In carny talk you "bally the tip" or rope in the crowd in with appealing pyrotechnics-- stirring around the cauldron of self-interest like a wizard with a stick. The lure of excitement, the perk of being "singled out", walking the tight-rope across the abyss over to "the happy end". At the same time, one acts as Satan's advocate-- asking "who would not want to be a part of this?" and then nodding in answer to your question in approval like a glib seducer, or even Debra Norville's male announcer-in-crime.

Finally "you go for the jugular of sales" and convince them "that everyone else is doing it" and now it's time "to join the revolution"-- so won't you take out your credit card and dial now? Call in the next 10 minutes, and we'll throw in another one free. But wait-- there's more! Just for you, we'll throw in a bonus item because we like you. . . . .

Or at least that's the marketing-model of the infomercial, and what is "infotainment" but the stick-waving underbelly? Go see the movie in theaters, or even feel a one-on-one "kinship" with the stars who have been so nice to sit down with this media outlet and talk about the film!

-- You ever notice how they're not "out here" unless they
have something to promote?! Why, I never "thunk it". . . . .

But one has an image of Francis Ford Coppola and the romance of the Godfather mafia culture, the scintillating "otherness" of the Mediterranean, an image of Rudolf Valentino and all of those poor flappers and farm girls who died disappointed and sexually-unfulfilled like humping cats in heat, waving their tails and twitching their whiskers at an 180 pound hunk of cat-nip made all the more valuable and scarce because everyone else wants it, and all you had to do was play some faintly suggestive music to hypnotize them with far off dreams of tall, dark, spicy men like overheating the bird-brained and pigeon-hearted. Yes, as silly "old mares" sit there in their adult diapers and colostomy bags and young, fat, unattractive teenaged girls play with their pussies.

One wonders if "the meat and potatoes" of the world operate on a much deeper level than this, but it was like the time when I was intending to hike by my neighborhood Australian-themed "Outback" restaurant for "a steak and potatoes" meal. However, the bolted-up sign had been taken down-- leaving a shadow of rust stains that clearly spelled-out the name like a defunct movie marquee. I went up to the door, peered inside, and saw only empty floor space and a ripped-out bar. A sheet of notebook paper was tacked up on the inside of the window panel that seemed to say it all about this world of supposed "glitz & glitter" and "marketing themes":

Fuckin' "A"!

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

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