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. . . . .

To Know it is to Love it. . . . .

trailer_park  st_louis_magnet

To know St. Louis is to love it. . . . . .

Ferguson notwithstanding, a lot of people have this prejudice that St. Louis is an utterly backward town of farm-land dimwits and Mississippi wharf-rats.

Well, it depends “on what side of it” you’re referring, to.

Parts of the city and outlying county are relatively civilized with money and good resources, but then you talk about the ghettos to the North or the rough-shod white working classes to the south, or further in-state from the Illinois border.

We have lots of old Irish lineage and then the Scotch-Irish who came from, say– Ohio and Indiana in waves as its a testy, if not Germanic combination like a tawny, grit-pitted chin dripping tobacco choose and staring off into the stiff wind.

Riff-raff, we are.

Chained to the auto-lot, leased-on borrowed time. . . . . like wild lives, vague attention spans, and the relative march of cell-phones and other technical progress to a Western-styled vantage point, over say “the third world”.

America– the North American continental land-mass still with crude oil to burn and wide-open spaces as “let ’em be”– you can’t reform them, better them. And it’s too awkward to try with man left to descend into levels of squalor; living on luxury or in poverty with equal, opposite ease. Where every man is king with his waddling beer belly, Cardinals baseball cap, and stick-like legs unto greater interstate frontiers.

Yes, we have our share of trailer-parks but some of the real comedy begins with low-rent apartment complexes of every trashy description that would make a pleasant social worker howl.

One time, a low-functioning couple lived in a hoarder’s house of pet animals and ate nothing but Coca-Cola and shells n’ cheese until their toe-nails fell-out, they were so malnourished.

Life was the inertia of broken-down health and the vista of possibilities after nightfall. For every living-room, a VCR of bargain-basement entertainment. Novelty, as opposed to deadening, raw boredom could degrade unto no end so long as you were unemployed and had all the time in the world. Life was a sling-shot orbit around the kitchen to get another soda, use the john, and return back with a sizable carry-out bag of snack food as true to the 99 cent cheeseburger as the night was hot– pocked with fire-flies and passing traffic.

There, on the ground-level– you and the chaos were on even eye-level like cavemen peeking-out through beige drapes. Like camping-out.

So long as you believed in the free market– or presumed you’d strike-up your lucky “nuisance law-suit” the rhetoric was full of odes to American opportunity. Maybe you’d strike-up a new idea and start your own business, someday.

Even as the rich amassed a greater share of the money with vulgar sequined-dress cat-fights, and you watched from afar with dimmer, eroded prospects by the year. Only faith could justify, caught-down in one’s meager position of life where hopeful, open-ended intrigues kept you perked-up in anticipation “for the day that never comes”.

Otherwise, one was left to account for “this” and the nihilism could scare the hell out of you. Nothing was inherent– neither salvation nor gutter politics as all our lives a cosmic joke.

And the punchline, is how well Beetlejuice would fit-in here!

Which is why I can see the plot happening right in our local area, according to the eye of the beholder and creative mastermind busy coming-up with juicy material. This is a cheap city to live-in if you know what you’re doing and keep it humble-pie.

As the Dollar Store as my witness, you’ll like this place as much as everyone claims “to hate-it”. And how it grows on you like a fine, Midwestern overgrowth.

Back again tomorrow with more entertainment.

P.S. And Happy Birthday to Michael Keaton. Stay “cagey”!!

To Know it is to Love it. . . . .