Death by Scientific Misadventure

 

Top secret military-research installations. . . . . particle accelerators. . . . . . chalkboards full of twisted math.

If you poke around scientific news, the world of theoretical “mad science” physics becomes ever more alarming. Half of it may be true, and scary to think. Curved space, holographic projections of hidden dark matter, black hole “event-horizons” that all wrap around and fold back into itself only a few like Albert Einstein can grapple with.

Of course, just what that has to do with the chunky Claymation “netherworld” of spiraling hallways and leering sand-worms is not immediately obvious.

But we take a bit of artistic and scientific license.

Still as mysterious as ever, the world of theoretical particle-things presents a barrier of the sheer unknown that twists-upward with crazier implications—but for the rest of us it’s Pay-Day Loans and teller’s windows—if not poking around the internet for the odd, strange, and unusual.

The world “just is” and pity to think that existence could collapse in on itself with strange misadventures in doomsday science. Mix that in with the internet “singularity”—or the idea that we’ll morph with our super-computers to form a cybernetic post-humanity of bits and bytes.

No doubt, someone will stake their claim to all this cloud-based “online information” and become a super gate-keeper, or broker, or master of earth through “the internet of things” or predicting where everyone and everything will all be at once.

Just think about it—if this cyber-wind of various bits n’ bytes and columns of numbers inside databases could be harvested by minute fractions of a penny—then turned around into currency speculation to eventually “call the shots” through warring banks of computers. . . . .

Scarier than you would think, especially when Beetlejuice’s nephew—a no-good fat shit in an evil clown-suit—ditches the technological retardation of his namesake uncle and takes his mischief-making freelance. There’s a certain smarmy sort of hacker or internet pirate you’d definitely remember from the early days of illegal “Napster” downloads who’d lean back in a chair and sip a jumbo Big Gulp from 7-Eleven and “live it up”.

Why? Because he can! Along with these little online screeds or declaration of cyber human-rights that sketchily justify why the internet can go on doing “exactly what it was doing” by illegal file-sharing and putting record companies out of business.

It’s THE MAN, man as morality has as much legal ground as that which can be whittled down by 1^st Amendment arguments and stances on computer science.

Somehow through all this theoretical scientific and cyber-mayhem, if not a satellite-dish pointed toward the stars, a mist descends on this localized source of mayhem as dragons fly in and out between the St. Louis Arch in the nighttime sky as the fate of the world falls into the hands of Beetlejuice to clumsily “correct things” and be a hero—or else the netherworld and the living world “will be no more”.

Battling it out with Hugo—as Lydia and friends scramble around to fight an enabling corporate outfit that wants to turn St. Louis into a toxic waste-site as part of a bigger tax write-off scheme, closing down community broadcasting and the downtown homeless shelter.

Worlds collide, as Beetlejuice has been sucked down to Earth and gets entangled with one of Lydia’s harried “shut-in” fans, a caper gone wrong with a stolen suitcase of money as local bikers get involved and THE PLOT THICKENS to all collide downtown on THE NIGHT OF HELL as history sometimes calls upon “one man”, but Beetlejuice is laid-out in the sewer, jerking-off.

If the stakes couldn’t be any scarier, it’s comedy gold with the world in the balance in this rambling, unlikely tale and product-placement romp. Truth is stranger than fiction and inspires the development of this crazy script into something wholly original and bizarre.

Keep watching kids—and Beetlejuice will never disappoint. If you believe in him and say his name 3 times hilarity will ensue for first-rate bargain-basement entertainment.

Never outdone or out-matched, the blog continues like sheer mental masturbation

“Dirty Balls”, have I.

 

Day of Doom at Hand– Comic Relief at the Election Horror Show

Judgement Day, THE DAY OF DOOM AT HAND. For this horror show called our 2016 Election, we wish to post a video that seems to comment on the Beetlejuice 2 experience in these parts. Rest assured, Beetlejuice does not vote– never had the inclination or interest. As dogs die, people die– the affairs of state bear little interest in the march of time. Along the margin, he only cares about cheap gasoline and the ole’ “Dollar-Store” keeping open. And keeping one step away from the skeptical, ticket-writing cop. Keep taxes low, and you’ve about channeled “The Red State ID” around these parts– like all-night food bars at the local gas station and watery A.M. fundamentalist radio by the dashboard lights. Haranguing and damning, as most low-lives go about their business in hand-to-mouth bleariness, left to negligence and living in splendor or on nothing with equal, greasy ease. Heavy metal– and then again, “Satanic panic” as you don’t think most out here really have the wherewithal to form much of a conspiracy, other than “a confederacy of dunces” staring at Elvira’s cleavage on “Mistress of the Dark” hour. Evil talks, evil walks. . . . . evil SNORES, passed-out on booze, pills, and candy. Sin lives in a hole-in-the-wall apartment and mostly keeps to itself. Civic virtue, it ain’t. Bum a cigarette off you? Pass those Swisher-Sweet cigars as life down here is DIRT CHEAP below a sole, dimly-swinging lightbulb in a buttermilk glow like roaches beneath a red-flashing neon sign, “Beer, Pool, Fun”. A noggin as dense as a cinder-block building, crushing beer cans against his forehead. For his next trick he’ll flip a toothpick between his teeth and jack-off. America, tis’ of thee and providence bless us, each and every one.

 

Make America Great Again. . . . . Vote Beetlejuice 2. I’m with him!

The Netherworld or “Development Hell”

   

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/

 

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!

 

Roughin’ It

 

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.

White Palace of Bargains

  

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!

At a blog near you. Tell your friends, re-post constantly– we’re #1!!

All Bets off at the Riverboat Casino

 

Big nights at the local riverfront casino– Lydia’s not buying-it.

Let this picture of dubious, toothsome leeriness speak for the dark cynicism of youth with a kind of Huck Finn witness to adult business and casino mania.

If it’s said that prayer is the last refuge of the scoundrel, just watch Beetlejuice at the green-felt tables invoke the names of foul demons to give him luck, cocktail waitresses leaning over to serve him more martinis.

You’d sometimes see these books in Good Will thrift-bins, say “How to Win at Pac-Man” yellowing there in early ’80s vintage like bad haircuts, leisure-jackets, and even worse-looking disco-shoes as you see the proto-typical world of the computer hacker.

Why do they do it? To overcome a geometrical or mathematical challenge and post their findings as truth for the sake of truth. It’s yours to read, sure-enough as the author have published other paperbacks on “How to Win at Keno” as a kind of mechanical and computer-chip “card counter”.

Does the system work? Like a strategy or motto, like showing-off a mood ring?

Only if you have a vigorous memory for detail– and it’s amazing how much essentially-useless information is out there.

In the end, however– Beetlejuice goes with his gut. That somehow, out of all the people who ever went through a casino’s doors, that he’s somehow graced with better luck– and will leave the rest up to chance to do the job.

So many torn, empty tickets littering around the floor as I guess you’re just another one. For a few minutes, at least– to play the part of cool-tempered big-shot with a wallet of money and easy largess called “The Kansas City roll”– big bills on the outside, “a whole bunch of 1’s in the middle”.

Draw three laughing Beetlejuice faces on a haunted card deck or crazy, malfunctioning slot machine and you know management will take him outside to get beat up by company goons.

In any case, an out-stuck mope-a-muck lip with our ghoulie’s hair tangled-up in at the end of the night where there are no clocks on the wall– but only an early dawn haze on the river as he staggers home, not even “with a ghost of a chance”.

You can always bet on low-paying jobs– as that’s a loser’s certainty in the scheme of things.

The Old “South County” Stretch

Deep south St. Louis county is a sight for “instant-credit, Americanus”. . . . . as “let’s hear-it” for drunken, clotted-eyed amusement “a little south of sanity”, just slightly west of the Mississippi river. The gray sky converges into the. . . . .