When Hell Freezes Over. . . . .

snow_storm   roach_reverse

Greetings from St. Louis. Either your little piece of “cloud-9” or your mere ice-cube lot besides the cold Midwestern heart of hell.

Yes—we’re frozen-solid down here. Which means—time for blogging!

Trapped in the house—as I can’t help but share this little item from our local alternative newspaper that describes the fickle heart in our “state of emergency”, usually called-off in the due course of things.

http://www.riverfronttimes.com/artsblog/2017/01/12/the-15-phases-of-a-st-louis-snowstorm

Read it, know it, feel it. It’s about all summed-up there.

We have the street department out in force, and Beetlejuice serves his purgatory working for the local street department in the salt trucks. There—sbadowed in the cab and taking a sip from a hip flask of whiskey in a parka—his hair tangled-up in a nimbus as the gray afternoon darkens into nightfall.

As you know, dead souls “die” in whatever smooshed death and pay their dues for the fee of reincarnation. If it wasn’t being devoured by a sandworm, he may as well be gnashed in the teeth of Satan, himself at the very bottom circle of hell—the giant devil frozen in ice who mewls at the bottom of all nightmares.

Oh, well. Instead, this is just an inner-suburb of St. Louis with the overpass, railroad trestle, and corner of bargain commerce. A gas station—a discount clothes outlet in the same expansive parking lot as the American Contacts & Eyeglasses, the DMV, and “Little Caesar’s Pizza” by a little dog-walking park and trickle of a sunken stream by the hilly, wooded houses.

He could do way worse—WAY, WAY WORSE.

The fate of the community lays with men like Beetlejuice and he’s paid well for his 12-hour shift.

No—don’t park there! Pulled across the street from the pool-hall as a prostitute opens the door and climbs in the cab.

Just a slow day—as hell freezes over. Dead season—and cause to stay indoors.

Beetlejuice knocks his gloves together and lights a cigarette under the halo of the streetlight. Just a barnacle on the underbelly of civic business. The night is his home and soon he’ll be alone again with his festering thoughts.

THE KING OF BEERS.

And so long as you’re snuggled in. . . . . . we present you a teaser for the Beetlejuice 2 script BEFORE HELL FREEZES OVER. Pass it out far & wide like the billowing snowflakes across the region. And enjoy it as the dark necromancy of “he-who-cannot-be-named” leans against the tombstone with his ankles crossed. KILLING TIME.

Click on this link here. . . . .

bj2_teaser_1point3_wga

hooverville  raccoon

When Hell Freezes Over. . . . .

Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

 money_truck    wpid-wp-1444570307343.jpeg

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

Rotten Pumpkin Hangover

Attention: K-Mart Shoppers (An Event)

Attention: Hollywood.

My moonshine kicks your cocaine’s ass.

See it now, as southern hard rock outfit Jackyl takes over a K-Mart parking-lot to protest the fact that the chain won’t carry their record. As if “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” was the end all, be all of discount box-stores.

So they launched a live publicity-stunt and pulled up in a flat-bed truck to play a concert. Beetlejuice runs thick here like blackberry wine as we set-up a protest outside of the Hollywood mainstream.

Humor me– and my humorous sequel. Construction continues!

leer  mississippi_map

Attention: K-Mart Shoppers (An Event)

Still in the Running, Apparently

beetlejuicemodel screenwriter-300x297

A false rumor has been circulating for the last day or two THAT THEY WOULD BE MAKING BEETLEJUICE WITHOUT ME.

Oh no, but listen to the insectile-screech of “the little guy” protesting that he won’t have his dream crushed. Such is the tale of “the little guy” as I may yet give my movie studio overlords a pause. Strange things are afoot in St. Louis, wonderful things like Dr. Frankenstein’s bizarre laboratory of UNDEAD SEQUELS.

Onwards to 30 years later. . . . . can we pull it off?

I say Beetlejuice should have a lot of screen-time, with a thicker exploration of the weird & wonderful netherworld like haunted t.v. signals and defunct “Dollar Store” plastic knock-off’s that’s true to the world of white, blue-collar squalor.

Where the highway meets– not far, yonder your local Wal-Mart, junk yard, waffle-house, and carnival. Beetlejuice lives in the hills of south St. Louis county– and we must do the character justice in this vaunted region of podunk majesty, like spangled rhine-stone cowboys.

To see it is to believe it, to know it is to love it. Coming soon to a completed screenplay near you. From tea party misfits to firecrackers going off in apartment complex parking lots, thy name is chaos– thy name is America– thy name is BEETLEJUICE!

Like other buzz-words 5 years behind the times, “DON’T GO THERE” but we will as Beetlejuice goes and busts-a-move! Lydia will be there to roll her eyes with ethereal sarcasm “keeping it real”. Ooops, did it again.

So check in, we’ll be back soon or else Beetlejuice isn’t working behind the counter at fast-food. Rather, he’s running-fast from the gorping mouths of sand-worms as the after-life comes with a certain grim ecology. . . . . . like poetic-justice and THE FINAL WORD ON FUNNY.

metallica_willy_wonka  oscar   lira_suit

Here’s to Quality & Cleverness and a Wonderful World Wide Web Audience!

Still in the Running, Apparently

Fast Times at Brandy Station

movies_tim_burton_career_2   wpid-wp-1444570807802.jpeg

For a wild time, nothing beats Brandy Station apartments– a series of low-cost rentals that brought in the most crazy, dysfunctional behavior you could ever come to expect out of the apolitical sort of George W. Bush crowd as lives are thrown-around like matchsticks with low-down country-music figuring. . . . . with a substratum of ignorance so dense– you come to understand why life is like a speech out of a Wild West dime-novel.

Hard lines, sunken cheeks– and virginal country fucking and drug-use with a curtsy to square-dancing patter and a Citgo station full of booze at the top of the hill as life is just one slick opportunity after another for the self-made.

Every man a genius, “build a better mousetrap” toward personal home business acumen like pioneers rubbing their hands around a camp-fire. I guess if some men can become billionaires in this lottery, you’ll never give up the idea that you’ll be rich as trash cable novelty shows as your only witness, the rumbling plain like dead-end “ground-zero” to “old time religion” and glib war-mongering like a news cartoon showing the soldiers at Imo Jima jamming a flag-pole up Osama bin Laden’s ass.

A society based around mutual-suspicion and anger as life proves to be just like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . you always know what you’re going to get. To be white and frazzled in a beat-up old undershirt as life is oppositional “to the cities”, squinting at an internet screen and not really comprehending what you’re looking at as the main point is patriotism and scraggly, day-by-day danger on the slick, plastic sheen of Chuck Norris television.

Old Western town politics– good clothes, thrown-out into the street in a cat-fight, a woman spurned as it was a culture of golf clubs and televangelism and beer and cheap mud like fire crackers and church carnivals and a high-pitched country voice of some “tin-foil hat piss-ant” trying to sound scientific– like a 1960’s moon-man holding up his hand in peace, “wagon train to the stars” as there’s nothing so “universally translated” as a rest-room.

Beetlejuice would have a field day, here– blending-in and up to some wild things like interacting with the locals, reading the want-ads, and otherwise dreaming of riches as the grass is always greener, for a boast about the other-side like some frazzled junk-cat in a Hawaiian shirt and sandals walking up the road with a dim, buzzed expression on his drunken face. Life is glittery and mean, like the soft honey-bun of proselytizing that says “you’ll burn forever” for standing aloof.

This is how “the other half” lives. Glory unto Beetlejuice 2!

Fast Times at Brandy Station

The Netherworld or “Development Hell”

 beetlejuice_amongst_the_cannibals   punch_clock

A great article here investigates “what might have been” for any continuation of the Beetlejuice franchise as my feeling is, this movie is not the easiest to write for.

https://www.inverse.com/article/6867-the-history-of-the-long-gestating-beetlejuice-sequel

So Beetlejuice sits in “development hell” like he’s taken a number from the the ole’ red ticket-machine. Gone but not forgotten– it’s been 30 years without devious fun, unless you count the kids’ cartoon show. Between zany, loose-form animation and a live-action riff of picking-up hookers it’s only a matter of time before he gets paroled at the front window.

C’mon, be “a notch above”. . . . . as it’s only the limits of imagination that keeps Beetlejuice from doing anything he wants, and cooking-up a really good movie.

For every marginal alcoholic and version of small-time “class” with his feet dunked in a kiddie pool, wearing Bermuda shorts and mirror-shades in an overgrown, weedy yard with pink flamingos– we show you the amusing underbelly “that never dies”. So bring him back into circulation and the free-for all over t-shirt sales as we’re going to make him represent “something bigger about ourselves, something true to America”.

So– are we going to be “The ‘Citizen Kane’ of averted raunch-fest comedy”? I certainly hope so. Entrusted with my “Final Draft” screenwriting software, I plan to bring you something truly remarkable and surprising– if official forces don’t “beat me to the punch”.

So is it a go, or isn’t it? Winona Ryder blushes every time she’s pressed to say something about it, and how the internet takes the news and runs with it– there could be “nothing” or there’s everything gearing-up into production. . . . . the truth is, NO ONE KNOWS!

http://www.etonline.com/news/173664_winona_ryder_feels_bad_confirming_beetlejuice_2/

winona_arms_crossed   beetlejuice_2

We want to bring to St. Louis, where I live. They say “write what you know” as this city mixes up the urbane, the gentrified– with the punky alternative unto the new urban frontier like liberal arts and picturesque neighborhoods as beautiful as they are run-down.

Not forgetting the bedraggled survivors who keep “hanging on”, the wilder impulses of pure panic and quick-fix solutions soaked in alcohol and engine-grease. It’s a total zoo not far from Jerry Springer land and bargain-basement mania as some have called us “a dead town” that everybody feels “stuck-in”.

But you notice things. . . . . interesting things. I can think of nowhere else, as I appoint thee, the great “gateway to the west” and home of a thousand inspirations.

Hell awaits, “no complaints”. Don’t be true to what you ain’t. Rahh, rahh St. Louis!

bat_bat_ruleth   st_louis_magnet

The Netherworld or “Development Hell”

Roughin’ It

texas_chainsaw  uncle_jim_creek

movies_tim_burton_career_2

Missouri, yonder “Highway 44”.

Zig-zagging through the thick, rolling hills into promises of greater obscurity where all the backwoods goblins and other folk truly live. For this is the poisonous stink-hole where he dwells and civilization would be horrified– located across from “Times Beach” made infamous for the dioxin poisoning incident back in the early ’80s.

Apparently, an old codger laid down toxic, fuming asphalt on his back-road and filled the air with carcinogenic chemicals– everybody had to pick-up and move, over night as the area was declared a disaster zone and residents were hastily compensated and settled-down in other trailer-parks and scuttle-houses.

You’d find it funny, that the area was eventually “safe-vetted” and turned into a public park full of hiking-trails, but across the river it’s sure is scuttle-butt and rickety through the funeral arch of trees and dim sunsets like something you’d see out of “The Blair Witch Project” when the kids were tramping through the woods.

We can’t lay claim to “a Blair Witch”, but maybe another supernatural haunting as Beetlejuice hacks his way through the underbrush with a chainsaw, dressed in a flap-eared lumberjack hat and hunting jacket as he makes his marginal dwelling out amid the rusted-out, old abandoned water heaters and beer cans and other junk going back decades as life is a leafy trash-mound. Beetles crawl around, so much moldy decay through this putrid, moldy forest covered under a reeking layer of wet leaves.

The house sits-up on poles with a long flight of steps leading to the door, cooking BBQ’d possum on a primitive charcoal grill and living on “very little”, so to speak. You can see the water marks on the house left over from the great flood of ’93. Sometimes, when it rains hard he has to take a canoe up to the front steps and leave the truck parked beyond the lone sort of “draw-bridge” over the creek bed.

The yard is littered with logs and lumber and evidence of serious wood-chopping. You see, it’s all fed into his wood-burning stove as the evenings are cold, dark, and miserable as the dog howls out in the murky undergrowth at the approach of meth dealers passing through.

They pay the dim glow little-mind, merely a house lit with a single-watt bulb on a pull-chain as the yard has a headless angel statue all-covered in Christmas lights while a garish big-earlobed Buddha nods, sacredly by the front steps stained brown with mud and decay.

Ruffians drink here and you could stash a body out in these woods, our own Missourian version of “Deliverance” as Beetlejuice makes himself right at home.

Is that atmospheric, or what? Filmed on location, a real netherworld you can visit.

Don’t get lost.

Roughin’ It