“Push Comes to Shove”, EDGE

Hey, same tailor! Nice suit……

Good ole’ express-elevator, straight-down to hell…… out of 100 floors, with floor 13 “the missing netherworld” edited-out of the tour unless “you draw a door” and speak the secret, occult password.

And what would that password be?

“BEETLEJUICE 2!!!”

If for the sake of repetition or “13 steps to nowhere”– Beetlejuice is about to become a Broadway franchise. With illusion and stage-magic and A WHOLE HELL of a lot of fun.

So begs the question…… what is the closest point between a good idea and a great idea?

 

EDGE.

 

It digs low and hard into your ribs like charred steak, bourbon, and nighttime asphalt as the kind of movie “YOU’D WALK THROUGH THE FLAMES OF HELL” to holler at the screen in raucous, bilious appreciation like a truck-stop riot and snow-chains through the laughing heart of darkness that leaves you with a eaten-out heart and half-a-lung.

  

  

Give me EDGE….. OR GIVE ME DEATH! Better yet….. GIVE ME THE SEQUEL!!! For the best in artfully-crass entertainment, it’s Beetlejuice 2!!!

 

     

   

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“Push Comes to Shove”, EDGE

1-900-CREEP

Yessir, the world had limited entertainment options “back in 1988”. Telephone “Party-Lines” were a thing– or getting lost in the labyrinth of an automated-system “for a thrill”. . . . . though the real shock was when your parents got the phone-bill. “in this world of worlds”, what do you think you, or I, or anybody “would dredge-up out there”?

      

  

Beetlejuice’s phone-line sits, “mostly unanswered” as it’s another “get-broke-quick” scheme. He’ll be “an internet millionaire in no-time”. . . . .

  

 

1-900-CREEP

Halloween 1987

Mists rising from grates, dark and glistening streets, infinite shadow and mystery.

Things loom large in the magical recesses of a young boy’s brain.

The world is open-ended at that time, dreams and nightmares—and surreal events in the gnarled, twisting unconscious as you’re “carried along” in a larger-than-life fever.

Strange tastes, smells, and sensations—one big “impressionistic montage” as fairy tales live inside.

Scary, exhilarating. . . . . . and wonderfully dangerous.

Life oozes blackly, inexorable and surreal.

Half-glimpsed references, curling back on itself in a dungeon where a bright, gap-toothed bucket of Halloween candy grins in welcome.

Happy Halloween!

 

 

And “Happy Birthday” to Winona Ryder. Long Live Lydia Deetz, “QUEEN OF THE DEAD” and Fetching morbid-angel.

Halloween 1987

Down & Out in “The Lou”.

Once again, St. Louis finds itself in the news. You can’t help but think of the haggard, run-down streets and climbing National Debt clock. Something tells me Beetlejuice would stir up much trouble and gibbitude, passing-along rumors through the gathered throng of protestors “like Satan’s Kid Brother’. Sowing chaos, “he feeds off your famine” and makes “a tidy profit” off of looted stores, abandoned cars, and popular discord. Life is short and money burns faster. . . . . “Law of the world” and funnier truths not talked about “before polite company”. At this rate, the producers will want to shoot “Beetlejuice 2” in Toronto, instead.

Down & Out in “The Lou”.

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.

The Old Haunts Lydia Knows. . . . . .

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Laclede Square.

It held the bouquet of Paris, a Bavarian beer garden on the Mississippi. Maybe the artistic renown of Vienna. . . . . or maybe not.

Behold: the crack of a skateboard as a teenager flips a trick– flying against the terribly-blue sky and rolling away over the crunchy autumn leaves.

The sound travels flat and muted across the leveled bricks and gray slate of these square blocks, a neighborhood made distinctive for its tall, narrow houses like a local historical curiosity.

A remnant of the French empire signed-away with the Louisiana purchase, brokered by Thomas Jefferson’s debonair co-hort of marquee’s and enlightenment figures.

It all had a Continental air, a twinge of “Lost Generation” Paris.

And here it was—CIVILIZATION.

Pioneering rehab efforts and stylish revitalization of former urban blight, the finer goods and exceptional tastes for good wine and good food in this little sublet of old St. Louis city.

Now, the children of stockbrokers turned this into a playground of modern privilege– where the pot was sweeter, where wise noble savages held court over “think for yourself” maxims with a skateboard under one arm and a painter’s watercolor set in the other hand like Pablo Picasso, himself.

Halfway between upscale and crumbling—the crud of artistic integrity.

Like an action photograph or poster art that embraces movement inside the decay of late-stage modern capitalism. Now it was MTV and bonkers stoner-culture on the edge of urban redevelopment.

Movement and energy– rich and poor mingling as a true alternative.

Like the unnatural lump of packaged evil, the vague bar and club scene. You had a tattooed, long-haired oddball with John Lennon sunglasses and a short Hitler mustache who stood with his arms crossed in oppositional defiance. Underground movements and mad, eccentric Gothic genius as the angels wept, cherubs sweeping their arms up in the trickling fountains of the local park.

Poetry—beauty is on the street. Life had its bargain-priced compensations.

Black and white comics and underground zines. Every scrap and slip of paper. . . . . junk food packaging. A caricature of a skater in a bandanna smiling in a spurt of munched-down intensity, sugar and artificial flavoring inside this golden wrapper. Or gonzo, bonkers foam-rubber heavy metal gladiators inside a video-art project installation. A spray of pixelated hyper modern-culture, alien warriors in a foreign video-game. Ninjas and the art of stealth up and down these streets.

And here it was– civilization brought to the plains and lush river valley as the air carried the fragrance of Mississippi river mud.

The veins of Lydia Deetz run through this area.

Advertising “to die for”, that vague “IT” factor. Read this article about savvy product-placement.

The Old Haunts Lydia Knows. . . . . .

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.

tumblr_nvrmju0xxv1qedb29o1_500  electric_guitar

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

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