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.
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?
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!
Something wonderfully “strange & unusual” has been unburied. . . . . literally from some strange corner of the Internet and posted up on YouTube.
It is long, lost footage of the original movie. Or to think, “alternate takes” as the story and plot steered itself into the definitive version we know on home video. Some gags work, others don’t– or were replaced entirely.
It doesn’t “quite fit” and you understand why it was cut. But certainly it gives you insight into earlier versions of the script as final executive and creative decisions were made.
What it is is a very provisional “work-print” or a black & white copy, of a copy, of a work-print. Think of it as a copy-machine draft as something the editors can work with, as a guide and reach whatever final decision.
I feel like I’m looking at odd moments, as if you were actually there in the story or might have seen “inside the movie”. Not every uttered line of dialogue or “set-up” can be perfect– but I feel like I know these movie characters a little deeper.
Visit the website, here–
There may be more footage. . . . . maybe it will one day be unearthed in a 30th Anniversary edition. Does anyone know– does anyone care?
Well, WE DO!
The movie takes on a second-life up here. . . . . so keep visiting as the potential franchise-universe expands into something ever-more incredible. They said it wouldn’t happen– but anything’s impossible up on the internet netherworld. Hail, Beetlejuice!
Read– the really strange kernel of a screenplay the final film developed into. . . . .
Judgement Day, THE DAY OF DOOM AT HAND. For this horror show called our 2016 Election, we wish to post a video that seems to comment on the Beetlejuice 2 experience in these parts. Rest assured, Beetlejuice does not vote– never had the inclination or interest. As dogs die, people die– the affairs of state bear little interest in the march of time. Along the margin, he only cares about cheap gasoline and the ole’ “Dollar-Store” keeping open. And keeping one step away from the skeptical, ticket-writing cop. Keep taxes low, and you’ve about channeled “The Red State ID” around these parts– like all-night food bars at the local gas station and watery A.M. fundamentalist radio by the dashboard lights. Haranguing and damning, as most low-lives go about their business in hand-to-mouth bleariness, left to negligence and living in splendor or on nothing with equal, greasy ease. Heavy metal– and then again, “Satanic panic” as you don’t think most out here really have the wherewithal to form much of a conspiracy, other than “a confederacy of dunces” staring at Elvira’s cleavage on “Mistress of the Dark” hour. Evil talks, evil walks. . . . . evil SNORES, passed-out on booze, pills, and candy. Sin lives in a hole-in-the-wall apartment and mostly keeps to itself. Civic virtue, it ain’t. Bum a cigarette off you? Pass those Swisher-Sweet cigars as life down here is DIRT CHEAP below a sole, dimly-swinging lightbulb in a buttermilk glow like roaches beneath a red-flashing neon sign, “Beer, Pool, Fun”. A noggin as dense as a cinder-block building, crushing beer cans against his forehead. For his next trick he’ll flip a toothpick between his teeth and jack-off. America, tis’ of thee and providence bless us, each and every one.
Make America Great Again. . . . . Vote Beetlejuice 2. I’m with him!
Well folks, modern technology be confounded. My precious lap-top computer has bitten the dust, so it is here at the local public library that I tumble forth the words.
I’m IN LIMBO, in other words. But not all is lost– my BJ2 related-documents are backed-up in about 7 different ways so it’s just a piece of the navigating the graveyard of netherworld blackness– where the moldy, blued-over nature of things doesn’t smile upon micro-transistors and other complex technological-workings.
Oh, well. All but relying on flyers– HOUSECALLS good for what ails ‘ya.
Better hire reputable help. Shall we look online?
AT THE LIBRARY. . . . .
Part of me can actually see the Beetlejuice’s of the world– homeless, derelict– using this thin sliver of public access to fumble around the internet, do research, ect. Being at least 30 years behind the curve on everything– he’d ask to checkout “The Face-Book”.
“It’s a library book, isn’t it? You photo-copy your face?”.
Well, not quite. The librarian will attempt to explain.
“Show me to your occult section”
Oh, the things librarians overhear. . . . .
I suppose he’d do off-the-cuff research “on starting his own business” and would only succeed in photographing his ass and breaking the glass. The plot thickens. . . . . it’s a library way out of the way down on that vaunted stretch of deep south St. Louis county.
You think how much of the computer-illiterate world runs on flyers and paper-stubs posted-up at the local supermarket– and as they say, “chiseling cars” or trading around junk-heaps to the hopeful bidder like a poker game. That is, only dealing out “the low cards” from the stacked-deck. and folks come looking for revenge in that brute, poor-man’s way.
Whether he’d get beat-up in the library bathroom by two gnarly old bikers, cornered in the thrashing stall and getting his head stuffed down in the toilet as they flush over and over.
Very cinematic– very funny. Very homebrew. . . . . being in the trade of showcasing scripts.
As for starting one’s own business– I can’t help but remember this affable nut-case in the question-mark suits who ran around, reselling public information to the stay-at-home “disabled, unemployed, crippled” about FREE MONEY.
Beetlejuice has his striped outfits, after-all. . . . . . and I suppose these two would eventually have to cross paths. It’s a dubious world, you know. So long as he isn’t driving around in an orange-juice truck all day, trying to sell people on a multi-level marketing scheme involving beverages and burning all the profits on gas.
Many are called, few are chosen. But the mass can always poke around the internet all day, looking at porn and trying to figure out the secret of riches.