Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

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Well, Halloween came and went—Beetlejuice, himself was there “in spirit”. Not wishing to be besieged by Trick-or-Treater’s, let’s just say “he played dead” and kinda “rolled the boulder” in front of the cave. In front of the open window, it pays “to keep your pants on” as I fiddled-around with the new lap-top.

And thank you for sticking-around on this brief hiatus of enforced vacation—never short-change the crowd and keep ‘em gathered around and hungry. But as it stands, my old lap-top reminds me of a pair of country/western boots that was endlessly “getting patched-up”—whether my keyboard went kaput or the screen “kinda imploded” but finally the computer “gave-up the ghost”.

So it was just me and my fervid imagination—though I don’t think Beetlejuice could much master a smart-phone. Sure, a cellular phone or cordless phone but he’s dealing on the level of “yard-sale Atari’s” and would stare, perplexed at an ancient floppy-disk unit.

Just see him in his big ole’ “beat-to-shit” hauling truck, driving around the Brandy Station apartment complex and salvaging old junk, say “anything he can find”. . . . . from beat-up old couches to stray aluminum cans. And remember the motto, “TURN SHIT INTO GOLD” as we scrape together every strange, weird little idea into this commercial profit machine of movie franchise madness.

Let’s call “Monster” energy drink the official beverage guzzled by Beetlejuice—green, foamy mad scientist’s lightning and a sign o’ the times. He knocks it back and crumples the can, “mmmmn, that satisfying energy-buzz” before chucking it over his shoulder.

And you’d have to have “MONSTER ENERGY” as Beetlejuice carried-around a dog-eared copy of “How to make Money with a Pick-up Truck” looking for odd jobs, whatever he can rustle-up. Or do I mean “scare-up”? If he’s not crashing at the flop-house of marginal rentals, he’s following the carnival and sleeping on the midnight festival-fields after the rides have shut-down.

“A lost soul”, Beetlejuice is too errant much in the ways of “settling-down” and quietly vacates in the night before the locals get enough of him and form a mob storming his way.

Imagine Beetlejuice showing up at a Social Security office, trying to get a State I.D. without much in the way of paperwork. A social security number? For a 700 year-old ghost? Maybe he can get by with a fake college I.D. or the kind of thing folks do to get into bars. Get a haircut as he sits in the barber’s chair with his hair a tangled mess as he mutters back small-talk.

Asked for his driver’s license it would quickly devolve into a situation straight out of “COPS” as he at least-looked “a bit more presentable” for his mug-shot.

But boy, he sure gets arrested a lot. More “a public nuisance” than any real danger to society though your silverware may go missing. And check your hub-caps. . . . . . he’s been sleazing around your fan fiction universe lately.

As they say, “life is like an empty beer-bottle because you always know what you’re gonna get”. Pay-to-play, indeed as the lights were turned down low this Halloween and the kids mostly stayed-away.

Beetlejuice would drop snakes n’ lizards into their open bags and slam the door behind him, settling down into his reclining chair and paying the local whores to dance around his specially-installed stripper pole as his jacuzzi festers over with venereal disease.

Call it the golden-toned “Game-room” with deer heads and zebra-print couch covers as you never saw so much “flea market chic” in one place. Hey, look—there goes Elvis.

slash_snakepit_drawing   american_ice_cream_stand

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Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

Twisted, Shut-in Recluse & Love Interest (– NOT A PERSONALS AD)

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Entertaining article, here.

The film, Edward Scissorhands turns 25 years old this season and “Entertainment Weekly” set-out to do an interview with director Tim Burton.

http://www.ew.com/article/2015/10/16/tim-burton-25-years-edward-scissorhands

What a love interest– as this sort of strange, unusual love interest might have at least, half-a-place in Beetlejuice 2 to flesh-out the script and keep the action moving. We’re not saying, “bring back Edward”– but bring back a young man a bit like him, infatuated with the local broadcast of Lydia Deetz’s cable-access show.

Say you had the household of an old, crabby religious kook– a mother, half-insane and dominating over her boy like a kind of splinter religious sect and hoarder’s heaven, where she chides him for watching “that evil witch” on television. The lad hides in the house, tormented by the neighborhood children as he makes his way around south St. Louis, shot-on-location with atmospheric street-shots and takes in the city as a tribute to local conceptional artistry and why I want it filmed here.

He gets pulled-into the plot, by trying to present Lydia with strange and unusual artifacts on “a puppy-dog’s love quest” that finds him over the river in Illinois looking at junk-shops.

Incidentally, Beetlejuice has fallen to earth in this maelstrom of intrigue with his devilish friend and illegal cable-installer as they all get caught-up witnessing “a drug deal gone bad” with bikers outside of a local strip-club– money and suitcases of drugs and jewelry changing hands but ending-up with mismatched bags as a car-chase takes centers out back behind the convenience store by the dumpster.

Now Beetlejuice is a marked man– running across Cahokia Mounds as zapping, mismatched polarities opens a hole in the sky and he’s chased by a flying sand-worm and now the boy, back there is a witness to paranormal activity and is hounded by the local press and the ghost-hunting community as “strange things are afoot” in St. Louis.

Now it’s a race against time to keep the universe from “turning inside out” and it’s up to the kids to save the world, and the city from foreclosure before it’s too late. Many strands come together and the plot thickens. . . . .

I wouldn’t want to be anywhere, else but in good ole’ St. Louis. To be seen, a salable sequel and credit to local ingenuity as I’ll see you in hell, I’ll see you here, so be there. . . . .

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Twisted, Shut-in Recluse & Love Interest (– NOT A PERSONALS AD)

White Palace of Bargains

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http://comicbook.com/2015/09/25/every-home-needs-a-beetlejuice-lamp/

On sale, now: A desk lamp fashioned after the style of maybe, something you’d see in “Beetlejuice” like the twisting, winding body of a snake– perchance, diving through your table like an optical illusions of wriggling stripes.

Odd Lots, “Big Lots”– like something you’d find at this close-out store of bargain-basement derangement “on clearance”. Oh, yes– they sell all sorts of junk that regular stores otherwise “couldn’t get rid, of” though something tells me that the lamp will be sold for premium prices online.

But the ethos of “Big Lots” is an example of sketchy local character in my very own backyard, one of the run-down suburban areas that circle the city, proper. A local author once published a book called “White Palace”, a take-off on the restaurant, “White Castle” around these parts with their famed “belly-bomber” hamburgers sold, “10-to-a-sack” an an allegory unto grungy dreams and work-a-day worlds.

You’d know this place, if you saw it.

Down by a stretch of rail-yard overpasses and sidewalks kicked-up with feld-spar and soot as the large billboards advertise “worker’s comp” lawyers seen on television as the roar of motorcycle engines thunder past. Practically every woman works as a waitress with a particular out-state, countrified drawl as the grassy, run-down yards are uncut and as tangled as the mullet-style haircuts on the men. As it was diapers, toddlers, and a room fool of bandanna-ed confederates commiserating over cigarettes. . . . . and how the beer was always ice-cold.

You’d find a touch of “Beetlejuice” around these parts. Location equals character as the night-shift is his home and you’ll always see a zoo of local flavor on Saturday nights down at the local Shop n’ Save as everybody and their stump-toothed cousin goes out to buy beer, ambling-out the door with bare, toothpick-like arms, a greasy cap, and clinking bottles as the night time is “the right-time”.

In real life, say– he’d doubtlessly work as a manager at the “Big Lots” store I was talking about– haunting the back warehouse, down there with the mechanical box-crusher and forklifts full of close-out junk as he grins and slithers salaciously across the cold, cement floor– harassing the female employees and otherwise walking-around with his keys jingling in his belt-loop in a red apron.

He’ll have plenty of sleazy, low-down adventures that brings comedy to the local area and great exposure for the part of America we rarely think of, but makes-up the industrial back-bone of all our days. Before you think you have him pinned-down he’s off somewhere else wreaking mischief as the drop of the word.

So what’s that sound?

BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!

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White Palace of Bargains