Halloween 1987

Mists rising from grates, dark and glistening streets, infinite shadow and mystery.

Things loom large in the magical recesses of a young boy’s brain.

The world is open-ended at that time, dreams and nightmares—and surreal events in the gnarled, twisting unconscious as you’re “carried along” in a larger-than-life fever.

Strange tastes, smells, and sensations—one big “impressionistic montage” as fairy tales live inside.

Scary, exhilarating. . . . . . and wonderfully dangerous.

Life oozes blackly, inexorable and surreal.

Half-glimpsed references, curling back on itself in a dungeon where a bright, gap-toothed bucket of Halloween candy grins in welcome.

Happy Halloween!



And “Happy Birthday” to Winona Ryder. Long Live Lydia Deetz, “QUEEN OF THE DEAD” and Fetching morbid-angel.

Halloween 1987

Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

The video, above—is a promotion for St. Louis’ own “Silo-X” haunted house company.

There’s nothing like the ritual of the changing seasons, the fall carnival of the macabre—and a young man’s prurient interest in blood, guts, and zombies. A night of fantasy complete, if for a wide-eyed little filly holding your hand as the two of you bolt through a chamber of choreographed mayhem.

And they say if you want a goodnight kiss you take her to see a movie like Dracula, perhaps a world of Old World romance as mystical and deep as fertility and blood like a full, ripe pregnant belly beneath a haunted moon—the cycles of change rising in your heart of certainties like full-bodied communion with ancient nature, sun & soil and recusal from the underworld of organic subconscious.

(Or its just an excuse to be chased around by zombies)

Make that REDNECK zombies, a mirror image of this American life all in shrieking skulls and flannel shirts like something wispy-haired and awful from “Tales from the Crypt”. For shock value and garish, grody thrills you might even throw in the “big tent” ministrations of “Larry the Cableguy” telling you to have a safe ride home back to the city.

Death is ooky and cathartic with a cheery ending­. . . . . more so than the plain, old awful business of living. But suffice it to say, the supernatural—existence of anything, AFER THIS—is a positive take on life & death. Perhaps being alive is a journey to the abyss of revelation, a widening swath of awareness as the cornfield rustles with a tuneless empty wind, the void of night-chill still as a graveyard.

Then again is the flurry of unsophisticated entertainment, evident of man’s folly like a safe-space of guided disorder and paid-for chaos.

Beetlejuice knows all about it, our favorite out-state resident and small businessman who decides to get his own attraction going. It’s a redneck zombie hayride and paintball shoot as you plink away at ghoulish actors lurching after the wagon, and swiftly pelted by fast-moving projectiles and groaning with a pained stagger before collapsing.

Fiendishly, by trick of refurbished reincarnation “second chances” you might get down at the ole’ “Payday Loan” these lost souls are distinctly unhappy. Living death—and unpaid mortgages. It’s much the same as pumpkins grin by glow of candle-light.

Have a cold soda from an onboard cooler as Beetlejuice steers the power-mower and pulls the wagon behind him, narrating the tale with a slurred, snaggle-toothed laugh. Needless to say, he’s pulling these paying suckers straight down to hell, or your local life lending office & death exchange where he’ll lick the bills and pronounce himself an American success story.

His eyes shift hot, his mouth all-gibbity as he takes a swig from a hip flask. You’re not using this life for much, are you? He’ll take it and even throw in the chains for free down on the rag & bone junk heap of “all sales, final” and NO REFUNDS.

Couldn’t you read the fine print? No worse than the average storefront car title-loan company, he means to grind by on the defeated karma of others like the bottom-feeder of the netherworld he truly is. Don’t look “a gift corpse in the mouth”, but you’ll pay him back one way or another as a recycled spirit.

Maybe Beetlejuice should get a mouth full of broken teeth like a bloody jangle of candy-corn. One of these millennia he’s going to get his ass kicked behind a barn. Then where will he be? Probably selling meat from door-to-door. Don’t ask, “but you get the idea”.

So don’t go to that one haunted cornfield attraction even deeper in the dark midnight boonies. Stick with Silo-X instead as word-of-mouth decrees this place a legitimate enterprise for the big kid in both you and me.

Don’t accept rides or candy from strangers as “it’s a living”.

Or just “a death house”.

You want the mold on that corn-dog?


Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

Calling “The Netherworld”, Collect

A pod-cast on the spooky nature of Ouija boards– how magic just happens to be “the magic of coincidence”. . . . . as Beetlejuice hits you for “a fiver”. Toll-rates apply as he plays otherworldly contact like a 1-900-NUMBER and keeps the seance in suspense– He’ll steal your soul and KEEP you tied-up in Rock n’ Roll Damnation, as he “REVERSES THE CHARGES”. Beware!

skull_grin   magic_8_ball

Calling “The Netherworld”, Collect

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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enjoy_capitalism    minute_maid

Our 200th Post

Bubba Ho-Tepp & Retirement Home Elvis

The original Elvis Presley who traded the bonus gravy of fame with an Elvis impersonator, now old n’ crotchety in a retirement home fights an ancient Egyptian mummy curse up and down the stick-whapping halls as they switched “Elvis” had succumbed to fame and died in 1977 as we best know the story. . . . . kind of a rhinestone mummy vs. an Aztec ape in a modern cult-film starring Bruce Campbell.

Say, what?

It’s 2002’s “Bubba Ho-Tep” for a twisted romp through the sort of drug-culture Rob Zombie crowd as there’s nothing that screams “kitsch appreciation” more ironically than the whole retro-world of Elvis Presley and the stranger side of the backwoods “white experience”.

I was introduced to this film by my older cousin who grew-up in the winding back-hills of outlying St. Louis counties as it’s where farmland is replaced by exurbia and speaks to the Atari/Star Wars/Six Flags basis of local Generation-X flavor– like wolfen stares and fringe art workshops you would find “vaguely off-putting” as you sit side by side next to a home computer work-station.

Call it “punk”, call it “stoner”, call it “flat & grim”. . . . . but you’d know it as the new American Gothic and what happens when Generation-X adopts into gamer culture quite seamlessly.

Black “Betty Boop” t-shirts and not forgetting “Speed Racer”.

We, “the children-of-the-night” over whiskey and pasty, stark complexions as life is existential, like forest fungus and rusted-out cars. . . . . and not forgetting “The Residents” as a gang of eyeball-heads stuck on spindly legs and tuxedo outfits with high society top-hats.

Over NES “Castlevania” and the 1980’s Garfield Halloween special you could see spirits from the Civil War tramping up through that paved, woodsy road of gnarled darkness like the deepest, hoariest under-belly that post-World War II America had to offer.

Write what you know– and Beetlejuice would figure out there along the highways by the shale rock cliffs and shoeless “Huckleberry Finn” quality of thicker country folk, earthy yet wise in their own ways.

Just another idea for where to put the sequel: “Beetlejuice 2”.

number_1_sign   mogwai_girl

Bubba Ho-Tepp & Retirement Home Elvis

Psychic Dharma Bums

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Morning at the crash pad. Nicknamed “The Maxi-Pad” where Lydia and her coven of alt-rock punk friends squat around the breakfast nook and share the rent.

Lydia happens to agree with the funny news-bait that reveals psychotics like their coffee black, according to a study. A perfect conversation as she knocks back a sip with her porcelain-white fingers and looks up with a murky “in-joke” and touch of devilish irony.

Strange and unusual– though she doesn’t make any claims just to stand-out, or “feel special” as half the law of attraction is saying little and letting them come to you.

Lydia befuddles the psychiatrist who doesn’t know what to make of her, and the fact she sees ghosts. He calls her schitzo-affective though the patient agrees: “yeah, very effective” like some kind of back-handed compliment as you have to be a little crazy to believe in yourself, or refuse “to settle-down” and give-up the goth thing.

It comes and goes “in spells” where the phase of living worlds and the netherworld come into concomitant alignment.  Just take it for granted that around the kitchen table with the cat slinking in and out of your ankles that she can take your hand and lift-off together on some journey of astral-projection, or psychic transference to another dimension like an LSD trip shot through the cosmos.

Strange, invisible energies– as people have reported batting around balls of light like a mutually-shared table-tennis hallucination and other weirder effects.

Be careful that the astral-strings that root you to a physical-body don’t fray– otherwise keeping your soul moored back in bio-living principle. Say “a homeless spirit” looking in through the eyes of another and possessing them or showing-up at a seance.

Meanwhile, the super-galactic heads of Warner Bros. hash over ideas in a board-room as Lydia and the players “poke in and out” of the narrative in funny ways, even personally appearing at script-meetings as they’re chewed-out over loose ends in the story.

Do you call upon the dark? Spirits may drop by and kick your Ouija board, aside. They say that if you talk into a CB-radio and advertise yourself out in the middle of a dark highway it won’t be long before you’re smashed-under by a honking truck.

But as Lydia gets further into the world of the dead and gains ghostly, transient qualities she begins to fade away– calling to her friends out the window of a shut-off room, upstairs though they can’t hear her or see her. Is it worth the price for an LSD-like show, or making the cereal-boxes twirl around on the counter all by themselves?

Being dead is not all flower bouquets and laudatory obituaries as then you have to call limbo your home and report your eerie activities to the office of quotas to justify keeping you around, feeding off the frightened energies of the bio-living and ascending up to higher levels of haunting professionalism. You think “it’s all a picnic”?

Maybe one day you graduate to genie, angel, or demi-god like a multi-level marketing scheme of universal order. Don’t count on it. . . . .

On a side note. . . . .


Psychic Dharma Bums

Beetlejuice meets The Undertaker

A spooky, effective entrance– rather “death-obsessed” and perhaps a side avenue in our growing plot. Does “The Undertaker” make a cameo appearance in “Beetlejuice 2”? Well, stock-footage is the only limit as this promo for “Summer Slam ’92” speaks for itself down at the ole’ WWF network. Or correct me– “WWE”.

It is a realm of “tall tales” or what in the business is known as “kayfabe”, a sort of Lone Ranger/Tonto word for “never breaking character” or admitting that the show is just “an act”. Call these wrestlers “madder than method” but they really become these characters as you never surrender the story– and how fans get caught-up in the rivalries.

And we never break character here, up on WordPress– selling you the greatest movie on earth and whooping it up on this corner of the internet– until Warner Bros. comes by and slaps me with an injunction for dancing all over a copyrighted franchise.

So what would that look like in “the legal ring”? Well, Beetlejuice would get dropped like a sack of maggots, breaking the fold-out chair and thoroughly getting his ass trounced by a bigger, fiercer opponent as the audience yawned.

Well, for all of its creativity– this movie fluctuates between vulgar social commentary and then a clever play on the 21st century. Just see that 7-Eleven full of black chrome motorcycles with orange flame decals and an “Eminem-looking figure” downing Mountain Dew in a giant Big Gulp cup, wondering what “the hell you’re talking about”.

And then– the larger circle of an international audience as all will be made to understand– Beetlejuice crunching through the fold-out table.

(– Roll that beautiful clip again)

Slapstick n’ clever plays on culture as this film will truly be a lone stand-out in the movie financing world of creative risk. . . . . .


Never stop believin’, kids.

Beetlejuice meets The Undertaker