Barney of Puppets


Tombstones, cruelty, mayhem. . . . . BARNEY THE DINOSAUR? Of interest to ghoulish, creepy-crawly heavy metal kid of all ages as you can’t get “more twisted” than that.

To imagine “Barney’s head in the sky”, PULLING THE STRINGS. . . . .

Maybe “that’s better” than the twisted machinations of Beetlejuice “owning your soul”, as in “debt-slavery” to some other scheme, or something.

Be “MASTER, MASTER” not the record company!!!

But as they say, the entertainment world “is pretty twisted”. You probably wouldn’t want to peer “behind the scenes” too far, young metal youth.

But Metallica “could make you feel like you were part of something”, UNDERGROUND. Though by the time I heard of them “as a 12 year-old”, I think the news had traveled pretty far and wide with their big album in the early ‘90s. Lots of gory, chilling imagery to raise the hackles of teachers and parents, everywhere for “The Beavis & Butthead”, inside.

Or at least “aspirationally”, HEAVY METAL. It was like holding up “Barney’s head on a stick” IN THE SCHEME OF THINGS. I’d rather be “a rocker” than “a nerd” though you can’t take the nerd out of the rocker, essentially. Too much tangled neurological material prevented me from being much of a working-class ruffian, like a biker or hoodlum or something.

It was the tragedy of a middle-class environment with paintings, potted-plants, and housecats. An Apple Macintosh up with posters of toucans—and “Where in the World is Carmen Sandigo” on children’s afternoon PBS programming.

Why couldn’t I be a deprived, glazed-over sewer-rat?

The implications were ironic and quite staggering. . . . .


Barney of Puppets


Yessir, the world had limited entertainment options “back in 1988”. Telephone “Party-Lines” were a thing– or getting lost in the labyrinth of an automated-system “for a thrill”. . . . . though the real shock was when your parents got the phone-bill. “in this world of worlds”, what do you think you, or I, or anybody “would dredge-up out there”?



Beetlejuice’s phone-line sits, “mostly unanswered” as it’s another “get-broke-quick” scheme. He’ll be “an internet millionaire in no-time”. . . . .




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

Bill & Ted go to Hell, Meet the Easter Bunny

A clip from “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey”, almost entitled “Bill & Ted go to Hell”. . . . . where they meet the easter bunny and practically a Easter family Get-Together, for the entwining of fate & real life.

Party Hearty in the after-world of Contemporary Fantasia!

Will there be a Bill & Ted 3? Make it happen before the dudes end up in a retirement facility, if we see that Beetlejuice sequel first. Let’s see it before Doomsday, itself.

Did you know? Alex Winter (the blonde kid) is actually from St. Louis! Righteous Local alumni!


Even the “Wyld Stallions” have to eat. Enjoy the local St. Louis Loop in University City, right by the Tivoli movie theater where Alex Winter was a special guest at the big film festival a couple of years back. Voted one of the top districts in the nation– have a bite!

Bill & Ted go to Hell, Meet the Easter Bunny

Alternative Nation Inc.

ANGST SELLS. . . . .

To think, how a certain degree of what (post) adolescents recognize as “the misery index” is merely self-fulfilling prophesy.

Young & idle translates to “oppressed and self-conscious”. Like a snake eating its own tail.

What of Friday night—wanting “everything at once”, “everything louder than everything else” as you find hints of “an answer” at some lonely, yearning night down at some rock concert flea-pit.

The lights—the excitement—the danger—the best that a $5, all-ages show can offer you and the mob looking for something, maybe “but never quite finding it”.

In a nutshell, that’s “the scene”.

You mostly likely never heard of it until marketers pick up on a hot property and sell “the sizzle”.

While really, “the meat of the matter” is constant, dreary nights kept tabs on by a minutia-quoting obscurist who hung on at every show, perhaps “having no where else to go”.

So knock on the tour bus window—“Uh, is there like—anyone COOL in there?”

For everyone else, there’s the fashion accessory.

Take the flannel shirt of the Seattle “grunge” movement. The point is, it was off-the-rack clothing simply meant to be unostentatious before marketers start selling their own $4000 items as a status symbol “for the outsider, looking in”.

The reason money means anything is precisely because few have any of it—and rarified, carefree-ness “is the good time that takes itself away” if you were to ask anybody.

For everyone else life proves to be a purgatory of “getting over”, working, or “hoping to be somewhere else” as it’s a thin gruel, indeed.

The personal, they say—“is political”. Or at this age, finding “your own tribe” as everyone sorts each other out through “vibes” or “mental wavelength”.

And remember—if you can correctly spell “poseur” it means YOU ARE ONE. Otherwise, the sleepy scene “doesn’t think much” and you are only “overthinking it”.

So why not listen to records? Or better yet– for the economy and your constantly ebbing-sense of self-esteem—GO BUY SOME RECORDS?

A bricks n’ mortar business is more substantial and longer-lasting than most scenes—as why work hard at something when you can otherwise buy yourself out a seeming shortcut?

And watch as online commerce closes down local business, as you’re left floating as a lone node in cyberspace.

I guess, then. . . . . we must show existential courage.


Alternative Nation Inc.

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

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–

Heavy Metal Parking Lot