I think the above post hit about every branch of the media-duplicitousness and thank you for it.
It's no longer the infuriating aspect of the major news-outlets broadcasting debatable and uncertain scientific
subject-matter in a manner of the absolute for political or ratings reasons, it's that the long-term effects of
such an indifferent and poorly-staged sophistry is becoming the norm.
I keep banging-on about it and using the term 'standards', but in a world where communication is vital to
maintain a general conducive cohesion between powerful nations, those who are chosen to govern these
nations and an overall survival as a species, a high standard of responsibility from such Government and
privately-owned companies needs to be first on any agenda of bringing 'news' to a public they constantly
state they serve.
On the whole today, the mainstream media are no longer trusted, they are viewed and read by some simply
as a form of entertainment and by others, a voice one dreads, but due to social-programming of the past, a
voice one dare not ignore.
And that's the key right there. For decades, publishers and broadcasters -of what they believed were important
to the public, delivered a professional service and it didn't matter if the viewer or reader resisted believing the
information, the whole package was designed to leave very little to indicate fabrication or inadequate analysis
from a media-outlet.
Alas, today such duty has degraded into a nothing more than a slick transmission of banal conduction carved
in a way that shrouds crucial factors for the sake of immaterial twaddle these failing markets of knowledge
believe their customers want.
It reminds of a mental synonym I occasionally offer. Below is a light tale of how I percieve today's media has
semi-rescued itself to some amount and how it will eventually dig its own grave.
....................................
There's a little get-together going on down at No.42, not a exactly a wild and raucous party one always believes
that later spills out into the street with loud drunken youngsters disturbing those who have retired to bed at a
reasonable hour.
No, this caucus is of young people attempting to communally work-out how the world around them works and
even though there is some music in the background, their focus is on how their own lives are going to be part of
this perplexing system. They laugh and joke with their peers to keep the mood light and during conversations,
unusual words are agreed upon to represent areas of society they concur with or not.
The conversations range widely and hold meaning that older folk might find peripheral due to their substance.
"The world is the same and why can't these kids just know what I know!" one old man grumbles as he peeks
out of his window at the quiet house with all its lights on. Ambling back to bed, this old coffin-dodger ignores
the reality of growing-up and ponders on whether to write a letter to the BBC about these privileged youths
who've never fought in a war.
More people of similar ages come into the room and due to its size and many voiced opinions, they eventually
leak away into a more comfortable setting for their discourse. At some point, the garden becomes filled with
youngsters chatting to each other and through communicating with diverse members of this get-together, they
learn there are many facets and paths to becoming an adult and taking ones place in that ever-so-complicated
society that awaits them.
Others are just messing around, some boys assuring the girls that they are their ideal man, others daring those
in their group they can eat a live octopus or shove a full bottle of San Miguel up their ass. But overall, there's an
inter-mutual ambience that is somehow congenial to the gathering.
In that particular neighbourhood, a Journalist is passing by on his way home. It's been a long night arranging
rococo sentences that roll easily off the mental tongue and comprised of wording that's designed to purvey a
high acumen of the writer to anyone who reads them. But with the bland content of what the his Editor desires,
the Hack knows his term of employment is shortening every week.
The Journalist is well aware that what he scribbles about isn't very interesting to a wide range of his readers due
the many differences of the class and financial strata in the customer pool. Technology has also impacted on the
monopoly of his profession, the old -reliable consumers of his work, are dying off and with the constant practice
of negative fear-based articles his Editor has deems 'effective', the young of today aren't buying his product.
Then his walk falters as he sees this large group of the actual target his newspaper needs. They are young, they
want to seek knowledge and best of all, they are impressionable. The Reporter pulls off his tie and enters the
crowd, remaining quiet and listening. These kids use strange phrases and words unknown to him, eventually he
gets the hang of how they talk and offers his view of the subject they're discussing.
It's a tense moment, a few glance at each other and retreat to another area of the garden, others feel that their
pleasurable evening is somehow being invaded and politely slip back into the crowded rooms of a uniformity
they can appreciate. Eventually, the Journalist is alone with dew-stains on his hush-puppies and a big grin on
his face, he realises he has accidentally found a motherlode.
It may take years to mine this rich vein of prospective customers, but with the appropriate diction, a parlance
that aligns with the youngsters' undeveloped attitude of societies and moulded style that is tinged with churlish
innuendo, the Journalist believes he can extend his career to get that damned-mortgage paid off.
Maybe over time, he and his People-of-the-Press could persuade this Eldorado of infants to use the terms of vend
he felt more comfortable with...? Maybe all those silly catchphrases and abbreviations that proliferated their chats
could be dumped and a more experienced slant can be put on the themes discussed here? But for now, he must
get home and make some phone calls, he knows he's going to need help from his fellow-reporters.
Those rooms in that place are ripe for exploiting and hurrying off into the darkness, the Reporter smiles to himself.
It's going to be a long night.
It's no longer the infuriating aspect of the major news-outlets broadcasting debatable and uncertain scientific
subject-matter in a manner of the absolute for political or ratings reasons, it's that the long-term effects of
such an indifferent and poorly-staged sophistry is becoming the norm.
I keep banging-on about it and using the term 'standards', but in a world where communication is vital to
maintain a general conducive cohesion between powerful nations, those who are chosen to govern these
nations and an overall survival as a species, a high standard of responsibility from such Government and
privately-owned companies needs to be first on any agenda of bringing 'news' to a public they constantly
state they serve.
On the whole today, the mainstream media are no longer trusted, they are viewed and read by some simply
as a form of entertainment and by others, a voice one dreads, but due to social-programming of the past, a
voice one dare not ignore.
And that's the key right there. For decades, publishers and broadcasters -of what they believed were important
to the public, delivered a professional service and it didn't matter if the viewer or reader resisted believing the
information, the whole package was designed to leave very little to indicate fabrication or inadequate analysis
from a media-outlet.
Alas, today such duty has degraded into a nothing more than a slick transmission of banal conduction carved
in a way that shrouds crucial factors for the sake of immaterial twaddle these failing markets of knowledge
believe their customers want.
It reminds of a mental synonym I occasionally offer. Below is a light tale of how I percieve today's media has
semi-rescued itself to some amount and how it will eventually dig its own grave.
....................................
There's a little get-together going on down at No.42, not a exactly a wild and raucous party one always believes
that later spills out into the street with loud drunken youngsters disturbing those who have retired to bed at a
reasonable hour.
No, this caucus is of young people attempting to communally work-out how the world around them works and
even though there is some music in the background, their focus is on how their own lives are going to be part of
this perplexing system. They laugh and joke with their peers to keep the mood light and during conversations,
unusual words are agreed upon to represent areas of society they concur with or not.
The conversations range widely and hold meaning that older folk might find peripheral due to their substance.
"The world is the same and why can't these kids just know what I know!" one old man grumbles as he peeks
out of his window at the quiet house with all its lights on. Ambling back to bed, this old coffin-dodger ignores
the reality of growing-up and ponders on whether to write a letter to the BBC about these privileged youths
who've never fought in a war.
More people of similar ages come into the room and due to its size and many voiced opinions, they eventually
leak away into a more comfortable setting for their discourse. At some point, the garden becomes filled with
youngsters chatting to each other and through communicating with diverse members of this get-together, they
learn there are many facets and paths to becoming an adult and taking ones place in that ever-so-complicated
society that awaits them.
Others are just messing around, some boys assuring the girls that they are their ideal man, others daring those
in their group they can eat a live octopus or shove a full bottle of San Miguel up their ass. But overall, there's an
inter-mutual ambience that is somehow congenial to the gathering.
In that particular neighbourhood, a Journalist is passing by on his way home. It's been a long night arranging
rococo sentences that roll easily off the mental tongue and comprised of wording that's designed to purvey a
high acumen of the writer to anyone who reads them. But with the bland content of what the his Editor desires,
the Hack knows his term of employment is shortening every week.
The Journalist is well aware that what he scribbles about isn't very interesting to a wide range of his readers due
the many differences of the class and financial strata in the customer pool. Technology has also impacted on the
monopoly of his profession, the old -reliable consumers of his work, are dying off and with the constant practice
of negative fear-based articles his Editor has deems 'effective', the young of today aren't buying his product.
Then his walk falters as he sees this large group of the actual target his newspaper needs. They are young, they
want to seek knowledge and best of all, they are impressionable. The Reporter pulls off his tie and enters the
crowd, remaining quiet and listening. These kids use strange phrases and words unknown to him, eventually he
gets the hang of how they talk and offers his view of the subject they're discussing.
It's a tense moment, a few glance at each other and retreat to another area of the garden, others feel that their
pleasurable evening is somehow being invaded and politely slip back into the crowded rooms of a uniformity
they can appreciate. Eventually, the Journalist is alone with dew-stains on his hush-puppies and a big grin on
his face, he realises he has accidentally found a motherlode.
It may take years to mine this rich vein of prospective customers, but with the appropriate diction, a parlance
that aligns with the youngsters' undeveloped attitude of societies and moulded style that is tinged with churlish
innuendo, the Journalist believes he can extend his career to get that damned-mortgage paid off.
Maybe over time, he and his People-of-the-Press could persuade this Eldorado of infants to use the terms of vend
he felt more comfortable with...? Maybe all those silly catchphrases and abbreviations that proliferated their chats
could be dumped and a more experienced slant can be put on the themes discussed here? But for now, he must
get home and make some phone calls, he knows he's going to need help from his fellow-reporters.
Those rooms in that place are ripe for exploiting and hurrying off into the darkness, the Reporter smiles to himself.
It's going to be a long night.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.