Yes, “they all begin like Pee Wee”….. the moldy, shut-in basement where you make friends with sock-puppets and otherwise peek out the window in tight gray slacks and tip-toe “hi-tops”. If it’s not eventual state institutionalization, then maybe it’s the theater-club.
Be it odd make-believe orr the kind of home that stocked yogurt-covered pretzels as “Jr.” sipped yogurt from a straw like a hookah from the world of Tim Burton arabesque, there’s a place for boys like Pee Wee. The neighborhood misfit no one pays attention to, only thinking “he’s pretty weird” like damaged goods and queasy “opt-outs”. For certainly, there’s no depth “too low” for someone like Pee Wee to tragically regress. . . . . . when one’s youth of Saturday-morning cartoons “goes into overtime” and you find yourself a twisted, if sexually-frustrated teenager “who clings to second-hand tv re-runs” like a life-line.
“The Play-House of Horrors”. . . . . And whether Pee Wee is your potential “Jeffery Dahmer” in the making, rolling out the barrels of acid down at “Apartment 213” and a severed head leering out of the refrigerator as police fumigate the building in haz-mat suits.
Maybe it could be said Pee Wee “is the prey”, more likely– akin to a rabbit snatched-off in a fox’s mouth like the darker side of nature, human and otherwise.
That’s what I tend to think.
Ask not of what the door-to-door meat-man sells you, as it’s Beetlejuice “down the street”. He’ll give “Groundhog’s Day” a whole new meaning as the earth is emptied of fresh cadavers and resold to the unsuspecting like a comedy horror-show.
In the world of “gray market” frauds, bootlegs, imitations, and “CASH-ONLY EXCHANGE”, I’d say “that he’s been sleazing around your neighborhood, recently”. Return home to a house spurting water, stripped of all the copper-piping as you hear vague reports of a seedy truck parked around town “and disappearing, suddenly”.
“You get what you pay for”, Pilgrim.
“The World is One. Dark. ROOM”
“Coast to Coast A.M” attracts the moths of some ungodly hour like a camp-fire of space legends and supernatural rumor. The lonely, the unemployed, the night-shift, the susceptible as millions tune in to hear strange tales like freaky futurism and ancient alien astronomy that takes a page straight from the old “X-Files”.
The dark groan of the highway and tingling signals of terrestrial talk-radio as anything seems possible. As the world sleeps, idle thoughts away from the rhythm of the ole’ punch-clock and working week. Mysterious, pondering at the night sky—the third stone from the sun, as mix LSD with psychotropic medicine, or maybe just a whole hell of a lot of gas station coffee and the fevered unknown.
The last neighborhood in America. . . . . subconscious dream-states and murky existence where a great deal of Beetlejuice lives like the beckoning legs of a trap-door spider and the whites of his hyper-active ghoulsh eyes like a salesman from the outer limits.
Alien abductions. . . . . “picking-up earth-women”.
Cattle mutilations. . . . . “anyone up for a BBQ?”
The land of 24-hour diners & truck-stops like 3 A.M. breakfasts and cagey, libertarian constitutionalism with the right to self-defense like a laser pistol in some James Cameron movie.
And here come the straggler’s. . . . .
Announcing THE BEETLE HOUSE.
A fine eatery under moon-blue neon and surrealist flavors, themed after the films of Tim Burton to the sounds of Pee-Wee calypso. A charred skull grips a rose in its teeth under the whirly-twirly pin-stripes of spirals and snake-head into the pin-prick of fairy-land oblivion as a waitress refills your ice tea with olive laurels in her hair. The munificent shadow-world beckons to the dance of dead autumn leaves as somber merriment shall partake in a varied and artisanal menu of good eats and finer fellowship. Open now in New York—for the savvy and pop-cultured best of nightlife.
For youthful, fresh perspectives– you can’t go wrong with local community radio as kids have the naivete and faithlessness to declare themselves a punk princess impressio in a doll-house of young, kicking energy for the sake of local interest and avoiding true career callings. Lydia runs along the punk/artistic circles and gleefully drags-along her clique of oddball friends, like “skate-rats”, “hippie-girls”, and street characters as they bicker around themselves and fill in stretches of dialogue in the glittering hang-out of Utopia Studios.
The odd, the strange, the unusual, the transgressive– bands playing and imagery flashing on from a projector “like a real head-trip”. Below is footage of Nirvana playing at a campus studio up at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. You can see ingenious blue-screen tricks and some of what’s in the background is from Haxan, a 1922 Swedish/Danish film that was once narrated by Beat oddball, William S. Burroughs.
An hallucinogenic trip for kids dancing and writhing in the strobe-lights to strange energies as it gives you more of a feel for who Lydia is, or what’s true to her character as you can’t write-down this stuff, necessarily– only watch and appreciate.
Coming to a theater near you, “Beetlejuice 2”!!
(– At least how I see it. . . . .)