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 donΓÇÖt 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 youΓÇÖre after, man.WhatΓÇÖs everybody after?

ThereΓÇÖs power, here, if you have what kids are after. ThereΓÇÖs 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 ManΓÇÖs not worried, man, heΓÇÖs 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 AngerΓÇÖs Angelus Temple thugs, to the depraved amenities of Jack Parsons & L. Ron HubbardΓÇÖs inside-out Magick Kingdom, the Ad Man hasnΓÇÖt even warmed up for the unconstrained lunacy that lies ahead when heΓÇÖs delivered to S.M.I.L.E. But the Ad ManΓÇÖs working out a peace he can sell, a commodity like any other, if he can just figure it out.

WhatΓÇÖs everybody after?

WhatΓÇÖs everybody after?