If it’s anything St. Louis has no shortage of—it’s the various small-dive punk clubs. Some open, some close—R.I.P. as rents go up with the gentrifying neighborhoods. Your best bet is something in the shuttered industrial-district on the grimy edge of city limits, a rose-carving in a wrought iron-gate for the dank atmosphere of auto-exhaust and the sewers.
Cheap shows– $10 for a night of mayhem, if the bands on the bill aren’t terribly well-known.
You have a thrasher, maybe a left-wing skinhead from the old Eastern bloc countries who weaves through the audience in a green bomber jacket, his boots laced-up with red anti-fa shoelaces. Punk is maybe an open-minded series of observations, individually subjective for all the strange flavors of variety. He looks like “that guy from Anthrax”, as you could only be referring to Scott Ian, like earnest gung-ho driftwood and goofy-foot guitar hopping like cargo shorts and raked guitar strings.
You also have “wise-guys” with the sly, perceptive art of observation. Maybe he’d be a cartoonist or just a clerk at 7-Eleven. View-askew, a cap turned sideways and a clever t-shirt of some scribbled vintage. His state is constant bemusement through a pair of pop-eyed glasses.
Don’t forget the crew of goth chicks, skin as pale as cottage-cheese in the artsy, performance-based world of witchcraft and “large, in-charge” antics. She definitely knows what she wants, the raven-haired streak of appetite and life-force like a fish tank of gleaming glass beads and murkier smells of paint and incense. Pick one or the other, like sisters differentiated slightly by personality but still wonderfully mysterious.
You have the blonde, dreadlocked stoner and “outside-the-box” thinker with a tragic overbite and clenched, silent intent hanging his arms out of his Rastafarian shirt colors for a hop and kick of the hackey-sack. . . . . a game of ultimate-frisbee. Attention Deficit Disorder as the mild, silent-type who fits the bill of all stoner-lore and comic-relief.
And there’s a sour, chirpy lark who’s small but as overflowing with punch as an atomic warhead for chewing gum and eyes lighting up with mischief. Contrarian and street-wise like a pill of cyanide, swallowing a straw of pixie-stix and flailing around until she collapses from a blown-out sugar-high and gets back on the stage to do it again, diving back in the pit.
These would be Lydia’s friends. . .. . . a gang of indie-media slackers living off their parents’ largess and in the artistic lifestyle of alt-rudderless experience. Where Lydia goes, they go—fleshing out this Beetlejuice 2 movie as the plot coalesces in a strange world and becomes a film.
You will here more about them. . . . . the St. Louis experience. Stay tuned!
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. . . . .
Welcome to the Crypt!
Skanks, Deth-Rockers and LOST SOULS– ENTER HERE.
A HELL-FIRE GOOD TIME WILL BE HAD BY ALL.
Attention, K-mart shoppers. ‘Tis the season– I remember it, well.
And who could forget– daisy baskets wrapped in orange & black crepe paper and the whiff of pumpkin-spice as the whole community came-out to celebrate Halloween as a children’s holiday. You had all the daffy classroom mothers dressed-up in cat-ears, slipped over their head like canted sunglasses and a purse full of car-keys.
And how kids stamped-around in the all-school parade, as safe and wholesome as the crossing-guard giving us supervised passage as that was the “G-rated” version, at least. It wasn’t “horrific”, exactly– but sappy and age-appropriate.
And then the adults had their fun. . . . .
Halloween was like the funereal version of Mardi Gras around these parts as you descended deeper into the gray, concrete wonders of city-limits. It was the season of moody autumn that looked like a Flemish painting as the gates at the entrance boded welcome in our skeletal season of menace.
And oh, what a crowd assembled around “Johnnie Brock’s Dungeon”. Wall-to-wall with costume racks that adapted flexibly through the passage of holidays in the aisles of this huge warehouse space. With the winking skyline looming in the washed-out sky and happenstance of casual traffic, it was a real night out on the town for what any occasion could be, taking the trouble to get out here where Halloween-goers went.
Nighttime– full of wild, animal spirits that brushed-up against something “vaguely disreputable” with its carnival atmosphere like ale-houses and burlesque theater without question of mature judgement or taste. Coming together in this culture of cars and tail-gating parties as you came here to be reminded of something you maybe knew years ago as a young teenager with hormones and bright, nervous sweat of inexperience.
To gain experience, or jab at the underbelly of splattered-death with the fake, rearing rictus of rotting teeth in molded foam-rubber. Flirting with extinction– like danger, or chainsaws sending scarecrow legs flying in the strobe-lights of a haunted slaughter-house as it was all lurid chills and the feeling of vague criminality. . . . . like gory Metallica shirts and grinning, skeletal repose in overgrown, yellowed-over wastelands of beer cans and empty chip bags.
It brought back memories– the nauseous sick of candy and any hint or sign of romantic intrigue, or other novelties that hold kids’ fancy like those glow-in-the-dark figurines you’d fish out of a box of “Cap’n Crunch” cereal as you’d come here for inspiration, the fount of youthful energies “that never dies” and perhaps a bit of something that would jog your creativity for this “Beetlejuice 2” idea I have.
One time, years ago my younger brother and I were wandering around a Target retail store in November and spotted a “KISS” Halloween mask on mark-down. It was wispy haired as a black-maned skunk, nasty– with a long red tongue dipping down like a hot poker.
We mounted-it-up on a tin of Christmas popcorn as it looked like a severed head in some chamber of cheery horrors. We were howling with laughter, yet were ignored as tired drudges pushed their shopping carts, past– oblivious. It truly amounted to “the night of the working-stiffs” as we had our makeshift, vandalized pleasures. . . . . even pulling the mask over a pumpkin-scarecrow by the display near check-out so now you had this crucified fiend on a mismatched jean-denim body and bib-overalls.
Wal-Mart or “Wally-World” as others call it, like a theme park of family-fun as “oh, the joys of retail”. In “National Lampoon’s Vacation” the mascot for this Disney-Land like getaway was not Mickey Mouse, but Marty Moose as you pressed the button to hear a friendly message.
Cross the two at a Wal-Mart display, and you’d have this goofy moose transformed from a hapless corn-shucker to something Beetlejuice befouled. . . . . the friendly mascot now a grisly fiend in a flapped hunting cap with blood-shot eyes and a rictus of grinning teeth, bent over flung-around pork-steaks and tampons with a juice-streaked machete.
“Come dick along for the asshole savings and show two proofs of purchase as we motherfuck for lower prices, ALWAYS”.
Not only is the prerecorded message sabotaged, but the public shopping experience goes off in unscripted directions as Beetlejuice takes over the intercom– the manager slamming his fist against the two-way mirror glass.
It’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas”, six-weeks of holiday-themed savings as I guess “Beetlejuice lost it”. Would you?
And so we leave you with Judge Alvin Valkenheiser for an old, hoary night of ooky-spooky irascibility and local ole’ fishing-hole justice. . . . .
Bill & Ted have a pretty good idea of what limbo would look like, spirits “flying, floating, or falling” through all the sheer voids. Could hell be a physical concept? Even so, THE NETHERWORLD is like an optical illusion of perspectives and screwball angles as logical as they are “damned just”. Just key into the imagery from “Dante’s Inferno” as it all strangely makes sense.
Beetlejuice is a creature of hell, yet an escapee “from the infinite-grind” as taking advantage “of the recently deceased” means he keeps one step ahead of taxes as he out-races “the scales of justice”. Inner circles “down the long fall, down” beget stranger properties still, like a kind of insect-mind like the subconscious where nightmares fly out of.
Strange creatures, glowing-furies, and UFO’s dart in and out of a strange realm and overlap into the world we call “commonsense”. Altered states from say, “a Ouija board” summon manifest energies as you talk about mental aberration and the psychedelic experience–dream-worlds of forbidden, altered perception.
Basically, what Beetlejuice feels after a long night of drinking and haunting and carousing, throwing-up in the toilet or otherwise “riding the porcelain bus”. Or smoking joints dipped in embalming-fluid (– for “medicinal purposes”) and otherwise sidling up to you with a chunky, poor-old-me “hard-luck story”. Can you help raise him from the dead, “jump-start him” out of the very pit of hell?
You just got to his name “three times”. . . . . “Beetlejuice SEQUEL”, “Beetlejuice SEQUEL”, “Beetlejuice SEQUEL”, to get the juices flowing and gift him the ability to entertain like the neighbor you would never invite inside your house.
So lift him out of “development hell” and let’s make this sequel happen. Thanks for following my posts, and we leave you with some eerie conceptions of hell and some of the creatures you’d meet off in limbo. The imagination is our only limit as this can happen with computers.