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SOL Post 50 08/15/00
SOL Post 49 07/20/00
SOL Post 48 06/15/00



S.O.L. POST


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Volume 49 http://www.msties.com/ July 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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GOODBYE, ST. LOUIS!


In This Issue


From the Poobah
"Addicted to Cults" by kohansbyod@goes.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com
"My Trip to Gateway Con" by JRW78@aol.com
August MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers



From the Poobah


Yes, the fated general science fiction convention that just-so happened to have four of our favorite writers and performers from Mystery Science Theater 3000 as guests has come and gone. This past weekend at the well, rustic Henry VIII Inn in St. Louis, MO was the first time since the ConventioCon ExpoFest- A-Rama II: Electric Bugaloo that a substantially large group of MSTies worldwide have gathered together to bond like the rabid fans they are. Yours truly was present at the weekend's festivities; those of you present might recall me lugging my authentic, animated, and now signed replica of the squat crimson pig around the premises whilst distributing the aforementioned 150 Forrester-green brochures with which to promote MSTies Anonymous.
I'm glad I had the opportunity to finally meet Jenny, Martin, Chuck, Susan, Sarah, Jason, Mike, Chris, Brian, Doug, Paul, Joe, Jeff, Ken, and the other hundreds of MSTies whose names I can't recall at this very moment. Sorry if I forgot your name; there were just so many! Over the three days of the convention, I managed to take a total of 4 rolls of film, all of which should be developed by tomorrow, ready for posting with my detailed accounts of the proceedings. In the meantime, please enjoy such stories from the two MSTies Anonymous staffers I finally met there in person.
At the Con, not only did Bill and MaryJo sign my program, Mike sign my mint copy of his new book, but...


Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!
Kevin Murphy signed my Tom Servo!


Oh, for fun. And now, on with the belated newsletter.



"Addicted to Cults" by kohansbyod@goes.com


Someone somewhere said that Mystery Science Theater had "a cult following." What exactly does that mean? To TV execs, it means let's get advertisers to buy spots before people stop watching it. To them it's a fad. Television's version of the perfect wave, that comes and is great while it's going and disappears just as fast... except to the die-hards. These are people that contine to speak, eat and breathe their show, even when it's been off the air for a year. Let's face it. I must have loved that show if I will sit here and spend what little free time I do have posting my rants about a TV show. MST was a ten-year wave which had its heyday and passed on. It has a true cult following.


Now on to my true point. I think I have a problem. And I think some of the readers of this posting may have the same problem. I think I'm addicted to cults, these flashes in the pan that make for great television, but that TV execs don't seriously expect to keep on the air for any length of time. MST, Freaks and Geeks, Dr. Who... all could be classed cult classics. There are many more, and I find myself drawn to these shows. I'm captivated by their creativity and originality. My problem is that I start too late. By the time I figure out that these programs are great, their novelty is over and they're being cancelled. Then I find myself looking for the next cult classic. The only show classified with cult status I've seen thrive is Star Trek, although I'm sure there are more.


Although I still spend many an hour watching MST eps I've archived on VHS, I still long for new programming. And following my addiction, I've stepped up to a new cult show. I learned that my cable provider actually provides over 60 different channels (not just Sci-Fi). So I decided to (shudder) change the channel. With my thumb quivering against the remote, I flipped from station to station -- surfing if you will -- trying to find the next wave. My swim took me to The Food Network of all places. A magazine I read described a show on this network called Iron Chef as a cult hit. True to my addiction, I tuned in. I'm having fun. But am I truly an addict if I voluntarily turn The Food Network on? I think I may need help. It is a good show, and if you find yourself not wanting to watch, 803 Mole People for the 20th time, check it out. I'm also accepting any suggestions on how to curb this addiction. I think we may all need it.



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


Vol. 2, Issue 12
Still Lazy After All These Years: Loads Girdle the Globe


In and of itself, being lazy is really nothing too terrible. It's not the greatest attribute that one can possess, but then again, at least you are not being 'brutally honest,' 'cute and perky' or 'the prime suspect.' While one could strive to be active and mobile, making the most out of the precious few years life seems to meter out like so many rare fire emeralds, instead we tend to squander our prized moments in front of the glass teat, suckling our personality from the banal bleatings of popular culture, so inert that we would rather watch others survive than try it ourselves. Is it any wonder that the highest rated cathode ray ruminations deal with winning multi-millions by answering rejected Trivial Pursuit queries or spending time with a group of unwashed, unshaved and unethical strangers, hoping for the death, dismemberment or dysentery of the other poor dopes sharing the rat and sand flea-infested lean-to? The group Talk Talk once claimed that 'life is what you make it.' Taking a look at current trends, most people want their existence to be a struggle between morality and hygiene in a voyeuristic race towards total indignation, with a pit stop at humiliation and shamelessness thrown in for good viewing measure.
Society, in general, is lost in a world filled with instant gratification, multi-channel cable service and web access. The faster the connection, the slower the brain wave. The more information or archival music one can download, the less likely one is to use their ankles. With a drive thru and/or carry out and/or home delivery, access to the necessary calories to contribute to and increase sloth are just a digital cell phone plea away. The average Homo sapien is well on their way to the Motherbaugh inspired process of devolution, turning the once noble species of erect walking tool users into a freakish aquanetish hybrid, part shark like eating machine, and part gelatinous jelly fish glutton, feeding their immense, undulating lower portions with huge portions of rapidly prepared offal as they kill the last few brain cells they own watching reruns of Road Rules. And all the while, as they swell and bloat and grow large with atrophy and polyunsaturates, yoga- influenced business suits who wouldn't know entertainment from Shinola, will be dreaming up the next bit of pragmatism based pabulum, this time centering on a penal colony in French Guiana and the 14 supermodels struggling to find the golden monkey before they run out of bronzer and resort to cannibalism.
Still, if one wants to spend their life in the underachieving pursuit of the sign of the null set, to keep one's personal energies in the potential, not the kinetic state, to out sloth the three toed variety and redefine a couple of the deadly sins along the way, then by all means, they should feel free. Being lazy is not a crime (at least not in the contiguous 48 states; but just TRY to be a lump in Hawaii), yet a life in the immobile pursuit of indolence may leave a little to be desired. In fact, there will be a lot to be desired, since you will basically be a lifeless mass of involuntary muscle actions, the occasional catatonia induced fried food belch, and the undeniable stench of several sedentary soilings. A fixation on the unbearable dullness of not being should provide you with enough non-incentive to never get your days work done, no matter how much sunbathing your corpulent backside gets.
Still, if one is to remain dignified (to some extent) in the goal of achieving a minimal amount of shift in their own continental shelf, then one should bone up on the classic loads from history, those effigies of lethargy who have paved the ways for the house bound and frozen burrito dependant dominions of the davenport. "Better 'Bots and Satellites" has done a little research, and has traced the legend of the languid to its static, bleak base camp. A review of the non-lives of some of the more impotent poster boys for torpidity shows that, when it comes to being a stick in the mud, a bump on a log, or a wart on your hairy and humongous hinder, those who have come before can teach those presently engaged in motionlessness a thing, probably.


Classic Ma-laziness: Hamlet in 1009 Hamlet
The poor Dane. His dad is dead. His mom has married the man who he thinks killed his pops. His girlfriend is a wacko, he sees dead people, and his best friend can't quiet get his finances worked out with his own paternal unit before he's off to Paris, or London, to see the queen, or some queens, or Queen (having a hard time following this. Take a literature course. Or watch Nick at Nite and hope to catch the Harold Heccuba musical version of this classic on that more reality-based show about stranded castaways. You know, with 'and the rest'? Nothing says comedy more than Phil Silvers in a wig screeching about his solvency. I guess you had to be there). And amidst all this intrigue, these monumental moments of dramatic irony and double-dealing, all our hero can do is chatter. Prattle. Blather. Like a one-man tower of babble, he runs his mouth like he is in desperate need of mega dose of oral Keopectate.
On and on. Endlessly. About bees. About not bees. About whether his momma is a whore, or just sleeping her way to the top. About plays being the thing, or playthings. There is no stopping him. Wherever action is called for, whenever a moment demands his mobility and proceeding, jeez even when he is asked to move upstage, he drops off, tunes out and turns to the audience in a mad attempt to explain his innermost thoughts in 40,000 couplets of less. And it's not like he is plotting away along the malingering monologuous mile, adding intrigue to immobility. He is just, basically, complaining. About his lot in life, or lack thereof. About his girlfriend's lack of nunnery getting. About how dear old dead daddy had a little bit of an earwax problem and unctuous uncle underhandedness cleared it up with an unguent made from deadly nightshade. Everyone, from Rosencrantz to Guildenstern, from Horatio to Yorick, from Siskel to Ebert wants this guy to become Todd Rundgren and do something or anything in real life. However, just like the elfin pop maestro, our own mini pork steak ends up being a lot of hot air, praised for what he represents in history, not in the current pop cultural scene.
However, it is tough to blame our little Hamilton. After all, looks at what he is starting out with. Nothing cries apathy more than having something named after you. Instead of coming up with a really original, witty title like "Death in Denmark", "Murder Most Foul" or "The Man With One Red Shoe", our plucky playwrite, a certain Willy Gilligan ShakenBakespeare picks the one guy in the whole piece who does nothing and decides, "Hey, let me draw attention to that fact." Or sure, over the course of the eons, filled with the puke- inducing dramatic rantings of Pruist, the confusing pseudo comedies of Moliere and the overwrought melodramatics of John Hughes, our shaky Willy is suddenly a 17th Century David Mamlet. Still, this does not make up for the 4 hours of talking that occurs before swords and rapiers (sans wit) are taken up and everyone dies, except for some extraneous characters that were off stage about 3 hours before. Hey, come to think of it, it's "The Perfect Storm", without the CGI ocean and Marky Mark's superfluous third nipple.
Still, our non-locomotive little boy least can teach us a few good lessons about being drowsy. For example, just because you don't intend to do anything about it, doesn't mean you can't have a several volume opinion about some situation. Or, when confronted with a girl who is warm for your form, or at least a place next to you on the throne, conversing to her non-stop is guaranteed to drive her into the local loco lake before you can finish your multi-faceted prologue. When faced with the choice of existing, or not existing, don't answer the quandary but, instead, make a really long speech out of it which high schools kids will be forced to memorize centuries later. Basically, in the hierarchy of the stationary, in the history of the inflexible and the pantheon of the petrified, Hamlet is the quintessential quagmire. He is the very definition of a slacker; pissed off at his life and surroundings, but too filled with ennui to do much about it except live off of mom and step-dad, bitching and whining the entire time. Something, indeed, is rotten in the State of Denmark. And it's our spoiled little passive protester.


Chaffed European Load: Prof. Etienne Lafarge in 803 Mole People
There was a time in our recent history, about the time Cotton Mather was inventing the slow gin fizz and John Brown's body was a moldering in the grave that being massive of girth was considered a sign of prosperity. In a time where one's meal had to been hemmed, honed, bled, dried, cured, modeled and salted, where water was drawn from a well, not a designer cooler, and where a simple meal of toast and jam required the right season, the physical ability to hike for days in the woods or reap in the fields, and a working knowledge of canning, only the truly prosperous could get away with being bloated, to be served, not subservient. Only they could afford fattening pleasures like beef suet kidneys and lard drenched calf's liver smothered in elk prostate glands, adding insult to gluttony in the ever diminishing battle to extend the average life expectancy. Plantation owners, factory proprietors and import/export merchants, dealing in both the mercantile and fellow man variety used their ever-expanding waist area as a blanket statement on their bank holdings.
Large, pendulant breasts, which struggle to maintain dignity under brocaded shirts, were encased in yards of silk and tartan as vests held back the bounty, as well as the bosom and the booty. Legs were poured like molten rennet into stiff, starched pants pleated to within an inch of absolute zero, as gouty and puffy feet expanded and swelled in black strap boots or genetically superior stark white spats. Tiny tufts of stringy hair were bear greased down and baked under huge brown bowlers or top hats, allowing the odor to soak right in. Huge neck waddles were precariously balanced on plasticine collars, blubber undulating in a sensual, almost sexual manner as the plump jowls bounced over and around the second helping of mutton and broth. Lips smacked of fresh churned butter and syphilis as tired, bulbous eyes indicated the human gourmands internal change of seasons; white to yellow to red to purple.
And whom do we have to blame for all this, for the years of bowing to the doughy and genuflecting to the bovine? Like most of the world's ills, immigrants from Europe are to blame. Native Americans were too busy avoiding the white man's burden of new and wondrous euro-ailments, ducking as your average New World Anglo Saxon threw his intercontinental virus spores like an overactive Mad Hatter while raping the land, and their women, in that particular order. It wasn't bad enough that they had to be huddled onto reservations in a sad attempt to recreate their noble homeland (with some tract housing and a communal recreation/gaming pavilion thrown in to augment their cultural heritage). No, they had to take their maize, turn it into Mazola and proclaim its monounsaturated corn goodness. Like a lame version of the conqueror salad, they came, they saw, they ate the tribes out of teepee and wigwam. And then asked for seconds. Before you knew it, they were bringing over all their underfed relatives for a trip through the untamed USA's bicoastal salad bar, focusing primarily on the real bacon bits and the shredded cheese food.
Professor Etienne Lafarge from "The Mole People" is such an ethnically challenged encumberment. He is the very distended belly of the somnolent sycophant; too smart to be a common worker (which would, therefore, require him to get out and perform a little physical labor), but not smart enough to avoid morbid obesity. He embodies, in more pounds than most, the typical listless intellectual, their nose buried in a book and a mouth buried in a big plate of sauerbraten. When asked to do something the slightest bit corporeal, like running from the monsters or helping his fellow spelunker avoid a cavernous death, all he can do is heave massive gulps of air in and out of his overfed chest and wonder were the dessert cart is. He meanders his dutiful purpose around beneath his bread dough like abdominal shelf, shaking less like Santa's bowl full of jelly and more like Satan's bowel full of jellied eel.
His sole raeson de'tre is to be the intellectual, the one that can answer all the questions that the viral and far more physically adept men of machismo will have a hard time deciphering (even using their fingers and toes). But soon, as all creatures of corpulence discover, the brawn must save the brain, and the true essence of their limpness is uncovered. Their goiter and their phlebitis offer nothing to the world, and upon seeing them in shorts and a pair of black dress socks, the world requires some metaphysical payback. This is why their status as a true load is not so much earned, as it is thrust upon them in the most non active of ways. Coming from a hermitage which valued the prodigious development of stretch marks and the acquiring of awkwardly-placed skin flaps as a means of geopolitical and socioeconomic discrimination, it is impossible not to a feel a little sorry for him. That is, until you have to turn around, after being incredibly safe and completely out of harms way, just to turn around and help him carry his immense gullet across a teetering precipice.


Slacks Like Teen Spirit: Critter in 1002 Girl in Gold Boots
What, you may ask, can the modern man, or woman, learn from the incoherent idleness of the past? When faced with a new millennium and the technofication of everything, from music to your grandmother's dental plate? In this go-go (para presidente) generation, it's impossible to imagine a time less in tune with the desire to remain sedentary. The Internet forces individuals to interface a world they can never comprehend, never acquire, and perhaps should wean themselves from. But when it comes right down to it, technology requires effort: effort to gain, effort to use and effort to support. Don't let it fool you. Technology is not going to make life easier, just more electronically complicated. As long as you, personally, have no UV rating, or fail to gain that valuable Underwriters Laboratory seal of approval, you might as well build a steam engine, or attempt to jury-rig your Amiga into Napster.
In this new age where everyone is as disengaged from one another as Dennis and Meg, or Brittany and Justin, a person needs to maintain a certain amount of self-centeredness. After all, if you don't look out for your own interests, someone is likely to come along, steal your life and turn it into a movie of the week starring members of the cast from Party of Five. Still, one can take this internalization too far, until they are in their latter middle ages and still require mom and dad to support, feed, pamper, bail out and generally soothe their otherwise ravaged breast. As the world moves closer to a global economy with Iron Chef-themed restaurants and Chutney based snack products to fill your famine void, you will move deeper into your own fantasy world, one filled with lazy strums on the remaining 3 strings on your Sears brand rock god axe, and endless reruns of Kiana's Flex Appeal on ESPN.
If you truly want to move into the world without moving out of your old bedroom, then perhaps Critter, from the movie "The Girl in Gold Boots" can help you. From his churlish yet flaccid gaze to that barely able to pluck and carry a tune at the same time, Lee Hazelwood-esque musical quality, we are dealing with the very quintessence of the term lazybones. Here is a man who is, perhaps, on the run, even though he is more vagrant than jogger, sort of fleeing from the possibility of his dodging the draft, even though he really hasn't quite made up his mind on the whole subject and may change it at any given moment, or at the wink of a pasty. This is how indecisive he is. When asked to play a song on his gee-tar, the most he can do is shrug his shoulders and belt out a piddly version of Polly Wally Doodle before doing his impression of a still life with raisins.
Critter can't even make it with the plentiful ladies that surround him like the many levels of indecision upon which he bases his entire personal philosophy and call up prevarication. Faced with hot honey after sexy (if somewhat used, abused and boozed up) broad, the man appropriately named after a species of varmint can't seem to get up any interest, let alone anything important. Even when threatened, he only modifies his Elvis on horse tranquilizer guise long enough to get his glass jaw shattered and his poor widdle feewings hurt. Even when it is spelled out for him in black and blood, when the drugs and the drag and the dramarama serpentines into a mess of methadone, menses and masscara, our Cobain in training manages little more than a sigh and a Champale burp. He typifies the modern melancholy facing the infinite badness of existence. In his boga-booted, pompa-dowered and polyester silk screened player card shirts, future generations of fan boys and geeks see their future and pray for the day Wozniak meets Jobs and, after convincing him he is not Bigfoot, helps him invent the Apple IIe.
For you see, its not what you dance, it's the way you dance it. Or in this case, it ain't what you load, it's the way you load it. The desire to remain true to one's own apathetic roots, to retire as our forefathers did before us, resplendent in our overripe Pink Floyd t-shirts and feasting on the meals that our socially secure parents dispatch out like gasps of oxygen on a doomed desert planet filled with allspice, is to fight the future in a way only Ted Kazynski would be proud of. Why Unibomb when you can Unisom your way through the next dozen years, doing little more than passing waste through your body in a way that will cause the least amount of public embarrassment with as little time spent on the can as possible. There is nothing wrong with lethargy, not one dang thing evil about sloth, and very little in the way of disrespect in the ambition or antimatter.
Still, society may look your way, and after a brief moment of disgust and a desperate attempt to keep the bile from rising and the bladder from dropping, may mutter words like 'loser', 'slacker' and 'creamy nougat filling'. But don't be disheartened. Don't run back to the basement backroom your dad lets you 'rent' for whatever money you can collect out of the local wishing well (even though he had to move out his home wine and pornography manufacturing setup) just to while your hours away in repeat viewings of DragonBall Z and countless graphic novels about large-breasted women dominating undersized or oversized archvillians with names like Mr. Marblemouth, Uncle Birdseye and the Stain. Stand as tall as possible without creating massive lower back spasms and declare your decision to be droopy. Celebrate your activity celibacy. Announce your nonexistence in this rotting cesspool of a society in which the majority of us rats wallow on our way to the races. But please, try and take a bath or shower once in a while. After all, hygiene is nothing to be lax about.



"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com


Well I'm back from the MST3K Con and I wanted tell everyone about it. I got to Henry VIII after long 6-hour car ride and registered for hotel room. Then my friend Vicky and I got register for the Con. After coming back from the room to get our bags I saw Kevin Murphy, Mike Nelson, and Bill Corbett. I quickly got my bag with Mike's book and pen to get autographs. I got autographs from all three and MaryJo, who also decided to come. I then asked if I could have job, work part time or for free at TimmyBigHands, which they politely declined and said I deserved better. Well after that wonderful encounter, Vicky and I went exploring the hotel and found a group of MSTies watching MST3K. I knew most them from online, so it was nice to put faces with the names.


One person I met was MSTAnon, who built (in my opinion) one of the best- looking Servos. Sure he was a little bit overly-protective about his Servo, but still an okay guy. I also meet my MSTing partner Mike AKA Samurai88, James AKA Negawepon, and a bunch of others too numerous to name. Well after nice screening of MST3K, Vicky and I went to video riffing of the uncut, unedited version of "Final Justice". All you should be very grateful that it was edited for TV. On Saturday, Vicky and I got up late and hung around the hotel. Then it was off to the Satellite News chat where we got to meet Sampo and Erhardt. We got to ask questions and stuff.


Then it was lunchtime. After that, we got back and it was time for the MST3K crew to come out. The audience got to ask lots of questions and I was one of the lucky people who did so. I asked, "Have you guys see the Futurama in which Tom and Crow appear?" (It's ironic because I haven't, so if you have a tape of it, e-mail me.) They said no, but they did meet creator Matt Groening. After Q&A, it was autograph time. I got everyones' autographs and hugs from both Mike and Kevin. Next was the MSTing contest in which we did very well, at least I think.) Mike, my MSTing partner, told me they started us out on the most boring place in the film. Later on I found out that we didn't win.


After a long time in our room, it was time for the Masquerade. I put on my Mr. B Natural costume and got ready. I was the 5th person in line to go on stage. There were 21 entries and only 6 people (including me) in MST3K costumes. While backstage, I heard that the judges were the MST3K crew and Terry Pratchett, so I was nervous about performing in front of them. But I went out there, danced like an idiot, played some music on my flute, and took a bow. I didn't win, but it was still nice to perform for the MST3K crew. After pictures, I got changed in time for Mysterious Theatre 337, a live MSTing of Dr. Who. I found out that was not the real MST3K gang who were doing the riffing, but fans. Though I was ticked that it wasn't Mike, Kevin, Bill, and MaryJo up there riffing, the show was pretty good. Later I went to the disco party and danced the night away.


Next Sunday A.D. was sightseeing time since the MST3K people weren't going to be on until 3 PM. Plus I wanted to do something that my friend wanted to do: we went to Arch and walked around, but didn't go up it. After lunch we went back for the Q&A with the MST3K gang. This time Kevin ran around with a microphone and gave out TimmyBigHands hats. Two things I noticed while Kevin ran around and passed near us several times were that he had an earring (a little silver hooped one) and he has a nice behind. It's a little bit big, but he still has nice back porch. I got to ask another question, "Have you guys gotten to go sightseeing at all?" and the answer was no. After the Q&A I got a quick group picture with people I hung around with at the Con and left to go home.


Overall I have to say I had great time and it was nice convention. It wasn't as great as the '96 Con, but still pretty good. While it didn't have a greatnumber of MSTies there, it did have a nice closeness to it where one could talk to the MST3K gang much easier than at the last Con. I wish you all could be there. Now I must go get my pictures developed...



"My Trip to Gateway Con" by JRW78@aol.com


I want to start out by saying that this Con was the coolest thing ever, and if you weren't there I'd like to take this opening paragraph to mock you and all that you stand for. Also, I tend to elaborate in order to cram in all the nutritious details. Now that that's over, I may proceed.


I had to get up at 6 AM to be at the airport on time for my 9:30 flight. One might think that I would have gone to bed early the night before. But no, I was up chatting as always, well past 3 AM. So I was quite sleepy several hours later when we landed in St. Louis. But fortunately it took about 2 hours for them to get us our luggage, so I had plenty of time to wake up. And if that wasn't enough time, the half hour I stood in the hot sun waiting for the hotel shuttle was more than adequate.


A short drive later I was at the hotel, the lovely Henry VIII, its labyrinthic passageways threatening to swallow me whole at any time. I was the first of my two roommates to arrive, so I had to pay for a nice-sized chunk of the room. Luckily I remembered to jot down the name of the guy who registered it for us. I have a feeling that asking if Negaweapon or the Incredible Melting Man had checked in yet wouldn't have gotten me very far, unless my goal was to attract odd expressions, which it wasn't. But I was able to get a key to the room, and with that i stumbled over to the 5000 building where I met our maintenance guy, whom I suspect was some sort of a biker. He tried his best to locate our room, but eventually the lack of room numbers on the doors forced us to randomly try every one until we found one that opened.


I suspect that our hotel room was probably not the best of them. My key card to the door worked every third time, the air conditioner made a strange loud buzzing sound every 30 seconds, and there was a leak in the bathroom ceiling directly above the toilet, which we later discovered was not leaking water, but in fact a substance that was yellowish in color. I try not to think about that, though.


I stumbled back into the lobby hoping that someone else would show up who could pay me back for the room so that I might be able to afford to register for the Convention. It wasn't until later that we realized they didn't check registration at events. Oh well, it was a lovely nametag for $60, even though my name was misspelled. I'm sure I'll treasure it forever.


Just when I thought I was the only familiar face there, I noticed an odd man walking around with a Tom Servo replica handing out Forrester-green flyers. My first thought was to beat on him, take the Servo and leave him crying. But then i thought better of it and went over to say hi. Yes, it was our honorable Poobah, MSTAnon. His Servo was pretty cool. If you ever get a chance to see it, shake its hand; it does something special. Anon then proceeded to pester me for more media for the site. So I ran away screaming, and that's when I met several other weirdos: Incredible Melting Man, Locdog, Greidanus and DeRaptor. Fortunately, most of them owed me money on some level and I was able to obtain the previously mentioned nametag, which was indeed worth every cent of that $60. I hope I'm not boring you, but damn, I like that nametag.


Not a whole lot went on that Friday night (for our little group anyway). At 4 we all sat in the main ballroom and watched "Mitchell" unMSTed. (Now that I think about it, what's $60 for a nametag when you get to see the cut sex scenes of "Mitchell"? My point exactly. The Con could have ended then and I would have walked away happy.) Next was dinner. We chose to eat in the hotel restaurant. What fools we were... Now, I like a hot dog and french fries as much as the next man. But when it's the cheapest item on the menu at a meager $6.50 and it takes them over an hour to prepare it, I tend to wonder if maybe something isn't quite right. The floor show was interesting, though. It consisted of the oriental waiter shattering a glass on the floor right behind me and Greidanus knocking over a metal stand with her butt (make your own anus jokes here, I did). It was also the beginning of DeRaptor's giggling, which I have calculated to take up 74% of the time that she was awake and at least 31% of the time she was asleep.


Eventually Negaweapon showed up and we visited the Samurai88 room and watched MST3K on the entertainment center he brought along. I also met a bunch of BBoard people whom I have no idea who they are since the BBoard scares me and I don't go there. Remind me who you are sometime, since you were all pretty cool. I know you all belong to Anon's little club. He's one pushy bastard. But I digress.


Later that night our little group made our way to the Creve Coeur Hotel. The Con had arranged a showing of "X-Men" just for us. We had to get the tickets through them, though. I wondered why until I saw our tickets later. We payed $6 for a $4.50 show. I feel so used. The cabbie that took us there got lost and didn't seem to care that it was his fault when he billed us.


The movie was actually cool. We had to sit way up front, though. Then after the film, we couldn't call a cab back because we didn't have any change. So we had to beg change off random patrons leaving from other shows. It was now almost 1 AM. Bedtime? No. We spent the next 2 and a half hours wandering around the hotel giggling like drunken fools and getting into trouble (the hotel has a weird basement which can be explored quite easily, but don't play the piano in the lobby at 3 AM. They don't like that). Not bad for the first day.


The second day was sort of a blur. We did stuff. Lots of stuff. I seem to remember watching dozens of episodes of MST3K in Sam's room, but I could be exaggerating. At some point, TheCambot showed up. At 12 there was a live version of the Satellite News chat, with our usual lovely hosts Sampo and Erhardt. I liked this version better than the online version because there weren't a bunch of ninnies that I don't know scrolling MST3K refs randomly down the screen. (No offense if you're one of those ninnies, but you're a ninny.) At 2 we got to see the "Boys of MST3K" with Mike, Bill, Kevin and special guest MaryJo, who I don't believe was a Boy of MST3K, but it was nice to see her there. They were very, very funny. In retrospect, I wish I'd taped it. Afterwards, they retreated to the lobby (where it was very, very hot and that wasn't very, very funny) to sign autographs. The line was about an hour, as I recall. They signed my program. MaryJo signed it on the special guest page, and was so kind to make up for the lack of a photo of herself by filling in the empty "special guest" box with a drawing of herself. Anon, as I'm sure he's mentioned approximately 17.3 times in the newsletter so far, got Kevin to sign his Servo. By my calculations, his ego expanded approximately 43% by that point.


After the signing, we wandered around a bit and then returned. The lobby was fairly empty at this point. So we plopped down in the chairs that had recently held the Brains. I fit quite well in Bill Corbett's ass-groove. Then I noticed that Bill's empty beer bottle was sitting there on the floor. How obsessive of a fan am I? I'm afraid I have no comment. But I think someone may have a photo of me hugging it, though. And it's much cooler then the coffee cup that someone else swiped from Mike.


Then my memory fades a bit, and there's a reason for that. We watched a fan MSTing of an episode of Doctor Who. A BAD episode of Doctor Who. Some of you may be thinking to yourselves, "What other sort of Doctor Who episodes are there?" Well, I was a Doctor Who virgin, so I didn't know any better. If any of you ever catch me forgetfully attempting to watch Doctor Who again, please hurt me. I also seem to remember at some point watching the MSTed version of Laserblast in a screening room. That was very cool. No matter how good a MST episode is, it gets significantly better the more people you watch it with, and there were a couple dozen people there.


Then we went back to Sam's place and watched more MST. Eventually he wanted to go to bed and kicked us out of the room, but we were so wound up by this time that we just sort of camped out in the hallway there and giggled like fools about nothing for several hours. We watched some dumb kids run about the hall. After awhile they sort of disappeared. Seems they managed to break the elevator. Even we weren't that immature, but we have about 15 years on them. Oh well. Then I think we went to bed.


Sunday. Sunday was the day that all the wusses left, like Anon and De and Greidanus, and all you other wusses who I may be forgetting at this time. But we did stuff first. First we had breakfast at IHOP. Anon got his drink for free because there was a fly in it. Later, there was a thing we went to called "Bad Movies: How Come You Taste So Good?" That was an interesting experience. The staffer present asked me my name, used it to order a pizza on the phone, then left. He never returned. After a short time, Anon entertained us with his standup routine. Coincidentally, that's when people started to leave. After that, there was a second "Boys of MST3K" session, which I was smart enough to tape. They were just as funny this time around, and we got to watch Kevin race around the room with a microphone. Then it was back to Sam's room, until the previously mentioned wusses left.


Monday, the last day in St. Louis, consisted mostly of checking out. Thrilling, eh? To most people, no. To me, yes. You see, we had to check out at 11 AM and my flight was at 5 PM. I didn't go to the airport until 3:30, so you can see how that might be a bad thing, or so I thought. At around 2:30 I was busy being bored when Mike and Bill checked out. I just sat there for several minutes not knowing what to do. Eventually I just walked up to them and said hi. Bill liked my "Slayers" t-shirt; apparently he knows his anime. Some guys took our picture together. It had better come out or I will find him and beat him down, I swear it. My worries come from him taking about 2 minutes to properly focus my camera. Oh well, I'm sure this wasn't a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity or anything... Then I had yet another lunch in the then-empty hotel bar. Terry Pratchett sat down at the table next to me and did the same. I didn't know him though, so I didn't pester him.


My flight home was pretty neat. I sat next to the wife and daughter of a pro golfer whose name escapes me at the moment and taught them to play their travel version of Snakes and Ladders. The whole day was made complete by the 40 minute drive home from the airport in which my sister subjugated me to 40 torturous minutes of country music.


This concludes the jasoN version of the St. Louis Gateway Media Convention experience. Transcripts of this column, including a printout graphing the growth of Anon's ego over the 3 days he attended, are available in the lobby. Thank you.



August MST3K Schedule on SFC


North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
08/05/00 - 09:00 am - 0811 Parts: the Clonus Horror
08/12/00 - 09:00 am - 1006 Boggy Creek II
08/19/00 - 09:00 am - 1007 Track of the Moon Beast
08/26/00 - 09:00 am - 1008 Final Justice



Classifieds 3000


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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
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"Nice puppet."



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