The Commie Leanings of Broadcast Wizard Propogandists and the Infantile Boobery of Tele-Viewing

By Taylor Grimmer

The following article arises from an extended duration of chemical experiments, an obsession with the oppressive nature and liberating potential of the grandiose system we call language, and an unending desire for attention, love, and carnal self-gratification. Be quite aware that television permeates every aspect of American life from the gritty reality of washed-up country-singers trying to make it in upscale urban centers to the horrifying sagas of misbehaving pet raccoons. Whether or not you choose to buy it misses the point; you have no choices in the matter. For now we will call them options. You have reached the first impasse; if you want to know more, then continue reading. If not, then piss off – you’re not worthy anyhow. Either way you’re still trapped – HaHa.

I watched PBS trying to break barriers between my notion of self and the television. (What if I had placed a comma in that last sentence after “PBS”?) The woman whose face spoke like an origami fortune-telling device – four corners deformedly squinting with each stressed word – assured me if we pooled our resources, collectivized our intentions we could make something incredible happen. (Was the subject too far from the verb?) And indeed, she believed, something incredible was happening.

Through the “magic” of television and a dash of “willful suspension of disbelief” people can regress to the unfinished interior of a towering edifice and actually transcend local confinements of nervous posturing. (The hegemonic power of TV and symbol-systems rises.)

What can be said of such a statement? These people at PBS are nuts. “Come on, please, if we pool our resources, if we join together, these marvelously inspiring, magical events can continue. Call now and make a pledge that’s comfortable for your budget. Anything helps. The more you give the more you get.”

Alright dammit. We are not infants and we are not psychedelic canvases. Words battle themselves. (By the time you read this, it will have been edited and transcribed from notebook to computer.) Here’s the thing – the coupe de grace, the Sunday Punch: just because I watched a Willie Nelson-Merle Haggard-Ray Price concert on PBS doesn’t mean I was actually in the concert hall eerily creeping, as the movement of the camera lens. (Cut back on adverb production/consumption.) SophistiCats like us know indubitably (nice try) that such an idea holds the same likelihood as a toucan leading a Klan rally – that shit just don’t fly. However, if an infant experienced the same event, could it make the same distinction as you and I? – using what language? The etymology of the word “infant” delivers us a meaning, more or less – an inability to express through speech.

(Does the pace, direction and syntax of this essay seem insane?)

At this point, I should inform you that it’s highly probably that I’m “CrAYYY-zeee (applause) – Thank You –CrayZEEE for feeling sooo…lone-leEEYY.”

The woman said that through television I visited the Rosemont Theater. Through language I can refute that claim. But what about the infant? What symbols compose its experience? Or rather, what defines reality? So I guess, I need to make two points: (a) the feelings drawn forth from me by the music of those “Last of the Breed” differ greatly from the feelings an infant might experience – or a deaf adult for that matter – and (b) the people at PBS should be scolded for trying to convince thousands of viewers that through the “magic of television” we literally transcended space/time, that any viewer actually was the camera or, stranger, eerily peeping from an invisible perspective.

We’ve begun to tread choppy waters; and the best way to deal with such conditions is to make a slanted tack.

The Communist Party did not die with the “fall” of the Soviet Union (see later reference to China). It remains alive and well, operating behind the Talking Picture Curtain as the Public Broadcasting Service; and the people at Big Cereal couldn’t be happier. To clarify things, a super-human breed of top-cereal-executives that survive and embolden themselves off of a Luciferian breakfast cereal comprised of only marshmallow candies, competes for global domination against a technologically savvy band of heart-string-pulling wizards from the lower fifth dimension who organize under the banner Public Broadcasting. Clearer – the yin and the yang of political ideologies seems to be more yang than anything.

Conspiracies account for the lack of competent plumbers.

What about those “barriers”? What about Merle being too drunk and haggard to keep up with blessed-out-peppy Willie? – not to mention, I’m pretty sure Ray Price is dead. “Pool” these “resources”.

“Prepare to jibe.”

This is the contemporary essay: Peter Pan with no strings awkwardly fluttering before the scenic backdrops of Annie Get Your Gun on crystal-methamphetamine, both Peter and the backdrop are geeked.

An infant, if consuming this (in what matter?), would have no idea what I’m talking about. This is writing; you are reading. Enough. Come to a focus – GO!

The triangular nature of symbol-systems distances, approaches, and creates “reality”. (Or should I say “diamond nature” and add the verb “ensnares”? – which implies entrapment. Trapped in what? – parenthetical reference?) Without knowledge of self, and language, the infant exists in the ebbs and flows of the Moon’s ocean. (Waxing too poetic? – only to promote symbolism-dexterity.)

An itch to divert.

Here’s the thing – the coup de grace, the Sunday Punch, blah-blah-blah – about the grammatical necessity of verbs and metaphysical reality: All matter, whether defined as gaseous, liquid, or solid – nitrous, moonshine, or chocolate – appears to be a dance of energy. No static blocks exist; hence, all sentences require a verb. (Notice that the penultimate “sentence” lacks a verb. What is it?) However, upon closer inspection, one notices – “one” being me – that there seems to be a linear interplay between spaces and letters creating a meaningful succession of words, thus connoting ACTION – the pudding and skin of our gyrating entity.

So much for conventional streams of systematized though. HOO-ahh.

“Give us your money. The grants we get from your fear-bred tax donations to the quasiliberneofascist government aren’t enough. More…quality programming (drool).” I’m fairly certain that they still make tennis-racket-strings out of dead babies’ intestines in China. “that’s culturally insensitive ignorance.” Okay, ???????????????????. Better?

Let’s try math for objectivity’s sake: Enlightenment does not equal infantile pathological regression. If Chaos competed against Order in the 100-meter-dash, Chaos would win because Order wouldn’t be able to get its shoes untied. This should b klier anuff: 7+3=10.

Show your 6-month-old child her bottle and ask her what a sheep says. “Bah.” How’s that for genius.

Is that you, Pat Jones, I see trembling in the corner.

Too much whiskey, not enough pussy.

I was told there were no rules here, encouraged to be radically experimental; nobody blow any authoritatively false whistles.

I like PBS – “NOVA”, “American Masters”, the aging animatron Charlie Rose. I’ve even watched a “A Half-Hour of Sowing” (sic) and “Beading for the Non-Traditional Beginning Beader”, quite amazing considering they compete with the networks’ top-o-the-order daytime-reality-court-dramas. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting on couches in front of TVs smoking various herbal remedies. In fact, the impetus for this endeavor – the inspiring accidental encounter – occurred during one such moment; believe that? Truly: I am sitting on a couch listening to music through a TV being powered by pirated electricity from the hallway of my apartment building right Now, nOw, noW.

Crazy yarn-spinning commies at PBS ain’t got nothin’ on this. Propoganda.

I’ll leave you where we started: drugs, television, language, walls – masturbation, halls, compartmentalized emotions.

The Sunday Punch: If 100 babies are in a room and one begins to cry, then the other 99 will follow suit. Let’s attempt to carry this logical pattern to a mature progression in the form of a question: If there are several billion people on a planet and a couple hundred thousand begin to act open-mindedly humanistic, will the others tag along? And that’s a damn loaded query knowing that if we valued followers then we might as well just accept PBS when they tell us that the television encapsulates our perceptive reality.

“I’ve never been to Iraq, but I hear we’re fighting a war there.”

“I’m crazy for trying… and crazy for crying… crazy for loving… YOU.”

That final quotation constitutes the closing arguments of my essay. I’m sure more clarity could be added and more editing could be done; but the writing is a process, not a means to an end. “Open your mouth and see what falls out.” Besides, any literary venture I undertake from this moment on will deal with more or less the same subject matter from varying angles. Education does not breed focus. So until then my name remains Taylor Ashton Grimmer and my sign Cancer. If you can handle any more punishment/entertainment see www.taylorashtongrimmer.blogspot.com – a shameless plug, I know. Or maybe I have no idea.