For a wild time, nothing beats Brandy Station apartments– a series of low-cost rentals that brought in the most crazy, dysfunctional behavior you could ever come to expect out of the apolitical sort of George W. Bush crowd as lives are thrown-around like matchsticks with low-down country-music figuring. . . . . with a substratum of ignorance so dense– you come to understand why life is like a speech out of a Wild West dime-novel.
Hard lines, sunken cheeks– and virginal country fucking and drug-use with a curtsy to square-dancing patter and a Citgo station full of booze at the top of the hill as life is just one slick opportunity after another for the self-made.
Every man a genius, “build a better mousetrap” toward personal home business acumen like pioneers rubbing their hands around a camp-fire. I guess if some men can become billionaires in this lottery, you’ll never give up the idea that you’ll be rich as trash cable novelty shows as your only witness, the rumbling plain like dead-end “ground-zero” to “old time religion” and glib war-mongering like a news cartoon showing the soldiers at Imo Jima jamming a flag-pole up Osama bin Laden’s ass.
A society based around mutual-suspicion and anger as life proves to be just like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . you always know what you’re going to get. To be white and frazzled in a beat-up old undershirt as life is oppositional “to the cities”, squinting at an internet screen and not really comprehending what you’re looking at as the main point is patriotism and scraggly, day-by-day danger on the slick, plastic sheen of Chuck Norris television.
Old Western town politics– good clothes, thrown-out into the street in a cat-fight, a woman spurned as it was a culture of golf clubs and televangelism and beer and cheap mud like fire crackers and church carnivals and a high-pitched country voice of some “tin-foil hat piss-ant” trying to sound scientific– like a 1960’s moon-man holding up his hand in peace, “wagon train to the stars” as there’s nothing so “universally translated” as a rest-room.
Beetlejuice would have a field day, here– blending-in and up to some wild things like interacting with the locals, reading the want-ads, and otherwise dreaming of riches as the grass is always greener, for a boast about the other-side like some frazzled junk-cat in a Hawaiian shirt and sandals walking up the road with a dim, buzzed expression on his drunken face. Life is glittery and mean, like the soft honey-bun of proselytizing that says “you’ll burn forever” for standing aloof.
This is how “the other half” lives. Glory unto Beetlejuice 2!
Like a character out of Mark Twain’s own native Missouri– Beetlejuice lurks back in the Ozark swamps and lives a life of tattered refuge in a real house of sticks. Hey, it was all he could find– and he doesn’t owe property taxes or pay utilities on this veritable wart of muddy, abandoned shelter.
Things are dim and low-lit out here, and there he is yakking on a cell-phone doing what crazy people do– invest in futures.
Maybe it’s more “the lifestyle” of living like a business-man, but there he is, “wheelin’ and dealin'” with mirror shades and a big ole’ Stetson hat as he’s unaware of what he’s getting into.
Sold on the idea by a slick cowboy in a steak-house (– maybe played by Brett Michaels, the singer from poison) he lives like a real rhinestone cowboy– until those corn futures he invested-in end up getting dumped in his front yard.
Indeed, “it’s commodities”– but he didn’t read the fine print well enough. Now, time to raise swamp-hogs as wild boars chew on the corn and otherwise knock Mr. Beetlejuice into the mud as he’s losing dollars on the cents, cents on the dollars– but certainly not making any money because he doesn’t use commonsense.
Oh, well– better raise “pork-rinds” as the world of finance is a jungle and just because you smell like ape-sht doesn’t mean “you’re Tarzan”.
It’s always about “chiseling cars”, or finding ways to turn around complete junk and sell-it for a profit as you’re deep into south St. Louis county where the trash blows among the yellowed reeds and asphalt of desolation. It’s a zoo, full of grizzled, drunk painters and other riff-raff as the one thing is certain, and that’s how ice water is free down at the local Chinese buffet, maybe where they seal the deal as the impression is dingy and cut-rate.
Beetlejuice “isn’t glamorous”– he just thinks he is, and what “passes” as high class may be the difference between unleaded and then again– super-unleaded gasoline at the local fueling station where it’s all beef-jerky and high caffeine “rocket soda”, if not black coffee to make your stomach sour “as it’s a tough life”. Some are at home in it, and others merely observe– as there’s plenty of rich atmosphere to explore.
Does this sound like a concept for a movie that’s coming together, or what? Will shoot over some more ideas, later and once again– I appreciate your viewership. We’re going to make a real funny movie and you can just call this a bit of grassroots support on my neverending march to take over the world.
By the way, Happy 57th Birthday to Tim Burton who I hope is poring through these pages, glittering dollar signs in his eyes as it’s a rich vein of thought, coming here out of Missouri.
The madness continues, tomorrow and we’ll be back shortly.
Until then, say it once– say it twice– balls covered with lice– for BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE! Oh, here I come baby. A fly with an eye, so don’t die eatin’ no humble-pie. It’s a hot property!