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

Serfdom at “Wally-World”

 

Wal-mart. . . . . box-store of enchantment. And number 1 employer of what you and I know as “THE RED-STATE EXPERIENCE”. Never has someone had to show such gung-ho, merry customer service for serfdom as you otherwise have employees in blue-vests singing “Zippity Do-Dah” out of their assholes, “Mousketeer” style– with a kazoo.

Maybe “working for someone else” is merely getting yourself forced along “by someone’s obsession”, be that customer service or the retail mission statement like giddy “Jim Jones” cults for customer savings. Indeed, irony has little place here and even Beetlejuice has to “get with the program”.

Cribbing a bit from the fellow Warner Bros. property, “National Lampoon’s Vacation” you had “Wally-World” standing in for Disneyland with a cartoon moose as company spokesman. The happiest place on earth– open 365 days a year. Only in the movie, the family straggled in to find the park closed for a couple of weeks for maintenance and repair. . . . .

But make no mistake, Wal-Mart is open 365 days a year.

Why not call it “Small-Mart”? Yeah right, the largest box-store of its kind that stretches several football fields in length. You’d better keep Beetlejuice supervised amid all that “moral hazard” and easy thievery.

Smile, you’re on surveillance camera! Believe me, if someone thought of it– store security has set-up countermeasures to stop “shrinkage”. Think of a poster in the break-room of a troll-toothed bulldog brandishing a hockey stick and batting away “free scores” to keep the larger “goal” of staying competitive. Rolllff!

Of course, that doesn’t stop some mischievous cretin to hacking into the intercom system and playing the sound-FX from pornographic-movies while the manager scurries-around, trying to shut-down the public address system.

All sorts of stunts back there in the stock-room. Nailing a wallet to the floor and tricking some sucker into bending-over and straining his back.

Or kicking-around empty boxes like a deranged soccer match as the electronic board side-sweeps “Work is Fun!” across the sign. Tape up a piece of cardboard with work is (F)ucked squiggled in with a marker to give it an entirely-different meaning.

They don’t even have the easy jobs anymore where a retiree sits in a wheelchair and greets customers at the wide front-doors. Instead you have receipt-checkers halting customers to prevent “more shrinkage”. Such, such are the ways of the corporate retail world.

Lower prices, happier savings. . . . . ALWAYS.

  \

Buy American. We send prices down to hell

Serfdom at “Wally-World”

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

 

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. . . . .

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

Bringing you quality entertainment the next town over from Beetlejuice’s Rockin’ Graveyard Revue. I sense “cross-over” material in that godforsaken south county apartment, like a play-pen of sin and bleary-eyed malfeasance. United “UNHOLY FORCES”– the meeting of the minds. It’s all “yonder Highway 44” on the outskirts of St. Louis. . . . .

  

 

Visit this gnarly animal here at: http://www.bubbawolfmovie.com/

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

The video, above—is a promotion for St. Louis’ own “Silo-X” haunted house company.

There’s nothing like the ritual of the changing seasons, the fall carnival of the macabre—and a young man’s prurient interest in blood, guts, and zombies. A night of fantasy complete, if for a wide-eyed little filly holding your hand as the two of you bolt through a chamber of choreographed mayhem.

And they say if you want a goodnight kiss you take her to see a movie like Dracula, perhaps a world of Old World romance as mystical and deep as fertility and blood like a full, ripe pregnant belly beneath a haunted moon—the cycles of change rising in your heart of certainties like full-bodied communion with ancient nature, sun & soil and recusal from the underworld of organic subconscious.

(Or its just an excuse to be chased around by zombies)

Make that REDNECK zombies, a mirror image of this American life all in shrieking skulls and flannel shirts like something wispy-haired and awful from “Tales from the Crypt”. For shock value and garish, grody thrills you might even throw in the “big tent” ministrations of “Larry the Cableguy” telling you to have a safe ride home back to the city.

Death is ooky and cathartic with a cheery ending­. . . . . more so than the plain, old awful business of living. But suffice it to say, the supernatural—existence of anything, AFER THIS—is a positive take on life & death. Perhaps being alive is a journey to the abyss of revelation, a widening swath of awareness as the cornfield rustles with a tuneless empty wind, the void of night-chill still as a graveyard.

Then again is the flurry of unsophisticated entertainment, evident of man’s folly like a safe-space of guided disorder and paid-for chaos.

Beetlejuice knows all about it, our favorite out-state resident and small businessman who decides to get his own attraction going. It’s a redneck zombie hayride and paintball shoot as you plink away at ghoulish actors lurching after the wagon, and swiftly pelted by fast-moving projectiles and groaning with a pained stagger before collapsing.

Fiendishly, by trick of refurbished reincarnation “second chances” you might get down at the ole’ “Payday Loan” these lost souls are distinctly unhappy. Living death—and unpaid mortgages. It’s much the same as pumpkins grin by glow of candle-light.

Have a cold soda from an onboard cooler as Beetlejuice steers the power-mower and pulls the wagon behind him, narrating the tale with a slurred, snaggle-toothed laugh. Needless to say, he’s pulling these paying suckers straight down to hell, or your local life lending office & death exchange where he’ll lick the bills and pronounce himself an American success story.

His eyes shift hot, his mouth all-gibbity as he takes a swig from a hip flask. You’re not using this life for much, are you? He’ll take it and even throw in the chains for free down on the rag & bone junk heap of “all sales, final” and NO REFUNDS.

Couldn’t you read the fine print? No worse than the average storefront car title-loan company, he means to grind by on the defeated karma of others like the bottom-feeder of the netherworld he truly is. Don’t look “a gift corpse in the mouth”, but you’ll pay him back one way or another as a recycled spirit.

Maybe Beetlejuice should get a mouth full of broken teeth like a bloody jangle of candy-corn. One of these millennia he’s going to get his ass kicked behind a barn. Then where will he be? Probably selling meat from door-to-door. Don’t ask, “but you get the idea”.

So don’t go to that one haunted cornfield attraction even deeper in the dark midnight boonies. Stick with Silo-X instead as word-of-mouth decrees this place a legitimate enterprise for the big kid in both you and me.

Don’t accept rides or candy from strangers as “it’s a living”.

Or just “a death house”.

You want the mold on that corn-dog?

 

Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

Lydia, Updated for Present Day

 

Lydia, Updated for Present Day

1988—it was a long time ago.

You can’t really play too much of “a recycled teenager” without some stylistic changes.

Sure, there’s the question if too great a number of the MTV generation “ever grew up” or if we live in an extended post-adolescence with tiny jobs, an abundant service economy, and definitely TIME TO PARTY.

Many of us keep listening to the same music we did back in high school. . . . . . but there’s a question if we’d still wear the exact articles of clothing.

Many 40 year-old’s couldn’t well fit into the same Metallica t-shirt or at least wouldn’t wear it well. And it’s not if most Metallica fans turned into investment bankers.

I can’t really think of Winona Ryder as Lydia Deetz ever “selling-out”, really. But would she still wear the same shapeless black rags and spiky head-piece?

Not likely—or it would just look weird 30 years on.

But an artistic, dark soul would still wear the sort of dark, punk-rock accoutrements. I’m thinking a black sun hat, t-shirt, and jeans like the photo below—incidentally a slice of the local population around here in our very own St. Louis.

So how do you weigh the reality of “working”, or holding-down a job?

There’s one answer to that—THE “GIG” ECONOMY.

Front whatever kind of bullshit you want, but there’s a niche for any kind of service. And that means more than working at “Build-a-Bear” though it’s a job Lydia might try out for like, A DAY before getting fired.

If you remember, she makes her way around as a local personality working on DIY t.v., maybe a bit of radio at the local community stations. When she’s not doing that, or maybe running a YouTube channel she makes extra money by giving live tarot readings via web-cam with an air of intrigue and langouring mystery.

Stretch that job out while living with a couple of house-mates and possessing a liberal arts degree, maybe you can “fake it” until “you make it”.

Cyber-space calls, meat-space is tacky. But tours of the strange & unusual can pass as a vocation, if you’re creative and “a little loopy”.

So it is among the hard feld-spar and open lots, where skaters flip tricks and the depthless blue sky hangs above as old media is recycled into newer, strange organic forms. Personalities weave in and out of her languid, sarcastic day and she never loses her dramatic air, bobbing in and of the screen like an apparition in a Bram Stoker novel.

Trust me—many can get away with this well into middle-age or later—as where do you go when there’s no role models or hero’s—only television sound-bytes and the even more evanescent online-hype?

And who could rightfully succeed in such a media environment? What single point of hard, diamond-like concentration does it get to push a personal brand, a line of consumer products?

Let the freak show begin. . . . . she’s just the ticket-taker.

As for Beetlejuice? The star of the story—and you’ll know “IT’S SHOW-TIME”.

Lydia remains the well-grounded “voice of reason” and keeps this film anchored. Her most welcome-return will certainly be anticipated, or else the sequel “was never meant to be”.

And by plucking the petals off a black-rose and creamy white fingers with black nail-polish, she’ll wish you luck.

 

Lydia, Updated for Present Day

When Hell Freezes Over. . . . .

snow_storm   roach_reverse

Greetings from St. Louis. Either your little piece of “cloud-9” or your mere ice-cube lot besides the cold Midwestern heart of hell.

Yes—we’re frozen-solid down here. Which means—time for blogging!

Trapped in the house—as I can’t help but share this little item from our local alternative newspaper that describes the fickle heart in our “state of emergency”, usually called-off in the due course of things.

http://www.riverfronttimes.com/artsblog/2017/01/12/the-15-phases-of-a-st-louis-snowstorm

Read it, know it, feel it. It’s about all summed-up there.

We have the street department out in force, and Beetlejuice serves his purgatory working for the local street department in the salt trucks. There—sbadowed in the cab and taking a sip from a hip flask of whiskey in a parka—his hair tangled-up in a nimbus as the gray afternoon darkens into nightfall.

As you know, dead souls “die” in whatever smooshed death and pay their dues for the fee of reincarnation. If it wasn’t being devoured by a sandworm, he may as well be gnashed in the teeth of Satan, himself at the very bottom circle of hell—the giant devil frozen in ice who mewls at the bottom of all nightmares.

Oh, well. Instead, this is just an inner-suburb of St. Louis with the overpass, railroad trestle, and corner of bargain commerce. A gas station—a discount clothes outlet in the same expansive parking lot as the American Contacts & Eyeglasses, the DMV, and “Little Caesar’s Pizza” by a little dog-walking park and trickle of a sunken stream by the hilly, wooded houses.

He could do way worse—WAY, WAY WORSE.

The fate of the community lays with men like Beetlejuice and he’s paid well for his 12-hour shift.

No—don’t park there! Pulled across the street from the pool-hall as a prostitute opens the door and climbs in the cab.

Just a slow day—as hell freezes over. Dead season—and cause to stay indoors.

Beetlejuice knocks his gloves together and lights a cigarette under the halo of the streetlight. Just a barnacle on the underbelly of civic business. The night is his home and soon he’ll be alone again with his festering thoughts.

THE KING OF BEERS.

And so long as you’re snuggled in. . . . . . we present you a teaser for the Beetlejuice 2 script BEFORE HELL FREEZES OVER. Pass it out far & wide like the billowing snowflakes across the region. And enjoy it as the dark necromancy of “he-who-cannot-be-named” leans against the tombstone with his ankles crossed. KILLING TIME.

Click on this link here. . . . .

bj2_teaser_1point3_wga

hooverville  raccoon

When Hell Freezes Over. . . . .