A stranger lied on the barroom floor
And drank so much he could drink no more
And so he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell bound train

The engine was bloody, it was sweaty and damp
And brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp
An imp the fuel was shoveling bones
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans

The boiler was filled with lager beer
The devil himself was the engineer
The passengers were most a motley crew
Some aboard that others he knew

Rich men in broad cloth, beggars in rags
Handsome young ladies and wicked old hags
As the train rushed on at a terrible pace
Sulfur and fumes washed their hands and face

Wider and wider the country grew
Faster and faster the engine flew
Louder and louder the thunder crashed
Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed

Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the coals were burning with its quivering flame
Then out of the distance there came a yell
“Ah ha!” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell”

Oh, how the passengers jiggled with pain
Begged old Satan to stop that train
The stranger awoke with an anguished cry
His coat wet with sweat and his hair standing high

He fell to his knees on the barroom floor
And prayed and prayed like never before
And the prayers and vows were not in vain
For he never rode that hell bound train
Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha


Some lyrics to ponder on…… as St. Louis broils like an angry-red lobster of awful summer weather that would impress the train-yard of Satan’s jest. After-all, we boast of the old “Union Station” which was once a railway-hub, now refashioned into a downtown mall and hopeful tourist-trap. Need “a designated driver”? Hopefully LYFT or UBER won’t put the engineer out of business…… and you’d reckon that would be BEETLEJUICE, HIMSELF in an old filthy coat and “tour-guide” hat pulling the whistle-chain.

“ALL-ABOARRRRRRD!!!”

The mad, steaming cars, haunted train sounds– snorting like a demon-steed AND FREIGHT-TRAIN TO HELL. Damnation angels and a downward journey you won’t return from, that’s for sure. Don’t look now, but the model-railway club is hijacked and miniaturized figures vaporize through portholes, AND THIS SURE AIN’T “MR. ROGERS’ NEIGHBORHOOD”.

The verisimilitudes are horrifying and you’re better jumping off the back caboose, screaming. Better this, than “HOT-WHEELS”, eh? What a strange, downward angle…… far better to shoot for the stars “than boiling dirt, below”.

Gastric juices, a besotten morsel…… Don’t be turned into “sandworm shit”.

I’d rather take a number and sit in a social security office BUT DON’T QUOTE ME ON THAT.

You could die laughing…….

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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”.

“THE SHUT-IN”, AND MOMMA

A clip from the old 1987 Billy Crystal/Danny Devito movie “Throw Momma from the Train”.

Unfortunately, we can’t bring her back 30 years later and would have to cast someone else. But the idea remains—say, if you were some unfortunate soul “mostly shut-in” under her hectoring influence as a character bridging the world between Lydia’s side and the eventual return of Beetlejuice.

Say, an avid follower of Lydia’s local cable-access t.v. show but otherwise pathetic and lonely.

If you’ve ever seen all those daytime t.v. ads, or lived the bitter, receive life like “the young, crippled, and under-30-years-old”. In those days, it would have been headin’ down to the old video store at 10 PM at night and coming home with six video-tapes. Sooner or later, you’ll fall into the dirty orbit of some slick Beetlejuice type who flatters you with his company and pulls you down into trouble.

Leaving out the doors with an armful of cheesy video-tapes and coming into the light, hang-dog “tall-tale” of another bum. Sure, “you’re inside much, the same strata” but he’s “a different breed of cat”. Funny thing about weekends when you’re unemployed—they don’t mean quite, so much.

And maybe “you’re not as discriminating” when you have no place to go, no schedule keeping you on THE STRAIGHT & NARROW. As if “waiting for life to happen to you” as you go fishing for experience.

Unfortunately, your fishing-pole is only more likely “to dredge-up an old boot” as the law of the world generally goes.

But sure—the world of criminality and idleness and pathetic, broken-down dysfunction at home with momma. It would only be so long before the departed spirit of this dear woman would be levitated in pure black space, like “falling with no place to go” as a lost soul out in the vacant lot of the Beetlejuice side of things. A vagrant thought, a restless thought, a homeless thought. . . . . . drifting throughout all the empty eternities.

Our shut-in lives in a world of hoarded junk, of bygone trinkets that gives him a real dated character. Maybe running around with a vintage Nintendo ZAPPER, or that light-gun you use to play that old game “DUCK HUNT”. Except, through some modified home “Radio-Shack” tinkering, can end up zapping ghosts “only the strange & unusual can see”.

As Lydia once said, “people ignore the strange & unusual”.

This young man is only “another side of it” in a world of junk and social disadvantage.

Through a chance encounter with the show—“Lydia’s Trunk of the Strange & Unusual” he goes looking for quirky used items and ends up witnesses “a drug deal gone bad” with bikers and a pair of burgalars and now finds himself adrift—inexorably bound to the world of Beetlejuice in a run-down old apartment complex. Brandy Station, “thy name is CHAOS” off there in Jerry Springer land.

A wretched, hilarious commentary on the poorer half of Donald Trump’s America.

“Get rich, or die trying” as people fiend for drugs and otherwise are up to stupid things like bank robberies in a kind of “white trash circus” and poor man’s FREAK-SHOW. Grease and uncleanliness suffuses every pore of this marginal lot. . . . . . and it’s a place to vist, for observational humor though you certainly wouldn’t want to live there.

Get a job, go to jail, or join the army. . . . . it doesn’t matter which.

Or stay home and write screenplays with this long, gestating project. You’ll never find a better-quipped screenwriter. . . . . I’ve got a million of ‘em!

  

“THE SHUT-IN”, AND MOMMA

Yankee Doodle Beetle

Yankee Doodle Beetle went to town, riding on some mischief. . . . .

Knocked back some Malt Liquor and Thunderbird, took lydia’s Hand and kissed it.

  

St. Louis is a Patriotic Place, you’ll never call it “A Lemon”. . . . .

HomeBound & Down, You’ll Scream for More and Impress all the pretty Women.

  

Patriotic Glory Day, you’ll Love this Groovin’ Country. . . . .

Home-Cooked Blogger’s Doggrel, we’ll leave you with the Sequel “munchies”.

  

Amateur’s Gung-Ho Stake, you’ll never get sick & Tired. . . . .

I work on this free and will never quit or get fired.

  

“The Price is Right”. . . . . thanks for sticking around! Like a dog on a ham-bone, “Development Hell” continues as we “winter” at Valley Forge.

 

Yankee Doodle Beetle

Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

 

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!

 

Creepy Crawl Punk Venu