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SOL Post 44 02/15/00
SOL Post 43 01/15/00
SOL Post 42 12/15/99



S.O.L. POST


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Volume 43 http://www.msties.com/ January 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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HAPPY MST2K!


In This Issue


From the Poobah
"The Poison Pen" by gherity@tcfreenet.org
"MSTable Movies" by RMichel424@aol.com
"MST Quote of the New Year" by jboune1@tiger.towson.edu
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by s364128@pop.urgrgcc.edu
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
"'Bot Bulding: Make Crow's Hands Work" by tomservorobot@yahoo.com
"American Pie/The Day the Laughter Died" by gecko@i-55.com
February MST3K Schedule on SFC
January MSTie of the Month: sammyboy234@yahoo.com
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers



From the Poobah


What's this? No talking motorcycle named Einstein with which to ride to the former pseudo-apocalypse in style? What a burn. Instead, the lights did not go out in Georgia (or Fort Collins, at least) and there wasn't a significant Y2K bug to be found in any of the Earth's twenty-odd time zones. But while the natives were singing and dancing on Chatham Island to welcome the so-called Year 2000 east of the 180º meridian yet west of the recently-moved International Date Line, yours truly was preparing for much of the following decade's first site update so that he wouldn't have to cancel his New Year's Eve celebration in the Fort as opposed to crawling into some nuclear fallout shelter thirteen levels below ground in rural Adams County to consume a year's supply of canned food and bottled water. Oh, well. There's always the five- digit rollover in the Year 10,000.


So now that we've all survived to see the Year 2000, it's time to look forward to this summer's Gateway Con in St. Louis, Misery... Err, Missouri. I'd like to take this opportunity to find out from all of you if you plan on going and if so, what sort of presence you'd like MSTies Anonymous to have there. Please send me your ideas for club-sponsored activities whether they're MST Trivia games or wet t-shirt design contests prior to the convention. Well, aside from those two ideas, of course. I hope to see you all this July!



"The Poison Pen" by gherity@tcfreenet.org


Is it just me, or have all the MSTies gotten SOFT? Well, I thought of not returning until it was fun again, and well, it's FUN AGAIN! This time, my target is one of the most devastatingly stupid ideas ever. Giving up on MST3K. The beauty of this series is the fact that anybody can be on the SOL. Or even in a different place or time! Heck, it could be 3 guys locked up in a time- released bunker, thinking that Y2K was the end of the world, and the only thing they have to do is watch cheesy movies, and they won't be let out for some odd number of years. Or well, my brain is half asleep, so I won't digress any further. Why people haven't thought of making a completely new MST3K-like series, maybe even a spin-off is beyond me! They don't need the same writers. Just get a bunch of MST3K fans to do it! We'll riff for food! Well, maybe for $50K salary a year.


I mean really folks, they did end MST3K, but that don't mean the riffing has to end. This may sound like a rant, but strange brainstormed ideas sometimes lead to inspirations, even a bona-fide hit, or even a future classic! Hell, even Pokémon started out as an idea! Think MSTies! You can come up with something! Riff movies of public access! Post riffings on fan-fictions on the Net! Let the world know that MST3K was just the beginning! We aren't going to sit down and mope; we're taking over, and there is nothing you can do about it! We'll take your ivory tower and Hi-Keeba it until it's good for piano keys! Popular culture thinks it's safe, and it's time for the SOL to be once again as feared as a fruitcake on Christmas, and a drunk on New Year's! It's party time! Let 2000 be the Year of the 'Bot!


Hey MSTies, do you remember about 2 years ago that I personally requested for y'all to send me a rant? You forgot! Now, I'm willing to forget this once, but now it's personal! Send an MST3K-related rant, rave, or just a letter saying hi! I want to start a letters column, and it's hard to do when I have no letters to write about! So, send it in, y'all!



"MSTable Movies" by RMichel424@aol.com


From now on I'll add Maltin's rating for each film, to give an example of what he thinks.


Uncle Sam (1996) AKA Uncle Sam Wants You... Dead!
No Maltin review.
This film has only one real star. Isaac Hayes!
Sam Harper is killed in Desert Storm by 'friendly fire' and is sent home to be buried. His nephew, Jesse, dreams of becoming like him. He idolizes Sam. The Fourth of July is approaching and Jesse sees some people acting un- American and wishes his uncle would teach them a lesson. Sam rises from his coffin and begins killing all people acting un-American. Jesse's mom and Aunt tell him he shouldn't idolize his uncle because he abused them both. Jesse realizes that his uncle is doing the killing and won't hurt him. He lures his Uncle out of his house and Isaac Hayes blast Sam with a civil war cannon twice before Sam dies again. At the end we see little Jesse burning all his war toys, many of which are valuable GI Joes, even though they are out of the box. There is one scene in here of a potato sack race where one teen knocks people out of his way. Possible Stinger: The violent potato sack race.


After the Fall of New York (1983)
No Maltin review available. Like 705 Escape 2000, this comes from Italy!
This film is a rip-off of "Escape from New York". This movie has bad actors and bad dialogue. The basic plot is as follows. It is twenty years after the apocalypse and everyone on the planet is sterile so no one can reproduce. New York is inhabited by an evil organization headed by some bald guy who looks like an evil Kojak. We first see some of the troops who look like knight rejects and hunters who look like extras from 501 Warrior of the Lost World. We see them hunt down people who were mutated by radiation. That scene is vaguely reminiscent of 705 Escape 2000, quite possibly the same damn set! Next we see our, um, hero, who looks a bit like Ator from 301 Cave Dwellers, in a car demolition derby and he takes out his opponents. He is forcefully recruited to help what is left of America to go into New York with two other men and find the only fertile woman left on the planet and escape with her alive. Then he will be rewarded with a seat on a ship to Alpha Centauri with the woman and other Americans to help recreate the human civilization. Along the way he meets up with a woman he falls in love with, a midget named Shorty, an ape-man named Big Ape and his group, who look like renaissance festival attendees. They eventually find the girl and escape, while everyone our hero comes in contact with dies in the process. This one was very easy to make jokes at.



"MST Quote of the New Year" by jboune1@tiger.towson.edu


A couple of years ago, my friend and fellow MSTie Zak and I decided that we'd kick off each New Year with a suitable MST quote. As Dick Clark would be counting down the final seconds of the old year, Zak and I would poise our lips, ready to scream the MST Quote of the New Year right after we would shout the oh-so-original "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" Past winners include: "Keep left! It's on the left! DICKWEED!" ('97, from 416 Fire Maidens of Outer Space), "There go the piano lessons!" ('98, from The Movie), "Meet the Hobgoblins: Frankie, Sniffles, Bounce-Bounce, and the Claw!" ('99, from 907 Hobgoblins). So what did we deem worthy to usher in 2000 (not the new millennium, mind you...)? Well, after much heated debate, we decided that "ROWSDOWER!" had that suitable random quality that is oh so important in an MST quote. (It was also easiest to remember in our really, really drunken stupors...) The runner-up, incidentally, was "Please enjoy a fish anus" from 1005 Blood Waters of Dr. Z, as that quote had me rolling around on the floor in hysterical laughter for about three days.


So, my fellow MSTies, start your own tradition of shouting MST quotes in the New Year, won't you?



"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by s364128@pop.urgrgcc.edu


Hello, all. Lots of people have asked me, "Hey Jenny, where have you been?" Or, "Hey what did you do on you winter vacation?" (Well actually nobody has, but somebody would've sooner or later.) Well, I took a break and traveled a bit. See I first went into a comedy club and this comedian was NOT funny. He was also a magician and picked me be his assistant for a trick. As I went up there I told him my name and stuff and made the once-sleeping audience laugh. Anyways, he did a card trick and told me write my name on a card and my phone number. I wrote my name and words "No chance bud." As I was writing he was excited saying this was first time that worked and then added, "Well she probably writing 'Bite me.'" And then I told him what I wrote. The audience laughed again. After the card trick I sat down when my friend Vicky and said, "Hey, you were funnier than he was." I blushed and said, "Well, it wasn't hard."


Vicky and I left after the un-funny comedian was over. It was then that the manger of place came to me and asked me if I would like to do the next show. He was looking for a replacement and I was it. I thought he was kidding and said yes. Well before you could say, "Can I see it in writing?" I was up on stage for next show. And let me tell you I killed them with jokes about cameras, TV and Pokémon. Here's a bit of my act I did. "Hey, why are there no Pokémon animal rights activists out there? They should be carrying signs saying, 'Free the Pokémon!' 'Don't Catch 'Em All!' and 'Let 'Em Run Wild with the Beanie Babies.'" Before I knew it, I was performing in such fantastic places such as Minnesota, Indiana and Albuquerque. Yes, even the elusive North Dakota. I was surprised to see that I was sold out for every show. As my popularity grew, so did my act.


I would write more about my act, but I'm sure you're sick of it. I admit it was like an old Saturday Night Live act or joke that has been said too many times. I now see that I was overexposed. Let's face it: I was more overplayed than a Backstreet Boys CD at a teenagers' sleepover. But I didn't realize it at the time. Heck, my head was swimming in all the attention and fame. I had stars in my eyes that blinded me from the big picture. While I became a sudden star, I got to party with all the famous people: Ricky Martin, Matt Damon, Puffy, and Woody Allen. (That guy is a party animal. You have not partied until you been to one of Woody's big bashes. New Year's Eve in Times Square looks tame compared one of his get togethers.)


Well, with high time there was bound to be lows. I'm sure you all read the tabloids and most of them are not true. I never had a catfight with Cameron Diaz or the Dixie Chick; we just had few harsh words. Also, I'm NOT carrying Drew Carey or Jesse Ventura's love child, but I am carrying Crow's. But to be fair, I did tell Regis Philbin to get a life. You all know about my trip to Alaska and the misunderstanding about the correct way to say the word flounder. It caused me to be hunted down by group who more deadly than the gang at Death Row Records, the Eskimo mob. Yes, they are more deadly than the Russian and Japanese mobs by far. They chased me though 5 states not counting Hawaii before the whole thing got cleared up. They then apologized and gave me a lifetime membership to the Blubber of the Mouth Club.


It was then that I meet Harry Potter who was the one who induced me to the thing that not only caused my fall, but many celebrities' fall from fame: the addictive substance known as cheese. Yes, though it is experimented with by many, it is the leading cause of celebrities losing their careers. It was at a party that Harry got me hooked on some cheddar. Then it grew from Gouda to Limburger to Edam. Then on to hard stuff such as Swiss, Camembert, and blue cheese. Harry with his little love slave/hoe Britney Spears was the head of this underground cheese empire. It was when I took some bad Brie and woke up in a baby crib dressed in bell-bottoms and a plaid coat over an "I Love Alf" t-shirt that I knew I had to get some help. It took me the rest of my wealth and fortune to get off of that stuff, but I am a better person for it. After I was clean, I had found out that I had disappeared from the public eye faster than Jesse Camp and was again a nobody. No club wanted to book me and my fifteen minutes were up.


I've now gotten used to my old regular life again. I have been plagued by E! calling me asking to do one those "True Hollywood Stories" and VH1 calling me for "Where Are They Now". But I say my career is not over, just taking a break. So I plan to finish up college, and well after that, I'm not sure what I'll do. My story is a common one. It's not the first time you've heard it and it won't be last. If I can offer any advice it to anyone else who's violently thrust into the spotlight, it is this: keep an eye on your money. Save some for a rainy day. Don't party too hard, especially with cheese. Don't party with Harry Potter. Keep some true friends around to keep you grounded and listen to them. Always wear clean underwear.



"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com


Vol. 2, Issue 6
Future Schlock, Part 1: A Portrait of a Survivalist as a Young Ham


12/30/99: 10:00am (GMT)
I am ready for the worst of it. I am prepared. I sit in my underground bunker, 13 feet below sea and peat moss level and with fierce determination, await the end. It has been predicted and proclaimed over the previous 364 days and I, for one, will not be entering civilization's endgame without a playbook or Nike endorsement contract with high tech commercial directed by Spike Lee. As the planet slowly devolves above me in bouts of looting, shooting and pooting, I will be snug as a bug in a rug. Or should that be cramped as an adult human in a 3 x 5 lead encased ditch. Oh well, who cares. I will survive, but not the rest of the world. When the clock strikes midnight, it will all be over. They will all perish.
But I am prepared. My supplies are stacked about the shelter like monoliths to another time and place. Can after can of gamey forcemeat. A do-it-yourself home surgery kit, with liposuction and rhinoplasty add on packs. After all, one needs to look their best when facing the charred ruins of a once vital and civilized world, even if it is for a bunch of mutations that feast on runny sores and drink eyeball liquid. I have generators and backup generators and backup-backup generators, and I even have some rabid squirrels running on modified hamster wheels so I will be sure to have ample power to catch re-runs of Unhappily Ever After. I hope all my planning and plotting pans out in the end. After all, one thing I would truly miss as the globe decayed all around me into utter devastation is yet another heaping yelping of a talking rabbit puppet with the voice of Bobcat Goldthwait. Thoughts of eons without that makes me just a tad misty.


12/31/99: 11:00am (GMT)
Thirteen hours left. Thirteen more 60-minute periods before reality ceases to exist. Before I find myself trapped in a world not of my making, like Howard the Duck, or Gary Coleman. Time is running out and I too have run out of hope, of ideas, of appropriate mixers. I have taken to drinking my gin with chloroseptic, in hopes of numbing my brain and my tonsils in one, highball filled swoop. I have hundreds of thousands of Q-tips, so I will never be to far from an earwax-cleaning fix. There is an entire gross of Whitman's Samplers within reach. I know that they will last me several decades, since the company has managed the amazing accomplishment of selling more of its moldering sugar mounds every Valentines, even though they shut down actual sweets production around the time of Lincoln's Gettysburg rap. And in case of emergency, I own the entire CD collection of Barry Manilow, Peter Allen and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Hey, I need some reason to never want to see that version of the planet Earth ever again. Nothing like a whiney, sexually questionable version of "Flying Down to Rio" to make one pine for the comforts of the concrete homestead.
Still, that doesn't seem to be quite enough. Time is so short. What else can I do? I need something more. Only 13 hours left. Thirteen...
Thirteen...
Thirteen...
YES, that's it! Eureka! I have discovered it: how to survive. How to be superior to all others who think they are prepared to face the post- apocalyptic pressures of grooming, hygiene and human waste disposal (even though my Hello Kitty Brand Human Litter Box seems comfy and cozy enough). To out live, out last and out wit each and every irritated and irradiated victim of this torturous turn of the millennium.
Where are they? I could have sworn I put them next to the collected non- pornographic works of Traci Lords and the entire Iron Chef series (including the great lost "Battle: Long Pig" episode. Meaty!). AHHHHH! There they are. My wonderful friends, my joy, my solace. They sit before me in all their splendiferous regalia, like a charge of the levity brigade to bring me light in this darkest of hours. Mystery Science Theater 3000... how I love you. How I long for you. How I need you. You can guide me. You can soothe my anguish. You can show me a future free from the pain of persecution and removed of racism, radical politics and randy, ribald ridiculousness. There, within the purity of your vision and the sanctity of your message, you can show me what may, nay COULD be in my morrow. Let me warm up the VCR and play one tape to tranquilize me, to lull me into a sense of moral, social and periphrasis preeminence.


12/31/99: 1:00PM (GMT)
I am confused. I have just finished watching 020 Last Chase and this has not made me feel much better about the coming holocaust. I mean, Lee Majors and Chris Makepeace as heroes? Burgess Meredith as an aging fighter pilot? (And I do mean aging. Looks like old Mr. Penguin himself has spent one too many decades under the sunlamp at Adam West's Fire Island bungalow.) If I am destined to live in a world sans gas, oil, personality and screen magnetism, I think I will prep out the suicide note right now and OD on cocktail wieners in ketchup. Just the thought of spending a post-nuclear afterlife with the star of "My Bodyguard" and "Meatballs" is disturbing, especially given the fact that he seems to be aging into a rather unattractive and awkward young lady. I have heard of spontaneous human combustion, but never puberty induced impromptu sex changes... unless we're talking about Wendy Carlos.
Lee (I used to be married to Farrah Faucet but then she wised up and moved on to a wife beater) Majors may be someone's idea of a rough and tumble action hero, but not mine. Perhaps he is better listed as a jagged and staggered inertia reject from the Bionic compost heap. Maybe Rum Tum Tiger. But what he is not, in all his "Fall Guy" pan gloriousness is a mean, clean racing machine. This Load Warrior, this Sad Lox Beyond Blunderdome is basically a banal biped, destined to forever travel in the carpool lane of life in his own version of a tortured soul mini-van. He is a work-a-don't-quit-your-day-job Joe who is mean mad at the whole world, just for going totalitarian on him while he was passed out from one too many near beers. So, in an act of staunch rebellion, or just to move the plot along, he hijacks his old racing car (see, Lee used to race cars and waste gas, so now the fuel minded government wants him to head up their conservation efforts. Makes sense to me. After all, when I think of rational, non-extremist behavior, I naturally think NASCAR) and heads for the open road making tracks and personal "gravy" along the way.
In transit, he picks up transient Master Makewaste, who we are to believe has some sort of special talent. What this lonely, desperate Mitchell-esque man would want with a pseudo female man-child named Wheatpaste is anyone's guess, including Louie Nye. Yet, they get the hook up and it is off on a quest of sorts, to drive across country to prove something or another. Their long- term goal for this whole coast-to-coast road rash rally? To prove that there is plenty of gas? To prove that they have plenty of gas? Maybe it's that jumping jack flash is a gas-gas-gas? Whatever it is, be it authority or that really awful made-for-TV sequel to "High Noon" that minor Majors starred in, he and his rumble seated trunk buddy are running from it like talent from Robin Williams. Add the human wrinkle known as Meredith's Burgess, swooping and looping like dearth from above in his fighter jet and you have the cinematic equivalent of Auntie Entitie's Maxi-Pad.


12/31/99: 3:00PM (GMT)
I feel woozy. 403 City Limits can do that to you. I am not talking about Charlie's Chaplinesque look at love and loss among the ruins. This is more like Charlie's Angels, without the wit, the jiggle or Bosley. The plot itself is another rehash of George Miller's Australian aboriginal boy toy adventure tales, and has less to do with a menacing look at the future and more to do with a disheartening view of the future companions to Whoopi's center square. The entire mess is not a total retarded retread, however. I mean, the comic book angle is refreshing, in a pen and stink kind of way. Personally, I can think of no better way to spend one's time, as all culture and laws of social order and conduct break down, than in the careful collection, cataloging and polyurethane encasing of back issues of Harvey's Baby Huey. The fact that they have turned their little geekoid hobby into a lifestyle cum religion means that either the Neutron bomb completely melted their cerebral cortex and they have lost all sense of reality and proportionality, or they are characters in a Kevin Smith indie flick.
Our intrepid gang of graphic novel devotees spends their days in the endless pursuit of fun, food and special edition holograph covers. When they get bored, they climb onto their motorcycles and ride like the wind... right into each other. Jousting seems to be a right of passage among the Classics Illustrated set, like spending countless hours in a Green Hornet vs. the Hawk argument, or masturbating to video game characters. Add James Earl Jones wishing he had his stutter back and Rae Dawn Chong hoping her dad gets another comedy partner so that her inheritance is ensured, and you've definitely seen the frightening jape of things to come.
But it's in the guise of Kim Cattrall and Robbie Benson that we are truly given our most foretelling glimpse of the Craven New World. Miss Cattrall, years away from the sex farce "Porky's" and straight on to HBO's "Vex and the City", plays all of her scenes as if she is waiting for someone to shout, "Surprise, this is all a cruel joke." No wonder she spends the latter part of the 20th century nude and lewd, experimenting with multiple partners and erotic shavings. Oh, and she acts, too. But it is in the Dorian Grayish, soon to lend his voice to a Disney cartoon and loins to Meatloaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light caterwauling partner of Roberto Bensonino that "City Limits" truly obtains its chilling 1984 & 3/4's vision of society gone to pot, or at least to bong water. Seated behind a non-descript desk in the merest shell of an office, barking out orders like a mindless middle management megalomaniac, he is done in by his own sense of pride, ego and script selection. In the end, when he is slumped over his desk, chest filled with lead, plot full of holes and knock knock-knockin' on Heaven's Dutch doors, he encapsulates everything that is wrong with a Big Bro like society, and everything that's right with random thrill killings.


12/31/99: 5:00PM (GMT)
WHERE AM I? MOMMY? MOMMY? Whew, if there is one episode you should skip in your quest for insight into the upcoming wholesale destruction of Mother Earth, its 111 Moon Zero Two. Any film that manages to make the colonization of outer space look like Appalachian Mountain strip mining crossed with Batt Masterson should be chopped up into guitar picks and sold to Brian May immediately. Between the kitschy 60's by way of Carnaby Street space suits and sets, to the creepy and uncool "weightless barroom brawl," this myopic illusion of life in the not too distant, but far too whacked out future is enough to make any survivalist rethink his personal ideology and for Jack Frost to pray for a very long nuclear winter.
Some guy who you've seen in about 3000 other bad films is Hans Solo's loser brother as he pilots freight to and from that far out space pad, Moon Zero Two. Or maybe that is the name of the ship. Or maybe it's his IQ, moon being the galactic symbol for the sign of the null set. Anyway, he is offered the chance to smuggle, and like most moral and ethical ship captains he leaps at the chance like pre-teens to Pikachu. His goal? An asteroid full of sapphires. Maybe it was a trapezoid full of Starburst? Or maybe it's a hemorrhoid full of sulfur? Something like that. Before you can say "Thunderbirds Are Go!" he is off to find the valuable rock in this harsh vacuum of space place.
While sipping interplanetary saki at the aforementioned space saloon, we are treated to groovy extraterrestrial production numbers, featuring buxom babes cavorting in thigh high go-go boots gyrating to atonal electro blips that make Visage sound like Rachmoninoff. It is here where our short-seated space jockey runs into a damsel in distress, or more like a starlet in need of an excuse to undress. She is looking for her lost brother, who was in a cabin, in a valley, excavating for a mine. But now he is gone. And the moon is such a vast and densely populated planet that she needs help finding him. Apparently, the fact that he is not in the one life sustaining biospheric colony on the planet and the utter lack of a breathable atmosphere outside MZ2 still provides her with ample hope that he is alive.
Borrowing the land rover from the set of "Far Out Space Nuts", they head out into hostile Injun space territory, hoping to locate the dizzy dames lost sibling and the massive boulder of geological gemology. Either that, or a Space Stuckeys and an interstellar pecan log. Eventually, they come across a campsite and there, they find her brother dead, his claim and bones jumped by some greasy corporate varmints and its Hee Haw in spacesuits all over again. Before you can drawl BR-549 our hero has vanquished his foes, gathered up the jewel-laden moon rock, and is making his way to a swinging life style filled with baubles, babes and space bourbon. That is, until his outdated flight hardware crashes when he asks it to calculate the square root of 9 and he is hurtling through the cosmos on a collision course with a sunspot. After 2 hours of "Lunar Naught Dos", I am willing to go on an all night Sid and Marty Krofft marathon, compete with talking hats, homoerotic flutes and a genie named Weenie. Oh, the pain. The pain of it all.


12/31/99: 7:00PM (GMT)
Now I am just cheesed off. Am I to understand that my future will be concerned with doppling, drippling and droopling inside really heinous remakes of classic Hollywood films? Did we fight the Nazis and the Communists and the Muslims and the Republicans for this? For 822 Overdrawn at the Memory Bank? Don't get me wrong; there is nothing bad about virtual reality. But if it's this trashy and inept, I'll stick to my Atari version of Pac Man, thank you very much. In this warped vision of Bill Gates borderline personality disorder case file, people work at meaningless desk jobs (in the future, apparently, life is a series of meaningless tasks and life crushing busy work. Actually, its a whole lot like 2000, only grimier) and pine for a moment when they can boggle or boogle or buggle into the magical worlds of Andy Hardy, Zazu Pitts and Steppin Fetchit. Come to think out it, this is not so much a futuristic morality play as it is exhibit 'A' in Janet Reno's case against the Microsofting of America.
Raul Julia, looking embarrassed for even considering this monkey turd of a project wanders around looking lost, hopeless and sad. And this is before he starts acting. Switching between a vague Hispanic accent which, in many ways, accurately reflects North America's flirtation with Latin culture, food, music and Jennifer Lopez's Hindenburg-esque hinder, and a faux Bogarted Humphrey which makes Fred Travelina and Rick Little seems like friggin' geniuses, he is supposed to be a anarchist, a rebel without a cursor as he undermines the mega corporate notion of faceless, nameless number slaves. Hey, if I had a name like Aram Fingal, I'd love to have a digital nomenclature replacement. They should have left his brain in the festering lice ridden baboon while they had the chance.
But no, some shape in a drape named Apollonia has to rescue him, the world, and our found memories of Ingrid Bergman as she raccoons her way through silly counterfeit scientific half speak in a mad attempt to return Fingal to his dingle, and visa versa. (By the way, Apollonia never has been, nor will it ever be a valid name for a human being. A horse, maybe. A Mediterranean shrimp dish, perhaps. A boy band? Most definitely. But other than in those rare cases, it should be buried alongside Alloisious, Bertrand and Eunice in the classification graveyard.) In the end, there is some over baked resolution to the overpowering governmental mind control and dehumanizing problem, complete with a visual graphic sequence straight out of the opening to John Byner's "Bizarre", some guy named Sam plays a song, and Fingal and Appy head out into the rays of a new sun to dopple down those Donny Brooks, so Fingal can do what he please. I can see it now: a whole world full of Fingals. Fingals feeling free to be, you and me. One nation under a Fingal. In Fingal We Trust. Yeech! I need a portable shower...


To be continued...



"'Bot Bulding: Make Crow's Hands Work" by tomservorobot@yahoo.com


Here are instructions of how to make Crow's hands work. You'll need...


+ Two small springs (They are about the size to fit in Crow's hands. I found these in my local hobby shop under "specialty mechanics.")


+ About 4 feet of some really strong cord (It's similar to that used for the mouth. I used some 10 lb. fishing line.)


+ Optional: Some PVC for a finger trigger.


Note: paint first, then assemble!


  1. Hook, glue, or screw the two springs into the lower and upper hands so that it will open and close.
  2. Start building the arms as usual and complete up to the Floralier.
  3. Epoxy the line onto the bottom section of the hand and then feed the line into the lower plastic stock, feeding the line up to the Wallace shoulders.
  4. Drill a small closed hook into the bottom of the Wallace lamps and feed the line through it into the Floralier.
  5. When you're making his PVC skeleton, make sure it has some holes to feed the line down into.
  6. As tricky as it may seem, try to get the line into the PVC and lead it down to the bottom.
  7. Make your trigger and now pull at it. Crow's hand should open naturally.


I've found that if you don't give the line some slack, you can't move Crow's arms too much otherwise you may snap the line. I suggest four five or even six feet should do the trick. Also, I've found you can attach puppeteer sticks on his arms to move them around. Did I leave anything out? E-mail me.



"American Pie/The Day the Laughter Died" by gecko@i-55.com


A long, long time ago...
In a millennium past,
There was a show that made us laugh.
There were puppets that looked bizarre
And a guy from Earth sent very far
By a Deep 13 research staff.
But then a dark shadow appeared,
The moment we dreaded and feared,
Bad news in my e-mail...
Contract renewal failed.
The news spread fast, far and wide,
Long had the SOL flied,
To save the show many had vied
The day the laughter died
So...


Chorus:
Bye bye, funny jumpsuited guy,
Cancel waived, MST saved, but now dropped from Sci-Fi
All the MSTies were stunned and they cursed and they cried,
Saying, "Not again! Why oh why!"
"Not again! Why oh why!"


Remember the Satellite of Love,
Miles from Earth it flew above,
With its comedic bunch.
Joel or Mike, Tom Servo and Crow
Watching movies with plots too slow,
And bad actors you wish you could punch.
Movies had gigantic space bugs,
People in pods, or beefy luggs.
Shorts featured posture kings,
And a sprite who shouted "NO SPRINGS!"
The crew flung wisecracks at the theater screen,
Yet only their back silohettes could be seen.
But these all disappeared from the scene.
The day the laughter died
We started singing...


Chorus


This wasn't all of the Satellite's troop
Some more contributed to the group.
As the others watched the movie.
Gypsy did many of the household chores,
She cleaned the reactor and the floors,
And also navigated the ship.
Cambot was a camera machine
Through his eyes the show was seen.
Magic Voice spoke for the ship.
Mostly countdowns she'd transmit.
The Nanites were many tiny 'Bots
Smaller than microscopic dots
They disappeared from all shots
The day the laughter died
We were singing...


Chorus


The ship was visited by many guests
People in costume and other strange dress.
Characters from the movie
Answered questions the crew had.
Some times the guests were very bad
The dark specter Timmy tried to kill Crow.
Now and then there was a catchy tune
The Waffle Song and Gypsy Moon.
Crow sang of his love of Cattrall
But then he fell in love with Estell.
Many a guest they had offended
The odes and songs were all splendid
But the guests stopped and songs ended
The day the laughter died
We started singing...


Chorus


The show even hit the big screen,
The SOL and Deep 13,
And they watched "This Island Earth".
There were aliens with really big heads
And they wore some funny space threads
And a bug from Metaluna wore slacks.
MSTies are how the fans are known
Many are found in tape trading zones
Many fans make MSTings,
Joined posts and e-mail listings.
The show has many website building fans
To save the show they made many plans
And they all lent their helping hands
The day the laughter died
He was signing...


Chorus


There were some changes in the crew
Erhardt left before Season 2.
He was replaced by TV's Frank.
Joel later escaped during Season 5
A hidden escape pod he did drive,
The Mads sent Mike to fill the space.
Frank left before Season 7
Taken to Second Banana Heaven.
Dr. F left in Season 8
Deep 13 was now Deep Ape.
Pearl, Bobo, and Brain Guy now in the lead
They sent movies to Mike with speed
Of their jobs they were freed
The day the laughter died
We were signing...


Chorus


The last movie was "Diabolik".
Pearl lost control when she broke her joystick.
The Satellite of Love was now freed.
Mike and 'Bots were coming to Earth
And all of the crew was filled with mirth,
But the Mads had jobs they did need.
The SOL was completely smashed,
But the crew all survied the crash
Gypsy was a business success,
Mike, Crow, and Tom shared an address.
Long had MST3K ran
And now it ended where it began
But saddened were many a fan
The day the laughter died
And, they were singing...


Chorus



February MST3K Schedule on SFC


North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
02/05/00 - 09:00 am - [908] Touch of Satan
02/12/00 - 09:00 am - [910] Final Sacrifice
02/19/00 - 09:00 am - [911] Devil Fish
02/26/00 - 09:00 am - [912] Screaming Skull



January MSTie of the Month: sammyboy234@yahoo.com


Name: Samuel West Swanson


Age: 14


MST Info Club Number: 89011


Current residence: Palo Alto, CA


Current MST-related projects: I am currently building a Crow T. Robot along with Tom Servo and Gypsy, taping/collecting episodes I don't have, and maintaining an MST3K 'Bot building site at http://www.geocities.com/sammyboy234/mst3krules.html


First MST3K exposure: Sometime around the summer of 1990. (Yes, when I was 5! No foolin'.)


Favorite shows other than MST3K: Whose Line is it Anyway?, The Drew Carey Show, Stark Raving Mad, The Simpsons, South Park, old episodes of Saturday Night Live, and Mad TV.


Favorite movies: MST3K: The Movie, Man on the Moon, Yellow Submarine, Life is Beautiful, Mystery Men, any Monty Python movie, and Sleepy Hollow.


Hobbies: Acting in community and professional theater, watching and performing improvisation theater, and baseball.


Favorite quote: "I've got the brains! I've got the brains!" -Andy Kaufman



Classifieds 3000


Swalsh@nts.net writes: "I've enjoyed MST3K since 201 Rocketship X-M featuring Lloyd 'It was then my lungs were aching for air' Bridges. However, for some reason I only started taping episodes this year and would like to do some trading. So far, my meager collection is what's been on Sci-Fi the last few months and others from one great trade with a great collector (Erik in South Dakota, take a bow) that include 2 very watchable KTMA episodes (009 Phase IV and 016 City on Fire) and 2 Comedy Central episodes (201 Rocketship X-M and 307 Daddy-O). I am a very active 'live' music tape trader including video with a list I can e-mail anytime. Mainly classic rock, but other stuff as well. I am honest, reliable and flexible. Are there any kind traders out there?"


melbay@adelphia.net writes: "The Crappy New Site: Hamdinger Cafe is now on most major and not-so-major search engines! As far as I know, those sites have approved of me, so visit now, because I have a gun! Home of the future Beginner's Guide to MST3K and the Cambot Fan Club. Joel Hodgson Shrine! Joel Hodgson Shrine! http://zap.to/Greidanus/"



Disclaimers


All material written by club members in this publication does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the staff of MSTies Anonymous. Endorsement of above publicized activities not operated by MSTies Anonymous should not be implied. Published material is subject to editing only for spelling, grammar, clarity, and formatting; other changes are not made without express written consent of the author.


Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters and situations are copyright 2000 Best Brains, Inc. This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by Best Brains, the Sci-Fi Channel, or their employees. "Gizmonics" and all related elements are copyright and trademark Joel Hodgson. This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by him, so please do not sue us.


© 2000 MSTies Anonymous
The Poobah
mstanon@msties.com
Jet Jaguar kret0419@blue.UnivNorthCo.edu
Zen Psycho zenpsycho@yahoo.com


"But it's only available in the Year 2000."



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