The Netherworld Comet

Planet EARTH—like a ghost-ship sailing through space through the purple nebulae and corona of dragon’s breath through the home-world sun.

A haunted comet backlit by the pitiless twinkle of stars…… here, stirring a fetid muck-ball of despoiled waste and restless UNDEATH.

You’ll know it for the landfill of a planetary body as solar wind and phantom old television signals are picked-up through a static-sputtering television.

The cryptic stench—like the smell of rotting fruit and itchy flies amid so much foregone, doomed, damned detritus of human civilization. Compost, shredded newsprint—junk cars and grosser slag-heaps swarmed-over with roaches n’ beetles n’ lizards.

Nearby, a Styrofoam cooler and lawn chair as THE FIEND scratches at his crotch “like a real night down at the ole’ bug-zapper”. Six-pack, included—“a few cards short of a full deck”. Maybe you’d have “A JOKER” or just be “A Jack, off” as the King of Diamonds or maybe just THE ACE OF SPADES.

Dead time, funereal hours—tombstones for eyes like undead groans. For it’s “the trailer-park at the end of the universe” or maybe just the flip-side of late, great PLANET EARTH like a wormhole sock “turned inside-out” above the flaming inferno of purgatory’s structure.

Call it “THE NETHERWORLD”? Where death is the eternal agenda…….

You’ll have “just a ghost of chance”…… or about as much promise of passing through the gate of heaven as a roast fowl on the feasting table, a scatter of rib-cages and wishbones picked-cleaned by fiendish old-world gods dreamed out of H.P. Lovecraft’s “NECROCOMICON”.

A flutter through flapping pages of old “momma’s wish-books”, a black oozing creature of “not, if, absence” like a wave of indented garbage—an impression of menace. Not “THE HOLY SPIRIT” but the great “OOOK” of hungry inspiration.

It wraps its fist around Beetlejuice’s striped pants-leg and tugs “like a dog scratching to get out”.

More adventures to come, just a night in the life of our favorite putrid pus-bag of antic BEETLEJUICE—take a sip of the foaming green bile and hang on for one wild ride…….

Here’s a clip from “THE BONE-STRIPPER” from another movie, “never far away”…… be in judgement and awe, and don’t piss-off THE JUDGE!!!


Inspiration strikes! Let the void call-forth interest in “THE SEQUEL”…..


The Netherworld Comet

Clown College for Dummies

Ranting & raving through the night, either a sick twisted misfit pacing outside of a “Radio Shack” or late-night attendee of CLOWN COLLEGE down at the local community center. Many are called, fewer are HIRED…. like a 12-step program of unemployed commiseration with backward-turned chairs and sobering stories of a brutal, “unfloppy” job market. These days you can watch “clowns” all the time– whether a personal v-logger’s YouTube channel or old re-run’s of MTV’S “Jackass”. Pretty much “a non-starter” for most unresourceful boneheads, so it’s said “that some take-up the mantle of screenplay-writing”.

Don’t be “that guy”….. be a lottery scratch-off winner!

An Unnatural History of Evil Clowns…..


“Hey buddy– bum a cigarette off of you?”

Will the real untold clown stand up?

Why, it’s drudgery– “ON SPEC!!!”

See, you’re learning already!



“Genius in Motion”….. Ain’t “Clownin’ Around”!!! A sample of the “Beetlejuice 2” Script:


Clown College for Dummies

Haunted Valentine to the Video Graveyard

Lurking in near-distant memory, the bygone video store.

You shall know it by the blue awning above the doors, which typically read “BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO”. And with a whiff of cleaning agents through the air-conditioned breeze, in you went.

Imagine this—winding reels of magnetic-tape encased inside this thing called “the video-cassette”. It played in a boxy thing called a “VCR”.

Back then. . . . . . there was no such thing “as playlists”. Or optional subtitles.

Your video tape was a mass-produced item replicated and packaged over an assembly-line with stacks of them piled everywhere, warehouse-side.

What you see is what you get.

Each video tape playing the exact same thing out of each identical box. Clunky, linear—your movie “played straight through” from beginning to end. You could expect a certain order of content.

First—black silence.

Then the FBI Copyright Warning—PIRATES, BEWARE!

Maybe some previews. . . . . . some ads? And the movie itself.

Other than the fast-forward button, YOU WERE STUCK.


You may as well be sketching on a Cuneiform clay tablet with a stick and baking them in some ancient Mesopotamian kiln when you think of the implications.

Making your own tapes “was another story”.

Each piece of footage, say—you taped-off of t.v. had to appear in a front-to-back sequence, AS YOU DID THE PHYSICAL ACT OF TAPING. If that magnetizing strip did not pass over your video-tape, then nothing was saved.

Nothing. Nada. END OF STORY.

Just a little history lesson. . . . . . are your eyes glazing over, yet?


As for yourself– what else was a teenager going to do on a Friday night—trapped in the arm-pit of civilization and seeking R-rated validation?

“R”. . . . . as in RED-MEAT. Or REAL. Or REVELANT to the modern manly condition.

Namely, you had the ole’ video-store ball on Friday night, heading down to the place that rented you wish-fulfillment.


YOU HAD ESCAPE from sheltered, milquetoast existence—being a fevered, middle-class brat with romanticized megalomania and a nattering, Bette Midler-type mother with a credit card.

This, as the marquee of circling popcorn lights sat as an open invitation “to pay the cover”, down at the video emporium. Your local doorway “to glitz”, a thousand video boxes of lazy purview.

The poster and video-box art “did half of the convincing” as you cavorted among “the sizzle” and were sold “the steak”.

A crazy, twisted mirror reflection of your fantasy life and the unverbalized American underbelly.

Usually, the worse the movie the more outrageous and overstated the box. . . . . wallowing in a sea of retarded sexuality and violent revenge. All your hopes and aspirations.

And to say, “one was disenfranchised”, let the scene speak for itself.

If you wanted a rubber, slit-eyed monster with a gruesome grin of sharp teeth, the box wouldn’t lie to you. Even if this low-budget feature “didn’t have much else going for it”, you couldn’t mistake “what you were getting”.

A monster, as promised. A gimmick? Maybe some naked boobs.

The producers will unmistakably bring you a beast. Just not necessarily a high-quality product, but the monster featured prominently on the box SO THERE COULD BE NO MISCONCEPTION THAT YOU WERE GETTING WHAT YOU PAID FOR.

(– And maybe less)

Present the clerk your video card. More titles were coming out all the time.

Even as said viewer settled into the sweet shores of weekend like shuddering, orgiastic release. . . . . .

“This was the time, this was the place”.  Laying down your worries and cares and pent-up stresses.

Now the VCR did the work FOR YOU— It was here that “the division of labor” dropped us in a magnetic funnel of leisure and how we collapsed, glassy-eyed, like a pile of dead, rotten fish.

Whatever one’s beleaguered station in life, you didn’t want to be morally or intellectually challenged, confronted, or made to think. The hardest question you should ask is how many toppings to put on your home-delivered pizza as you ordered over the phone.

The party and good times BROUGHT TO YOU. Here we are now, entertain us!

And where there’s a crowd there’s always a marketing opportunity. The brightest, foremost minds in advertising had your attention, a captive audience in the brief moments before the movie—and roughly reckoned your demographic as part of the teeming millions.

“Hello friend…..”

It assured you of a couple of things, namely “you’re fine just the way you are”—your untroubled right to curl up upon your favorite spot on the couch “and take it easy”.

It flattered “your rather obvious station”. A mature and discerning viewer, obviously….. the weekend video warrior reveling in the overthrow of responsibility, there in one’s greedy, splayed-out inertia.

All the wishes and aspirations of your subject, in that “lowest common-denominator sense” mirrored through this controlled media presentation. Phrased in a straight-forward way as any simpleton could understand.

Marketing psychology: establish “viewer sympathy” like an experiment showing gorillas a film-strip of other gorillas plucking bananas from the tree and unpeeling them, frolicking in nature.

That could essentially be described as a bored, lonely viewer “plugged-in” to a kind of “Publishing Clearing House” grand prize winner mentality—hapless you “WINNING BIG” in the delightful virtual shopping mall one part “Wheel of Fortune” luck and Donald Trump glitz, perhaps the average man’s conception of how a rich, successful, and fabulous person lives.

Lots of gold and glib “personal success stories”, more hot air than brutal application. How sweeter “the easy answers” spoon-fed to the perked-up viewer. Just “a man off the street”, no special study or preparation invested, roused to meet “the gimmick” via touch-tone phone.

Happy associations….. for who wanted to be told “life was HARD”?

Many social philosophers would argue THE SYSTEM WAS MAD.

The society of the spectacle, military build-up as wars always raged somewhere across the globe. . . . . the masses crowing into stadiums for sporting events.

Just some were trillionaires in the upper reaches of Wall Street even while bums slept on cold, windy corners and America’s debt-clock climbed to astonishing levels of insolubility….. I could not say.

Hard questions for another time. . . . .

Propped-up, a lazy little shit in a nice middle-class household. Don’t expect me or anybody “morally-justify it” but dammnit—if you liked low-impact entertainment at the end of a hard week, the video store was the ticket.

We don’t pretend to be moral philosophers….. crushing a beer-can against your noggin.

As if you could really be caught expecting expecting us “to write the great American novel” or much else wholesome, hardly crawling out from in front of the t.v. THE ENTIRE EVENING.

A noble endeavor. . . . .

THEY HAD YOU “PEGGED”, all right.

Like a spoiled kid who’d order a pizza and feed it to his dog who snarfs it up, wearing a pathetic little party-hat.

It was “better not to think about it”. . . . .  the realities of telemarketing and retail.

Enough people had to minimally “call-in” in order to make the offer, “justifiable” as it fit into the grinding economy.

More sucking, hungry squid-mouths than “easy morsels” out there as the industry clamored for your attention. Fighting your “sales resistance”, pay either by Visa or Mastercard.

How winners “were few and far between” and what that said about the odds of your fantasies ever being fulfilled. The answer was all there in “THE FINE PRINT”, as if all of life “wasn’t a negation” already.

No matter where you go, “THERE YOU ARE”.

It was the little square television screen, set to “Channel 3” and about “as cable-ready” as it would ever be, which meant NOT. There with the clunky rabbit-ear antenna.

You kind of “had a feeling”—looking beyond the bright, naively-styled realities behind show business that novelties and gimmicks couldn’t really hold out against “endless, dead time”.

Making out “the true way of things” beyond this illusion of tired, daytime life and the ole’ idiot-box.

You wanted to feel “you’re a part of something”….. even as the video never claimed to be overly-challenging or said “it was anything else”.

The consumer never liked to be told, “no” but was entitled to nothing, really.

Wishes, aspirations—running outside in the suburban yard to yell into the night, the pent-up energies of someone “too young to understand, really”.

You can’t buy love BUT IT IS FOR RENT.


Haunted Valentine to the Video Graveyard

Gimme a Shot of that BEETLE-JUICE

Gawwwd, that’s vile!!

A.A. or “After-Life, Anonymous” had never bet on the bedraggled bedlam of “real character studies” as Beetlejuice hiccups within a circle of fold-out chairs and recounts the tale…..

Wandering “here & there” and somehow “shat-out by that sandworm”. Thank you sir, “take a number”. You’re just “one in a million” as surely as “Death & taxes” and waiting rooms are the permanent mortuary of “putrid excuses”.

A link….. Anyone for Vomity Second Chances?

That’s what sequels are for!


Gimme a Shot of that BEETLE-JUICE

Pee-Wee’s “213” Playhouse

Yes, “they all begin like Pee Wee”….. the moldy, shut-in basement where you make friends with sock-puppets and otherwise peek out the window in tight gray slacks and tip-toe “hi-tops”. If it’s not eventual state institutionalization, then maybe it’s the theater-club.

Be it odd make-believe orr the kind of home that stocked yogurt-covered pretzels as “Jr.” sipped yogurt from a straw like a hookah from the world of Tim Burton arabesque, there’s a place for boys like Pee Wee. The neighborhood misfit no one pays attention to, only thinking “he’s pretty weird” like damaged goods and queasy “opt-outs”. For certainly, there’s no depth “too low” for someone like Pee Wee to tragically regress. . . . . . when one’s youth of Saturday-morning cartoons “goes into overtime” and you find yourself a twisted, if sexually-frustrated teenager “who clings to second-hand tv re-runs” like a life-line.

“The Play-House of Horrors”. . . . . And whether Pee Wee is your potential “Jeffery Dahmer” in the making, rolling out the barrels of acid down at “Apartment 213” and a severed head leering out of the refrigerator as police fumigate the building in haz-mat suits.



Maybe it could be said Pee Wee “is the prey”, more likely– akin to a rabbit snatched-off in a fox’s mouth like the darker side of nature, human and otherwise.

That’s what I tend to think.

Ask not of what the door-to-door meat-man sells you, as it’s Beetlejuice “down the street”. He’ll give “Groundhog’s Day” a whole new meaning as the earth is emptied of fresh cadavers and resold to the unsuspecting like a comedy horror-show.

In the world of “gray market” frauds, bootlegs, imitations, and “CASH-ONLY EXCHANGE”, I’d say “that he’s been sleazing around your neighborhood, recently”. Return home to a house spurting water, stripped of all the copper-piping as you hear vague reports of a seedy truck parked around town “and disappearing, suddenly”.



“You get what you pay for”, Pilgrim.


“The World is One. Dark. ROOM”



Pee-Wee’s “213” Playhouse

“Undead” Fan-Property.


Not dead which eternal lie

Stranger AEON, death might die…..


A second life, through The Fans……


Contribute to their crowd-funding campaign “or be a vagrant on the sidewalk of life”…..



“Undead” Fan-Property.

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.





“Brats Question Authority”…..

Monolithic Messaging