscious, which reassembles the dialectically opposed Network mirage, Wolf/Shepherd becomes both the guiding friend and the stern accuser, two voices that blend into one as the same source both defends and attacks Americans.

 



This dissonance I assert is designed to bypass and cripple the conscious mind, and the dirty little secret is this: we LOVE it. We are ALL Patty Hearst.

Yes, on some level we know all this, but we still won't stop watching.

 

We stand by our Programming, and on any given day you might hear statements like these in defense of it:

"You can't trust the MTV, but you can trust Wolf Shepherd"

"I hate Barack Obama but, shh, let's hear what he has to say about Syria"

"I'm terrified of ISEL™!, let's watch more San Bernardino coverage, post haste!".

It's all about trust.

 

The public's potential distrust gets negated by a seemingly trustworthy alternative, in a neat shell game that keeps the Dark Forces just out of view, makes what's "cool" "hot", and being "down" with "what's up" a thing that's equal to your "level best"; unless of course things "go sideways".

Hey, Dark Forces, 1984 was not supposed to be an instruction manual [you Vampires].
 

 



But I digress.

As I speak the Telecaptors are, well, everywhere! They're in the McRonald's, at your doctor's office, your friendly neighborhood watering hole, and even at the café where I'm writing this article. It's just expected nowadays.

 

The TV is a comforting presence that brings nostalgia with it. ("Know what I mean, Vern?")

  • It's the psychological crutch that fills the void of silence.
     

  • It's the Pavlovian bell that chimes to remind you of rendezvous with "Friends" (Sing it with me, N.B.C).
     

  • Speaking of friends, it's the new friend that's replaced intimacy, reading, and reasoned dialogue.
     

  • It's the wheel of discourse and supplier of water cooler punchlines; norms, fashions, and trends.
     

  • It's the subtle driving force generating consensus.
     

  • It's the fear that seeks nightmares, and the focus that blots out the external world.
     

  • It's an all-things-to-all-people reality machine and world-view supplier. (Wow, no wonder Allen Watt thinks it's weaponized).

In the movie "Gladiator", Russell Crowe's character, Maximus, pacing inside the bloody arena, shouts to the Romanized spectators,

"Are you not entertained?".

We have all been Romanized and brutalized by the Media's terrortainment.

 

This united front would like us to accept as natural the presentation of Infinite Fear, interspersed with egregious "Two and a Half Men" episodes, and/or the latest BieberCyrusaur clone, purportedly "singing songs", and doing something that used to be called "dance". (But none of this is actually entertaining.)

 



Just where did the Beautiful and the Good disappear to, anyway? I lay this squarely at the feet of the Dark Powers That Be.

 

Apparently Melody, Peace, and Harmony are not high priorities for them; and withdrawing these things without explanation, the gas lighting Media offers what's left to the willing captive, and Mediapharmaphilia ensues.

Brutalized, nadirized, and Wolf Shepherdized, the wary [yet trusting] American [captive] audience has fallen hard for its tormentor.

 

Sometimes he wears a serious face, and sometimes a smirk of ironic detachment, but in all times and places he reminds of this poem which precedes the sad parable of the "Great Gatsby":

"Then wear the gold hat if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry 'lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!'."