IT HAD TO HAPPEN. Read about it here and throw a few bucks their way. . . . . THE LEGACY LIVES ON!!
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!
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.
A renegade from the world of Beetlejuice, you could only know him as “The Panther Man”.
Up from the swamps of the southern outback like gutter-fried insanity, he mutters on. Not quite a military combat veteran, but “a wannabee” as it’s Tarzan USA pitted-up against a safari of feral jungle cats. . . . . all but in a loin-cloth, cammo-jacket, and spiked razor-back hair like some kind of wild hog, on two legs.
There have been pictures of “ground zero” down at an outdoors “Poison” concert, a mud-hole of stump-frump, dazed-eyed slope-heads looking like they crawled out of a Babylon latrine with bloody animal-bones and pin-prick eyes, your relative of the Florida boardwalk barnacle in an Hawaiian shirt and a pager, making drug deals.
But this is the St. Louis zoo, up north. “Big Cat Country”, in fact or the area closer to the sunset and golden roar of the highway as true as when the concrete was poured for this outdoor exhibit back in 1977. You have the roarin’ tiger, a circus poster of a ferocious maned lion like leopard-skin seat-covers and zebra Memphis-Mafia hats like pimps.
This, as the families walk by pushing strollers. Their mindset is more a relic of the stuffed-animal you would find in the gift-shop.
Out here, though– it’s about testing yourself “against that primal scream, out there” as a muscular-shouldered snow leopard trains past with its muzzle snorting through its whiskers by the wire-mesh cage, when it’s not lurking beneath a piss-soaked tree trunk like captured malevolence.
Part “Deliverance”. . . . . maybe “Prince of Tides”. . . . . THE PANTHER MAN slurs through an inner-monologue like Jerry Lee Lewis high on Hadycol and mountains of coke atop a piano, or maybe just the chipper, low-slung brightness of a mechanic in a Jiffy Lube cap and coveralls. The subject always turns to the killing-power of firearms, or bodybuilding, or fast cars down at the Tri-City Speedway.
Crack-brained incoherence, like “white-line fever” after an amphetamine binge. He grips a pocket knife in his teeth and hooks his fingers into the cage as he climbs up like “G.I. Joe” with the stealth of a panther.
It’s to prove his manhood, after-all. Like youthful exuberance and “BLACK CAT FIRECRACKERS” with a head muddy with alcohol and mischief.
He lives to tell the tale! Don’t mix vodka, orange juice, and a whole spleen full of “panther piss”. You could have your face end up on “COPS”.
If all gravel roads lead somewhere, you wouldn’t be surprised to pass old, broken-down trailers in the neighborhood. And a fixture of riff-raffery, some of Beetlejuice’s low-down neighbors poking around a grill like a whiskey-guzzling musk-rat.
Brutal, lordly. NSFW– (“Not safe for work) as if a dude like this even worked.
It’s “El Duce” from the shock-rock beer-belly set. You’ll recognize him for his sadomasochist stylings, concealing his objectionable identity with a black hood and guttural offensive charms as he fronted “The Mentors” like THE KINGS OF SLEAZE festering on the Pacific Coast.
Langouring trailer-park women in leather and garters, his presumed harem as he bulges out his eyes like bonk-headed, glazed space mutants in foam-rubber monster costumes “demanding to be gratified”.
Indeed, “a threat to health, wealth, and morals” whose raunchy lyrics were presented before Congress in hearings by “The Washington Wives”, calling for restraint and decency in the music industry. Good luck with that– the only thing they succeeded in doing was getting “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” stickers on tapes & CD’s and probably just making the offending music THAT MUCH MORE ENTICING.
No matter what, you’ll always have the bottom-feeders like ole’ El Duce putting on shows and selling underground records out of a car trunk, a slap on your shoulder and an ice-cold beer in the other hand as he yuks it up like an unsubtle statement about America.
Just another misfit in the world of Beetlejuice “who fits”.
Call him “Uncle Perv”. . . . . though I think Lydia would remain wary to the proposition of returning to a motel with his guy. After all, she broke-off the marriage contract with Beetlejuice in the movie, spared from obscene fate, an X-rated boast.
If even from El Duce– who once sensationally claimed that Courtney Love offered him money to whack Kurt Cobain. Maybe a nugget of some off-color joke “grows with the telling” but watch as everyone attempts to cash in.
Like a dubious character witness, I wouldn’t trust him either as you can’t forget Beetlejuice “selling used cars” at the cemetery lot with the giant lit sign– the giant arrow pointing to “dirt-low” credibility, the rotten truth in all “the fine print”.
A foul trickster, free speech for the dumb as you can’t “outlaw evil”. Keep this movie PG-rated, IF YOU DARE. Or else my name is Jerry Springer. . . . .
Don’t “Shake Hands with SNAKE”
Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy
“Just another number”.
Be there “no Karma about it” but THE RECENTLY DECEASED will hit that old after-life office with the thud of paperwork.
(Reminds me of the ole’ Social Security office)
Franz Kafka couldn’t have said it better, whether just the victim is mad or “THE SYSTEM”, itself is even crazier. . . . . and remember, that guy in the “Metamorphosis” story did turn into an insect. OR EVEN A BEETLE.
A lot of people “kill time” in the waiting room, bearing the incarnation they took when “struck-down, mortally”. The visual cue—its own kind of karma whether you’re a shrunken-head on the leash of a witch-doctor as it didn’t end well for the big game hunter.
Don’t go smoking in bed, either—or take poison which will turn you into an icky, translucent green like the secretary behind the sliding window.
Perky, pert, and sarcastic—if not despondent in this perfect illustrated example of the mind/body and material/spiritual splits that cleaves the world into an alienated hell.
Ole’ Beetlejuice pops his head in and takes a seat. I’d imagine him probably sticking his hand down the front of his pants like Al Bundy in “Married with Children”. Half-resourceful or maybe just fool-hardy “no one will notice” as he lopes across the parking lot to grab a cooler of beer.
You’d imagine he’d only lose his place in line.
Solely the balance between evidence and lyricism can allow us to achieve simultaneous emotion and lucidity. . . . . but there he hollers at his loss.
In this last week, we’ve lost Chris Cornell—the singer from Soundgarden—and Roger Ailles—the chairman of Fox News. Only out of an episode of “Adult Swim” could these figures every encounter each other.
The moody rock singer leans up on the chair, hang-dog with his hands stretched over his knee while the right-wing chieftain tries to bluster and glad-hand his way out of federal commitment for dinner reservations “elsewhere”.
There’s only a few things certain in this life. . . . . death, taxes, and irate constituents.
End up here and you have to meet your quota of lingering, ghostly “overtime” back on earth. Spook the hell out of the living for a spike of adrenaline and ecto-residue that kicks into your early retirement, building enough parasitically-fueled power to ascend up the spiritual pyramid to eternal bliss.
Sounds like Medicare and Social Security.
You’ll pay though. . . . . they’ll take everything “but the squeal”.
Death. Taxes. Hollywood sequels. . . . .
Welcome to America. You could die laughing. . . . .