A Winona Ryder Interview, Republished

Read here. . . . .


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A recycled interview with Winona Ryder from the high-toned “INTERVIEW” magazine. From quite a while back, she never ceases to amaze. The “Red Tan” song by the Ravonettes seems to do the spread justice. She’s “not just the girl from next door” but from a very original, special place as the worlds of film and fashion intersect in one kooky, alt-culture incident of treasured humanity. Hope you like the interview, too.

And long live Beetlejuice!

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A Winona Ryder Interview, Republished

The Haunted Vapors of “Tom & Jerry”

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“Eat me”.

“Drink me”.

It’s all relative—with the rolling boulder of “chaos magick”. Nothing is “what it seems” with tricks of illusion & perspective, as death is just another side of what we call “real”.

Like “Alice in Wonderland” through the laughing shards of an oozy, milk-light mirror in a fun-house. Magic shoots from the fingers of our arch-ghoul, but most unfortunately ebbs away with the phases of the moon, or electrical static from household items.

And our hero is shrunk to the size of a mouse-meat morsel. . . . . as a ravenous house-cat rounds the corner and licks its murrrm’ing chops. Like a cricket hopping about in a humid basement, larger humanity pays no attention and figures “the cat will take care of it”.

Beetlejuice, now in miniature—must survive this scene for the movie to have a happy ending as he scurries around, tearing around furniture and diving through holes in the wall as he crawls through roach-shit in a most undignified state.

A chase ensues—peeking out here and there like “Whack-a-Mole” as the cat scampers for him. Our match-box goblin gets the upper hand and sticks it in the hindquarters.

The cat jumps up on a chair, then the table as it peers down and deliberates over its strategy.

Beetlejuice turns into a giant, scuttling scorpion with a head the size of a man, affixed to the body for creepy effect as the cat runs off. He crawls up the wall and out the window as he resumes human form and dusts off his sleeves with chuckling laughter.

Is this a 4/20 dream, or what? Ingest healthy and legal substances—like a e-mail subscription to this blog for manic, terrible entertainments. Imagination runs wild here in the St. Louis netherworld. See you soon. . . . .

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The Haunted Vapors of “Tom & Jerry”

Ghastly Space Opera

Hey, all partakers in grisly Beetleriffic action. . . . .

I see a kind of bio-mechanical exegesis through a rotting earth-mind, some kind of “insect-level of existence” as maybe it’s heavenly ascent or just something you ate.

Actually it’s a scene from a movie mashed-up with Slayer music through the mind of a heavy drug-user or whom we euphemistically call “a right-brained artistic misfit”. . . . . as I can vouch for the occasional altered state. . . . . as do many visionary poets, gonzo comic-book writers, and virtual-reality “cyber-nauts”.

I’ll say that one thing they all share is a level of hypnosis into their work like that “golden mean” of focus when you’re completely involved in what you’re doing. Depending on psychotropic medication mixed with whatever cocktail of alcohol, stimulants, or something more-illicit “like sleep deprivation”, you can be whisked-off to some pretty strange places.

What are they seeing out there? Maybe a passageway to an unknown level of inner-reality that really exists somewhere, as tripper’s come back to report on the same things. Though you don’t need to go on psilocybin acid-binges, it’s still a pharmacological mystery of brain soup sent slopping through a blender of biochemistry as it’s not very well-understood.

You reach some enlightened, magical state “when everything fits together– like, FOR A REASON” and intuition takes over with lucky synchronicity as the flow follows the flow and ideas glance-off of each other to form a self-constructing vision.

There was nothing ever more creative– like existing in a warm, overheating blob as your eyes tiredly burn like hot, crackling stones and you’re in the midst of sheer concentration. Impulses are realized faster than the speed of thought, itself. . . . . and isn’t a bad way to go.

It’s almost as if ideas “preexist, somewhere” in a transmission of possibility– and how you reach down and grab them like a free-form artist freely articulating. Some might call it “the muse”. Maybe schizophrenia. But I will say that it’s pleasant while you have it.

Inside this crevice, you’ll receive some of the best insights whether scientifically-verified or not in this “between-space”.

If you spend a day sort of easing into activity like an ascending journey– after a couple of hours you’re so relaxed and totally primed to create. You must have lots of free time and get up ultra-early. Many report that extended periods of whirling-dance or joined-up in drumming-circles will bring on the same thing as your mind & body gets “in sync”.

Depending on the stew, you’re mind taps into its naturally-occurring stores of DMT or “the spirit molecule” through which all sorts of strange revelations take shape.

I wouldn’t doubt that video-game designers “hit about this stuff” and come up with their craziest ideas. For instance, Super Mario “eats mushrooms” and fights his way through underworlds vs. reptilian adversaries– like maybe proto-man locked in struggle with the serpent like natural enemies on the opposite side of the zoological kingdom.

UFO conspiracy theorists mention “gray” and “green” garden-varieties of evil extra-terrestrials that live in an underground realm among the dim, subconscious hum of plants and insects like a foreign “earth-mind” running on automatic-pilot right below the reptile and mammal brain, itself on the seat of higher primate consciousness.

And here– “King Koopa” stands on top of a piranha plant, throwing down hammers– like something at the bottom of “the mushroom kingdom experience”.


I generated this image from messing around with “Photostudio” as mathematical relationships are stretched, or bent, or twisted in a graphical representation.

Like, are spirits “trapped in the machine”? Am I witnessing a kind of “revealed-truth”? This looks like the devil, himself– if evil could be localized and caught inside your computational matrix like hard, frozen amber.

Interestingly, once when I was “running on empty” for about four or five days my mental picture was visited by two demon-heads warding their way through “short-wave television static”, like the distant roar you’d hear inside a sea-shell as their howls hissed through the window-pane of existence. On the verge of sleep, they came to bury me.

More charmingly– and one barfed-up a fly. Jolting me awake until they began pressing through, again.

(– Very “Beetlejuice”, kids)

Sheer death, maybe– like rot or pain. . . . . or even entities people claim to see when they go on psychedelic tourism through South America. Interestingly it sounds like “nothing new” to Amazonian tribes-men like dragon-snakes taunting you in the great beyond with messages.

The prince of darkness is usually accompanied by two henchmen– like what you see in the comics and video-games, as the power of “3” is said to subconsciously resemble an unstable quality with the points of a triangle and vectors “closing in on each other”.


This one here looks like three faces and how one in the middle wears a crown– it’s open to interpretation. One eye is dark and the other alive with illumination. The myth of Odin recalls the qualities of infinite blackness on one hand, then one eye left over that “picks-up on the dualistic contrast” to stare deep into the blackest shadow as there can be no light without darkness.

Ancient accounts in demonology have described three-faced angelic super-beings. . . . . as other faces and composite-hints loom out of the picture, if you notice. Almost like a Rorschach Test you couldn’t invent yourself.

In certain stages of what’s known as sleep paralysis you find yourself rendered immobile as one’s lids start fluttered with REM-sleep as images burst across your retina half-way between awake and dreaming. What happens is that you’re body is “turning-off” in the wrong order– going on “autopilot” as higher levels remain awake as if a janitor forgot to turn-off the lights in a high-rise office building with executive-function still self-aware.

A heaviness falls on your chest as nothing can be controlled and how many report seeing aliens or leprechauns or mysterious masked-men in this state.

All of this is very interesting if incorporated somehow into the world of Beetlejuice.

Stranger still, drawn into a palace of dazzling cosmic display as you’re pestered by gelatinous cubes cackling in a scree of space-mania like levels of hell or that sequence out of “2001: A Space Odyssey” through the star-gate.


As if we’ve been preconditioned to think of butterflies fluttering around the doors of perception like the opening screen on a Nintendo game– interfacing with “the start menu” with programming going back to the very root of our hard-wired responses.

And then again, the gods could be playing a prank in the laughing halls of Valhalla as the curtain is pulled-back, revealing the best underground cartoonist’s minds off on fabulous adventures in the farthest blogosphere.

One way or another– on one hell of a trip.

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Ghastly Space Opera

Psychic Dharma Bums

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Morning at the crash pad. Nicknamed “The Maxi-Pad” where Lydia and her coven of alt-rock punk friends squat around the breakfast nook and share the rent.

Lydia happens to agree with the funny news-bait that reveals psychotics like their coffee black, according to a study. A perfect conversation as she knocks back a sip with her porcelain-white fingers and looks up with a murky “in-joke” and touch of devilish irony.

Strange and unusual– though she doesn’t make any claims just to stand-out, or “feel special” as half the law of attraction is saying little and letting them come to you.

Lydia befuddles the psychiatrist who doesn’t know what to make of her, and the fact she sees ghosts. He calls her schitzo-affective though the patient agrees: “yeah, very effective” like some kind of back-handed compliment as you have to be a little crazy to believe in yourself, or refuse “to settle-down” and give-up the goth thing.

It comes and goes “in spells” where the phase of living worlds and the netherworld come into concomitant alignment.  Just take it for granted that around the kitchen table with the cat slinking in and out of your ankles that she can take your hand and lift-off together on some journey of astral-projection, or psychic transference to another dimension like an LSD trip shot through the cosmos.

Strange, invisible energies– as people have reported batting around balls of light like a mutually-shared table-tennis hallucination and other weirder effects.

Be careful that the astral-strings that root you to a physical-body don’t fray– otherwise keeping your soul moored back in bio-living principle. Say “a homeless spirit” looking in through the eyes of another and possessing them or showing-up at a seance.

Meanwhile, the super-galactic heads of Warner Bros. hash over ideas in a board-room as Lydia and the players “poke in and out” of the narrative in funny ways, even personally appearing at script-meetings as they’re chewed-out over loose ends in the story.

Do you call upon the dark? Spirits may drop by and kick your Ouija board, aside. They say that if you talk into a CB-radio and advertise yourself out in the middle of a dark highway it won’t be long before you’re smashed-under by a honking truck.

But as Lydia gets further into the world of the dead and gains ghostly, transient qualities she begins to fade away– calling to her friends out the window of a shut-off room, upstairs though they can’t hear her or see her. Is it worth the price for an LSD-like show, or making the cereal-boxes twirl around on the counter all by themselves?

Being dead is not all flower bouquets and laudatory obituaries as then you have to call limbo your home and report your eerie activities to the office of quotas to justify keeping you around, feeding off the frightened energies of the bio-living and ascending up to higher levels of haunting professionalism. You think “it’s all a picnic”?

Maybe one day you graduate to genie, angel, or demi-god like a multi-level marketing scheme of universal order. Don’t count on it. . . . .

On a side note. . . . .


Psychic Dharma Bums

Halloween Birthday Omen

Winona Ryder was born on this day, two days before Halloween in 1971.

What a tribute, more fitting– than her cameo appearance in the wacky, rockabilly video that ended up getting banned on MTV. . . . . None other than “Debbie Gibson is Pregnant with my Two-Headed Love-Child” which is about the kookiest thing you’d ever seen.

There, with mischievous energy like a Romanian punk princess in fairy tales “funking-out” in a wedding dress and a Spuds McKenzie look-alike, the dog from Budweiser commercials. Mojo Nixon, The Dead Milk Men, Tom Waits, and The Replacements are some of her favorite acts as it speaks to alt/indie cred like cerebral noshing on guitar riffage and authenticity.

Two-headed, like a sequel. . . . . . a labor of “love”, right?

To her unconventional graces, we salute her birthday. She turns 44 is was always “a big kid, at heart”. She’ll return in “Beetlejuice 2”, surely as folks live their alternative death-rock lifestyles well into later years. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A link– to the essential core of her movies, best known. . . . .


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Halloween Birthday Omen

Princess Brat Hostess

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For youthful, fresh perspectives– you can’t go wrong with local community radio as kids have the naivete and faithlessness to declare themselves a punk princess impressio in a doll-house of young, kicking energy for the sake of local interest and avoiding true career callings. Lydia runs along the punk/artistic circles and gleefully drags-along her clique of oddball friends, like “skate-rats”, “hippie-girls”, and street characters as they bicker around themselves and fill in stretches of dialogue in the glittering hang-out of Utopia Studios.

The odd, the strange, the unusual, the transgressive– bands playing and imagery flashing on from a projector “like a real head-trip”. Below is footage of Nirvana playing at a campus studio up at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. You can see ingenious blue-screen tricks and some of what’s in the background is from Haxan, a 1922 Swedish/Danish film that was once narrated by Beat oddball, William S. Burroughs.

An hallucinogenic trip for kids dancing and writhing in the strobe-lights to strange energies as it gives you more of a feel for who Lydia is, or what’s true to her character as you can’t write-down this stuff, necessarily– only watch and appreciate.

Coming to a theater near you, “Beetlejuice 2”!!

(– At least how I see it. . . . .)

Princess Brat Hostess