Yankee Doodle Beetle

Yankee Doodle Beetle went to town, riding on some mischief. . . . .

Knocked back some Malt Liquor and Thunderbird, took lydia’s Hand and kissed it.


St. Louis is a Patriotic Place, you’ll never call it “A Lemon”. . . . .

HomeBound & Down, You’ll Scream for More and Impress all the pretty Women.


Patriotic Glory Day, you’ll Love this Groovin’ Country. . . . .

Home-Cooked Blogger’s Doggrel, we’ll leave you with the Sequel “munchies”.


Amateur’s Gung-Ho Stake, you’ll never get sick & Tired. . . . .

I work on this free and will never quit or get fired.


“The Price is Right”. . . . . thanks for sticking around! Like a dog on a ham-bone, “Development Hell” continues as we “winter” at Valley Forge.


Yankee Doodle Beetle

Beetlejuice down at “Ballpark Village”

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St. Louis is known as quite the ole’ baseball town. And needless to say, we’re always sorry when the home team looses to anyone as we play the funeral dirge.

But in another movie tie-in, “Back to the Future II” predicted that The Chicago Cubs would win The World Series 30 years into the future, as 2015 as a touch, different. No hover-boards or other sort of conceits to the 1980’s post-future, but hey– it’s like “no one’s supposed to notice, or care”.

But since baseball is such a big part of St. Louis life, no love letter to the city would be complete without bringing some action down to “Ballpark Village”. That whole area is a built-up spot of bars and restaurants, marking easy passage to the stadium through the local Metro-Link for an integrated downtown experience, about the flashiest place you’d find in the whole city.

As you fight your way up through the crowds, you’d have an image of Beetlejuice hurrying along, pursued by the military and other Secret Service types in coats and sunglasses as he tries to loose them in the throng.

And what a sight–

Street musicians busk for change, beating drums on the back of old paint-tubs as taxi-cabs pull up to the curb and Cardinals fans flock toward the gates.

By contrivance I won’t reveal, Beetlejuice actually makes his way out onto the field, blown up in the crisp honeycomb lights of the score-board as officials make an attempt to tackle him.

Your view, up in the seats– the Arch looming high over the stadium with the St. Louis river-front skyline filling the view, making an inescapable cameo in movie-going history as it can all be edited-in with computers, or a special little “joke diversion” arranged somewhere on game night with everyone up in the stands. . . . . as you can do practically anything with technology, these days.

A plot point is that a portal or “gateway” to the paradox of unbeing localizes around our very own Gateway Arch as spirits fly-down and whirl-about in the vise of a threatening thunderstorm, something a bit like the menace in “Ghostbusters”.

Lydia and the gang must run-down to the foot of the Arch grounds to stop Cousin Hugo, the rotund sort of “Insane Clown Posse” hooligan from accidentally “canceling-out the universe” by collecting so much of the code behind “the ideas, that hold ideas”, like streams of data “behind everything” you’d see in “THE MATRIX”. The implication is that commercial mascots come alive as a weird side-effect and how fractions of a cent add up exponentially to break the banking system as the military is trying to reverse an experiment gone terribly wrong on a local high-tech installation as Beetlejuice finds himself “right in the middle of it”

Lydia & friends must break him loose, as part of her “already belongs to the nether-side” as she gains incredible powers, and Beetlejuice becomes “more human” and corporeal. The imbalance must be corrected before it’s too late in a final, fiery finale involving Nintendo light-gun fights and massive, shape-shifting supernatural transformations.

Be there!

Beetlejuice down at “Ballpark Village”

White Palace of Bargains

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On sale, now: A desk lamp fashioned after the style of maybe, something you’d see in “Beetlejuice” like the twisting, winding body of a snake– perchance, diving through your table like an optical illusions of wriggling stripes.

Odd Lots, “Big Lots”– like something you’d find at this close-out store of bargain-basement derangement “on clearance”. Oh, yes– they sell all sorts of junk that regular stores otherwise “couldn’t get rid, of” though something tells me that the lamp will be sold for premium prices online.

But the ethos of “Big Lots” is an example of sketchy local character in my very own backyard, one of the run-down suburban areas that circle the city, proper. A local author once published a book called “White Palace”, a take-off on the restaurant, “White Castle” around these parts with their famed “belly-bomber” hamburgers sold, “10-to-a-sack” an an allegory unto grungy dreams and work-a-day worlds.

You’d know this place, if you saw it.

Down by a stretch of rail-yard overpasses and sidewalks kicked-up with feld-spar and soot as the large billboards advertise “worker’s comp” lawyers seen on television as the roar of motorcycle engines thunder past. Practically every woman works as a waitress with a particular out-state, countrified drawl as the grassy, run-down yards are uncut and as tangled as the mullet-style haircuts on the men. As it was diapers, toddlers, and a room fool of bandanna-ed confederates commiserating over cigarettes. . . . . and how the beer was always ice-cold.

You’d find a touch of “Beetlejuice” around these parts. Location equals character as the night-shift is his home and you’ll always see a zoo of local flavor on Saturday nights down at the local Shop n’ Save as everybody and their stump-toothed cousin goes out to buy beer, ambling-out the door with bare, toothpick-like arms, a greasy cap, and clinking bottles as the night time is “the right-time”.

In real life, say– he’d doubtlessly work as a manager at the “Big Lots” store I was talking about– haunting the back warehouse, down there with the mechanical box-crusher and forklifts full of close-out junk as he grins and slithers salaciously across the cold, cement floor– harassing the female employees and otherwise walking-around with his keys jingling in his belt-loop in a red apron.

He’ll have plenty of sleazy, low-down adventures that brings comedy to the local area and great exposure for the part of America we rarely think of, but makes-up the industrial back-bone of all our days. Before you think you have him pinned-down he’s off somewhere else wreaking mischief as the drop of the word.

So what’s that sound?


At a blog near you. Tell your friends, re-post constantly– we’re #1!!

White Palace of Bargains

Goth-Rock for These Times

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A quick peek at the goth-rock scene in London that stared it all, edgy and defiant and blase like the imps of Western Europe staring-down the Berlin Wall.


Call them “The New Romantics”. Lydia can relate.

Left-ward, politically and highly artistic and sensitive– and into causes such as animal rights or Amnesty International or anti-nuclear power movements, they’ll shoot you a whiplash smile like a tribe of depressive brats in wicked eyeliner invading Cathedrals like imps, androids, waifs, poets, and black angels.

Surely, death-obsessed like decadent odes to rainy skies and urban decay– and portals into netherworlds of club-culture and “beat, happening” in mannered languor as strange & unusual as kids are impressionable and drawn to darkness.

Death on a practical level is like a vulgar t.v. repair-man of practical, unclean mind as death is far more romantic than bringing home a paycheck– where selling your soul is not more big a thing than getting your truck refinanced at Lou Fuze auto-dealer with the colored flags and giant inflatable “King Kong” bouncing like a black-cat firecracker along the main drag on Lindbergh.

Lydia lives in the city of tumbled-down feld-spar as St. Louis is made out of “moods and territories” that overlap and shade into each other as worlds will collide and we will have a very clever movie. I couldn’t turn to another town for better inspiration.

Beetlejuice 2: Hawaiian St. Margarita Coaster as you have a fiend in a lawn-chair, his feet in the kiddie pool, and knocking back a case of Busch beer.

Hang on with us, and more cinematic truths will unfold for the reader’s eye. . . . .

“Life is like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . . you always know what you’re gonna get”.

Goth-Rock for These Times

Mississippi Nights


No movie with St. Louis involved will ever be complete, unless we see Beetlejuice sleazing around the ole’ waterfront. The Arch looms 600 ft up in the air, and it’s otherwise lots of public safety and civil service “make-work” as that area becomes pretty desolate except for the wild laughter of drunks leaving some of the night-life restaurants. But to make a story, short– the land is tangled with river-growth as you encounter trees and viaducts and so much concrete as it’s hard, like fighting upstream– to have a taste of the downtown night-life where the complaint about this town is that “to break-in”, you’d have to know the same group of suburban sluggards for 30 or 40 years– where introductions are hard, and either “you know about the worn pathways”, or don’t.

A picturesque image, “is it not”? But the one thing you’ll admire about this town is the atmosphere of run-down industrial-decay that still makes an effort to hold sweeping public events– like the riverboats, where you might see a “BigFoot” monster truck chained on the pier and families are walking-around, pushing strollers and carrying sodas– if not stopping-in for limitless merchandising as we’re surely an Anheiser-Busch trinket & souvenier mega-clearence hub as the impression is so much land and the cool breeze off of the river like we’re pioneers “over fly-over country”.

There’s some cafes and diners on the dead-end of town that attracts a lot of misfits, walking in through the red, blinking street-lights with a story of woe, or life’s good little chances over hashbrowns and coffee like the graveyard shift of all local excuses, assembled at this greasy spoon where you can hear a tale, or three. About six inches from the gutter, as Beetlejuice slams down change in the palm of his hand, wrapped in bandages as the grime seems inviting, the night long. . . . . . and human riff-raff king of all ocassions.

You’d have to be a local– somewhat down-and-out in the same cycle of sluice-gates and watery trash, for years on end– as some die, and others move-in like the morbid march of alcoholism and divorce. Life is full of hand-me-downs and grime, so glorious and thick with soot and ignorance.

You’d have to be there– but oddly, I like it. Let’s bring the movie here, and the city will roll-out the red carpet to keep “the good word” out. Spoken like a proud St. Louisan as I hope you’ll like this place too.

More than “a know-nothing”, WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW.

Mississippi Nights

Ole’ Swamp-Juice

Like a character out of Mark Twain’s own native Missouri– Beetlejuice lurks back in the Ozark swamps and lives a life of tattered refuge in a real house of sticks. Hey, it was all he could find– and he doesn’t owe property taxes or pay utilities on this veritable wart of muddy, abandoned shelter.

Things are dim and low-lit out here, and there he is yakking on a cell-phone doing what crazy people do– invest in futures.

Maybe it’s more “the lifestyle” of living like a business-man, but there he is, “wheelin’ and dealin'” with mirror shades and a big ole’ Stetson hat as he’s unaware of what he’s getting into.

Sold on the idea by a slick cowboy in a steak-house (– maybe played by Brett Michaels, the singer from poison) he lives like a real rhinestone cowboy– until those corn futures he invested-in end up getting dumped in his front yard.

Indeed, “it’s commodities”– but he didn’t read the fine print well enough. Now, time to raise swamp-hogs as wild boars chew on the corn and otherwise knock Mr. Beetlejuice into the mud as he’s losing dollars on the cents, cents on the dollars– but certainly not making any money because he doesn’t use commonsense.

Oh, well– better raise “pork-rinds” as the world of finance is a jungle and just because you smell like ape-sht doesn’t mean “you’re Tarzan”.

It’s always about “chiseling cars”, or finding ways to turn around complete junk and sell-it for a profit as you’re deep into south St. Louis county where the trash blows among the yellowed reeds and asphalt of desolation. It’s a zoo, full of grizzled, drunk painters and other riff-raff as the one thing is certain, and that’s how ice water is free down at the local Chinese buffet, maybe where they seal the deal as the impression is dingy and cut-rate.

Beetlejuice “isn’t glamorous”– he just thinks he is, and what “passes” as high class may be the difference between unleaded and then again– super-unleaded gasoline at the local fueling station where it’s all beef-jerky and high caffeine “rocket soda”, if not black coffee to make your stomach sour “as it’s a tough life”. Some are at home in it, and others merely observe– as there’s plenty of rich atmosphere to explore.

Does this sound like a concept for a movie that’s coming together, or what? Will shoot over some more ideas, later and once again– I appreciate your viewership. We’re going to make a real funny movie and you can just call this a bit of grassroots support on my neverending march to take over the world.

By the way, Happy 57th Birthday to Tim Burton who I hope is poring through these pages, glittering dollar signs in his eyes as it’s a rich vein of thought, coming here out of Missouri.

The madness continues, tomorrow and we’ll be back shortly.

Until then, say it once– say it twice– balls covered with lice– for BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE! Oh, here I come baby. A fly with an eye, so don’t die eatin’ no humble-pie. It’s a hot property!

Ole’ Swamp-Juice