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.