DEAD-ZONE, ROUTE 666

   

Hell…… when there is no more room, “THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH”.

Exurbs, countryside…… intergalactic elevators unto hellish, degraded, LOWER forms of non-existence.

Bleaker landscapes, stormy alien worlds……. uncanny, sure. Gray crud, a mountain of cancerous, ossified skulls like mineralized intestines, BURN BLACK.

Uncanny, sure…… as “a symptom of the sick, sick universe”.

Elaborate systems, wheels of time—if not five-pointed pentagrams and general unpleasantries as described by ancient occult orders. Returning, “by hearsay” with a crude road map of scribbles and strange-signage, like an old crumpled bus schedule.

Or even a community bulletin—“the trash pick-up service” as provided by the local netherworld municipality and other bureaucratic lore.

“Bring out your dead!”

No luck for “working stiffs”…… or even the husks of those whom “died” in the after-life.

For surely, they will be recycled into the flittering, antenna mind of a stag-beetle in this burrowing earth of mud, death, “and overall shittiness”.

Molten gold, leering goblin-faces, crystal skeleton keys….. so it is written.

Hierarchies of demons are described in dusty grimoires, a kind of neo-Roman army of legionnaires, trumpeters, prefects, captains of the guard along the walls of “DEATH CAPITOL”, the mountains of Hades rising in the distance…… but one has the sneaking suspicion that despite all the pageantry and ritual, your cremated bones will be pounded to ashes “and that’s the end of you”.

A cold shiver running down your greasy spine, like the root-evolution of a knotty horseshoe crab and nerve endings like the roots of a sub-world tree….. the BIG, LONG NOW like an endless droning silence as “the punch-line” is a ghoul pulling off their face to reveal a screaming skull.

The dimensions of reality “curl back in on themselves” like a riddle, a spiraling demise, a sacred geometry. An ironic punishment, but “with no answer”.

A form reveals itself…… Beetlejuice hanging off the trash-truck, out for “a joy ride”. Along the Helldarado of bones, BORN TO RAISE HELL and TOO YOUNG TO DIE. Though he’s over 700 years old, his infectious laugh plagues the pilgrim, the tourist, the lost.

Don’t hitchhike, Lydia. I’d turn around and shuffle away “fast as you can” in those funereal black rags and mourning garb. Draw a door in the air with your finger, grab the knob-sketch, and walk back through from whence you came—like Dorothy clicking her ruby slippers together and figuring “THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME”.

Spoken “3 times”…… NO, DON’T SAY IT!!! Not the “B-word”.

But there’s another word, “B” for “Box-Office BUSINESS”.

That’s 2 “B’s”. There…… at a sequel near you.

There’s more where that came from…… Keep watching, kids!

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DEAD-ZONE, ROUTE 666

“Could Be”……

Credit where credit is due……

https://movieweb.com/beetlejuice-2-trailer-fan-made/

  

Smoke ’em if you got ’em…… no more reflective than a maggot at feeding-time and twice as verbal. Ashes-to-ashes & Dust-to-dust as the property is not dead, only “on break”.

And remember, hell is Universal– only worse for “fresh meat”, right-off the slab in the misbegotten scheme of things.

Life is a gas station and a bag of chips. He puts “The Jerk” in beef-jerky and will jerk-around “the cast-off’s” hapless enough to say the name of he-who-cannot-be-named.

  

“Video Graveyard”…… Netherworld Obscura…… Do you call on the dark?

 

Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!

   

“Could Be”……

“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

Netherworld “Top 40”

(Or maybe not)…..

we must make a movie pleasant to the sensibilities of the ticket-buying public.

Here’s an Article about How Harry Belafonte got involved with the original “Beetlejuice”.

https://pitchfork.com/thepitch/how-a-calypso-anthem-became-the-surreal-centerpiece-of-beetlejuice/

 

 

 

Netherworld “Top 40”

Monolithic Messaging

Back in “The Paleolithic” age of my own elementary school memories…… Well, I’ll tell you.

“Cartoon All-Stars to the Rescue”….. I KID YOU NOT.

Imagine having a couple of local t.v. network affiliates and large blocks of syndicated programming along the “bush-league” UHF band and you get to understand the world of video-tape, audio cassettes, and clunky camcorders.

It was basement/bedroom video projects and Nintendo “Game Genie” code books in paperback— as it looked to the school bus set rumbling home unto sun-dappled industrial leather-scent.

Hollywood, here we come!

Or it could be that way “in young imaginations” with vast unknowns.

Life was a lot more “closed-circuit”, our mostly-filtered, curated link to the outside world. With “BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO” as your witness, your only guide to anything exciting was an address in the back of a splashy “junk food” entertainment guide.

Lots of edgy “cyber” covers with 8-bit digitation “wipe-out”— like “surf’s up dudes”—and bad middle American haircuts, mullets mostly.

(– “Write away for contest rules”)

Like, wow. Maybe even a national tie-in with “Pizza Hut”…..

(– “For a limited time, only”)

In 1990 it was earth-shattering. Monolithic messaging, you could say.

In the ultimate cross-over of Saturday morning animation properties—and broadcasting on all channels, simultaneously with industrial-strength emphasis, with a prerecorded message from the very President, himself— it was advertised months in advance, in cooperation with all the networks through a cartoon jamboree extravaganza.

Bringing you this joyless public-service message to “JUST SAY NO”.

Seat-to-seat, back-to-back, admonishing you white little wastrels “to stay off crack”.

Why, “in the name of the very social fabric”—UHF channels of “Praise the Lord”, The Home Shopping Network, and endless rerun commercials for chia pets and “Clap-on, Clap-off” THE CLAPPER for hard-of-hearing senior citizens, if not personal injury attorneys.

Truly, could it survive the era of “The Simpsons” with snarky, smart-ass comments?

The emerging gold standard of humor was the kind of thing starched-shirt parents “tried to steer us from”, a world of corporal punishment and suspendered grandpas singing barbershop quartet.

It was a self-defeating cycle of moral lassitude—thereby using entertainment “to piss off your elders” and the world they tried to shield you from.

Gothic dance clubs where stylish ladies wore leather pants, halter-tops, and sunglasses as they rocked to the thumping beat of laser-light “Batcave” Inferno. THE PEER PRESSURE “could not be beat”.

Wanted excitement? Say his name three times. . . . . REV UP YOR BIKES.

 

 

HEMP FOR VICTORY….. Semper-Fi “OR DIE”, “WITH MUNCHIES FOR MISCHIEF”.

 

“Brats Question Authority”…..

Monolithic Messaging

Lobster Man from Mars…..

Down a video aisle near you….. according to the forgone graveyard of VHS Flea-Market gems for one’s stupefaction and bargain-basement delight.

A movie about “A really bad movie” shopped around to a sleazy Hollywood Mogul who seeks out a box-office “tax write-off” to dodge the wrath of the hungry IRS.

The filmmaker screens his film and the potential distributor– sitting there pulling his sweaty collar with a giant medallion– is shocked & amazed.

Like he’s privileged to witness the next “Citizen Kane” of drive-in pictures and exploitation bait, “as the market goes”. . . . . and call this a PG-rated grindhouse of zonkers fun.

The poor kid wrote, directed, produced, and edited his “bedroom-tinkered opus”.

It’s the kind of thing Beetlejuice would watch in his scuzzy dirt-mound of a dwelling at 4 A.M. on a Friday. . . . . hitting the road afterward to grab a huge sports mug of French Vanilla coffee down at the local 24-hour Quicktrip.

It’s called NEET– “N.either E.mployed, in E.ducation, or T.raining” across the rolling scrub-lands and apartment complexes of glorious marginality.

Here, the world is early-dawn-gray like a television tuned to a dead channel.

Ahhh, the joys of social-security disability.

Just don’t break into cars and find oneself in the back of a squad car or even featured on an episode of “COPS”.

GOD BLESS AMERICA, “PATRIOT”.

Lobster Man from Mars…..

“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY

 

What a bender. . . . . .

Beetlejuice hunched over the toilet on his hands and knees with a party-hat.

The kitchen was just as putrid, down in the ole’ “Beetle-Hole”. . . . . . roach scabs laying around like potato peelings amid mountains of Everclear bottles and a dish of honey-roasted peanuts (– mostly decimated)

May the spirit be exorcised, as Beetlejuice staggers back in and hurls green/puke/gak right into the sink.

He slid, slumped against the cabinets and broke a long, slow wind. His dog mosied by and stopped at the water-dash, slapping up nourishment with the flap of its jowls.

A dog-day afternoon. (3 P.M. in fact)

Out here on the first day of the year—the rest of your lives—FOR AN ETERNITY—“because there was no more room in hell”. Returned to earth in fleshy form, like a swollen and rotted piece of fruit about to burst out of its own skin.

(What a party)

Meanwhile, up in a more ethereal abode—Lydia was more delicate about “the feast of souls”, a few too many wine-cooler’s leaving her curled-up in bed, in her customary gothic pile of rags as her pet pig nestled-up to her softly panting breath and oinked.

It was “Glenn”—her Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named for the singer of “THE MISFITS”. Saved from pork shiskabob as a special boutique pet for the pale and punkishly “OUTLAW”.

Call it whimsical “artistic license” though she couldn’t care much now, whether she’d wear a beret and leather jacket or just the spiky hair-dress and Medieval-apparel.

A hipster photo-blog? Check out FACEBOOK. Or a DIY fashion-channel. Check out YOUTUBE.

The malls “were dying”. (Her kind of place).

Lo, curdled cottage-cheese complexion and arachnid-black acrylic nails.

That place would be called “Hot Topic” or the boutique-chain for disaffected young girls, as if stranded on “The Alien Ant-Farm” of exurban development.

A darting gaze—“eyes without a face” as people didn’t notice the strange and unusual.

In this latter-day, Lydia became (re)acquainted with Beetlejuice in an online chat-room.

(Don’t stare just because you’re fascinated)

Co-conspirators of morbidity, as Beetlejuice “mostly stayed in” some nights and scrawled-out messages IN ALL CAPS.

But she wouldn’t type-it. . . . . or even SAY IT.

“Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!”.

Better leaving “that genie in the bottle” and keeping it rated-PG.

Of course, Beetlejuice could always dial a 1-900 HOT-CHAT number and get the paid attendant “to say whatever he wanted”.

But it’s just not the same—the spell doesn’t work if the magic words are stated “out-of-context”.

Like a key in search of a locked door. Otherwise, it was like palming the key with no place to put it.

Don’t take that us “a double entendre”, but Lydia wasn’t stupid.

Your Pandora’s box might as well be the shit-show of “contestants” nabbed on “TO CATCH A PREDATOR”.

Even Beetlejuice has to get some credit. Or else this would be “a very unfunny movie”.

Down in his ole’ hole he crawls forward on his hands and knees, as if rising and falling to salute “Elvira: Mistress of the Dark” or at least the cardboard stand-up of her.

That was more “his speed”.

KILL THE SUNSHINE. . . . . and how about “some hair of the dog”.

Well, okay. His dog.

His literal pet-dog—an old, blind poodle in a black-coat with a giant scrotum “that swung gruesomely” and held court like a beatnik hipster.

The one thing for certain is that “Man’s Best Friend” would always be there, “when Man’s FIRST CHOICE” was geographically out of the area “or seeing someone else”.

Click your Ruby Slippers three times, but Lydia sat with her arms folded on the windowsill—staring out over the countryside and wishing “things weren’t as DEAD”.

An emoji for your thoughts, but Beetlejuice was tolerable “in small doses”.

It was a nice place to visit, “though you wouldn’t want to live there”.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said “hell is other people”. She’d agree totally. . . . .

Late-night Talk Radio– THE PROTO-INTERNET for “Lost Souls of RadioLand” and YOU……

“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY