“Push Comes to Shove”, EDGE

Hey, same tailor! Nice suit……

Good ole’ express-elevator, straight-down to hell…… out of 100 floors, with floor 13 “the missing netherworld” edited-out of the tour unless “you draw a door” and speak the secret, occult password.

And what would that password be?

“BEETLEJUICE 2!!!”

If for the sake of repetition or “13 steps to nowhere”– Beetlejuice is about to become a Broadway franchise. With illusion and stage-magic and A WHOLE HELL of a lot of fun.

So begs the question…… what is the closest point between a good idea and a great idea?

 

EDGE.

 

It digs low and hard into your ribs like charred steak, bourbon, and nighttime asphalt as the kind of movie “YOU’D WALK THROUGH THE FLAMES OF HELL” to holler at the screen in raucous, bilious appreciation like a truck-stop riot and snow-chains through the laughing heart of darkness that leaves you with a eaten-out heart and half-a-lung.

  

  

Give me EDGE….. OR GIVE ME DEATH! Better yet….. GIVE ME THE SEQUEL!!! For the best in artfully-crass entertainment, it’s Beetlejuice 2!!!

 

     

   

“Push Comes to Shove”, EDGE

Nightmare Before Christmas

  

“Nightmare Before Christmas”. . . . . and we’re not talking BLACK FRIDAY super-sales and crowd riots.

In fact, the internet has taken much of the bite out of retail shopping as surely as the spirit of Christmas has turned into consumer-crazy pandemonium.

Nothing but jolly Christmas jingles for six weeks straight, scarcely when the forks and knives have clattered down on Thanksgiving plates and Americans are already out the door and descending on the mega-malls and box-stores, products of instant gratification bigger than the maniacal eyes as gloved hands beat against the plate-glass windows, waiting for the stores to open at 5 A.M.

And what about your local retail mall outlet?

Well, some are blessed more than others. . . . . . but this one is nearly-empty.

And there is “our Batman & Robin duo” IN COSTUME

Yes, Beetlejuice subcontracted out as “Santa Claus” with Lydia as his helper assistant, a surly elf in a jingling green cap stubbing out a cigarette as the manager waddles by.

It’s yuletide redneck commercialism, with the jet-black volcanic edge of a punk princess on the far-flung experience of what makes America such a strange, deth-rocker juxtaposition of roof-top aerials, local cable-television, and sin.

No, Lydia won’t sit in Santa-Beetle’s lap but she will stand to the side, her arms crossed and her eyes rubbering around at the cat-calls with her own righteous sense of absurdity.

And there the foul demon sits on a throne surrounded with puffy cotton-snow, knocking back from a bottle of whiskey and ripping his snaggle-toothed, mush-mouth with the back of his hand as he leers, calling out to customers and laughing like a Mardi Gras fiend.

He shakes an empty, wrapped box—festooned with striped-wrappers and a red-bow, and hurls it off to the side where it rolls and knocks in the back of Lydia’s green, buckled boots with the twisting toe-curls.

What did she do to deserve this?

In fact, it’s an extracurricular project for her college anthropology class on the subject of Santa redneck zombies and the American fool. Her dissertation—namely that zombie and monster films “are about keeping the lurching rubes” away from the citadels of civilization, like bourgeois fear of the hard-pitted country yeoman “CRASHING THE PARTY”, eating your brains even.

Not unlike the phenomenon of the Tea Party in American politics, though she puts “the liberal” in LIBERTARIAN as a matter of course, with little skull and “Hello, Kitty” pasties.

In her Christmas canon, Santa is a robot “and lives on the moon”—as derived from a Japanese animated series, dubbed into English and played on her iPhone.

Last year, ole’ Beetlejuice ran “a failed tree lot” when the scheme was basically stealing the Christmas trees right from living rooms when the owners weren’t around, dragging it out the busted window with the scrunch of branches and falling Christmas ornaments and flickering lights as he drug the cord behind him and out to his idling pick-up truck.

PRE-FAB Christmas trees.

Fabulous? Hardly.

But Lydia snapped pictures. Her “strange, unusual friend” and partner in “field research”—more like a dark trailer in the middle of unincorporated St. Louis county on the outer heaths of this Midwestern hell, the river like a sluggish, glinting worm-slick and above it all, the shining star of near-past winter solistice.

“Zombies ate my neighbors”. . . . . or maybe just “fascination” stalls your but, mostly-untyped manuscript as she fulfilled her inner voyeur for the sullen, sordid, outrageous, and vaguely criminal.

An indifferent “second party” to all the madness, as the spherical dome of world & sky “had no comment”, other than her chuffing breath fogging the air as Beetlejuice cussed and swore and violently swept aside the nest, acorns, and squirrel shit that had invaded his aluminum-tin domicile.

Be his name, “SATAN CLAWS” as hapless oaf of dark principalities and Wiccan prayer-god of “smoke, and glowing red coals” like a demon of destruction and vile oaths, like a laughing miscreant flicking a BIC lighter next to an unlit forest fire.

(Maybe it was just the septic tank, blowing-up like a mushroom cloud)

But here at the mall. . . . . MUZAK. The meat-blossom of the fetid air and the hell of subcontracted wages as she could think of better places to be. Maybe the “Meow-Hawns” cat café, where you could play with adoption-friendly shelter cats while glugging down steaming espresso brew and staring off into the endless sidewalk of night on the other side of the glass.

It was said “the mouth of hell” was guarded by a lion—and maybe it was just the blonde, tangled nimbus of Beetlejuice motor-mouthing the anti-climax of the season. . . . . even as “Edward Scissorhands” tended shop at the “Sally Field’s Cookies” in a cap and apron, snipping his fingers together in idle misery.

It was a Tim Burton world, baby. Watch that festive snake-head poke out of the package like a jack-in-the-box jester and freak out the custodian poking at the marble floor with a mop.

Only the guards behind the security monitors “knew if you were naughty or nice” but they were mostly snoozing under a collision of doughnuts and sweets.

That tinsel glow, “just so”. . . . .

A HAPPY NIGHT “IN HELL”.

Nightmare Before Christmas

The Hierarchy of Hell: Who’s Who in Lucifer’s Underworld – article by Daz Lawrence

Facinating article, here– in the vein of my version of Beetlejuice 2, a bit

The Hierarchy of Hell: Who’s Who in Lucifer’s Underworld – article by Daz Lawrence.

Hell would strike me as a comical place, the nether-world like a janitorial sweep up of “karma” as you meet the after-life’s minions, led by the Grim Reaper. Yes, all sorts of reality/splicing animation sequences as one thing is certain– Beetlejuice must “pay his dues”, or else get vomited down on living Earth without his magician’s super-powers and otherwise meet his fate as he must find a way to crawl back to his lowly-abode.

If you can think of the “ooohhy-ohh” chant from “The Wizard of Oz” you’d get the idea– hell’s minions tolling in a dead sleep like working under “Father Time”, the boss– as you can bring in all sorts of creative guesswork.

How about “Death” at his computer– working over a spreadsheet and figuring-out “who to smite” with the press of a button? Like working life, death is full of quotas as I won’t kid you about “dead-end” jobs.

You’d have to see it to believe it– as toil continues on my vision of “Beetlejuice 2”. See you soon.

The Hierarchy of Hell: Who’s Who in Lucifer’s Underworld – article by Daz Lawrence