Bachelor Flop-House

Well, I guess “that marriage arrangement” didn’t work out.

Here today, “gone to hell”.

Even as Beetlejuice sits morosely on a lawn chair in an apartment complex, moping like a little boy. All you needed was a pink flamingo in the yard—halfway between Las Vegas & Florida, maybe just here in Missouri for wild, spun-out times.

In a state of twilight “hangover”, his SUPER POWERS aren’t too super at the moment. Maybe just need some whiskey and a snort of cocaine to clear his rotten cobwebbed head, halfway dead “and right next door to hell”.

Just like “a piece of meat that keeps on living” as he ought to lay down on the mattress flung in the corner. Or maybe just watch some low-rent daytime t.v. with the ambulance-chaser ads and “for profit” rip-off colleges as “the big score” was a bust, this time.

As if looking up in the air and apprising “a better reality”, perhaps MORE VIGOROUS than cheap “family feed-barn” all-you-can-eat pizza buffets and the prizes you win out of gum-ball machines.

Life is like an empty beer bottle……. “you always know what you’re gonna git”.

For it’s THE GRIND of “living death” as society sets you loose with E-Z credit financing and no safeguards on huge Visa/Mastercard bills. Narrowed options on the marginal side of Jerry Springer existence, unresourceful and sensationally-vacant.

Slithering further and further down the cultural drainpipe….. as the inviting ground gives off the stink of rotten mortality like a yawning pit.

Beetlejuice scratches his crotch, then “gets up to piss”.

Chicks equal trouble….. misadventure leads to “the same damned place”. You can’t “take it with you”, even if you earned it. And storms rumble on the wing, a whirlwind of manic crescendo as the parking lot now starts getting pelted with hail.

Good day “to stay in” and whack-off. Happy Birthday, cretin.

That success will kill ‘ya!

Bachelor Flop-House

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.

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Alternative Nation Inc.

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

“Top of the Heap”

Hello, fellow-travelers in the dingy, grainy world of home-video.

I always wanted to grow-up to be like this guy. Guess my dream came true.

Watch this video and see what’s it like for “subsisting on the top of the blogosphere” and may someone drive a motorcycle into the pool f the wild Harley debauchery. Spaghetti orange-neon signs, leather chaps, and raw club-power as I’d definitely hang-out in those places, if those places “still existed”.

This is from “The Decline of Western Civilization, Part II: The Metal Years” which ran like an infomercial for the lifestyle on old MTV and filled-up the time.

As I see it, blogging equals “guitar solos” as we find Chris Holmes, lying back in resplendent filth in his backyard pool and gold-record accomplishment. Surely, a denizen somewhere in the world of Beetlejuice as the begogged, frightful expression of the mother is priceless.

Hey, novelty beneath the 1980’s stars as convenience spilled-out like so many rolling bowls of golden popcorn you prepared in the microwave as the country became one big leisure-pit suburb “after working-hours”. So much for the internet, as it came-down to the VHS tape in your hand.

You can see the relative unsophistication of the market and telecine fuzz of so many bad transfers and worn-down tape, as that’s the essence of a Beetlejuice movie-rental hut. For the longest time, this movie was only available on bootlegged VHS copies like heaps of grungy flea-market entertainment.

Also, an article about Penelope Spheeris’s punk and metal documentaries:
http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/movies/la-et-mn-decline-docs-penelope-spheeris-20150701-story.html

“Top of the Heap”