“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY

 

What a bender. . . . . .

Beetlejuice hunched over the toilet on his hands and knees with a party-hat.

The kitchen was just as putrid, down in the ole’ “Beetle-Hole”. . . . . . roach scabs laying around like potato peelings amid mountains of Everclear bottles and a dish of honey-roasted peanuts (– mostly decimated)

May the spirit be exorcised, as Beetlejuice staggers back in and hurls green/puke/gak right into the sink.

He slid, slumped against the cabinets and broke a long, slow wind. His dog mosied by and stopped at the water-dash, slapping up nourishment with the flap of its jowls.

A dog-day afternoon. (3 P.M. in fact)

Out here on the first day of the year—the rest of your lives—FOR AN ETERNITY—“because there was no more room in hell”. Returned to earth in fleshy form, like a swollen and rotted piece of fruit about to burst out of its own skin.

(What a party)

Meanwhile, up in a more ethereal abode—Lydia was more delicate about “the feast of souls”, a few too many wine-cooler’s leaving her curled-up in bed, in her customary gothic pile of rags as her pet pig nestled-up to her softly panting breath and oinked.

It was “Glenn”—her Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named for the singer of “THE MISFITS”. Saved from pork shiskabob as a special boutique pet for the pale and punkishly “OUTLAW”.

Call it whimsical “artistic license” though she couldn’t care much now, whether she’d wear a beret and leather jacket or just the spiky hair-dress and Medieval-apparel.

A hipster photo-blog? Check out FACEBOOK. Or a DIY fashion-channel. Check out YOUTUBE.

The malls “were dying”. (Her kind of place).

Lo, curdled cottage-cheese complexion and arachnid-black acrylic nails.

That place would be called “Hot Topic” or the boutique-chain for disaffected young girls, as if stranded on “The Alien Ant-Farm” of exurban development.

A darting gaze—“eyes without a face” as people didn’t notice the strange and unusual.

In this latter-day, Lydia became (re)acquainted with Beetlejuice in an online chat-room.

(Don’t stare just because you’re fascinated)

Co-conspirators of morbidity, as Beetlejuice “mostly stayed in” some nights and scrawled-out messages IN ALL CAPS.

But she wouldn’t type-it. . . . . or even SAY IT.

“Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!”.

Better leaving “that genie in the bottle” and keeping it rated-PG.

Of course, Beetlejuice could always dial a 1-900 HOT-CHAT number and get the paid attendant “to say whatever he wanted”.

But it’s just not the same—the spell doesn’t work if the magic words are stated “out-of-context”.

Like a key in search of a locked door. Otherwise, it was like palming the key with no place to put it.

Don’t take that us “a double entendre”, but Lydia wasn’t stupid.

Your Pandora’s box might as well be the shit-show of “contestants” nabbed on “TO CATCH A PREDATOR”.

Even Beetlejuice has to get some credit. Or else this would be “a very unfunny movie”.

Down in his ole’ hole he crawls forward on his hands and knees, as if rising and falling to salute “Elvira: Mistress of the Dark” or at least the cardboard stand-up of her.

That was more “his speed”.

KILL THE SUNSHINE. . . . . and how about “some hair of the dog”.

Well, okay. His dog.

His literal pet-dog—an old, blind poodle in a black-coat with a giant scrotum “that swung gruesomely” and held court like a beatnik hipster.

The one thing for certain is that “Man’s Best Friend” would always be there, “when Man’s FIRST CHOICE” was geographically out of the area “or seeing someone else”.

Click your Ruby Slippers three times, but Lydia sat with her arms folded on the windowsill—staring out over the countryside and wishing “things weren’t as DEAD”.

An emoji for your thoughts, but Beetlejuice was tolerable “in small doses”.

It was a nice place to visit, “though you wouldn’t want to live there”.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said “hell is other people”. She’d agree totally. . . . .

Late-night Talk Radio– THE PROTO-INTERNET for “Lost Souls of RadioLand” and YOU……

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“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY

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

“Just Kidding”, Johnny

Johnny Depp and tim burton– we kid you both! A sordid transformation, “Fear & Loathing” for Gonzo-Goth Mesphistos!

Frenzied Lindy-Hop Convulsions– and see if you can find Amber Heard here.

(Not an Outake from “Ed Wood”. . . . .)

The Sniff of Beetlejuice Abounds. . . . . .

“Just Kidding”, Johnny

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

Sound Advice for Misfits

soundadvice

For all of you Lydia Deetz’s out there, in a cold, pale, moon-lit attic as blue as your face is cream-like and your hair like waterfalls of black– you’re never alone. Maturity is half the answer, not rubbed-raw with life’s slings n’ arrows as you eventually get busy “and kind of grow-out of it”, if you really wanted to know. Kudos to you and the actress who plays you, “madder than method” and with Bugs Bunny panache.  Winona Forever, Beetlejuice in for a second installment as we don’t shy away from a screenwriter’s duty.

Sound Advice for Misfits