Nothing like that shopping “high holy day” known as Black Friday. And just to think, why Beetlejuice would fit in around those parts.
A refresher to any pilgrim new to this strange land called The United States: the day after Thanksgiving when stores open to long lines in the pre-dawn hours for sheer shopper’s extravaganza and when the Christmas retail season officially starts.
Wherever the highways loop around like a butterfly-knot as the inky darkness blazes with activity over the Missouri river. Like suburban sprawl– everything big and bigger– as the parking lots become a magical winter wonderland like the icecapades.
The floodlights drown out the stars, themselves as they converge into parking lot at all strange hours like the madness of Star Wars fandom and home entertainment systems.
Stocking caps, hockey jerseys.
To score on electronics or perhaps the newest video game system like so much fountain soda and goopy candy for the young, unhealthy American specimen.
Like “South Park” libertarianism with cranky cut-out’s of the ever-obnoxious school-yard, they are sharp-eyed for the hottest round of home entertainment– nevermind planned obsolescence or next year’s hottest commodities.
It’s all expendable and then again, “so are we”.
What is Asian manufacturing and super math-skills next interchangeable species of mall-rats and 7-Eleven slushee philosophers?
As hearty and feckless as consumerism is flashy and vast. . . . . some have been camping-out in front of the locked entrance, practically.
Nighttime is the right-time.
And then the Tea Party descends down on the lined-up throng like clowns and stilt-walkers and fire-eaters. They hand-out literature for fringe candidates and causes– somehow rationalizing apolitical consumerism with the great American bandstand of politics, as if festooned with patriotic bunting with a holy Christmas star of good American providence.
They might as well be approaching the cagey shrug of “Jay & Silent Bob” and crimping the party. It speaks to the opportunity and yet the futility of politics– handing-out leaflets as if appealing to the wrong tribe of nimble-fingered video game enthusiasts.
To them, “The Founding Fathers” are more like Mario, Ms. Pac-man, and Sonic the Hedgehog.
Ben Franklin around here is a $100 bill and not checks on Federal spending– hardly “likely convert”s to a ragged survivalism. . . . . or even a lower substratum of what makes up a drunker, bird-brained electorate.
Call-and-shout. . . . . rousing the crowd as a certain bottom-feeder dresses like Santa and rings a bell on the flat-bed of a truck like an impromptu stump speech or a bit of forsaken political theater.
Beetlejuice is too cynical to be much of an ideologue– but just get him going about the government over-regulating the roach-exterminator business and he’s down there at 4 in the morning with the rest of them. Throwing down presents as fake play money flies through the air to make a point about the Federal Reserve.
P.T. Barnum always loved a forming crowd.
Next thing you’ll tell us– Barack Obama was born on Mars.