Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

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Well, Halloween came and went—Beetlejuice, himself was there “in spirit”. Not wishing to be besieged by Trick-or-Treater’s, let’s just say “he played dead” and kinda “rolled the boulder” in front of the cave. In front of the open window, it pays “to keep your pants on” as I fiddled-around with the new lap-top.

And thank you for sticking-around on this brief hiatus of enforced vacation—never short-change the crowd and keep ‘em gathered around and hungry. But as it stands, my old lap-top reminds me of a pair of country/western boots that was endlessly “getting patched-up”—whether my keyboard went kaput or the screen “kinda imploded” but finally the computer “gave-up the ghost”.

So it was just me and my fervid imagination—though I don’t think Beetlejuice could much master a smart-phone. Sure, a cellular phone or cordless phone but he’s dealing on the level of “yard-sale Atari’s” and would stare, perplexed at an ancient floppy-disk unit.

Just see him in his big ole’ “beat-to-shit” hauling truck, driving around the Brandy Station apartment complex and salvaging old junk, say “anything he can find”. . . . . from beat-up old couches to stray aluminum cans. And remember the motto, “TURN SHIT INTO GOLD” as we scrape together every strange, weird little idea into this commercial profit machine of movie franchise madness.

Let’s call “Monster” energy drink the official beverage guzzled by Beetlejuice—green, foamy mad scientist’s lightning and a sign o’ the times. He knocks it back and crumples the can, “mmmmn, that satisfying energy-buzz” before chucking it over his shoulder.

And you’d have to have “MONSTER ENERGY” as Beetlejuice carried-around a dog-eared copy of “How to make Money with a Pick-up Truck” looking for odd jobs, whatever he can rustle-up. Or do I mean “scare-up”? If he’s not crashing at the flop-house of marginal rentals, he’s following the carnival and sleeping on the midnight festival-fields after the rides have shut-down.

“A lost soul”, Beetlejuice is too errant much in the ways of “settling-down” and quietly vacates in the night before the locals get enough of him and form a mob storming his way.

Imagine Beetlejuice showing up at a Social Security office, trying to get a State I.D. without much in the way of paperwork. A social security number? For a 700 year-old ghost? Maybe he can get by with a fake college I.D. or the kind of thing folks do to get into bars. Get a haircut as he sits in the barber’s chair with his hair a tangled mess as he mutters back small-talk.

Asked for his driver’s license it would quickly devolve into a situation straight out of “COPS” as he at least-looked “a bit more presentable” for his mug-shot.

But boy, he sure gets arrested a lot. More “a public nuisance” than any real danger to society though your silverware may go missing. And check your hub-caps. . . . . . he’s been sleazing around your fan fiction universe lately.

As they say, “life is like an empty beer-bottle because you always know what you’re gonna get”. Pay-to-play, indeed as the lights were turned down low this Halloween and the kids mostly stayed-away.

Beetlejuice would drop snakes n’ lizards into their open bags and slam the door behind him, settling down into his reclining chair and paying the local whores to dance around his specially-installed stripper pole as his jacuzzi festers over with venereal disease.

Call it the golden-toned “Game-room” with deer heads and zebra-print couch covers as you never saw so much “flea market chic” in one place. Hey, look—there goes Elvis.

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Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

Hell, I didn’t know that Either!

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LESSSDOLUNCH. . . . . Bill it to my agent!!

Hell, I didn’t know that Either!

Just Another Regular

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Over the tawny white-frost of outlying St. Louis scrub-land. . . . . “the status-quo” never really changes. Behind each dashboard, the fevered hell of men’s brains or “never a second thought” as transient and mortal as the traffic, itself.

For life is appetite– thirsting between pit-stops in the far vaster law of averages.

There is a certain “price-floor” as flat and well-tried as the pavement itself, resting solidly beneath your rolling wheels. Call it market forces or highway department budgets or “the rules of the road”, or a fella huddled up against a stiff breeze in a Rams jacket “looking for something to stick his dick in”.

You’ll find religious-madness hurtling down the highway, gulping like a geriatric guppy. Or literal-minded National Rifle Association fantasy, righteously well-meaning– yet beset by the modern whirlwind of liberal legal madness.

(– Ski-masked car-jacker’s and pedophiles waving with outstretched fingers outside your window before smashing inside with a crowbar)

Constancy, thy name is “motor-breath”. And a plasticized stench that reams out your nostrils, throwing a box of tools in the trunk and pumping the accelerator with a grimy shoe.

You can neither expect poets, geniuses, or saints– much less “super-heroes”.

And what the fast-food and six-pack lifestyle does for our pasty, bodily form. . . . . as the hard feld-spar shines iridescent with oil– litter fills the culverts beneath overpasses– and the leaden sky roars with passing traffic.

For why would it be any different?

The downtown sky-line rises. . . . . and you’ll hear the constant, measured voice of News-Talk 1120 KMOX.

Like a reporter’s trench-coat flapping in the frosty presumption of greater metropolitan-area drama– busy jobs and busy people.

The wide draw of Cardinals baseball and local Scott Trade market, office parks and family men and the standard belief in free trade as fighter jets fly overhead– as steady as orthodoxy and yawp’ing vigor.

Or even a KMOX weather-report with precipitation accumulating out-of-sight, out-of-mind and as steady as the droning run-down– how it brings its own assurance.

It’s lapsed Catholicism and Viking revelry with classic rock and bad fun, soaked in alcohol. Van Halen music and charity golf tournaments and “Hooters Bar & Grill”, tanned thighs in orange jump-shorts and umbrellas you put in your drinks like spring break.

And the schmucks losing it all down at the casinos in a flurry of ripped, littered tickets and the law of the world. Just another regular. . . . .

DAMN YOU, RAMS.

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Pray for the Corpse of St. Louis– Resurrect Our Local Film Industry

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Just Another Regular

A Wastoid Speaks, Jaded ‘R us.

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Coming to a graveyard near you. . . . . as Beetlejuice sits on a tomb-stone and shrugs his shoulders impishly if asked “what gives him the right”.

It takes a dark kind of soul to hang-out in a graveyard and over come the gothic kids and black metal fans in face-paint and simmering defiance as Beetlejuice welcomes them with open arms. Seem kind of young– and stupid too.

Kids always find it gratifying when adults take an interest in them. Beetlejuice could be 40 or 4000 years old with the allure of beer and cigarettes, dodging respectability. You’d call him a con-artist or bunco man as his creative reach doesn’t extend much further than using a stick to lift-up the skirt of Barbara Maitland. In craft and guile– it’s not much higher than what you’d see down at a flea market for petty thievery and other tall tales.

Putrescent rot and decay. . . . . drawn to mischief like flies to a pile of shit as a scheme is working through his putrid noggin as he’s devilishly fond of contracts.

He will give you knowledge. . . . . for a price.

What is the secret? Maybe the big answer is that there’s not really an answer– and you sell your soul to find out. It’s like “fine print”, or death– or no such thing “as a free lunch”. What will you find out? Maybe that “no matter where you go, THERE YOU ARE” as it couldn’t be any simpler or more grotesque than “free will” and “spiritual limbo”.

So what are you gonna do? Get wise, get older– “settle-down”. The world of carny’s, roadies, and trailer-living turns out to be more dreary than flashy as there we are, all giving an account for ourselves with our hands shrugged-out in the rotten perfume of wasted youth. For those who don’t believe in elder’s wisdom– soon you will become the elders and it all goes full circle as the land of death lays beyond.

What is death like? Maybe a Department of Motor Vehicles as you’re processed like a flat, laminated card until all the life is drained-out. Our miseries duly counted, not worth one whit as part of being an adult is taking responsibility while setting-aside some free time.

Sincerely, a jaded/post-teenaged poet.

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A Wastoid Speaks, Jaded ‘R us.