Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

 

Hobgoblins of telecommunication have knocked-out my internet here in St. Louis– as seen on the national news where flooding is a story. You’ll see lots of rolling, bumpy green hills from the sky-chopper, incidentally “a notion of where Beetlejuice 2” might be filmed.

And what’s this business of creepy clowns? You hear these stories about perverts in the woods messing with kids’ minds as this sounds more like “tall tales” and mass panic.

Though in Eureka we do have our share of weird happenings.

Just think of this place as a township a few miles outside of the city, beyond the county, and deeper in-state. If Lodi, New Jersey produced Glenn Danzig and Aberdeen, Washington calls Kurt Cobain a home-town son, this place would draw a comparison.

Through the haunted woods– you might here stories about hidden meth-labs. . . . . or was it just a hotdog cook-out? Or twisted imbeciles left abandoned in the woods “by their handlers” to pull on car door-handles and garble unintelligibly. . . . .

It is a world of camp-fire lawn chairs and beer coolers where you see the rugged nature of the outback mixed with zany artistic-impulse, like rusty nails dipped in buckets of diet cherry 7-Up and a whole lot of mind-altering drugs for skaters and BBS internet-pirates “back in the day”. Drifters, drift-wood, and homebrew wailing guitar. 1920’s hunting lodges and whorish Bettie Page spanking-gear with bee-stung lips and 1950 Atomic X-mas as told by serial killers like Ed Gein– and rockabilly mutton-chops.

The coldest touch. . . . . like crib death or a toddler with a Frankenstein haircut as it’s “The Munsters” or “Garfield’s Halloween Special” or even “Return to Oz” for green, foaming dark fantasy death with claw-footed bathtubs and the gray, leaden sky out the window.

Beetlejuice would be under the bridge, fishing. His friend, a black, scruffy poodle with giant, swinging, tumorous balls and blind to the world.

Someone call the health department– or maybe the dog-catcher. We don’t know, for who.

As the story goes, “living in a van– down by the river”.

The cops will hose him off in the drunk tank “because of the unbearable smell” and tell him to raft away to the next town. He’s the Missourian vagrant. . . . . or maybe it was Florida.

Moving south for the winter as an itinerant carnival worker if not a kids’ show host on television. Don’t dress up as Chuck’ee-Cheeze and keep a clean police record. . . . .

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

Bringing you quality entertainment the next town over from Beetlejuice’s Rockin’ Graveyard Revue. I sense “cross-over” material in that godforsaken south county apartment, like a play-pen of sin and bleary-eyed malfeasance. United “UNHOLY FORCES”– the meeting of the minds. It’s all “yonder Highway 44” on the outskirts of St. Louis. . . . .

  

 

Visit this gnarly animal here at: http://www.bubbawolfmovie.com/

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

White Palace of Bargains

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http://comicbook.com/2015/09/25/every-home-needs-a-beetlejuice-lamp/

On sale, now: A desk lamp fashioned after the style of maybe, something you’d see in “Beetlejuice” like the twisting, winding body of a snake– perchance, diving through your table like an optical illusions of wriggling stripes.

Odd Lots, “Big Lots”– like something you’d find at this close-out store of bargain-basement derangement “on clearance”. Oh, yes– they sell all sorts of junk that regular stores otherwise “couldn’t get rid, of” though something tells me that the lamp will be sold for premium prices online.

But the ethos of “Big Lots” is an example of sketchy local character in my very own backyard, one of the run-down suburban areas that circle the city, proper. A local author once published a book called “White Palace”, a take-off on the restaurant, “White Castle” around these parts with their famed “belly-bomber” hamburgers sold, “10-to-a-sack” an an allegory unto grungy dreams and work-a-day worlds.

You’d know this place, if you saw it.

Down by a stretch of rail-yard overpasses and sidewalks kicked-up with feld-spar and soot as the large billboards advertise “worker’s comp” lawyers seen on television as the roar of motorcycle engines thunder past. Practically every woman works as a waitress with a particular out-state, countrified drawl as the grassy, run-down yards are uncut and as tangled as the mullet-style haircuts on the men. As it was diapers, toddlers, and a room fool of bandanna-ed confederates commiserating over cigarettes. . . . . and how the beer was always ice-cold.

You’d find a touch of “Beetlejuice” around these parts. Location equals character as the night-shift is his home and you’ll always see a zoo of local flavor on Saturday nights down at the local Shop n’ Save as everybody and their stump-toothed cousin goes out to buy beer, ambling-out the door with bare, toothpick-like arms, a greasy cap, and clinking bottles as the night time is “the right-time”.

In real life, say– he’d doubtlessly work as a manager at the “Big Lots” store I was talking about– haunting the back warehouse, down there with the mechanical box-crusher and forklifts full of close-out junk as he grins and slithers salaciously across the cold, cement floor– harassing the female employees and otherwise walking-around with his keys jingling in his belt-loop in a red apron.

He’ll have plenty of sleazy, low-down adventures that brings comedy to the local area and great exposure for the part of America we rarely think of, but makes-up the industrial back-bone of all our days. Before you think you have him pinned-down he’s off somewhere else wreaking mischief as the drop of the word.

So what’s that sound?

BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!

At a blog near you. Tell your friends, re-post constantly– we’re #1!!

White Palace of Bargains

Goth-Rock for These Times

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A quick peek at the goth-rock scene in London that stared it all, edgy and defiant and blase like the imps of Western Europe staring-down the Berlin Wall.

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/nightclubbing_a_collection_of_photos_of_londons_new_romantics_scene_1979_19

Call them “The New Romantics”. Lydia can relate.

Left-ward, politically and highly artistic and sensitive– and into causes such as animal rights or Amnesty International or anti-nuclear power movements, they’ll shoot you a whiplash smile like a tribe of depressive brats in wicked eyeliner invading Cathedrals like imps, androids, waifs, poets, and black angels.

Surely, death-obsessed like decadent odes to rainy skies and urban decay– and portals into netherworlds of club-culture and “beat, happening” in mannered languor as strange & unusual as kids are impressionable and drawn to darkness.

Death on a practical level is like a vulgar t.v. repair-man of practical, unclean mind as death is far more romantic than bringing home a paycheck– where selling your soul is not more big a thing than getting your truck refinanced at Lou Fuze auto-dealer with the colored flags and giant inflatable “King Kong” bouncing like a black-cat firecracker along the main drag on Lindbergh.

Lydia lives in the city of tumbled-down feld-spar as St. Louis is made out of “moods and territories” that overlap and shade into each other as worlds will collide and we will have a very clever movie. I couldn’t turn to another town for better inspiration.

Beetlejuice 2: Hawaiian St. Margarita Coaster as you have a fiend in a lawn-chair, his feet in the kiddie pool, and knocking back a case of Busch beer.

Hang on with us, and more cinematic truths will unfold for the reader’s eye. . . . .

“Life is like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . . you always know what you’re gonna get”.

Goth-Rock for These Times