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

Chuck Norman’s New Year’s Eve Gala

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A couple of years ago you’d see the billboards and ads on the side of rushing buses, the hot motor exhaust steaming through the bleak chill of city limits. For it was “Chuck Norman’s New Year’s Eve Party for the Homeless”– if our battered, old, run-down town had a heart.

Bus service still ran as the sky was the lightest shade of pale– everything too bright for empty mornings such as this.

Too early. Unless you were an old duffer who showed up at Hardee’s for his free extra-small cup of coffee, maybe read the paper. . . . .

The streets were crusted over with salt residue from the dump-trucks, like the slowly-pumping arteries of urban blight on Hampton Ave. Everything was hard like feldspar or flimsy like those golden tin ashtrays that bent so easily, like human vulnerability– snotty, runny noses and stocking caps and killing grizzled time.

For it was budget-sized existence that neither took nor gave anything, like the cheery colors of the Forest Park express. There, sure enough– and just a casual fact of the geography if anyone cared to notice.

Across the highway overpass– those red rocks where the antelope played at the St. Louis zoo and no one sold peanuts. Life was like a storage shed and feed-bag bulk beneath the cold, weak sun– the barest of cloud wisps.

Otherwise it was everyday business.

So many gas stations and telephone wires as signs snarled over the sky-line. Maybe you’d see the antennas sticking-out of the roofs of junk cars.

From the ash-pail of local neighborhoods, they listened. Out of squats where handymen clanked at a heater with a wrench, or frozen pipes or getting keys duplicated at the locksmith like slow days– this was the price of free.

Perhaps the lowest stratum of advertising and message. . . . . as radios picked-up the flaky reception of the local A.M. talk radio station. The sound was abrasively clotted– and there was no doubt what station it was: 920 KGNU.

Where callers aired their opinions in the run-down marketplace of ideas.

Like “McGruff the Crime-Dog” public service messages, or “GO, CARDINALS”, or religious tracts, or official anti-drug pseudo-graffiti. . . . . as civic boosterism was cheap.

You thought of the riverfront down by the gurgling waters, the warehouses by the St. Louis arch. Like drunks singing in the midnight choir and the lore of the blues and soul-food in the maze of cracks that made up authentic destinations.

And there the homeless would be curled-up under stoops and in shelters, pushing shopping-carts in puffy, over-sized coats through winter and summer.

Have a heart, will you?

So it was. . . . . the party, the benefit, the gala hosted by local radio impresario Chuck Norman like throaty, frowzy community bravery. A table of plowed-through cold-cuts and discount party favors in what felt more like a high school gym than glamorous.

You think you would see Beetlejuice in attendance?

As certain as a can of snakes he crashes the party and gobbles up the cheese on toothpicks, helping himself to “the bubbly” like a homeless lost soul. Putrid with glee, and full of the whimsicality of the damned– if not generally making a nuisance out of himself as the stench is overpowering..

He hawks phlegm and knocks back a cup of punch while patrons slink away. Hell hath no counterpart than a loud party. . . . . Beetlejuice is tricked into going outside and is beaten-up by the bouncer, left in the freezing alley with his legs sticking-out of a trash-can.

Than he wanders-off to find a liquor store open. Don’t be that ghoul.

Chuck Norman’s New Year’s Eve Gala

Black Friday Shrouds

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Nothing like that shopping “high holy day” known as Black Friday. And just to think, why Beetlejuice would fit in around those parts.

A refresher to any pilgrim new to this strange land called The United States: the day after Thanksgiving when stores open to long lines in the pre-dawn hours for sheer shopper’s extravaganza and when the Christmas retail season officially starts.

Wherever the highways loop around like a butterfly-knot as the inky darkness blazes with activity over the Missouri river. Like suburban sprawl– everything big and bigger– as the parking lots become a magical winter wonderland like the icecapades.

The floodlights drown out the stars, themselves as they converge into parking lot at all strange hours like the madness of Star Wars fandom and home entertainment systems.

Stocking caps, hockey jerseys.

To score on electronics or perhaps the newest video game system like so much fountain soda and goopy candy for the young, unhealthy American specimen.

Like “South Park” libertarianism with cranky cut-out’s of the ever-obnoxious school-yard, they are sharp-eyed for the hottest round of home entertainment– nevermind planned obsolescence or next year’s hottest commodities.

It’s all expendable and then again, “so are we”.

What is Asian manufacturing and super math-skills next interchangeable species of mall-rats and 7-Eleven slushee philosophers?

As hearty and feckless as consumerism is flashy and vast. . . . . some have been camping-out in front of the locked entrance, practically.

Nighttime is the right-time.

And then the Tea Party descends down on the lined-up throng like clowns and stilt-walkers and fire-eaters. They hand-out literature for fringe candidates and causes– somehow rationalizing apolitical consumerism with the great American bandstand of politics, as if festooned with patriotic bunting with a holy Christmas star of good American providence.

They might as well be approaching the cagey shrug of “Jay & Silent Bob” and crimping the party. It speaks to the opportunity and yet the futility of politics– handing-out leaflets as if appealing to the wrong tribe of nimble-fingered video game enthusiasts.

To them, “The Founding Fathers” are more like Mario, Ms. Pac-man, and Sonic the Hedgehog.

Ben Franklin around here is a $100 bill and not checks on Federal spending– hardly “likely convert”s to a ragged survivalism. . . . . or even a lower substratum of what makes up a drunker, bird-brained electorate.

Call-and-shout. . . . . rousing the crowd as a certain bottom-feeder dresses like Santa and rings a bell on the flat-bed of a truck like an impromptu stump speech or a bit of forsaken political theater.

Beetlejuice is too cynical to be much of an ideologue– but just get him going about the government over-regulating the roach-exterminator business and he’s down there at 4 in the morning with the rest of them. Throwing down presents as fake play money flies through the air to make a point about the Federal Reserve.

P.T. Barnum always loved a forming crowd.

Next thing you’ll tell us– Barack Obama was born on Mars.

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Quick Idea for a Christmas Gift: Tim Burton is from the Rings of Saturn– here

http://www.hypable.com/the-napkin-art-of-tim-burton-book-review/

Black Friday Shrouds

Our 200th Post

Yeah. . . . . sure “it will happen”.

Coming sooner “or not” is Beetlejuice 2 even if Tim Burton scrunches up with the sheepish grin of unholy procrastination and other put-upon vagaries. . . . . as today we have reached our 200th post after being up online for less than a mere year, alone.

For being a story about ghosts we sure “stick around”.

Let’s keep rooting-on for this fresh script as it almost writes itself, doesn’t it?

Stay with us and we’ll return shortly as not enough, if everything can be said about this new idea. May jaws drop in awe and the ole’ idea crock churned-around for great opportunities, even if no one wants a lawsuit and won’t formally seek succor from the creative public.

Everybody have a Happy Thanksgiving as I’m grateful to have you as my fan-base.

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Our 200th Post

Ghastly Space Opera

Hey, all partakers in grisly Beetleriffic action. . . . .

I see a kind of bio-mechanical exegesis through a rotting earth-mind, some kind of “insect-level of existence” as maybe it’s heavenly ascent or just something you ate.

Actually it’s a scene from a movie mashed-up with Slayer music through the mind of a heavy drug-user or whom we euphemistically call “a right-brained artistic misfit”. . . . . as I can vouch for the occasional altered state. . . . . as do many visionary poets, gonzo comic-book writers, and virtual-reality “cyber-nauts”.

I’ll say that one thing they all share is a level of hypnosis into their work like that “golden mean” of focus when you’re completely involved in what you’re doing. Depending on psychotropic medication mixed with whatever cocktail of alcohol, stimulants, or something more-illicit “like sleep deprivation”, you can be whisked-off to some pretty strange places.

What are they seeing out there? Maybe a passageway to an unknown level of inner-reality that really exists somewhere, as tripper’s come back to report on the same things. Though you don’t need to go on psilocybin acid-binges, it’s still a pharmacological mystery of brain soup sent slopping through a blender of biochemistry as it’s not very well-understood.

You reach some enlightened, magical state “when everything fits together– like, FOR A REASON” and intuition takes over with lucky synchronicity as the flow follows the flow and ideas glance-off of each other to form a self-constructing vision.

There was nothing ever more creative– like existing in a warm, overheating blob as your eyes tiredly burn like hot, crackling stones and you’re in the midst of sheer concentration. Impulses are realized faster than the speed of thought, itself. . . . . and isn’t a bad way to go.

It’s almost as if ideas “preexist, somewhere” in a transmission of possibility– and how you reach down and grab them like a free-form artist freely articulating. Some might call it “the muse”. Maybe schizophrenia. But I will say that it’s pleasant while you have it.

Inside this crevice, you’ll receive some of the best insights whether scientifically-verified or not in this “between-space”.

If you spend a day sort of easing into activity like an ascending journey– after a couple of hours you’re so relaxed and totally primed to create. You must have lots of free time and get up ultra-early. Many report that extended periods of whirling-dance or joined-up in drumming-circles will bring on the same thing as your mind & body gets “in sync”.

Depending on the stew, you’re mind taps into its naturally-occurring stores of DMT or “the spirit molecule” through which all sorts of strange revelations take shape.

I wouldn’t doubt that video-game designers “hit about this stuff” and come up with their craziest ideas. For instance, Super Mario “eats mushrooms” and fights his way through underworlds vs. reptilian adversaries– like maybe proto-man locked in struggle with the serpent like natural enemies on the opposite side of the zoological kingdom.

UFO conspiracy theorists mention “gray” and “green” garden-varieties of evil extra-terrestrials that live in an underground realm among the dim, subconscious hum of plants and insects like a foreign “earth-mind” running on automatic-pilot right below the reptile and mammal brain, itself on the seat of higher primate consciousness.

And here– “King Koopa” stands on top of a piranha plant, throwing down hammers– like something at the bottom of “the mushroom kingdom experience”.

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I generated this image from messing around with “Photostudio” as mathematical relationships are stretched, or bent, or twisted in a graphical representation.

Like, are spirits “trapped in the machine”? Am I witnessing a kind of “revealed-truth”? This looks like the devil, himself– if evil could be localized and caught inside your computational matrix like hard, frozen amber.

Interestingly, once when I was “running on empty” for about four or five days my mental picture was visited by two demon-heads warding their way through “short-wave television static”, like the distant roar you’d hear inside a sea-shell as their howls hissed through the window-pane of existence. On the verge of sleep, they came to bury me.

More charmingly– and one barfed-up a fly. Jolting me awake until they began pressing through, again.

(– Very “Beetlejuice”, kids)

Sheer death, maybe– like rot or pain. . . . . or even entities people claim to see when they go on psychedelic tourism through South America. Interestingly it sounds like “nothing new” to Amazonian tribes-men like dragon-snakes taunting you in the great beyond with messages.

The prince of darkness is usually accompanied by two henchmen– like what you see in the comics and video-games, as the power of “3” is said to subconsciously resemble an unstable quality with the points of a triangle and vectors “closing in on each other”.

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This one here looks like three faces and how one in the middle wears a crown– it’s open to interpretation. One eye is dark and the other alive with illumination. The myth of Odin recalls the qualities of infinite blackness on one hand, then one eye left over that “picks-up on the dualistic contrast” to stare deep into the blackest shadow as there can be no light without darkness.

Ancient accounts in demonology have described three-faced angelic super-beings. . . . . as other faces and composite-hints loom out of the picture, if you notice. Almost like a Rorschach Test you couldn’t invent yourself.

In certain stages of what’s known as sleep paralysis you find yourself rendered immobile as one’s lids start fluttered with REM-sleep as images burst across your retina half-way between awake and dreaming. What happens is that you’re body is “turning-off” in the wrong order– going on “autopilot” as higher levels remain awake as if a janitor forgot to turn-off the lights in a high-rise office building with executive-function still self-aware.

A heaviness falls on your chest as nothing can be controlled and how many report seeing aliens or leprechauns or mysterious masked-men in this state.

All of this is very interesting if incorporated somehow into the world of Beetlejuice.

Stranger still, drawn into a palace of dazzling cosmic display as you’re pestered by gelatinous cubes cackling in a scree of space-mania like levels of hell or that sequence out of “2001: A Space Odyssey” through the star-gate.

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As if we’ve been preconditioned to think of butterflies fluttering around the doors of perception like the opening screen on a Nintendo game– interfacing with “the start menu” with programming going back to the very root of our hard-wired responses.

And then again, the gods could be playing a prank in the laughing halls of Valhalla as the curtain is pulled-back, revealing the best underground cartoonist’s minds off on fabulous adventures in the farthest blogosphere.

One way or another– on one hell of a trip.

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Ghastly Space Opera

“What do you want on YOUR TOMBSTONE?”

What I want is “extra dough” from surreal product placement. . . . . as Beetlejuice & Company “adds on the sauce” with a retro song n’ dance number. There’s got to be a way to carry-on “quite obviously” with corporate puns and help with financing this satire on the information economy. Would it surprise you **that most information** is related to commercial purposes? Like a mega-phone of incessant exposure that at least has to be somewhat alluring in order “to draw eyes to the prize”.

You wonder if there was a way to somehow funnel that storm of digital binary singles to pick-up say, “fractions of a cent” and the more it flies and flies around the more money one can amass like accumulated currency.

Say, waves of information or even “a hand” from cyberspace rising like a virtual being and emergent consciousness to bedevil ole’ backwards Beetlegeuse who’s still on the level of Tiger hand-held toys as not much of a digital creature– sending the process, “automating along” like Mickey and the brooms in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”.

Ice Giants and Cyber Titans battle it out in the netherworld– like ghostly remnants of ideas as now Beetlejuice has to step in and save his home-world.

Could the stakes get any higher with a ticking-clock?

Ghosts of corporate mascots emerge– as you have, say “Tony the Tiger” and the “Little Caesar’s” mascot leaping and frolicking about like an exploding jack n’ the box of mayhem– or at least how many corporate brands are willing to sign on.

No obvious put-down’s of your sponsors as I always felt a glimmer of recognition– each time I’d see a piece of my own experience reflected in the movies.

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Ask Lydia. . . . . for anti-commercial appeal that casually sides with Mellow “Street-Cred” and Casual Shopping Convenience. Dig?

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“What do you want on YOUR TOMBSTONE?”