Well, Halloween came and went—Beetlejuice, himself was there “in spirit”. Not wishing to be besieged by Trick-or-Treater’s, let’s just say “he played dead” and kinda “rolled the boulder” in front of the cave. In front of the open window, it pays “to keep your pants on” as I fiddled-around with the new lap-top.
And thank you for sticking-around on this brief hiatus of enforced vacation—never short-change the crowd and keep ‘em gathered around and hungry. But as it stands, my old lap-top reminds me of a pair of country/western boots that was endlessly “getting patched-up”—whether my keyboard went kaput or the screen “kinda imploded” but finally the computer “gave-up the ghost”.
So it was just me and my fervid imagination—though I don’t think Beetlejuice could much master a smart-phone. Sure, a cellular phone or cordless phone but he’s dealing on the level of “yard-sale Atari’s” and would stare, perplexed at an ancient floppy-disk unit.
Just see him in his big ole’ “beat-to-shit” hauling truck, driving around the Brandy Station apartment complex and salvaging old junk, say “anything he can find”. . . . . from beat-up old couches to stray aluminum cans. And remember the motto, “TURN SHIT INTO GOLD” as we scrape together every strange, weird little idea into this commercial profit machine of movie franchise madness.
Let’s call “Monster” energy drink the official beverage guzzled by Beetlejuice—green, foamy mad scientist’s lightning and a sign o’ the times. He knocks it back and crumples the can, “mmmmn, that satisfying energy-buzz” before chucking it over his shoulder.
And you’d have to have “MONSTER ENERGY” as Beetlejuice carried-around a dog-eared copy of “How to make Money with a Pick-up Truck” looking for odd jobs, whatever he can rustle-up. Or do I mean “scare-up”? If he’s not crashing at the flop-house of marginal rentals, he’s following the carnival and sleeping on the midnight festival-fields after the rides have shut-down.
“A lost soul”, Beetlejuice is too errant much in the ways of “settling-down” and quietly vacates in the night before the locals get enough of him and form a mob storming his way.
Imagine Beetlejuice showing up at a Social Security office, trying to get a State I.D. without much in the way of paperwork. A social security number? For a 700 year-old ghost? Maybe he can get by with a fake college I.D. or the kind of thing folks do to get into bars. Get a haircut as he sits in the barber’s chair with his hair a tangled mess as he mutters back small-talk.
Asked for his driver’s license it would quickly devolve into a situation straight out of “COPS” as he at least-looked “a bit more presentable” for his mug-shot.
But boy, he sure gets arrested a lot. More “a public nuisance” than any real danger to society though your silverware may go missing. And check your hub-caps. . . . . . he’s been sleazing around your fan fiction universe lately.
As they say, “life is like an empty beer-bottle because you always know what you’re gonna get”. Pay-to-play, indeed as the lights were turned down low this Halloween and the kids mostly stayed-away.
Beetlejuice would drop snakes n’ lizards into their open bags and slam the door behind him, settling down into his reclining chair and paying the local whores to dance around his specially-installed stripper pole as his jacuzzi festers over with venereal disease.
Call it the golden-toned “Game-room” with deer heads and zebra-print couch covers as you never saw so much “flea market chic” in one place. Hey, look—there goes Elvis.
You didn’t really think I had “sold-out” and closed-up shop, did you?
A busy holiday season has kept me away from my own personal blogosphere, yet feeling that ole’ “writer’s itch” to come back. . . . . and post-up some more ravings “from the mad monk, himself”. Maybe I needed a break but we’ll be back tomorrow as if this subject hasn’t been flayed-to-death, yet. I believe in Beetlejuice. I believe in me.
I believe in magic.
Starting off like many pop-culture junkies, I began as a shy 11 or 12 year-old skirting around the aisles of the video-store. In those plastic VHS tapes, a ticket to all of your dreams– living without “really living” as it was hanging on a stranded-rock of low, grungy ambition and asking the question, like so many– if I could ever work on films someday.
You know, be the shy, sheepish recluse hiding-behind a type-writer or otherwise a dream-job of pure whimsical creativity outside of hard, drudgerous work.
Think as you will, as a naive young man– but gradually the excess of self-consciousness disappears and you realize you’re in the struggle for it just like anyone else.
Film, by nature– is a highly-collaborative medium that requires a lot of follow-through and a good, strong back to stand there.
I don’t know, to otherwise be a kid with a video-camera and asked to devise something– anything– as you get over that initial threshold of laziness. Film takes a lot of study, especially to get the ole’ technical-side down and of course, they all make-it look “easy”, of course.
There before you sits “the blank page” or just “front-lens view” of ordinary life, but to really reach inside and come-up with something creative. You have to be a mini-general and somewhat of a visionary over this miserable scrap of a blank monitor or actual film-celluoid.
As they say, your cast & crew will hate you in the end, but that’s what it takes to get anywhere beyond the world of fanciful dabbling.
So there I would be with my Super Nintendo games and old Stephen King books as it was so much easier to be a decadent consumer– or allow the entertainment come to you. Evidence of personal investment, I guess– as it takes ascending levels of expertise to hit the professional “big time”. But otherwise I was a lone, isolated little dot– stranded with my thoughts and begging of the future– for life to get good.
Life changes– or maybe you just “get busier” so you forget what your original angst was all about. Otherwise, life would stand “perfectly still” and feel much like that waiting room in Beetlejuice. Hurry-up-and-wait. . . . . but wait for what?
The time to be is now, the place to be is here. Lydia in the movie wandered “if being dead” would make existence that much more tolerable. Well, no matter where you go– there you are. And unless you wanted Beetlejuice to try to arrange something junky and illicit, “this is all there is” though all the answers– if on t.v.– can’t solve much.
Fast talk and the greasy handshake– we’re so much better-off learning to help ourselves and put in that extra bit of sweaty, unpleasant exertion. Now– do it a million times and stretch-it-out over years and you might actually have a film or writing career.
Striving as always– and pleased for the dreams of fellow-travellers, write-in to share your opnion as we all bask out in the open “like a snowball in hell”. Until next time, don’t sign any written contracts you don’t understand– as a deal’s a deal, a bargain a bargain– bless my soul and self to keep– or Beetlejuice will take-it away from you and probate court.
Don’t say you haven’t been warned. . . . .
Every local ‘berg you know, characterized for low-slung industrial ruin and stubborn humanity struggling within city limits—has its own local broadcasting-towers, a handful of low-budget stations cranking-out low-rent “special interest” programming which once ran on the tinny “UHF-band”. Continue reading “Fun on post-UHF”