Creepy Crawl Punk Venu


If it’s anything St. Louis has no shortage of—it’s the various small-dive punk clubs. Some open, some close—R.I.P. as rents go up with the gentrifying neighborhoods. Your best bet is something in the shuttered industrial-district on the grimy edge of city limits, a rose-carving in a wrought iron-gate for the dank atmosphere of auto-exhaust and the sewers.

Cheap shows– $10 for a night of mayhem, if the bands on the bill aren’t terribly well-known.

You have a thrasher, maybe a left-wing skinhead from the old Eastern bloc countries who weaves through the audience in a green bomber jacket, his boots laced-up with red anti-fa shoelaces. Punk is maybe an open-minded series of observations, individually subjective for all the strange flavors of variety. He looks like “that guy from Anthrax”, as you could only be referring to Scott Ian, like earnest gung-ho driftwood and goofy-foot guitar hopping like cargo shorts and raked guitar strings.

You also have “wise-guys” with the sly, perceptive art of observation. Maybe he’d be a cartoonist or just a clerk at 7-Eleven. View-askew, a cap turned sideways and a clever t-shirt of some scribbled vintage. His state is constant bemusement through a pair of pop-eyed glasses.

Don’t forget the crew of goth chicks, skin as pale as cottage-cheese in the artsy, performance-based world of witchcraft and “large, in-charge” antics. She definitely knows what she wants, the raven-haired streak of appetite and life-force like a fish tank of gleaming glass beads and murkier smells of paint and incense. Pick one or the other, like sisters differentiated slightly by personality but still wonderfully mysterious.

You have the blonde, dreadlocked stoner and “outside-the-box” thinker with a tragic overbite and clenched, silent intent hanging his arms out of his Rastafarian shirt colors for a hop and kick of the hackey-sack. . . . . a game of ultimate-frisbee. Attention Deficit Disorder as the mild, silent-type who fits the bill of all stoner-lore and comic-relief.

And there’s a sour, chirpy lark who’s small but as overflowing with punch as an atomic warhead for chewing gum and eyes lighting up with mischief. Contrarian and street-wise like a pill of cyanide, swallowing a straw of pixie-stix and flailing around until she collapses from a blown-out sugar-high and gets back on the stage to do it again, diving back in the pit.

These would be Lydia’s friends. . .. . . a gang of indie-media slackers living off their parents’ largess and in the artistic lifestyle of alt-rudderless experience. Where Lydia goes, they go—fleshing out this Beetlejuice 2 movie as the plot coalesces in a strange world and becomes a film.

You will here more about them. . . . . the St. Louis experience. Stay tuned!


Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

Retro Drive-in Ads

Now, we introduce to you, THE REAL REASON why movie theaters are open. Namely, as an excuse to set-up a snack-bar and draw revelers in to the screen-house like flies to a bbq or more like, Beetlejuice up to mischief like a grub-worm to shit or screenwriters to comedy.

Beetlejuice 2 will take-on several surreal excursions, poking fun at itself and other “meta-referencing” with little “breakers”, or “send-up’s” in between scenes to keep the film moving-along. Say, constant references to product spots and buying popcorn & soda and other bolstering “product-placements”.

You’ll have a lurching, screwball perspective with whips & pans that moves from one thing to another like those delightful little cameos and other extras that you can throw in, to make the humor tighter and gratifying for the smart-alleck in the audience.

The imagination is the limit for this scriptwriter, here– so long as you can put-it into words and make use of free, retro “stock-footage” or whatever strange stuff you can mix-in– a real bouillabaisse of off-key inspiration you won’t find anywhere else. Mastery & execution– as you’ll never see anything like it, ANYWHERE.

For instance, a card is held-up– “Where’s Hugo?” as he burrows-off to the side of the action as the Lydia and Beetlejuice plot thickens, and there is likeness or something “close-enough” counts-down, off to the side. Just reminding you that he’s still alive “and out there” as the threads will all come together.

And the second reason movie theatres are open– to sell tickets to you, the audience who must be entertained. You make it real, you know.


Retro Drive-in Ads

Vintage Tim Burton Infotainment

I always wondered what Tim Burton looked like. Not until the era of the Internet Movie Database could I grab a head-shot and find out for myself.

With his arty shock of hair, Tim Burton speaks for every misfit who dwelled in his parents’ basement and as if I’m not one to talk– always one fascinated by the world of enchantment from a very young age.

I grew up with his movies.

It’s that certain-trope– rough, wind-bumpted Claymation with leering grins and pin-prick eyes unto a playhouse, or maybe faerie tales– or superhero movies. . . . . wholly inventive, weird, whimsical and darkly imaginative. It bespoke of exotic foods like yogurt-covered pretzels and various spiced snacks as I’d watch PBS children’s programming after school, off at friends’ houses like a fruity, alternative flavor that belied all the shadowy mysteries, existing outside of time itself as we watched Faerie Tale Theatre.

Frequently starring title characters as misfits and outsiders, or even a coiffured poodle riding in the passenger-seat of a red convertible like nightmarish “California’ dreamin” on this side of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, everything that has turned moldy and off-color about the 1960’s like cleaning chemicals and weird goofuses in young family portraits.

Like some sort of inverse, backwards mirror as a window into another world, a bit like yours and mine but only stranger. As the Pee-wee doll says when you pull the string, “I know you are– but what am I?” Like marionette puppet-house theater and punk rockers with the smell of art-room paint. Like, weird. . . . . but wonderfully so.

The art department had a lot to do on Beetlejuice. I look forward to this project.

Vintage Tim Burton Infotainment

Batman on Letterman

Here is Michael Keaton “at his vintage caginess” on the old Late Show with Dave Letterman. Everyone here looks younger, as the Baby Boomer set has had “a long go, of it” and how you wonder if the rising Millennial Generation will ever leave a comparable body of work, as the years certainly have flown-by.

Batman was really my first introduction to the world of Tim Burton and I saw it on my 8th birthday with a friend and his father. The best $5 ever spent on a ticket as I truly found it mind-expanding. I was so much into my little world of Nintendo and summer vacation that I barely knew it was playing– and all of a sudden found myself in the middle of “Bat-mania” with all the shirts and caps.

Continue reading “Batman on Letterman”

Batman on Letterman

Congratulations, a Michael Keaton TRIBUTE

First off, congratulations to Michael Keaton for “The Golden Globe”, award as the arc of destiny is long– and eventually, “you get recognized” and are paid, the right bit of attention instead of “just fading-out” as victory, only tastes sweeter, for it.

Through up’s & down’s, and sometimes– WORSE projects, like this review of a later day family comedy, “Jack Frost” from Roger Ebert: Continue reading “Congratulations, a Michael Keaton TRIBUTE”

Congratulations, a Michael Keaton TRIBUTE