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.

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Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

 

Hobgoblins of telecommunication have knocked-out my internet here in St. Louis– as seen on the national news where flooding is a story. You’ll see lots of rolling, bumpy green hills from the sky-chopper, incidentally “a notion of where Beetlejuice 2” might be filmed.

And what’s this business of creepy clowns? You hear these stories about perverts in the woods messing with kids’ minds as this sounds more like “tall tales” and mass panic.

Though in Eureka we do have our share of weird happenings.

Just think of this place as a township a few miles outside of the city, beyond the county, and deeper in-state. If Lodi, New Jersey produced Glenn Danzig and Aberdeen, Washington calls Kurt Cobain a home-town son, this place would draw a comparison.

Through the haunted woods– you might here stories about hidden meth-labs. . . . . or was it just a hotdog cook-out? Or twisted imbeciles left abandoned in the woods “by their handlers” to pull on car door-handles and garble unintelligibly. . . . .

It is a world of camp-fire lawn chairs and beer coolers where you see the rugged nature of the outback mixed with zany artistic-impulse, like rusty nails dipped in buckets of diet cherry 7-Up and a whole lot of mind-altering drugs for skaters and BBS internet-pirates “back in the day”. Drifters, drift-wood, and homebrew wailing guitar. 1920’s hunting lodges and whorish Bettie Page spanking-gear with bee-stung lips and 1950 Atomic X-mas as told by serial killers like Ed Gein– and rockabilly mutton-chops.

The coldest touch. . . . . like crib death or a toddler with a Frankenstein haircut as it’s “The Munsters” or “Garfield’s Halloween Special” or even “Return to Oz” for green, foaming dark fantasy death with claw-footed bathtubs and the gray, leaden sky out the window.

Beetlejuice would be under the bridge, fishing. His friend, a black, scruffy poodle with giant, swinging, tumorous balls and blind to the world.

Someone call the health department– or maybe the dog-catcher. We don’t know, for who.

As the story goes, “living in a van– down by the river”.

The cops will hose him off in the drunk tank “because of the unbearable smell” and tell him to raft away to the next town. He’s the Missourian vagrant. . . . . or maybe it was Florida.

Moving south for the winter as an itinerant carnival worker if not a kids’ show host on television. Don’t dress up as Chuck’ee-Cheeze and keep a clean police record. . . . .

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

Radio-Hour of the Damned

“Coast to Coast A.M” attracts the moths of some ungodly hour like a camp-fire of space legends and supernatural rumor. The lonely, the unemployed, the night-shift, the susceptible as millions tune in to hear strange tales like freaky futurism and ancient alien astronomy that takes a page straight from the old “X-Files”.

The dark groan of the highway and tingling signals of terrestrial talk-radio as anything seems possible. As the world sleeps, idle thoughts away from the rhythm of the ole’ punch-clock and working week. Mysterious, pondering at the night sky—the third stone from the sun, as mix LSD with psychotropic medicine, or maybe just a whole hell of a lot of gas station coffee and the fevered unknown.

The last neighborhood in America. . . . . subconscious dream-states and murky existence where a great deal of Beetlejuice lives like the beckoning legs of a trap-door spider and the whites of his hyper-active ghoulsh eyes like a salesman from the outer limits.

Alien abductions. . . . . “picking-up earth-women”.

Cattle mutilations. . . . . “anyone up for a BBQ?”

The land of 24-hour diners & truck-stops like 3 A.M. breakfasts and cagey, libertarian constitutionalism with the right to self-defense like a laser pistol in some James Cameron movie.

And here come the straggler’s. . . . .

Visit– http://www.coasttocoastam.com/ and catch them on local radio!

Radio-Hour of the Damned

Death by Scientific Misadventure

 

Top secret military-research installations. . . . . particle accelerators. . . . . . chalkboards full of twisted math.

If you poke around scientific news, the world of theoretical “mad science” physics becomes ever more alarming. Half of it may be true, and scary to think. Curved space, holographic projections of hidden dark matter, black hole “event-horizons” that all wrap around and fold back into itself only a few like Albert Einstein can grapple with.

Of course, just what that has to do with the chunky Claymation “netherworld” of spiraling hallways and leering sand-worms is not immediately obvious.

But we take a bit of artistic and scientific license.

Still as mysterious as ever, the world of theoretical particle-things presents a barrier of the sheer unknown that twists-upward with crazier implications—but for the rest of us it’s Pay-Day Loans and teller’s windows—if not poking around the internet for the odd, strange, and unusual.

The world “just is” and pity to think that existence could collapse in on itself with strange misadventures in doomsday science. Mix that in with the internet “singularity”—or the idea that we’ll morph with our super-computers to form a cybernetic post-humanity of bits and bytes.

No doubt, someone will stake their claim to all this cloud-based “online information” and become a super gate-keeper, or broker, or master of earth through “the internet of things” or predicting where everyone and everything will all be at once.

Just think about it—if this cyber-wind of various bits n’ bytes and columns of numbers inside databases could be harvested by minute fractions of a penny—then turned around into currency speculation to eventually “call the shots” through warring banks of computers. . . . .

Scarier than you would think, especially when Beetlejuice’s nephew—a no-good fat shit in an evil clown-suit—ditches the technological retardation of his namesake uncle and takes his mischief-making freelance. There’s a certain smarmy sort of hacker or internet pirate you’d definitely remember from the early days of illegal “Napster” downloads who’d lean back in a chair and sip a jumbo Big Gulp from 7-Eleven and “live it up”.

Why? Because he can! Along with these little online screeds or declaration of cyber human-rights that sketchily justify why the internet can go on doing “exactly what it was doing” by illegal file-sharing and putting record companies out of business.

It’s THE MAN, man as morality has as much legal ground as that which can be whittled down by 1st Amendment arguments and stances on computer science.

Somehow through all this theoretical scientific and cyber-mayhem, if not a satellite-dish pointed toward the stars, a mist descends on this localized source of mayhem as dragons fly in and out between the St. Louis Arch in the nighttime sky as the fate of the world falls into the hands of Beetlejuice to clumsily “correct things” and be a hero—or else the netherworld and the living world “will be no more”.

Battling it out with Hugo—as Lydia and friends scramble around to fight an enabling corporate outfit that wants to turn St. Louis into a toxic waste-site as part of a bigger tax write-off scheme, closing down community broadcasting and the downtown homeless shelter.

Worlds collide, as Beetlejuice has been sucked down to Earth and gets entangled with one of Lydia’s harried “shut-in” fans, a caper gone wrong with a stolen suitcase of money as local bikers get involved and THE PLOT THICKENS to all collide downtown on THE NIGHT OF HELL as history sometimes calls upon “one man”, but Beetlejuice is laid-out in the sewer, jerking-off.

If the stakes couldn’t be any scarier, it’s comedy gold with the world in the balance in this rambling, unlikely tale and product-placement romp. Truth is stranger than fiction and inspires the development of this crazy script into something wholly original and bizarre.

Keep watching kids—and Beetlejuice will never disappoint. If you believe in him and say his name 3 times hilarity will ensue for first-rate bargain-basement entertainment.

Never outdone or out-matched, the blog continues like sheer mental masturbation

“Dirty Balls”, have I.

 

Death by Scientific Misadventure

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

Long Lost Footage

roach   beetlejuice-workprint

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–

http://bloody-disgusting.com/news/3425463/watch-three-freshly-unearthed-beetlejuice-workprint-scenes/

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!

metallica_christmas    beetlejuice_script_size

Read– the really strange kernel of a screenplay the final film developed into. . . . .

http://www.dailyscript.com/scripts/beetlejuice_mcdowell.html

Long Lost Footage

Heavy Metal Parking Lot

Now we go to a bit of curb-side commentary. . . . . “Heavy Metal Parking Lot” can’t be beat!

See it now—see it here—as real as it gets. . . . . as two amateur joes in television wandered around a parking lot with a camera and microphone.  Before smart-phones, smack dab middle in the randomness of all existence— a postcard from the pre-internet era.

There, an amphitheater rises out of the muggy summer dusk—this little snatch of buzzing cicadas and choked weeds. Down in Virginia—or was it Maryland?— a big show, a local event—beery brain-pans sniffing after the rich possibility of existence for how things seemed “in 1986”.

This is a video about metal-heads, for metal-heads. The medium, the message—a way of life.

You shall know it—feckless spontaneity and broken tennis-shoes like a raised brew.

An underground video popular with tape-traders. Bootlegged so many times, no one made money in the overall culture of drifters, dopers, burn-out’s, metal-heads, and apathetic street rabble congregated in this under-documented barnacle of the country.

It was a world of concert flyers and late night rock radio.

Dead-end jobs and corner drug-buys, literally thrashing it out of you—the curving horizon of all that was seen in heard under the purpling dome of sky. Bon-fires, bottle rockets, backroads—always the whirl of blow-flies and saw-dust amid the big stoner cook-out, like varmints and tail-gaiters at a bbq.

Stray lumber, flung-aside wooden pallets with a tractor pulling along a flat-bed of baled hay. Planting season, the June harvest—a two-bit, nowhere town. You shall know it by the wilder, woolier fields & streams of cheap scrubland and backwoods capitalism, industrial strength.

Beetlejuice would know this place

You had a homely country girl, her legs wrapped in a shower curtain like a torn, home-made dress drinking gin. Gap-toothed enthusiasts in rock concert t-shirts like rabble and lot-lice and somewhere, the aura of the military like the patriotic backbone and prerogative to kill.

Heavy metal dreams, escapist fantasy.

Nothing like a crowd, young and stupid. . . . . as he puts his arms around two concert-goer’s shoulders and mutters confidentially.

(– Or at least we take the ability to speculate he would)

Never far from the fever swamps of Baltimore where Edgar Alan Poe drafted macabre dreams as a proto heavy metal creative.  Death—touching the face of nothingness. Power, like a chain-mailed fist. Dungeons & Dragons—a thief, an elf—a jaundiced, darting-eyed teenager in a black concert t-shirt with an askance appreciation for life’s little underhanded victories.

You could guess a ticket-holding reveler would walk away, reasonably intact. Whatever ignorance of the day and bygone rotting husks along the road as you trip by and kick the dirt.

You lived for the touring show, roadies and gypsies and exploding flash-pots and guitar feedback from Marshal stacks 12-feet high. A chewy bass-line and crashing drums as the singer snaked-around to the rhythm and lead guitars bristled and smoked like pustules—as fans pumped their fists and cigarettes tangled over peach-fuzzed chins.

You could literally feel it all the way up to the rafters and cheap seats— release.

Pop the tape in. Vivid, gross, vulgar video-tape with sweat and pimples and all. Recycled experience. Be a rumpus-room ganja Buddha reclined back on the throne of self—majestic, subtle, and just. Dunderheaded realization accruing like fly-specks, fried neurology and electric kilowatts of loopy, punch-drunk insight like warmed over Koolaid as you watched cartoons on a beat-up old t.v. Gonzo cartoon adventures—robots running over an electrical space-grid with badly-dubbed English.

. . . . . So who says you haven’t seen the rings of Saturn? Blink in good-natured surprise. You might see a bit of yourself on a grainy, duped VHS copy. Registering time—everywhere, nowhere all at once as affairs of state floated high above, as grand and distant as a zeppelin in Reagan’s America.

“15 minutes of fame” for an artifact no longer than about 15 minutes as the directors went on to film other parking lots. Classic American folk-art for the post video-age. Your calling card—the street level of fandom and the jostle of the historical record as seen by anyone, anywhere.

Now on YouTube and immortalized online.

grim_one_indeed    garish_t_shirt

Read more here–

http://theconcourse.deadspin.com/the-deranged-true-story-of-heavy-metal-parking-lot-the-1758026762

Heavy Metal Parking Lot