All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”

 

 

If all gravel roads lead somewhere, you wouldn’t be surprised to pass old, broken-down trailers in the neighborhood. And a fixture of riff-raffery, some of Beetlejuice’s low-down neighbors poking around a grill like a whiskey-guzzling musk-rat.

Brutal, lordly. NSFW– (“Not safe for work) as if a dude like this even worked.

It’s “El Duce” from the shock-rock beer-belly set. You’ll recognize him for his sadomasochist stylings, concealing his objectionable identity with a black hood and guttural offensive charms as he fronted “The Mentors” like THE KINGS OF SLEAZE festering on the Pacific Coast.

Langouring trailer-park women in leather and garters, his presumed harem as he bulges out his eyes like bonk-headed, glazed space mutants in foam-rubber monster costumes “demanding to be gratified”.

Indeed, “a threat to health, wealth, and morals” whose raunchy lyrics were presented before Congress in hearings by “The Washington Wives”, calling for restraint and decency in the music industry. Good luck with that– the only thing they succeeded in doing was getting “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” stickers on tapes & CD’s and probably just making the offending music THAT MUCH MORE ENTICING.

No matter what, you’ll always have the bottom-feeders like ole’ El Duce putting on shows and selling underground records out of a car trunk, a slap on your shoulder and an ice-cold beer in the other hand as he yuks it up like an unsubtle statement about America.

Just another misfit in the world of Beetlejuice “who fits”.

Call him “Uncle Perv”. . . . . though I think Lydia would remain wary to the proposition of returning to a motel with his guy. After all, she broke-off the marriage contract with Beetlejuice in the movie, spared from obscene fate, an X-rated boast.

If even from El Duce– who once sensationally claimed that Courtney Love offered him money to whack Kurt Cobain. Maybe a nugget of some off-color joke “grows with the telling” but watch as everyone attempts to cash in.

Like a dubious character witness, I wouldn’t trust him either as you can’t forget Beetlejuice “selling used cars” at the cemetery lot with the giant lit sign– the giant arrow pointing to “dirt-low” credibility, the rotten truth in all “the fine print”.

A foul trickster, free speech for the dumb as you can’t “outlaw evil”. Keep this movie PG-rated, IF YOU DARE. Or else my name is Jerry Springer. . . . .

 

Don’t “Shake Hands with SNAKE”

All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”

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. . . . .

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.