Netherworld “Top 40”

(Or maybe not)…..

we must make a movie pleasant to the sensibilities of the ticket-buying public.

Here’s an Article about How Harry Belafonte got involved with the original “Beetlejuice”.

https://pitchfork.com/thepitch/how-a-calypso-anthem-became-the-surreal-centerpiece-of-beetlejuice/

 

 

 

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Netherworld “Top 40”

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

All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”

 

 

If all gravel roads lead somewhere, you wouldn’t be surprised to pass old, broken-down trailers in the neighborhood. And a fixture of riff-raffery, some of Beetlejuice’s low-down neighbors poking around a grill like a whiskey-guzzling musk-rat.

Brutal, lordly. NSFW– (“Not safe for work) as if a dude like this even worked.

It’s “El Duce” from the shock-rock beer-belly set. You’ll recognize him for his sadomasochist stylings, concealing his objectionable identity with a black hood and guttural offensive charms as he fronted “The Mentors” like THE KINGS OF SLEAZE festering on the Pacific Coast.

Langouring trailer-park women in leather and garters, his presumed harem as he bulges out his eyes like bonk-headed, glazed space mutants in foam-rubber monster costumes “demanding to be gratified”.

Indeed, “a threat to health, wealth, and morals” whose raunchy lyrics were presented before Congress in hearings by “The Washington Wives”, calling for restraint and decency in the music industry. Good luck with that– the only thing they succeeded in doing was getting “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” stickers on tapes & CD’s and probably just making the offending music THAT MUCH MORE ENTICING.

No matter what, you’ll always have the bottom-feeders like ole’ El Duce putting on shows and selling underground records out of a car trunk, a slap on your shoulder and an ice-cold beer in the other hand as he yuks it up like an unsubtle statement about America.

Just another misfit in the world of Beetlejuice “who fits”.

Call him “Uncle Perv”. . . . . though I think Lydia would remain wary to the proposition of returning to a motel with his guy. After all, she broke-off the marriage contract with Beetlejuice in the movie, spared from obscene fate, an X-rated boast.

If even from El Duce– who once sensationally claimed that Courtney Love offered him money to whack Kurt Cobain. Maybe a nugget of some off-color joke “grows with the telling” but watch as everyone attempts to cash in.

Like a dubious character witness, I wouldn’t trust him either as you can’t forget Beetlejuice “selling used cars” at the cemetery lot with the giant lit sign– the giant arrow pointing to “dirt-low” credibility, the rotten truth in all “the fine print”.

A foul trickster, free speech for the dumb as you can’t “outlaw evil”. Keep this movie PG-rated, IF YOU DARE. Or else my name is Jerry Springer. . . . .

 

Don’t “Shake Hands with SNAKE”

All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”

Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

  

Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

“Just another number”.

Be there “no Karma about it” but THE RECENTLY DECEASED will hit that old after-life office with the thud of paperwork.

(Reminds me of the ole’ Social Security office)

Franz Kafka couldn’t have said it better, whether just the victim is mad or “THE SYSTEM”, itself is even crazier. . . . . and remember, that guy in the “Metamorphosis” story did turn into an insect. OR EVEN A BEETLE.

A lot of people “kill time” in the waiting room, bearing the incarnation they took when “struck-down, mortally”. The visual cue—its own kind of karma whether you’re a shrunken-head on the leash of a witch-doctor as it didn’t end well for the big game hunter.

Don’t go smoking in bed, either—or take poison which will turn you into an icky, translucent green like the secretary behind the sliding window.

Perky, pert, and sarcastic—if not despondent in this perfect illustrated example of the mind/body and material/spiritual splits that cleaves the world into an alienated hell.

Ole’ Beetlejuice pops his head in and takes a seat. I’d imagine him probably sticking his hand down the front of his pants like Al Bundy in “Married with Children”. Half-resourceful or maybe just fool-hardy “no one will notice” as he lopes across the parking lot to grab a cooler of beer.

You’d imagine he’d only lose his place in line.

Solely the balance between evidence and lyricism can allow us to achieve simultaneous emotion and lucidity. . . . . but there he hollers at his loss.

In this last week, we’ve lost Chris Cornell—the singer from Soundgarden—and Roger Ailles—the chairman of Fox News. Only out of an episode of “Adult Swim” could these figures every encounter each other.

The moody rock singer leans up on the chair, hang-dog with his hands stretched over his knee while the right-wing chieftain tries to bluster and glad-hand his way out of federal commitment for dinner reservations “elsewhere”.

There’s only a few things certain in this life. . . . . death, taxes, and irate constituents.

End up here and you have to meet your quota of lingering, ghostly “overtime” back on earth. Spook the hell out of the living for a spike of adrenaline and ecto-residue that kicks into your early retirement, building enough parasitically-fueled power to ascend up the spiritual pyramid to eternal bliss.

Sounds like Medicare and Social Security.

You’ll pay though. . . . . they’ll take everything “but the squeal”.

Death. Taxes. Hollywood sequels. . . . .

Welcome to America. You could die laughing. . . . .

 

“No dream”, kid. This was your life! Remember to Linger in the graveyard and pick the daisies before summoning for pizza on the Ouija board.

Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

Not “Out for the Count”

You didn’t really think I had “sold-out” and closed-up shop, did you?

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A busy holiday season has kept me away from my own personal blogosphere, yet feeling that ole’ “writer’s itch” to come back. . . . . and post-up some more ravings “from the mad monk, himself”. Maybe I needed a break but we’ll be back tomorrow as if this subject hasn’t been flayed-to-death, yet. I believe in Beetlejuice. I believe in me.

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I believe in magic.

Not “Out for the Count”

Scream Until you Like It!!

Ah, something from my pre-school youth as true to the Halloween of ’86/’87 as can be blackly, subconsciously gleaned from proton-consciousness. Call it an era of “He-Man” and Gobots as everything trailed a long like a kind of half-logical “non sequitur” for an early mind that lived in dread of midnight nightmares.

You had the sensation “of being carried, along” as I remember being invited to a backyard Halloween party from one of the kids at school as there was a long “trash-bag tunnel” hanging up by trees, out by a strobe-light. Skipping around in my “Skeletor” costume, as I was too scared to make much headway there, over the course of the evening though I sidled-up, close– half-daring to. What was in that black maw? Anything, I suppose– and how things seemed to turn real if you imagined them, enough as you groped through surreality.

Maybe I’d retreat inside deeper to find a table hung with spider-webs as Beetlejuice lit a match and took a long drag off a foul, ookey cigaratte. And then offering to buy your soul like something out of a twisted fairy-tale as he tapped the ashes on the table. Flanked by an army of trolls and tangled “tree-monsters” making moans in the chill air.

The sale was so potentially awful and shiveringly “FINAL”, off you’d bolt from the goblin-hole as monstrous laughter followed you like something out of a creepy fairy-tale– like all of hell was pursing you through the inky, scrabbling blackness.

The world was certainly filled with lots of cheap horror movies and swords n’ sorcery you’d see in video-stores, which leads us to  “Ghoulies 2”.

Ah, they don’t make ’em like they used to.

You suspect that a young Winona was almost cast in this, like cute girl/big-eyed home video bait for all the kids watching at home, over an ordered pizza and sleep-over “fright-fest” at a friends’ house. The effects “were what they were” at the time as it amounted to rubber puppeteering and fog machines, and few goodies in the way of computers. The same, with “Critters” or anything falling in the copy-cat footsteps of “Gremlins”.

So Blackie Lawless of W.A.S.P. dressed like a Dungeon/Star trickster stars in a video/metal single that promotes the movie, similar to Dokken in “Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors”. Pure cross-promotional gold as it seemed– back in the early days of MTV. It doesn’t take long to put two & two together in emerging media forms as that was considered the golden touch of marketing.

I think a few beasties like this might make their way into “Beetlejuice 2”. No promises. So stay tuned for our next installment and happy “All Hallow’s Eve” to you listeners. So say it once, twice for effect, third time for “good luck”– “BEETLEJUICE 2 RULES!!”.

Scream until you like it. . . . .

Scream Until you Like It!!

The Grim Reaper Speaketh!

Here is an hilarious grip from “Monty Python & The Meaning of Life” when the film-set is visited by the Grim Reaper, itself. This is close to my conception as a kind of boss or overlord of the netherworld whom Beetlejuice must answer to, like a supervisor in a kind of social work or IRS debt-collection service.

We must “pay our dues”, after-all as Beetlejuice “goes through a portal” and is summoned on some far-off, grisly planet between realms where he and Death have business.

In a flutter of spectral rags and diseased skeleton-fingers, Death towers over Beetlejuice and his cousin Hugo as they are made to take account. The universe of karma “keeps its own books” as suffering is what makes life and death “go around”. You see Beetlejuice lashed to “a wheel of pain” where he grinds around and turns the clock of the universe as Death and Father Time laugh, kicking him in the buttocks with a sandaled foot and Hades, of the underworld pulls-along a chariot as they all sit there like middle-managers in the hierarchy of the afterlife. Maybe even the Norse god, Wotan as they knock back doughnuts and add to the quotas of Beetlejuice’s suffering on this hellish service “neither here nor there”.

A ghoul’s work is never done– as Beetlejuice always shirks duty and there Death is before a computer, knocking-back coffee and supervising his quadrant “as the scales must be kept”– even pressing a “Kill” button that drops a piano on some hapless earthling walking-down the sidwalk.

A two-headed vulture sits on Death’s shoulder and parrots advice like good and evil nature as Death clicks around the desktop and truly, lords over all before making on-sight appearences like supervisory manager “on the killing floor”.

Will Beetlejuice get away from the crushing load of debt? Or is it “death”? No rest for the wicked, and if it’s anything certain it’s “death and taxes”. So pay the piper and answer your summons to the netherly dimension, here between the star-cluster Beetlegeuse and Alpha Centauri. Be there!

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The Grim Reaper Speaketh!