For six hours on January 24, a Colorado Springs police negotiator talked peaceful surrender with the last two of the Texas Seven escapees outside their motel room. They had one condition: each could make a five minute statement on television. A KKTV newsman was allowed to conduct nonconfrontational interviews with the two, and at 3:45 a.m. he told them time was up; out they backed, shirts off and hands held aloft.

Their insistence on television appearance reminds us of the central position of this medium in the social fabric of our lives.

For many years, I have been studying the origin of this awesome power. I find a clear correlation between current events such as those outlaws’ surrender and early preoccupation with fantasies of omnipotence in every individual. We want to be seen and heard, and there’s a sense of satisfaction and completeness when that occurs.

Recall the ecstasy among infants when, after sneezing, they are mirrored by adults with a dramatic “aa-choo.” In his (or her) mind, the child has been able to exert control over the parent. If he points to an object, it’s delivered. This period of infantile omnipotence is a necessary phase of life, a primordial thought picture in which the infant sees himself as having infinite power. During moments of fear or helplessness, any adult can harken back to this satisfying imagery. Think of Walter Mitty.

I attended a local zoning meeting that began at 7:30 p.m. with several television teams in attendance.

The media left at 9:30 p.m. At 10 p.m., two men stood up and proclaimed loudly, “We’re going home to watch ourselves on the 11 o’clock news.” The room was full of contention between homeowners and commercial interests. The two men indicated that seeing themselves on television could provide comfort after several highly-uncomfortable hours.

Rush Limbaugh is brilliant with his focus on omnipotent fantasy. A recent radio program begins: “Greetings, my friends and welcome, it’s El Rushbo, the all-knowing, all-caring, all-sensing, all-seeing Maharushi, here on the EIB Network with talent on loan from God. In order to equalize the playing field, I work with half my brain tied behind my back. I have the most lucrative, the most brilliant, and the most visionary three hours in all of radio.”

Whoa. That’s omnipotence and grandiosity and more. On another day, “I’m having more fun than any human being is entitled to.” So maybe he’s just playing as King of the Hill. On Fridays, to canned applause, Limbaugh, the omnipotent one, tells his subjects, the callers, “I’m taking a professional risk today. I’m turning the program over to rank amateurs. Every day I decide what we talk about. Today it’s you.” He’s “delegating” his omnipotence to his audience, and their voices are clearly reverential when they call.

Every developing child must confront the reality of toilet training. Curiosity as well as frustration run rampant. Memories persist. Radio and television host Howard Stern attracts large audiences with his focus on bathroom language and activities. We see Stern kneeling before a woman sniffing her private parts because he insists smell tells him about her personality. Later, young women are given quiz questions. The loser must squat down behind a man who has consumed beans and rice and garlic. On command, he is able to pass gas, and the host holds a microphone in the rectal area to record that explosion.

Stern is not alone. On the MTV program “Real World,” the interviewer was first shown placing raw excrement on the tip of his microphone. Then, as he placed this microphone in front of interviewees, some crinkled their noses as they recognized the excrement and smell. But none walked away. The magic of appearing on television and the awesome power invested in the host overcame any personal revulsion.

I asked a radio station manager the formula for drawing a huge audience. “You have to appeal to basic feelings and emotions in as many people as possible. Some want to throw rose petals, some want to throw bricks at you, but they are responding. …” Those two violent Texas Seven escapees were armed to the teeth, and police anticipated gunfire could explode at any moment. Calm talk and appearance on television gave the pair a different satisfaction and led to peaceful surrender. The police were masterful.

Alfred A. Messer, M.D., former Professor of Psychiatry at Emory and Psychoanalyst at Columbia, now practices in Atlanta.