Seasons of the Eclipse, Nether-world Event

Legend has it that the solar eclipse was a dragon flying through the sky, devouring the sun. . . . . as galactic forces commune in harmonic rhythm and flare burning trails of star-dust, confluence, and coincidence.

“Solace of quantum” accents aside, maybe Beetlejuice was just “gone, fishin’”.

Hanging out on the Illinois side of the river by the Cahokia Mounds, tawny hillsides constructed by Indians 1000 years ago. Kind of “a burial ground”, as you could say.

This bodes well for mischief, whether it’s Beetlejuice flying up through the sky spread-eagled with his whirling face imprinted on the sun in a ghastly, moss-toothed rictus. . . . . his hair like a tangled corona of graveyard dirt.

Earthen decay and solar indifference across the star-lit sky, a solar calendar of strange & unusual happenings like shimmering blood-jelly and shooting jets of sperm.

(– It also smells REAL BAD)

Incidentally, in terms of cosmic confluence—HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO TIM BURTON.

And a friendly pat on the shoulders of my creative rivals and compatriots Seth Grahame-Smith and David Katzenberg. . . . . the new Stephen King “It” adaption looks like a worthy successor and follow-up to the 1990 made-for-tv interpretation.

To box-office success and healthy backend residual compensation FOR EVERYBODY! Hollywood is a great place IF YOU PUT IN THE WORK. “Gee-whiz” factor aside, this entertainment business IS HEAVY SHIT.

Beetlejuice awaits instruction as he checks his watch and cocks his ear. IT’S SHOW-TIME!!!!!

Seasons of the Eclipse, Nether-world Event

The Inferno Room Meets “Sausage Castle”, USA


By the rules of some strange, inverted geography. . . . . .

And stranger still, echoing through the twisting halls of the dead. . . . . .

Like “13 steps” to nowhere. . . . . . you’ll end up SOMEWHERE.

Beetlejuice infests the outback and pops-up in the little model of the town. The rolling, green hills against the pin-pricked darkness of stars, whether standing outside in the open air or tiny and shrunk beneath the rafters of the Maitlin’s attic-space.

You’ll find him “haunting the premises” and setting-up his equivalent of an E-Z finance, bronco-bustin’ used car-lot and open ghost audition like a lasso-waving cowboy.

The midnight-madness hours of zany after-life circumstance. . . . . you’ll be sayin’ “hot-diggity-dawg ALL THE WAY HOME” but begin to regret the contract you hold in your hands after making all but two steps off the lot of the proverbial “fast-sell”.

Faster than your head can spin!

And on to another “spin-off” property just down the road, swampy Florida’s own “Sausage Castle”.

If you ever thought “ole’ Beetlejuice waltzin’ off to THE WHOREHOUSE” was pretty funny, you’ll be equally as stunned by this depraved “party house” and 24-hour backyard BBQ.

Equally off-the-grid and a living natural disaster where freaks, misfits, and weirdos party “at a real clown-house” of depravity and “Dollar-Store” accoutrements like kiddie-pools, one’s feet soaking in dirty water as you down serial pina coladas and a turd floats by.

Read about it here. . . . . .

Beetlejuice would crash the premises and stay up all hours. Find him sitting in a lawn-chair, grilling meat at 7 A.M. and chuckling to himself as he turns over the pork with a pair of tongs and a fork.

Pleasure Island, or “just hell on earth”? You’ll be that greasy, crackling morsel frying out on the bbq-pit of the damned, sandworms in chef-hats serving out your ass as the best metaphor for “falling out of the rat race” AND INTO THE FIRE.

If you’re “looking for action” it should sooner be taking up the holy robes of high religiosity, even as Beetlejuice throws-up in the bouncing clown-house and staggers over to the outside porta-potty.

Just his luck that a gang of miscreants tips it over and he washes out in a torrent of sewage like a dead fish.

They’ll have to “shower him off” with a garden hose as he spats-up water and washes behind his ears, his hair in a reeking tangle as the sun shines “way too bright”.

In America it’s your right to be proud, ignorant, and free as respectable society beats a respectable distance and holds its nose.

I think there’s enough fetid material here to bring back “THE JUICE”. Let it not be “poop-juice” but he’s going to be pretty sick and too hung-over to come into work the next night.

That’s what A.A. is for, or “After-Life Anonymous”.


Make a name for yourself. . . . . . and support this new documentary coming out that explores the actual Beetlejuice movie source material from 30 years ago. Say “his name” three times OR BE A VAGRANT ON THE SIDEWALK OF LIFE.


Too hot to handle!

“The Sausage Castle” BURNED-DOWN. . . . .


The Inferno Room Meets “Sausage Castle”, USA

Pee Wee Herman Vs. THE WWF

You can say this about World Wrestling Entertainment. . . . . they know how to work the arena as experts in crowd psychology. For glorious, low-brow entertainment (– or even a Donald Trump rally) they know “their marks”, well. Move here– say this– “POWERFUL EMPHASIS”. You’re in for a real rock show. Beetlejuice 2 will be just as hilarious and crowd-pleasing as we’ll be getting those asses into seats and going on a popcorn n’ soda MEGATHON. Like “riding the bloody trail of no return”. . . . . . you can bet your bottom dollar “WE’RE GOING ALL OUT”. Stay tuned, more to come.

Pee Wee Herman Vs. THE WWF

Beetlejuice Documentary in Works!!!

IT HAD TO HAPPEN. Read about it here and throw a few bucks their way. . . . . THE LEGACY LIVES ON!!

Beetlejuice Documentary in Works!!!

The Golden Turkey Award

May we hold our hats to our chest in solemn remembrance of two great figures from the ookey-spookey world of black-and-white cult horror.

If you remember, Lydia dropped a “Night of the Living Dead” reference in Beetlejuice when confronting the rather hapless, innocent spooksters in sheets with cut-out eye-holes and worse acting.

Not to say, that you couldn’t “achieve an effect” as the original 1968 classic ran on about similar production values.

And not forgetting Ed Wood who cobbled together his movies with manic haste and far littler talent to win “The Golden Turkey” award. Somehow, he enlisted the fading, raspy talent of a resurrected Bela Lugosi who probably should have remained “unexhumed” from a deep drug habit.

Played in the actual movie, “Ed Wood” by Martin Landau—who passed away.

And not forgetting George Romero who came up with the original “Night of the Living Dead”.

Midnight showings of transgressive celluloid, you might even call “Beetlejuice” another entry in the projection-room of cult hits and buttered popcorn mayhem.

No one ever went broke “underestimating the bad taste of the American public” though Martin Landau won an Academy Award.

You can’t “spin shit into gold”, or can you? You’re looking at this very website! And it’s for you, my undead mindless legions zoning in to this forsaken corner of the WordPress blogosphere.

Like that movie, “Die Hard”. The sequel should have been “Die Harder”. The third entry should have been “Die Hard with a Vengeance”. The fourth installment, “It won’t Die!”

Where there’s a sequel, there’s an after-life.

Beetlejuice won’t remain buried, I’m sure.


The Golden Turkey Award


A clip from the old 1987 Billy Crystal/Danny Devito movie “Throw Momma from the Train”.

Unfortunately, we can’t bring her back 30 years later and would have to cast someone else. But the idea remains—say, if you were some unfortunate soul “mostly shut-in” under her hectoring influence as a character bridging the world between Lydia’s side and the eventual return of Beetlejuice.

Say, an avid follower of Lydia’s local cable-access t.v. show but otherwise pathetic and lonely.

If you’ve ever seen all those daytime t.v. ads, or lived the bitter, receive life like “the young, crippled, and under-30-years-old”. In those days, it would have been headin’ down to the old video store at 10 PM at night and coming home with six video-tapes. Sooner or later, you’ll fall into the dirty orbit of some slick Beetlejuice type who flatters you with his company and pulls you down into trouble.

Leaving out the doors with an armful of cheesy video-tapes and coming into the light, hang-dog “tall-tale” of another bum. Sure, “you’re inside much, the same strata” but he’s “a different breed of cat”. Funny thing about weekends when you’re unemployed—they don’t mean quite, so much.

And maybe “you’re not as discriminating” when you have no place to go, no schedule keeping you on THE STRAIGHT & NARROW. As if “waiting for life to happen to you” as you go fishing for experience.

Unfortunately, your fishing-pole is only more likely “to dredge-up an old boot” as the law of the world generally goes.

But sure—the world of criminality and idleness and pathetic, broken-down dysfunction at home with momma. It would only be so long before the departed spirit of this dear woman would be levitated in pure black space, like “falling with no place to go” as a lost soul out in the vacant lot of the Beetlejuice side of things. A vagrant thought, a restless thought, a homeless thought. . . . . . drifting throughout all the empty eternities.

Our shut-in lives in a world of hoarded junk, of bygone trinkets that gives him a real dated character. Maybe running around with a vintage Nintendo ZAPPER, or that light-gun you use to play that old game “DUCK HUNT”. Except, through some modified home “Radio-Shack” tinkering, can end up zapping ghosts “only the strange & unusual can see”.

As Lydia once said, “people ignore the strange & unusual”.

This young man is only “another side of it” in a world of junk and social disadvantage.

Through a chance encounter with the show—“Lydia’s Trunk of the Strange & Unusual” he goes looking for quirky used items and ends up witnesses “a drug deal gone bad” with bikers and a pair of burgalars and now finds himself adrift—inexorably bound to the world of Beetlejuice in a run-down old apartment complex. Brandy Station, “thy name is CHAOS” off there in Jerry Springer land.

A wretched, hilarious commentary on the poorer half of Donald Trump’s America.

“Get rich, or die trying” as people fiend for drugs and otherwise are up to stupid things like bank robberies in a kind of “white trash circus” and poor man’s FREAK-SHOW. Grease and uncleanliness suffuses every pore of this marginal lot. . . . . . and it’s a place to vist, for observational humor though you certainly wouldn’t want to live there.

Get a job, go to jail, or join the army. . . . . it doesn’t matter which.

Or stay home and write screenplays with this long, gestating project. You’ll never find a better-quipped screenwriter. . . . . I’ve got a million of ‘em!