The Agencies of Advertising

          The grey walls of my bedroom are awash with flickering television lights, yet again. They are the same color I imagine the deadlights of Stephen King’s It to be. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if It was a commentary on the decadent nature of media in the United States. Think about it: the book is about a clown, (something that is supposed to exude cheer; something harmless and colorful that is meant to entertain) yet a clown who torments children at first, but then who resurfaces in their adult lives and manifests all sorts of evils; It kills some of them while permanently scarring all of them. It is a convoluted, psychological superstructure and commentary on the nature of visual entertainment in American Culture, that or it’s just a horror book about a creepy clown. Whatever, that is something to be taken up with Stephen.

           Nevertheless, it sits in front of me: the TV, and I stare into the dead fish eyes of various personalities who are pushing some drug or selling some ornament. And, though I know their tricks, it becomes painfully obvious to me that I cannot turn away; I’m sucked in just like those who stare into Pennywise’s deadlights. They say I’ve lost something, these TV personalities. They say that I’m inadequate in some shape or form. They say my life will be better if I choose this tub of butter-like-substance-yet-not-quite-butter-like-substance. They say if I drink this alcoholic beverage I will look fabulous in suits, have perfect teeth, and that I will be astute and articulate while speaking in the public arena, which I’m quite certain is definitely not the case. Most of the time I’m not sure what they are even talking about because I’m too focused on picking out the logical inconsistencies and gargantuan lies that make up everything on television, but then I ask myself: who are “they”?

           Truthfully, I’m not sure who “they” are, but “they” continue to vomit platitudes and banalities at me, they continue to wave shiny things in front of my face to distract me much like the illusionist who saws in half the taut and tanned midsection of a top-heavy supermodel, while sneaking a tiger through the backdoor, all on the order of selling to me and the audience this crazy idea that, if properly distracted, we might shell out hundreds of dollars to be a part of this elaborate lie. We know that even the most surgically genius of our species cannot saw anyone in half without making a huge mess, we know that tigers don’t appear naturally out of thin air, walk down the red-carpeted, white-lighted aisle just to sit down to play a handful of overtly eager volunteers in Five Card Stud. What is it about human nature that needs to be distracted and tricked? What is it about human nature that desires to suspend its disbelief?

            I feel it, though: this inadequacy. I feel as if I have lost something. I’m always trying to stuff stuff into this quixotic version of my world. I’m constantly trying to cram ideas into this ideal version of myself, which is probably the same self I see when looking into a mirror, (a self that looks nothing like the self I see in videos or pictures of me, something to think about perhaps when writing a more Lacanian essay, but, then again, maybe this is a Lacanian essay; maybe they’re all Lacanian essays. Whatever). But, I feel that I have also gained something; something sacred like a divine hatred for the Grand Distraction, that is, commercials, advertisements, and the illusionists of our meta-modern era; they are legion, and they are omnipresent. Yet, part of me also wants to be tricked, so what do I do? I watch my television with an incensed and epileptic fervor.

             Somewhere deep inside every human exists an innate desire for the bliss of ignorance. Though Socrates is purported to have said that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” I’m not sure how he would react to the modern abundance of ways to examine oneself, save maybe slamming a Hemlock smoothie. This is something inexorable and incurable, that is, this constant examination. And, without sounding too cliché, I’d like to mention that this must be a byproduct of those godforsaken deadlights, of which everyone is not only subject to, but dumbfounded by. Unfortunately, there exists no salve, no panacea. Instead, only coping mechanisms exist, some of which are more elaborate than the illusionist's Grand Distraction. In fact, some people have developed methods for coping with such a predicament: muting the sounds and closing the eyes, mimicking the deist god who patrols deaf and dumb through ethereal dark matter, all the while planets collide and people raise their angry fists towards the unmindful heavens. Others manage to change the channels as if the omnipotent and jealous God of the Old Testament, i.e., creating and destroying worlds and universes by sheer will alone, (that and a trigger happy thumb, an image itself which connotes a specific kind of hilarity). But this takes its toll on already overactive brains. Those of us who have a penchant for presets end up changing the channel so many times that we just catch glimpses of shows; we just catch bits and pieces of ideas and images. And, since our minds already border on hyper-transience, the speed at which we surf the channels is enough of an ocular exercise to massage ADD into mouth-foaming, tongue swallowing, grand-mal seizuring bliss, which is probably what we wanted all along, (I must also admit, though, is not only entertaining in its own right, but a deserved consequence of succumbing to the deadlights).

          But, I feel that an absurd amount has already been written about the vast desert of ontological philosophy, especially regarding the consequences of different forms of media, so I won’t continue. I don't, after all, want to sound too preachy. Besides, my favorite show is about to come on; the one where the cat finally learns how to decipher the genomic code, but he can’t tell anyone because he's a cat; "they" say it's a must see television event, and I don't want to miss that.