Night at the Wafflehouse

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I want to introduce the special person who introduced me to the “Beetlejuice” franchise, herself– the original “godmother” to myself like a favorite aunt or best-friend of the family. Kindred it is— “to be an American” as it takes someone like this to baptize you into the world of horror and far-out science fiction, like a young kid jumping up and down on the pillows. As this was the fast-grease of pop-culture—cars, VCR’s, and old beat-up couches on Friday movie nights like “TANG” or “Chips-Ahoy” cookies, petro-packaging and freeze-dried artificial flavors.

Mindy “The Mind” Hogan. . . . . she was level-headed.

Her eyes were smoky and bemused like some sort of fertility goddess of the badlands, or maybe a police-dispatcher of scientific and medical protocol by way, of southwestern frontiers.

She wore a black leather-jacket, her mussy brown hair flowing to her shoulders “like a fairy queen” with her soft flutter of laughter.

She was also a member of the informally-educated intelligentsia, a mixture of astrophysics courses and UFOlogy that found good company with “The X-Files”, as make her voice crackle warmly with good-mirth over the next “bonkers” idea or supposition.

For who knew, what information “was classified”, or the latest Taiwanese knock-off ended-up on K-mart shelves as the world was “dark mystery”, as rumors oftentimes were found to have a basis in fact. You couldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, yet you couldn’t doubt “your own eyes” as she had the firm, mellow quality of a police-dispatcher “who heard all sorts of stories”.

Take UFO’s, which could be taken as “thought-experiments”. To compare European explorers, with nomads— or locals– or encounters on the far end of the Western world as modern advances “must have looked” to indigenous populations.

Advanced alien-races, like nursery school teachers among a bunch of moral toddlers, or to think of intergalactic highways—like “truck-drivers in space” as you might as well, be sitting at the lone Wafflehouse on the other end of the universe, for the strange creatures, you meet “out that way”. Insectile shift workers, or ray-guns, or spears, or star-engines as the world was a grotesque, inverted mirror-image where “Krull the Conqueror” might as well, stop by the gas station to fill-up the tank and buy a hot-dog. “Cattle mutilation” at McDonald’s, galactic wage-slavery at “Dairy Queen” as extraterrestrial as the cable-signals from the satellite-dish.

These were merely, the side-thoughts to motherhood—lugging around the twins in matching blue corduroy overalls, strapping the boys into the car-seat and handing them a McDonald’s sippy-cup as they hugged her around the neck with their little arms.

Next, it would be the 2012 “end of the world” prophesy as the galaxy aligned and UFO’s rose from the carved-stone of South American temples. You couldn’t say, but leave the intercom, open “just in case” as what “rules of the universe” keep that, “from happening”. . . . .

Beetlejuice might as well be your mechanic down at “JiffyLube” as midnight is when “the real animals” come out. The internet is your liberator, and thanks for reading this entry.

END OF TRANSMISSION

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Night at the Wafflehouse

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