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SOL Post 47 05/15/00
SOL Post 46 04/15/00
SOL Post 45 03/15/00



S.O.L. POST


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Volume 46 http://www.msties.com/ April 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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MST3K INVADES CSU!


In This Issue


From the Poobah
"Troilus and Criseyde" by birdphile@hotmail.com
"One Year After" by jonas42@hotmail.com
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by s364128@pop.urgrgcc.edu
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
April MSTie of the Month: bgibron@yahoo.com
May MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers



From the Poobah


Have you filed your taxes yet? You've got a few hours left to do so if you haven't already. If not, you can come and hide from the evil IRS at "MST3K Invasion" on the campus of Colorado State University this Thursday, April 27th. We'll be watching both an episode of MST3K and a raw bad movie to riff, so any true MSTie will surely appreciate the event. Be sure to check the site for detailed coverage before and after the event. I'll see you there!
Also, just a few days ago, the MST3K Aptitude Test (MAT) by the Colorado Potentate was posted on the site for you members to test your MST mettle with once again. The first member to correctly answer all 100 questions will be awarded the Rhino MST tape of their choice. However, only one entry per person is allowed. Scores will be posted in this very newsletter beginning next month. Good luck, and look for another game of Jeopardy!-esque MST3K Trivia this summer!



"Troilus and Criseyde" by birdphile@hotmail.com


Mystery Science Theater 3000 was a television show that aired on Comedy Central and later on Sci-Fi. The basic plot was that of a guy (Joel Robinson and then Michael J. Nelson) and his two robots (Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot) who were stuck in space and forced to watch really bad movies. To retain their sanity, they made fun of those movies. A "MSTing" involves making fun of a written work. This is a MSTing of the end of part 4 of Geoffrey Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde".


[Mike and the 'Bots are seen lounging in the Satellite of Love. Mike is wearing shorts and a t-shirt and is aimlessly channel surfing. Tom and Crow are wearing swim trunks and splashing around in a kiddie pool.]


Mike: Oh hi, everyone. Mike Nelson here on the Satellite of Love. Tom, Crow, and I are just enjoying the summer break.


[A loud splash is heard.]


Crow: Mike! Tom broke the pool!
Servo: You were the one who insisted on playing "Silent Marco Polo."
Crow: Yeah, well, if you hadn't...
Mike: Quiet, you guys, the Mads are calling.
Dr. F: Now, Frank, you understand the assignment?
Frank: Yes, I have to write a 5000-word essay on how I spent my summer vacation. I'm not to mention the top-secret Eggo project.
Dr. F: Ah, yes, that's enough from you, Frank. Now, Mike, you know that vacation is over in... one hour, and you have your own project to complete.
Mike: Aww, Dr. Forrester, do we have to?
Crow: Yeah, classics are stupid.
Servo: Yeah, and who cried during "Little Women" when Beth di-
Crow: Ah, that's enough...
Dr. F: Well Mike, today's experiment, or rather assignment, is a wonderful piece of classic literature called "Troilus and Criseyde". It's Geoffrey Chaucer's tragic tale of love and... tragedy. You will join it already in progress, near the end of Book 4, after the title characters have fallen in love. Enjoy!
Mike: Well, if I use some duct tape, I can probably patch up this hole...
Mike, Crow and Servo: Oh no! It's Classic Literature Sign!


[Door 6: It's a shower curtain. You get soap in your eyes in your futile attempt to prepare for the day.]
[Door 5: The heavy wooden door of the restroom. You check your hair in the mirror and try to hold your breath the entire time.]
[Door 4: The double doors lead to the cafeteria. You spot your crush and immediately trip in some spilled milk. Everyone laughs as you try to play it off.]
[Door 3: An ordinary wooden door, set with a single pane of glass leads to sixth period pre-calc and not only did you not complete your homework, you have a pop quiz!]
[Door 2: The sliding yellow door of the school bus. You walk home, slightly ashamed of the fact that you're a junior who still rides the bus.]
[Door 1: The swinging door of a theater. You enter and take a seat.]


Crow: So, Mike, ever read this before?
Servo: Yeah, anything we should know?
Mike: Uh... geez, it's been awhile... It's the Trojan War and Troilus and Criseyde are trapped in a forbidden, ultimately tragic love affair. Good enough for ya?
Servo: Get that summary from Amazon.com?


>"O Jove, I am dying and I beg for mercy! Help, Troilus - "...And so she lay
>there with a pallid and greenish complexion that once was loveliest to see.


Mike: For all her talk of dying, it sure took her long enough. Oh, read the book!
Crow: Yeah, okay... Does that last line make sense? I didn't think being pallid made someone lovely to look at.
Mike: No, you're not reading it correctly. She used to be fresh and lovely, now she's pallid and green.
Crow: A little punctuation would have helped that sentence.
Servo: Didn't take long for bloating to set in.


>Troilus gazed at her... she lay as if dead.


Mike, Crow and Servo: Yeah! Now the story can end!
Servo: Troilus then takes his sword, hacks Criseyde's uncle Pandarus to pieces, then turns it on himself. It was very tragic. The end.
Crow: Feeling a little dark today, Tom?


>She was cold and without sensation, for all he knew, for he felt no breath,
>and this was compelling argument to him that she had gone forth from this
>world.


Mike: Gee, ya think?
Crow: His medical skills are as good as Scully's.
Servo: (as Jimbo Jones) Way to breathe, no-breath!


>He at once pulled his sword out of it's scabbard to kill himself.



"One Year After" by jonas42@hotmail.com


Sigh... it has been a while since I wrote anything for this fabulous newsletter, partly because I have been very busy, but mostly because nothing has been happening in the MST3K universe. Actually I am not quite sure why I am writing now, but in any case, I am. First I want to say that there must be something about MST3K, as projects by everyone that was on/wrote for the show have been extremely disappointing. "Here on Earth" looks... terrible (though I haven't seen it yet), and Sabrina is as bad as ever. Could it be that the writers of our long-loved show don't have much talent after all, and it just so happened that all the stars lined up in the right place? I hate to say it, but it could be. After all, what good have we seen from Joel in the past five years? Again, I am not quite sure why I am writing all this, other than the fact that I received an e-mail with an extremely intriguing (though misleading) subject line. Well, that's about all for now. Let's all wish the best for the writers in the future, and hope that later projects turn out better.



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


I was reading Timmybighands.com and was wondering how one gets a great job like that: making up funny stuff and then posting it. It must be great. But I wonder how does one get paid for doing that? Okay, I have often stated (or if not, I should have) that classes and stuff are more interesting if has some MST3K in them. Though this great for any film or English class, just don't use to make wise comment or riff the teacher or you'll get in so much trouble. Though you might be saying hey, it's kind of hard now show has been canceled. But it is not true you can still use stuff from MST3K to brighten up that boring classroom.
Let me give an example in my present life. See, I'm taking a literature criticism class in which one gets a poem and analyzes it or reviews it in that type of style of criticism. Well, I don't know of many poems nor wanted to read them, so I deiced to critique funny songs. My first project was a critique of an MST3K song. The professor loved it and gave me an A. So I decided to post it up to be read. Please respond to me if you like it or just tell me that I shouldn't quit my day job. Please, nothing too harsh.


"The Bouncy Upbeat Song" starts off with notes going further higher with sort of back and fourth beat. It was written with an upbeat tempo. It was written by Best Brains in 1996 to cheer themselves up and to fill their meaningless lives with hope and joy. They tell of objects that fill their hearts with mirth. Thus the object becomes their happiness.
On further analysis of the song by using objective correlative, where only way to expressing emotion is through objects, it fails to be a great song, for it often uses the word feel and uses emotional words. Though it does use objects to show these emotions it doesn't make a good song. Though the objects they chose are quite common, in their commonness they are easily identified and can be pictured. Stuff that most anyone has come in contact with. Things people have a common perception or idea of.
The song parodies "These are a Few of my Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music", but replaces those things with ordinary objects. The first verse talks about being sad and that one just needs to think of ironing boards and drywall to not be that way. Why these things? Well, both are common and are seen everyday by most anyone unless one lives in third-world country where these things are extra and luxurious. In the simplicity of ordinary objects one might find or see joy. But this statement is also ironic because when one thinks of ironing boards and drywalls they do not necessarily become happy. Rather, they may think of work, which is not fun or playful. Also this song makes fun of the Martha Stewart's way of life in which she makes home improvement and other stuff look fun. These jobs are tedious work that not many like to do.
The next verse talks about staples and some glue and being happy as an elf. Though elves could have a great time with glue and stapes perhaps making toys perhaps for Santa, the average person doesn't. For what could one do with staple and glue? But in reality the possibility are endless with craft projects and other fun stuff. A child could have fun with this stuff suggesting youthful happiness. This verse also makes fun of kiddie shows with their art and craft projects.
The third verse talks of toilet paper and getting another roll, something people throw it away without a thought. People do their business and then toss it. There is no way that could bring happiness! Though it could, actually. If one watches any toilet paper commercial, soft and stronger toilet paper is better than the harsh kind. This also pokes fun at the Mr. Whipple syndrome. Sometime doing simple tasks are a joy in themselves. It's all in how one sees it. Also, long walks or going out sometimes makes one feel invigorated and calm.
The fourth verse mentions things we have all seen or done, like touch a Post-It Note or sitting down in a chair. There all things people have once done. The use of these things should bring up memoirs, hopefully happy ones, when one used this stuff. Everyone has memoirs of using some of this stuff, or in fact saw this stuff. New critics might go into the raunchy stuff one could think of for, "touched a Post-It Note," or, "be more specific," but this critic will not.
This song mocks the commercial world in which advertisers suggest that one needs to buy these things to be content, that all one has to do is buy objects to fill up the holes in their lives. But these objects are not expensive or new-and-improved. They are regular, ordinary things that one often takes for granted. So actually, most any common thing could make someone feel happy or terrific.



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


Vol. 2, Issue 9
White Man in the Hammersmith Malaise: I Don't Want a Holiday Without Puns...


The famously string beany Jeffrey Hyman, AKA Joey Ramone once bleated in his pseudo British via Long Island mob ties drawl "dew yew re member rak and rool raydeeoo" and for once, the words rang as true and as full of bravura as a Tom Sholtz guitar solo, or a Brad Delp yelp. During the middle part of the 70's, rock stood at a crossroads, somewhere between the bad acid dirt paths of musical reality produced by unwashed drug addicts with psychedelic dreck names like the 13th Floor Elevators, the Strawberry Alarm Clock and Percy Faith and the slick as spit corporate crock of faux power bands like Boston, Toto and Helen Reddy. Across the ocean, acts like Uriah Heap and Jethro Tull tried to sell us on the idea of heavy metal music as an exploration of a non-Tolkien, Middle Earthian Silmarillion, complete with lyrics about alabaster unicorns and flute solos. Kiss begat New England. Iron Butterfly begat Gentle Giant. Ted Nugent begat VD. A nation of repressed 14 year olds grabbed a pair of Koss headphones and plugged them deep into their subconscious for a journey to the center of their 8-track tape deck.
And around the corner was creeping disco, that Leviathan of musical melancholia that proved, unequivocally, that white people were not meant to dance, even if they were coked out of their skulls, draped in all manner of poly-blends and talking to Andy, Liza and Bianca. With a beat slightly less incessant than Mariah Carey's disingenuousness and memorable, poetical turns like 'push push, in the bush' and 'fly robin fly, up, up to the sky' and a fashion sense geared for guys more likely to be named Rory than Roy, it was clear that music le' discothèque had about as much staying power as the plaintive wailings of Henry Gross, Dan Hill and Albert Morris combined.
Sure, there were some innovators, groups who wanted to buck the trend and tread the bucks right up to the keyboard bank. Hot Butter attempted to jumpstart the careers of the still infantile musical form of electronica (and the career of groups like Soft Cell and Heaven 17) with its Moog music 'Popcorn'. Las Mocedadas, a million pesos away from Ricky, Enrique and Elian, made the singing of pop songs, like their seminal hit 'Eres Tu', in a foreign language all the vogue for about 30 seconds, as did Keith Moon on his solo recordings. And trust me, long before there was Britney, Christina and numerous androgynous boy bands, there was little Ricky Segall, yapping his way through self penned tunes about Grandmas and puppies as part of the last dying gasp of the Partridge Family. Still, all they seemed to inspire was a sudden leap into the arms of bands with names like Journey, REO Speedwagon and Molly Hatchet.
Rock was dead. Something was needed to bring it back to its sleazy and teasy roots. Something had to shake the very foundation of melody, harmony and skilled musicianship and awaken the shake rattle and roll one more time. And suddenly it came, the cacophonous call to arms known as punk. Who began it? Like the chicken and the egg quandary or the sexuality of Orson Bean, it is a mystery that will never be uncovered. Who did it the best? Oh, the arguments are as plentiful as the bands: the New York Dolls, the Ramones, The Damned, the Rezillos, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, or Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynolds. All could vie for the position of the goodest. But when it comes to the best, the Sex Pistols are the top the pops, even if they were eventually banned from it. With a combination of looks, attitude and musical chops, they were destined to implode as quickly as they exploded. No band with this much chutzpah and over the top balder dashing personality could stay together forever. It's amazing that, while the rest of the names listed above (with the notable exception of Master Joey and the boys) have become answers to obscure rock trivia quizzes, or puzzling entries in the 'Spin Guide to Alternative Music', the Pistols remain the one iconographic image from the lifeless years of 1976 - 1980.
But it's now 2000, and you want to recapture the glory that is punk. You too want to obtain cash from chaos, shriek your boredom with the USA, UK and U2, and experience the discordant harmony in your head. You say you found a copy of 'Never Mind the Bollocks' and after giggling a little at the title and barreling through the album contents you're still confused? You say you stood in line for hours to see 'The Filth and the Fury' and still can't quite get a handle on all the swastika and roots, rock, reggae ideology? You tune into to VH-1 for the episodic delirium of one Johnny Lydon, AKA Rotten, AKA structured citizen and wonder how you too can call out the counterfeit and undermine authority without ruining your credit rating or Ameritrade account?
Well, "Better 'Bots and Satellites" is here to help with its own handy guide to punk, MST style. By simply following the three simple steps enclosed and you will, before long, see no future and feel as vacant as you wannabe. All you need is the right clothes, the right attitude and the right musical influences, and before you can say Kerplunk, or Fush Yo Mang, you will be a true blue member of the blank generation.


Step 1 - Fashion
Now, it is true that one cannot express the punk ethic and dress like a hip-hop Wu-Tang pretender. Hardly any members of the Jam, the 101ers or the Buzzcocks wore oversized baggy flare denims that only went to half calf, or oversized FUBU sweatshirts with apropos gang coloration. No, if it wasn't sticky, smelly and undersized, stained with someone else's vomit and a moth's meal away from total disintegration, it was not on Joe Strummers backside. The Pistols had Vivian Westwood and the apparently infinite racks of Malcolm McClaren's Sex clothing store to provide the necessary spark to their couture canon, but in the new millennium, we are a tad out of luck. You can look high and low, but you will not find an Abercrombie and Filth, a Disembodied Shop or a Punky Gap, unless you are talking about Ms. Brewster. No, you will have to draw your influences from the saved visions of the past, and there is no better place to start than with 901 Projected Man.
Aside from the time, a London seemingly lost in between the war and the swinging of Carnaby street, and the actors who all appear to be acting and performing from somewhere around their 12th or 13th vertebrae, there is really nothing quite punk, or punkish, or punkette about Dr Paul Steiner and his merry gang of projectors. Heck, even the secretarial honey, Shelia, appears to have purchased her entire wardrobe from the Huggies brand adult diaper collection. No, from all indications, the only thing remotely anarchic going on is the constant demand for the staying/return and closeness of a certain Dr. Lembach. But one must only dig deeper into the very fabric of the movie, under the very gauze of Dr. Steiner's face nappy to understand what is truly rebellious in "The Projected Man"'s dresser. Looking like a collection of subcutaneous zits gone astray and weeping and oozing like the false charm from an Access Hollywood segment host, our hero symbolizes everything that is anti-nowhere.
Now, it will take a lot to achieve this level of dermatological dissonance. Why settle for a safety pin through the cheek or an apparently ultra trendy nose ring, when a little sulfuric acid and a bed pan full of pain will help you achieve that overall disenfranchised look. Forget about the Mohawk, the Spiked look and the Mullet, adorned in all manner of rainbow bright colors. Who cares what you hair looks like when your mug resembles the opening sequence of 'Saving Private Ryan'? In the canon of antidisestablishment- arianism, nothing says "sod it" better than a bulging, blinded eyeball hanging from a pustule laden socket, surrounded by a sea of plasma and exposed nerve endings.
Too extreme? Not willing to make the primal facial surgery sacrifice that so many of today's stars seem to enjoy as often as a half mocha latte enema? Well, then why not focus on the clothing. And no film offers more hopelessness, more dread and chic horror, more mind numbing dress code disasters than 907 Hobgoblins. Lets begin with the oversexed and eternally hopped up Daphne, who make Cyndi Lauper look like the bloody Queen of Jordan. Dressed in a skintight mauve leotard which accentuates her need to visit Dr. Sal Calabro, immediately, a drape around skirt which screams easy access, and a bright piece of packing tape knotted in her turkey in the straw hair mass, she's enough to make Courtney crawl back into the hole from whence she leapt out of (and into her dead husband's limelight), and Sioxsie run, not only just scream and sing, like a banshee.
Or how about the MC of the appropriately named Club Scum. Dark suit, dark eye makeup, and a dark mannerism copied from one too many visits to the Hall of Presidents at Disney World, this audio awfulatronic dullard wants to reek banefulness and detachment, but all he manages to achieve is the reeking part. Or how about the good girl gone Hobgobliny sour, Amy, who strips like an epileptic Islamic whirling dervish and considers under eye pro ball player type charcoal a must for expressing sensuality and an overall loss at reality's grip. Patterning your pantaloons after any of these en vogue vagrants would be enough to make even the most hardened hardcore skinhead look within their white headed self and scream "poseur." So take the risk. Visit your local thrift shop and after buying the Steak n Shake peg pants and the last remaining tainted form fitting cat suit, just burn the place to the ground. After all, that's what Lydia Lunch would do, if she had the chance.


Step 2 - Attitude
Punk was all about challenging your social structure, from the monarchy to the dole, from the velvet rope aspirants waiting outside 54 to the post- Travolta Terrios who wanted an entire generation to get up and boogie. Hoping to spread a message of anarchy, tolerance and unity by kicking people in the head and spitting on bands as they played, the method behind their Madness, or English Beatness seemed to make about as much sense as the lyrics to Baltimora's "Tarzan Boy". What they hoped to gain in confrontation they lost in the random use of swear words and public inebriation. They had the right ideals, but the wrong idioms. What they needed was a vision from the past to guide them in the proper way to be belligerent, yet precocious, detached and still able to topple the most sound social structure.
906 Space Children should have functioned as the model for Master Rotten and the rest of the rotters. Sure, they dressed like the pre-Garanimals, Buster Brown and his little dog Tyke, PF Flyer offspring that they were. But behind those Thom McCann shoes and Dickie brand dungarees bled hearts of pure, malevolent, anti-society evil. Oh, sure, they looked fine to begin with. All they wanted to do was swim, play and stare aimlessly at Jackie Cogan's goiter. Then, something came over them. Maybe it was the reality that the civilization in which they lived was filled with liars, phonies and frauds, looking out for their own interests while claiming to have the wee ones at heart. Maybe they saw that the government was corrupt, using kickbacks and bribes as a means of achieving goals like it was written into the Bill of Rights. Maybe it was a giant glowing and throbbing alien brain. Whatever it was, it caused them to become disillusioned and embittered. Soon, they were talking back to and paralyzing the vocal chords of their elders. They were killing the local drunk, not so much for being a child beating bastard, but because he was to go on and play a know it all professor who could build a multi-action lathe out of coconuts and palm fronds. And they were undermining the entire US nuclear weapons program, keeping the universe safe from puffy white men in starched hard collars, drinking Beefeater martinis while their stubby sausage fingers were poised over the button.
True rebels of the underage set, these cosmos kids exemplify the attitude one must posses if one is to pogo along to the Misfits or the Subhumans. Still, not everything about these Milky Way moppets is screeches and preens. They tend to dress is shoe gazer prep style, acting more like My Bloody Valentine and less like The Only Ones. Hair is usually combed in a cake frosting pile on top of the head, with short back and sides the standard foundation of group authority. There is nary a body piercing or outrageous pro-Manson tattoo to be found. And yet, in their open, pretty and vacant, post-Keen eyes, like pools of infinite dread, they seem to sum up all that is rebellious and lawless in the punk ethic. Who else would give up the tender warmth of a split-level single width motor home on the butt side of a missile testing facility, the black sand beach only a Bataan Death March away, for a dark cave just off the fish kill line with a glowing extraterrestrial blob as a roommate? These lost souls, these angry children of the corny make the case better than any sow's name carved in Sid Vicious naked, sheet white chest.


Step 3 - Music
So, after days spent at Debbie Gibson's house, and trolling around the slightly used sections at the local Salvation Army you've got the look. You've mastered the perfect 'I don't give a flying frig at a donut hole' mannerism, aping Pat Benatar and the entire cast of Body Rock in a complete character- ization of contemptuous youth. But somehow, no amount of eye or hair paint, no razor cut across scalp or wrist seems appropriate while Creed screams across your Bose Wave Machine. And no matter how hard you try, it's hard to claim a desire toward mayhem and mutiny when Santana swoons about how 'Smooth' everything is. Truth is, for a truly punk attitude, you need a truly punk band. And with the Pistols a money making conglomerate, trading on a dozen or so great songs recorded before Bono was a fetus, and the Ramones a disbanded pack of over-aged goombas too caught up in being legends to actually get along and play, it is time for another lost act to take its rightful place in the pantheon on the pissed off.
Sure, you could pull out CDs by the Offspring and Less Than Jake and attempt to envision a lack of future. You can download MP3s by Lit and Blink 182 and wonder how the members of Cheap Trick sleep at night, knowing what they have wrought. You could scour cut out bins and faded copies of Mojo Magazine looking for insight into forgotten facets of the 4/4 beat scene. Or, you could wise up and throw on a copy of 'The Horror of Party Beach' and rock out to the wailing sounds of the Del-Aires. Wilfred Holcombe, Ronnie Linares, Gary Robert Jones and Edward Earle, the drab four. In the nerd glassed, stripped shirt and melodicically challenged noodlings of this too lame crew; all components of subversion and subterfuge are present. Take the song "Drag" or "Joyride". Sure, they sound like the kind of everybody's cruising now, let go down to the malt shop for a soda and a cuddle massacre-piece that Brian Wilson excelled at and Mike Love hogged credit for, but listen beneath the surface. Hear what's going on between the notes. Listen to what they are not playing. It would be better than this pseudo post Dead Man's Curve Jan and Dean. Or what about the power ballads, 'You Are Not A Summer Love' and 'Elaine'? Just because the Mekons, or Throbbing Gristle frowned on slow tempo ruminations on tenderness with the opposite sex doesn't mean the Del-Aires, in all their never knowing the touch of a woman dorkiness can't sing about imagined groping and never to happen in their lifetime booty calls. No, it is not in the wanton wanderlust of a short term, June to August romp in the dunes that the airy ones find their true punk chops. Just one listen to 'Just Wigglin' and Wobblin'' and 'The Zombie Stomp' settles the score once in for all in favor of euthanasia and self inflicted deafness. Punk bands, especially ones in California, were known to create their own, Jerry Lewis inspired moves to go along with the faster than blight bombast that was exploding from stage speakers. The gravedigger, the head grabber and the molester were all popular dance crazes that seemed to fit both Germ and X fan alike. But while Fear and Black Flag may have had their raging fury and accompanying moshing, the non- Wisconsin Dells had their goofy, spread legged spasms called the Wiggle Wobble and the Zombie Stomp.
And pray, how did you do these dances? Well, from what can be seen in 817 Horror of Party Beach, extensive training by either Isadora Duncan or Bob Fosse is a must. One should be as lithe as a slender piece of sea oats and able to wear revealing shorts under completely out of place and season windbreakers. Then, once the pounding beat starts and the startled beatings end, you jump around, kick the air like a fish realizing he's one step from the sushi bar and hit the ground, legs spread as far apart as you can, hoping all the time that the next snap you hear is not your own groin calling in for backup. Repeat until they call the lifeguards, or the local biker gang, or Tommy Tune. Still, it does not matter if you can't get the loin loosening lambada down, or find it difficult to walk upright, or bear children once you've achieve it. It's all part of being the outsider, the frightening entity down in the tube station at midnight, the girl from Birmingham whose name was Polly and who lived in a tree.
For you see, punk is everywhere. It's in the lamentations of science fair rejects that got guitars instead of atom splitters from their birthdays. It's in the mechanical call and response of alienated youth, who would rather hang with a throbbing and swollen space wart than their alcohol and tranquilizer dependant parental units. And it's in the Goth gone goofy or Tiffany on crack looks worn by non-actors who should have known better than to co-star with hand puppets rejected from the Critter and Ghoulie films. Punk is in the soul. It's in the heart. Sometimes it's even in the hinder. But punk, like funk and blues and opera are emotions first, music second. An aria in Pig Latin is still a moving bit of vocal gymnastics when the diva singing it is more interested in finding the inner truth of the composer, and not reforming a ersatz version of the Supremes to milk the Motown loving public out of their hard earned day trading profits.


So the next time you see a young tough roaming the streets of your hometown, face pulled back in a death mask scowl as if he hates every single atom that makes up this vast universe, hair conforming to plans more in tune with I.M Pei than with Vidal Sassoon, and clothes resembling those worn by the homeless man you attempt to avoid everyday on your way to Barnes and Noble for a copy of 'Modern Maturity' and a Frangelica biscotti, just remember this. He may not be rebelling against society, but against the conventions of the modern horror film. He may be more in tune with wisp rock of the Del-Aires, or Arch Hall Jr. than he is in cahoots with Satan and the whole Dokken/Slayer/ Aqua gang. Perhaps that nasty look on his face is not the result of a mis- guided attempt at loathing the world around him, but the consequence of a failed rubbing alcohol, Coleman's Dry Mustard and Whatney's Red Barrel face peel. And perhaps, he is not happy with the return to prominence of a band who once asked, "Who killed Bambi?" and proclaimed themselves the Great Rock and Roll Swindle. Maybe he's just waiting for Lembach to come again.



April MSTie of the Month: bgibron@yahoo.com


Name: Dr. Abraham William Gibron, JD.


AKA: Dirge, ddirge, bgibron@yahoo.com , one of the original Ink Spots.


Writes: "Better 'Bots and Satellites"


Age: 29 days from 39 years old. So I am 38. Make sense?


Birthday: May 14th. (Any and all gifts will be cordially and greedily accepted)


Lives in: Tampa, Florida, or as it is better known, friggin' Hell on Earth!


Employed as: Writer, author, debate coach and all-around know-it-all


Marital Status: Married (too bad, ladies...)


Fan Since: 1991 (see below)


Tape Collection: Every MST that is currently available via personal taping, tape trading and fan sites, from KTMA to John Phillip Law's frozen loins.


My First MST Experience: 1991 - Coming home late from work one night, and falling like a dead man into my faux La-Z-Boy recliner and witnessing the closing moments of the Demon Dog sketch from 102 Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy and saying, "What in the Hell is this on the Comedy Channel?"


My First MST Episode: Since I saw only part of the infamous Peros de Diablo sketch, I will not count that as my first full MST. I will indicate that, for sheer beginning to end enjoyment, I watched 304 Gamera vs. Barugon.


My First Taping Experience: The 1992 Turkey Day. In between bites of luscious cornbread stuffing and gamy forcemeat, I rushed to the VCR and taped the entire marathon.


Favorite MST character: Push coming to shove ending in pain, I would have to say its either Jerry or Sylvia. Mole men need love too. Honestly, how can one choose?


Favorite MST Episode: Again like asking me to choose which of my children I love the most, even though I am currently not a father. I will go so far as to say that, for total jocularity and humor quotient, the Mr. B Natural short is one of the all time greatest moments in MST history. I am also partial to the episode where Bobby and Cindy get lost in the Grand Canyon.


Favorite MST Song: Original, The "Hired Song" cycle. Look out Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber! Cover, Don't Pull Your Love Out On Me by Hamilton Joel, Crow and Servo.


Top Ten Moments in MST History: One of the ways in which I rate something is how it will live with me for the rest of my life. Since I am probably twice as old as the average reader of the Post, I assume that I have had more time to view things from a historical perspective. Trust me, there will come a day when you wonder how you ever listened to that hideous Kid Rock. However, some things do last, and this is what will last for me from MST...

  1. The final 'whoosh' of the Button push and the opening chords of Mighty Science Theater.
  2. Crow's 'pew - pew' sound effects when he attempts to emulate a laser beam.
  3. The day Tom Servo became a real boy, or just painted himself a fleshy pink.
  4. Baby Oil! NOO!!!
  5. Frank and Clay try to impress the Deep 12 ladies.
  6. Crow explaining Thanksgiving to Gypsy/Gypsum.
  7. Bobo makes a brain sandwich with plenty of MA-YO-NAAAISE!
  8. When Pearl left Bobo and Brain Guy alone, and hygiene ensued.
  9. The Great Mr. B Natural Gender Debate.
  10. Klack-brand food commercial with Servo as Ed Herlihy.


Favorite Musicians: In no particular order... The Beatles, The Beach Boys (pre-1971), XTC, Guided by Voices, Redd Kross, The Residents, Gary Numan, The Ramones, Wall of Voodoo (only with Stan Ridgeway) and They Might Be Giants. Then again, ask me next week and I might be really into sea shanties.


Favorites Authors: In order of Gods and demigods... Gods, Harlan Ellison, Salman Rushdie, Thomas Pynchon, Toni Morrison. Demi-Gods, Stephen King, Arthur C. Clarke, Thomas Wolfe, P.J. O'Roarke.


My MST Regret: Just before Sci-Fi finalized plans to have MST on its network, I was in Minneapolis, Minnesota for the National Forensics League speech and debate tournament. I was judging a round of team debate, and I actually stopped the round so that I could call Best Brains and arrange to make the tour that afternoon. Turns out, MST had gotten the Sci-Fi good word, and there were no tours as filming has started back up. So I never got to visit the shrine to humor that was BBI. As for the round of debate? Who gives a crap?


Final MST Thoughts: I know, for a fact, there will never be another show as funny, life alteringly and intellectually so, as Mystery Science Theater 3000. So just give up, Malcolm and Eddie. It ain't gonna happen.



May MST3K Schedule on SFC


North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
05/06/00 - 09:00 am - [816] Prince of Space
05/13/00 - 09:00 am - [817] Horror of Party Beach
05/20/00 - 09:00 am - [818] Devil Doll
05/27/00 - 09:00 am - Pre-empted for "Hell Comes to Frogtown"



Classifieds 3000


rdavis@pop.sunflower.com writes: "Due to circumstances beyond our control, this week's Captain RibMan comic strip features the star and head-writer of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, Mike Nelson: http://www.supercomics.com . Hope you have time to stop by."


mstanon@msties.com writes: "On Thursday, April 27th at 6:00 PM, student organization MSTies Anonymous of Colorado will be proud to present 'MST3K Invasion' in Clark A205 on the campus of Colorado State University. Having secured written permission by the production company of the television series Mystery Science Theater 3000, Best Brains, Inc., alien invasion-based episode 303 Pod People will be screened in a classroom filled with veterans to the show and neophytes experiencing it for the very first time. After episode 303 Pod People, attendees will have the opportunity to follow suit and make fun of a B-movie themselves with a screening of the 1957 film 'Invasion of the Saucer Men' obtained from film rights distributor Kit Parker. Without the presence of the cast of MST3K, we believe that the audience can produce comments on-the- fly that are equal in entertainment value if not just as funny as on MST3K. MSTies Anonymous is a worldwide, Internet-based fan club of MST3K, founded in September 1995. Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters and situations are copyright 2000 Best Brains, Inc. 'MST3K Invasion' is sponsored in part by the Associated Students of Colorado State University."



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


"What is it about the Gates of Hell that compels people to wander into 'em?"



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