“Hear-yee, hear-yee, hear-yee!”
Step right up and see Beetlejuice on the mid-way with the balloons and pachyderms and fast times, totally in his natural element as he’s wear slick and colorful meets the boiling pail of corn-dog grease and cotton-candy mayhem. Truly as tangled as his shock of dirty, blonde hair whirling-out on the sides like an animated corpse of passed-by Americana on the ole’ overalls and amusement-park circuit like sordid, chancy ticket-sales.
Like monster-trucks and flame decals, a queasy slosh of electric-green lime soda as jiggered as a mad scientist’s experiment of carbonated caffeinated and super-human energy, like rottweilers gnawing on raw meat injected with steroids. Dirty, poor– super-charged like muscular midgets and patriotic self-reliance like stumpy flag-waving and the smell of gasoline and straw-bales– what’s your excuse? So let go, and buy your tickets.
Step right-up, ain’t it so. . . . . ride-monkeys and junk-yard stains and fireworks like cheap novelty, black-toothed grins, and sexual fast-ways of tremendous circumstance– the potential of crowds, all that good stuff like cheap cherry slush and grubby unity with teenage girls and their families. Love, “a carnival” and magical fall-time; like harvest, legacy, and the cool autumn months like the ruffling pages in a calendar, marking-off our youths.
Like is flashy and short– like inane clown-heads of comedy and tragedy amid so much sweat and jean-shorts and tanned, coconut-butter skin like sugar and piss and ticket-stubs, the afternoon a series of crazy rides that leave you tired, head-achy, and exhilarated all at once as life is a cheap contraption, like “pop goes the weasel” playing on the wind-up music-box and the blazing, hot winds.
Beetlejuice– the ambassador to the amusement-industry. Wild and hyper and your best friend for five-minutes, sleeping in the red-painted wagon at night, where carnival-workers sell hot-dogs and funnel-cakes. It’s always the barefoot “open road”– another town, another dollar and keeping out of trouble as the local authorities give them a dirty eye.
Who knows where the carny’s come from, packed-up and left the next morning like dew evaporating over the grassy overpass by the rushing highway, “like ghosts”.
Catch them at a county fair, near you as this could be anywhere in America. Or especially St. Louis. Pork-slab naivety and shale-rock cliffs under the baking-sun as they know “a little”, or nothing at all– as life is “a cold one” and the tangled-wires of endless video-games. I wouldn’t leave-it for anything. Welcome to real, rural America– Walmart and lumber-yards and slowly-disseminating modern technology making life easier. Progress is a truck full of tools and a weekend bbq as you and I know it as Missouri-Land.
“The Show-Me State”– coming to a movie theater, near you.