“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. . . . .
Visit– http://www.coasttocoastam.com/ and catch them on local radio!
A clip from “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey”, almost entitled “Bill & Ted go to Hell”. . . . . where they meet the easter bunny and practically a Easter family Get-Together, for the entwining of fate & real life.
Party Hearty in the after-world of Contemporary Fantasia!
Will there be a Bill & Ted 3? Make it happen before the dudes end up in a retirement facility, if we see that Beetlejuice sequel first. Let’s see it before Doomsday, itself.
Did you know? Alex Winter (the blonde kid) is actually from St. Louis! Righteous Local alumni!
Even the “Wyld Stallions” have to eat. Enjoy the local St. Louis Loop in University City, right by the Tivoli movie theater where Alex Winter was a special guest at the big film festival a couple of years back. Voted one of the top districts in the nation– have a bite!
Top secret military-research installations. . . . . particle accelerators. . . . . . chalkboards full of twisted math.
If you poke around scientific news, the world of theoretical “mad science” physics becomes ever more alarming. Half of it may be true, and scary to think. Curved space, holographic projections of hidden dark matter, black hole “event-horizons” that all wrap around and fold back into itself only a few like Albert Einstein can grapple with.
Of course, just what that has to do with the chunky Claymation “netherworld” of spiraling hallways and leering sand-worms is not immediately obvious.
But we take a bit of artistic and scientific license.
Still as mysterious as ever, the world of theoretical particle-things presents a barrier of the sheer unknown that twists-upward with crazier implications—but for the rest of us it’s Pay-Day Loans and teller’s windows—if not poking around the internet for the odd, strange, and unusual.
The world “just is” and pity to think that existence could collapse in on itself with strange misadventures in doomsday science. Mix that in with the internet “singularity”—or the idea that we’ll morph with our super-computers to form a cybernetic post-humanity of bits and bytes.
No doubt, someone will stake their claim to all this cloud-based “online information” and become a super gate-keeper, or broker, or master of earth through “the internet of things” or predicting where everyone and everything will all be at once.
Just think about it—if this cyber-wind of various bits n’ bytes and columns of numbers inside databases could be harvested by minute fractions of a penny—then turned around into currency speculation to eventually “call the shots” through warring banks of computers. . . . .
Scarier than you would think, especially when Beetlejuice’s nephew—a no-good fat shit in an evil clown-suit—ditches the technological retardation of his namesake uncle and takes his mischief-making freelance. There’s a certain smarmy sort of hacker or internet pirate you’d definitely remember from the early days of illegal “Napster” downloads who’d lean back in a chair and sip a jumbo Big Gulp from 7-Eleven and “live it up”.
Why? Because he can! Along with these little online screeds or declaration of cyber human-rights that sketchily justify why the internet can go on doing “exactly what it was doing” by illegal file-sharing and putting record companies out of business.
It’s THE MAN, man as morality has as much legal ground as that which can be whittled down by 1st Amendment arguments and stances on computer science.
Somehow through all this theoretical scientific and cyber-mayhem, if not a satellite-dish pointed toward the stars, a mist descends on this localized source of mayhem as dragons fly in and out between the St. Louis Arch in the nighttime sky as the fate of the world falls into the hands of Beetlejuice to clumsily “correct things” and be a hero—or else the netherworld and the living world “will be no more”.
Battling it out with Hugo—as Lydia and friends scramble around to fight an enabling corporate outfit that wants to turn St. Louis into a toxic waste-site as part of a bigger tax write-off scheme, closing down community broadcasting and the downtown homeless shelter.
Worlds collide, as Beetlejuice has been sucked down to Earth and gets entangled with one of Lydia’s harried “shut-in” fans, a caper gone wrong with a stolen suitcase of money as local bikers get involved and THE PLOT THICKENS to all collide downtown on THE NIGHT OF HELL as history sometimes calls upon “one man”, but Beetlejuice is laid-out in the sewer, jerking-off.
If the stakes couldn’t be any scarier, it’s comedy gold with the world in the balance in this rambling, unlikely tale and product-placement romp. Truth is stranger than fiction and inspires the development of this crazy script into something wholly original and bizarre.
Keep watching kids—and Beetlejuice will never disappoint. If you believe in him and say his name 3 times hilarity will ensue for first-rate bargain-basement entertainment.
Never outdone or out-matched, the blog continues like sheer mental masturbation
“Dirty Balls”, have I.
Now we go to a bit of curb-side commentary. . . . . “Heavy Metal Parking Lot” can’t be beat!
See it now—see it here—as real as it gets. . . . . as two amateur joes in television wandered around a parking lot with a camera and microphone. Before smart-phones, smack dab middle in the randomness of all existence— a postcard from the pre-internet era.
There, an amphitheater rises out of the muggy summer dusk—this little snatch of buzzing cicadas and choked weeds. Down in Virginia—or was it Maryland?— a big show, a local event—beery brain-pans sniffing after the rich possibility of existence for how things seemed “in 1986”.
This is a video about metal-heads, for metal-heads. The medium, the message—a way of life.
You shall know it—feckless spontaneity and broken tennis-shoes like a raised brew.
An underground video popular with tape-traders. Bootlegged so many times, no one made money in the overall culture of drifters, dopers, burn-out’s, metal-heads, and apathetic street rabble congregated in this under-documented barnacle of the country.
It was a world of concert flyers and late night rock radio.
Dead-end jobs and corner drug-buys, literally thrashing it out of you—the curving horizon of all that was seen in heard under the purpling dome of sky. Bon-fires, bottle rockets, backroads—always the whirl of blow-flies and saw-dust amid the big stoner cook-out, like varmints and tail-gaiters at a bbq.
Stray lumber, flung-aside wooden pallets with a tractor pulling along a flat-bed of baled hay. Planting season, the June harvest—a two-bit, nowhere town. You shall know it by the wilder, woolier fields & streams of cheap scrubland and backwoods capitalism, industrial strength.
Beetlejuice would know this place
You had a homely country girl, her legs wrapped in a shower curtain like a torn, home-made dress drinking gin. Gap-toothed enthusiasts in rock concert t-shirts like rabble and lot-lice and somewhere, the aura of the military like the patriotic backbone and prerogative to kill.
Heavy metal dreams, escapist fantasy.
Nothing like a crowd, young and stupid. . . . . as he puts his arms around two concert-goer’s shoulders and mutters confidentially.
(– Or at least we take the ability to speculate he would)
Never far from the fever swamps of Baltimore where Edgar Alan Poe drafted macabre dreams as a proto heavy metal creative. Death—touching the face of nothingness. Power, like a chain-mailed fist. Dungeons & Dragons—a thief, an elf—a jaundiced, darting-eyed teenager in a black concert t-shirt with an askance appreciation for life’s little underhanded victories.
You could guess a ticket-holding reveler would walk away, reasonably intact. Whatever ignorance of the day and bygone rotting husks along the road as you trip by and kick the dirt.
You lived for the touring show, roadies and gypsies and exploding flash-pots and guitar feedback from Marshal stacks 12-feet high. A chewy bass-line and crashing drums as the singer snaked-around to the rhythm and lead guitars bristled and smoked like pustules—as fans pumped their fists and cigarettes tangled over peach-fuzzed chins.
You could literally feel it all the way up to the rafters and cheap seats— release.
Pop the tape in. Vivid, gross, vulgar video-tape with sweat and pimples and all. Recycled experience. Be a rumpus-room ganja Buddha reclined back on the throne of self—majestic, subtle, and just. Dunderheaded realization accruing like fly-specks, fried neurology and electric kilowatts of loopy, punch-drunk insight like warmed over Koolaid as you watched cartoons on a beat-up old t.v. Gonzo cartoon adventures—robots running over an electrical space-grid with badly-dubbed English.
. . . . . So who says you haven’t seen the rings of Saturn? Blink in good-natured surprise. You might see a bit of yourself on a grainy, duped VHS copy. Registering time—everywhere, nowhere all at once as affairs of state floated high above, as grand and distant as a zeppelin in Reagan’s America.
“15 minutes of fame” for an artifact no longer than about 15 minutes as the directors went on to film other parking lots. Classic American folk-art for the post video-age. Your calling card—the street level of fandom and the jostle of the historical record as seen by anyone, anywhere.
Now on YouTube and immortalized online.
Read more here–
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.