1969. The freewheeling, mind-opening sixties are disappearing down the throat of a vortex of hardlined isms, and in the land of manmade paradises, unmade paradises, and things you don’t talk about, the Ad Man is just doing his thing, man, wow, doing his Ad Thing, mesmerizing you into thinking you belong, or thinking you stand out, whatever it is you’re after, man.
What’s everybody after?
There’s power, here, if you have what kids are after. There’s gold in the hills of Hollywood and cash in the capital temples of amusement. Three unholy alliances are tumbling in a bloody niner rush to stake the Lost Youth of America, armed with sex and drugs and rock and roll and black, black magick, poison versus charm versus cure.
The Ad Man’s not worried, man, he’s just got his assignment to stick to, but the mission is still a mystery to him when our captivator becomes captive, you dig? From the boxy hands of Ayn Rand & Ken Anger’s Angelus Temple thugs, to the depraved amenities of Jack Parsons & L. Ron Hubbard’s inside-out Magick Kingdom, the Ad Man hasn’t even warmed up for the unconstrained lunacy that lies ahead when he’s delivered to S.M.I.L.E. But the Ad Man’s working out a peace he can sell, a commodity like any other, if he can just figure it out.
What’s everybody after?
What’s everybody after?
