Happy birthday to myself, of all people.
Also– it’s Will Ferrel and Corey Feldman’s birthday, too on this July 16th.
Today’s either the first day of the rest of your life or just a step closer to death’s door as I may be 34 years-old, but not yet defeated.
Had a rash of Beetlerific misfortunes, including “throwing-up” on my keyboard and almost shorting out my computer. Though this doesn’t speak to the quality of the majestic, golden words I set-down to type, I’ll tell you that I’m stringing this along today with an Android phone wedged sideways into a wireless Bluetooth computer, to keep bring you the message of some “mighty fine” entertainment.
You think of the whole miracle of technology and the difference between magic and practical application is just underlying scientific principle. Could you really tell the difference? I know if I lived several centuries ago and heard a voice coming out of a telephone, I would have swore ghosts had infected the receiver.
And certainly, bluetooth and other wireless communication is practically “spiritualism” through waves, or just the wonders of the telegraph that send out pulses of information through electric fields if you have investigated the science behind how things work.
Depressing for our odds at an after-life, through this desperate, vomity struggle through piece-meal modern technology, but then again– “you never know”.
Oh, woe is me. Another birthday. What was Beetlejuice supposed to be, 700 years old or something? You could see him yakking on a cell-phone like a fly-by-night contractor, or bookie, or rain-maker on junk hauling matters.
As the times change, so does Beetlejuice– so much of a ragged neighbor through the slow drift of time “just down the street”. Sitting there in a trash-strewn yard in a lawn-chair, dipping his feet in the kiddie-pool as he toasts the pink flamingos in a Hawiian shirt and mirror-shades.
Monster trucks and the licking-flame of heavy industry as life’s a carnival, if not a heavy metal concert where he’d pull-up in a truck, selling Metallica t-shirts. Out on the verge of farm country and pumpkin patches like back-hoes and spit-up dirt, rumbling through a graveyard of low-down “human interest”.
Welcome to Missouri-land. Or maybe it was Texas. . . . .