Beetlejuice is so much a product of another media generation—when stuff moved “a lot slower”.
Fly-by-night? Maybe—but they eventually find you out.
If you ever heard of “a brick and mortar business” the overall reputation is the crown, they keep—an actually storefront. A series of recognizable ads and consistency—for sure.
Well, Beetlejuice has none of those things—just a graveyard model where he shoots on-location.
Got a bad review on “Yelp”? Imagine it! It would be certain to haunt Beetlejuice for all his cringing eternities.
You’d have a moment when he’s transported to present day—whirling around and around in befuddlement of all the smart-phones and instant word-of-mouth via “The Twitterverse”.
The digital footprint.
He lives in the gaps between “known quantities” where ignorance is the oil that smoothes over his friendly glibness—if not “rip-off” artistry. He’d have to relocate to even deeper levels of impoverished ignorance and dysfunctional apartment-complexes.
Those who never learned technology, with no inclination as you might as well have a hobo cooking wieners over a trash fire as beat-up old cars drive by.
Call it THE DIGITAL DIVIDE. Or that yawning hole of tech-obsolescence that leaves B.J. stranded in the unincorporated wastelands of Eastern Missouri.
You may know us for our nostalgic-slate of “strange & unusual” local commercial spots. Rent-to-Own financing and quick-fix solutions as “they’ll definitely work with you”.
As it goes, graveyard shift programming is intended for the ignorant, poor, sick, idle, wishful—and stupid. Midnight televangelism and cosmic prophesy as you have the age-old human sorrows and cravings, sidelined in low-lit television dens.
Beery brain-pans, zeroed-in on the murk of a pitchman making a bid for your enthusiastic agreement.
1-900-NUMBERS and “party-lines”, an image of wind-surfers off the coast of Chile and a dog catching a spinning Frisbee in its mouth. No shortage of video-tape and the bottom 50 percent of human consciousness like “meet foreign women” introductions and softcore glam.
Dream on, baby—you’re a plaything in the greased palms of Beetlejuice.
It’s a party of gabbing, pretty girls who come your way—cadge free drinks—and hang over you like starlings over a popcorn-ball, picking you clean before the party looses interest and moves-off elsewhere.
The only number you’ll call is bankruptcy court or maybe “worker’s comp” if you can con your way onto the social-security disability “gravy-train”. Delusions of grandeur—of anything—as the only people who care if you’re alive are the junk-mailers and rotten-toothed parasites knocking on your door for free cigarettes and a ride to the liquor store.
A cold, unwanted lump swaddled in a tangle of sheets—ghost-world.
Reality is either devastating or devastatingly hilarious.
The apartment street lights hang like will-o-wisps as Beetlejuice will always share a beer.
Got a dollar?
Or 5 Minutes to hear a story. . . . . a crescendo of screwball fortune like a fulminating geyser of shitty luck. Such is the way of things if you stay up late enough.
Get a job, go to school, or join the army– it doesn’t matter which.
Your problems will sooner disappear. . . . .