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SOL Post 58 07/15/01
SOL Post 57 06/15/01
SOL Post 56 04/15/01


Volume 57 http://www.msties.com/ May/Jun 2001
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence

MSTies Invade Columbia U.

In This Issue

From the Poobah
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by jenny@msties.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bill@msties.com
June/July MST3K Schedules
Classifieds 3000
How You Can Contribute!

From the Poobah

Oh my, what a trip. Yes, the last-minute decision to fly on out to New York City for the MST3K panel at Columbia University combined with the newsletter's columnists submitting their pieces this week postponed this edition of the SOL Post to its old publication date of the 15th.
So on last Friday morning, yours truly woke up well before the crack of dawn at 4 am MDT in order to catch my flight to LaGuardia via Chicago Midway. On the ground in New York at 4 pm EDT, it was a half-hour, $1.50 bus ride from LaGuardia in Queens to Alfred Lerner Hall in Manhattan. Armed only with a duffel bag for my clothes and potential autograph fodder plus a backpack for NYC souvenirs, I tried not to look too much like a big white guy jaunting around the city as the out-of-place tourist I was.
Since the bus dropped me off right outside a Japanese grocery store and the restaurant made famous by some comedian's sitcom just two blocks south of the event's venue, I grabbed some sushi for dinner and eagerly awaited the evening's panel while sitting on a bench on the boulevard of Broadway. Good stuff, really. Not wasting any time, I walked the two blocks up to Lerner Hall and camped out for the next two hours leading up to the show. Slowly but surely, my fellow MSTies streamed into a slowly forming line and enjoyed each other's obsessive companies during the wait.
When the doors finally opened at 7:30, those of us at the very front of the line made a mad dash for front row, center seats. We were certainly in for quite a show...
I'll complete the text of this report alongside what few pictures I could take prior and following the laugh-in with a new entry in the site's Spotlight section sometime this month. In the meantime, enjoy the SOL Post and see how you can contribute!

"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by jenny@msties.com

Hey do you remember when Krankor mania swept the land? Well it was a long time ago when "Prince of Space" first premiered. Though the movie flopped, everyone loved Krankor. He was on talk shows, in newspapers and on t- shirts. But did you know that he and Big Bird dated? It's true. I decided to go to Sesame Street and talk to the Bird about this failed Hollywood romance. (Sesame Street and all related elements belong to Henson Productions. Just so you know, I always thought Big Bird was girl. I don't know why. It never clamed a sex and if it did, I missed it.)

Big Bird: Hello, nice to have you here.
Kismet1 (trying to get comfortable in Big Bird's nest): Nice to be here. Now, Big Bird, I know this is old stuff, but I wanted to talk to you about your brief romance with Krankor. Do you mind talking about it?
Big Bird: No, I don't mind. That relationship should have ended long before it began. I don't know why I ever went out with him.
Kismet1: So why did you?
Big Bird: I guess everyone just expected it. They thought that just because some Hollywood stars have only one thing in common or look good together, they should go out. So we were always sitting together at award ceremonies and dinners.
Kismet1: So was it all public pressure or were you one time attracted to Krankor?
Big Bird: Sure I was attracted to him. I mean, what bird wouldn't be? He had a lot of good qualities.
Kismet1: Like what?
Big Bird: Well, he had great sense of humor, always laughing. Great fashion and decorating taste. He was very powerful and decisive.
Kismet1: So why did you guys break up?
Big Bird: He was possessive. He always said he was going to conquer me and take over Sesame Street.
Kismet1: Really?
Big Bird: But he never did. He was all talk with no follow through. Plus he was such a coward and a wimp. He once threatened Elmo. Elmo just scratched his nose and Krankor backed off.
Kismet1: Wow.
Big Bird: Plus he couldn't pick up a clue if life depended on it.
Kismet1: How so?
Big Bird: Well I had to tell him it was over about million times before he left me alone. I came this close to getting a restraining order.
Kismet1: What a messy break up. So are you seeing any one now?
Big Bird: Yes, I'm now dating Snuffalupugus.
Kismet1: That's great. Now as I remembered, you and Krankor supported many organizations.
Big Bird: Oh yes, Krankor was good leader. He had many ideas but would obsess about them and wouldn't let go no matter what.
Kismet1: How so?
Big Bird: Well, we were supporting several animal rights organizations. We did some charity work in Hollywood with the Gill Man.
Kismet1: Oh yes, I talked with him a few weeks ago.
Big Bird: We were in an organization for birds and everything was going great. But Krankor wanted to be the leader of the organization. He and the Gill Man had big fight and he got kicked out the organization. I knew then that the relationship was over.
Kismet1: I bet he still came around trying take over the place, though.
Big Bird: Oh, you have no idea. Once the police had to take him away to jail. After that he never came back.
Big Bird: Krankor had a strange vision of birds leading the world.
Kismet1: A world where birds evolve from man?
Big Bird: No, just one where they took control of the world's countries.
Kismet1: Oh, I see.
Big Bird: I knew it wouldn't work.
Kismet1: Why?
Big Bird: Not to be down or anything, but most birds are not good leaders. I mean, sure there are a few ducks and I guess they can lead a flock down south, but that's about it.
Kismet1: Don't forget the chickens that can count.
Big Bird: Oh yes, them too. But if you give bird hard job like writing a peace treaty or reducing the budget, they won't do very good job.
Kismet1: Is that where the phrase 'feather-brained' came from?
Big Bird: Yes, most birds can't make hard decisions. That's why I have a manager and an agent: people I can trust to help mange my funds and make the hard decisions so all I have to do is perform and not go into debt like Bert.
Kismet1: Bert's in debt?!
Big Bird: Whoops, I didn't mean to say that. See, he has taste for those pigeon races. Ernie helps to keep him out of the red. That's why they're still living together.
Kismet1: Are you sure that's the ONLY reason they're still living together?
Big Bird: Hey, we have saying on this street. As long you don't hurt anyone and you don't bring it up when the cameras are running, it's nobody's business.
Kismet1: Sure, but what do you think?
Big Bird: Hey, when did this interview turn to the subject of Bert and Ernie?
Kismet1: You're the one that brought it up.
Big Bird: I don't have any answer to this question.
Kismet1: Okay geez, I'm sorry.
Big Bird: It's okay, but I have to go.
Kismet1: Thanks for you time.

"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bill@msties.com

Vol. 3, Issue 8
Feeling Hot Hot Hot: Summertime, and the living is greasy!

Summer sucks in a whole lot of ways, but there truly is nothing worse than heat. Now, we are not talking about that warm breeze that wafts across your brow as winter begins to shed its icy skin for spring. And there is no ill will felt for the roasting fire, waiting for chestnuts, cold footpads and drunken Texas frat boys to nuzzle up to it and awaken their inner temperate zone. A hot, steamy cup of coffee, latte, chocolate or Dr. Pepper is a great way to start your morning, and your colon. And there is no better feeling on a bracing November evening than leaping into your bed, doing a full one and one half gainer with a twist, and landing in the middle of a big, huggly-snuggly down comforter and proceeding to root around like a dyspeptic badger settling in for a somber seasonal siesta.
No, the kind of heat we're referring to is the thick, dank, fetid kind; the primordial ozone of Hell itself; its the inside of Satan's Dan skin; it feels like the moist, blotchy terrarium nightmare that is Joe Don Baker's Spiderman underoos or the inside seam of Old Man Crenshaw's bayou baked bib overalls. It fires across your face like a bacon-y belch after an IHOP Golden Fruit Rootey and it streams across your body like boiling mineral oil being liberally brushed upon your overheated carcass, basting you into a state of advance prostration. It's the kind of heat that turns your forehead into a sweat waterfall, your back into a soggy Rorschach test, and your butt crack into Joseph Conrad's biochemical Heart of Darkness. In places like Arizona, it manifests itself in dry aridness, making people glad they don't live in Texas or Florida. In places like the Cattle and Sunshine states, it turns people into serial killers and Jeb Bush.
Sure, when you are laying on the beach, brazing the upper layers of your epidermis into a pre-cancerous long pig rind, the generous blast of the Sun's hydrogen factory makes the acrid red tide smell of an ocean filled with half- dead croppies that much more palatable, not to mention the melanoma all the more malignant. And after seven hours in the frozen tundra of a Midwest maelstrom, trying your damnest to put one foot in front of the other (in true Winter Warlock fashion) less frostbite become your toe jams latest side dish, the fatty blast of a good old fashioned basement oil furnace is welcome along the odiferous and slowly turning gangrenous appendages. In Wok cookery, high temperatures are a must, less your Chow Mien become minor and your Moo Goo Gai simply stick to the Pan. Spicy foods are also fine, unless its one of those abnormal India curries which substitutes the dark matter of black holes for Garum Marsala. One only eats those if they have a lead lined alimentary canal and an asbestos anus.
However, when heat becomes less beneficial and more dictatorial, when it tells you what to wear, when to open your door and just how rank you will indeed smell, it is time to consider the alternatives. You could while away your remaining days in the various and sundry mountain ranges of the world, with cool crisp air filled with the pungent aroma of pine trees, snowfall and Appalachian children surrounding you. Perhaps you'd prefer an extended stay in the fertile farm field of America's heartland. It's no worse than the Gulf Coast, and what would you rather put up with? Tornados, blizzards and the occasional plague of locusts, or hurricanes, brush fires and elderly white men in tank tops and Bermuda shorts, puffy and aged skin reddened and ripe with age spots? Maybe you'll want to make the leap all the way to Canada or Canada Jr., otherwise known as Montana, where the only time things get hot is when discussing Quebec, the death penalty or domestic beer. Finally, either one of the poles, would be perfect for the person wishing to avoid the whole $5 T- shirt and saltwater taffy tackiness of the touristy tropics. After all, the Artic or its southern Ant have very few outlet malls. Or all you can eat Asian buffets.
But the one thing you would never, ever want to do is make matter worse. And yet that is exactly what the Dufus family does in the recently unveiled great lost MST3K short, Assignment: Venezuela. Instead of heeding the heat and getting right out of kitchen, they throw frying pan into the fire, toss baby into the scalding bathwater and motor toward the Equator, Hades halfway point. "Better 'Bots and Satellites," having recently viewed this long lost wonder, offers the following warnings as to why exactly one would want to avoid Central and South America all together, unless you are talking about Brazil. That is one swinging place.

The boss walks into your office. He seems a little more pensive than usual. You realize that this may be the first time ever that he has ever stepped foot in the 4 x 8 cubicle that you call Hell House, or your workstation. (He's never seen the Dilbert and Dogbert combination pen, pencil and penicillin holder. He may like the Dale Earnhardt commemorative mouse pad, or even the Dale Earnhardt Jr. decorative back and neck support. He'll probably object to the Gilmore Girls At-A-Glance Wall Calendar, but even an old, tired coot like him could not find the Fiona Apple flexible stick ruler fetching.) His cholesterol choked heart and bottom lined filled head tired from the extended rat race he has found his life and/or career track on, the stooped over superior pulls the Triple H wastebasket from beside your stress reducing, anatomically designed desk chair and overturns it, spilling Subway sandwich and Met-Rx Bar wrappers all over the floor. He places a pale and pensive paw on your tired forearm, and utters the words that you have been longing to hear:
"Congratulations, Henderson, you've been promoted. Pack your bags, you and your family are moving to the Dry Tortugas."
As he leaves, lumbering down the corridor leaving a mist of failure and one too many Rob Roys in his wake, and right before you make that personal call to the Missus and proclaim your fiduciary fortune, perhaps you should stop and think: is this actually an upgrade? A professional betterment? A vocational vacation, or is it only an invitation to dance with scorpions, constant body odor and prickly heat. If only the henpecked hero in Assignment: Venezuela, had stopped to ask a few questions, maybe he wouldn't have looked so lost, limp and out to lunch. The next time your occupational better wanders in to pitch the notion of you making a bee line to Belize, ask him the following questions:
(A) Will this new job consist mainly of sweating profusely?
(B) Will I be required to spend countless hours dodging the sun and its ultraviolet radiation?
(C) Should I start hydrating now?
(D) Does the insurance plan cover all types of skin cancer?
(E) Does the insurance plan cover all types of stroke, or just the conventional, paralyzing non-heat type?
(F) Was being pitted out part of my job description when I signed on?
(G) Can I still get a letter of recommendation from you if I, right now, knee you in the groin and run away screaming like a little girl?
Once you've covered the basics, issues regarding weekly Solarcane allowances and a Malaria prospectus can be worked out. And remember: you went to community college for this!

There is an episode of the classic I Love Lucy in which the aforementioned Ms. Ball is writing a Hispanic play for hubby Ricky to star in. She offers a copy of the completed script to her blousy and buttery best friend, played with vim, vigor and a little Vitalis by Vivian Vance. Agreeing to help rehearse this future Tony winner, she opens the pages, seems confused, recalls the appropriate sense memory, and awaits her cue. The comedy begins, as Lucy enters the room draped in a taco franchise style shawl and the following hilarious exchange occurs:
Lucy: Buenas Dias, Mamasita Como Estan?
Ethel: My bean low kitta.
Guess you had to be there. Anyway, this is a perfect example of why South Americanos hate Norte Americanos. The language barrier is just that, a means of keeping the Spanish and English away from each other, like delineating the masculine and feminine gender of a word, or the Alamo. If one finds themselves knee deep in Cinco de Mayo without a pelota, than follow these easy steps to a truly bi-lingual communication breakdown.
Rule #1 - Something spoken loudly, and incorrectly, is still being spoken loudly, and as such, should be paid attention to, damnit.
Rule #2 - Failing the proper pronunciation of a word, it is always better to make it sound even more silly by adding stereotypical suffixes like "-eo", "-io", and "-ole".
Rule #3 - A sentence like "Yo quiero Taco Bell" is, never has been nor never will be a workable pick up line.
Rule #4 - Being able to say "I appreciate all the help you have given me," in Spanish is one thing, but knowing how to blurt out, "Should I really be vomiting this much blood," will come in far handier.
Rule #5 - "Si" means "yes". No means No. "Que" means "what" and "caca" is rather self-explanatory.
And don't forget. Nothing is more fluent louder to a person earning $.25 per day slaving away in a multinational sweatshop pumping out designer watchbands than the almighty US dollar. Either that, or just shouting at them. I mean they must be deaf, not understanding English.

Nothing screams the summer electric better than the searing kiss of cool flesh on blistering metal. Remember when your wicked Uncle Ernie grabbed your short shorted behind and propped you up on the hood of his sun seasoned Oldsmobile, thigh backs hitting the white hot fender with a sizzle that would make Emeril Lagasse swoon. Or am I the only one? Anyway, the sun loves metal and visa versa. The natives of the Central and Southern Americas understood this, and chose to build their adobes, doublewides and ranch style subdivisions out of dirt, peat and mud. You see, your basic compost holds onto the sun only when it is necessary, letting go of the wanton warmth when the dweller needed a repast. They would never think of cutting an industrial sized coffee can in half, and then living in it. They may drink from the same river they pee in, but they know better than to live in a human sized roasting oven.
But that is what a Quonset hut is: a half-moon of metal stuck into concrete with magma and lava, and then lined with toaster wires and convection fans. Now, in Iceland or North Dakota, this would be a fairly viable living option. The tin roof can rust and all manner of hail and/or gallstones can pelt the foundation, and with an acetylene torch and a ball peen hammer, you're Norm Abrams. But in the equatorial easy bake environment to our South, a Quonset hut becomes a George Foreman grill with convenient high intensity nuclear meltdowns on all sides for even blood boiling. Now imagine living inside, all stifling day and night long: hair crispy and starting to smell; pores excreting toxins, precious bodily fluids and McDonald's cheeseburgers. Hinder producing it's own gravy and armpits swarming with sea monkeys. Suddenly, the concept of burning in Hell forever comes sharply into focus. And seems like an improvement.

Overly starched white shirts with pressed collars and crisp cuffs. A Seersucker suit made of the finest manufactured fibers, all insulating and constricted. Tight leather shoes housing support hosed legs and palm-ade plastered pates with hard angled fedoras adorning them like fabric caps on ready to burst overheated human radiators. Women in gowns, dresses and Capri pants, hair piled high and heavy upon their overly pan caked mugs. Wool jumpers housing flannel under wire bras, and long, skin suffocating silk hose slicked on the legs like paint on a Laugh-In dancer. While the style of clothing in the Fifties lent a sort of moral and social decency to everything it came in contact with, there is no denying that in the sultry swamplands of Tropic of Cancer, there is nothing more out of place. Or chaffing.
Little children had it much worse. Mom and Dad were used to binding their beef and booze bloated bodies and bodices into all manner of ill fitting garments just to go to the grocery store, but Junior and Little Kim were used to wandering the landscape fresh, clean and pressed in smart dungarees and cottony summer dresses. The t-shirt was a badge of honor and the short pant a coming of age. Then they hit the warmer climes, and Pop thinks nothing of making little Johnny march around in a pair of itchy dress pants and a mohair dress shirt. Suzy, carefree and simple, is introduced to a whole world of undergarments that she is mentally, and physically ill prepared for. And all of this is in pursuit of the ever-elusive white man's burden of trying to convince the far more comfortably dressed natives that the gringos are wry and sophisticated, when all they really should be is dry and odor free.

I hate to break it to the dearly departed Duke of Dork rock, but sunshine on one's shoulder, eyes or even on the water is neither a cause or source of happiness, a reason to weep (unless you've burnt out your retinas) and could hardly even be considered at even a Dorothy Kilgowen level of loveliness. In Venezuela, it is hot! Unbelievably hot! Friggin' in the riggin' hot! Smokin' hot! Powerfully hot! J Lo at the Grammys hot! The sun beats down on your brain until it becomes a Hannibal Lector entree, and your ears buzz with an internal hotfoot that no amount of Lipton iced tea can brisk you away from. You start to think weird thoughts: insects would make a viable food source. Soccer is an entertaining sport. Drying and crushing this fermented leaf into a white powder would create quite the economic boom for my 32 children and myself. Someone once said that a person could go crazy from the heat. The fact that Ricky Martin was huge in lower half of the Western hemisphere for years before he made it big in the US of A seems to bear that out.
Sunshine is not your friend; it is your worst enemy. It bakes the skin into fine leather, suitable for handbags and shoes, but not a garment bag, as it tends to clash with Armani and Donna Karan. It fades colors to the point that street gangs in Peru are named after the primary colors in their bandanas: the Pearls, the Eggshells and the Vanillas. Without some water to counteract its destructive properties, it provides draught, blight and that really boss looking cracked earth pattern upon the ground. Sunshine may have been a favorite fixation with Johnny D, but ask him what he was thinking about as his plane was plummeting to the rock hard ocean surface. I doubt very seriously it had anything to do with sunspots, solar winds or flares. Solar power, maybe.
So the next time you are dying for a Rocket pop but there is not a single non-molester owned Ice Cream truck in view, as the sweltering day turns into a balmy night and the re-circulated air machine you rely on to keep sane picks up and moves to Minnesota and you've taken yet another tepid shower while never once moving from your Barca-lounger, remember this one thing. Billions of years from now when your overheated and sun soaked body is nothing more than the dust under an atomically destroyed and rebuilt civilization, or swimming in the undersea mud after the final melting of the earth's ice cubes into its evolutionary cocktail, the star at the middle of our galaxy will blink a couple of times, grow dim and fade from view. And like God turning out the light on the kids in the backyard, life will take its assortment of human Pokémon and finally go to bed. And the earth will be covered in ice. And on a nearby planet somewhere, some alien slob in a sweat soaked space suit will wish he lived there. On second thought, lets not think about it. It's just so damn hot!

June/July MST3K Schedules

Sci-Fi Channel
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
06/02/01 - 9:00 am - 1010 It Lives By Night
06/09/01 - 9:00 am - 1004 Future War
06/16/01 - 9:00 am - 0817 Horror of Party Beach
06/23/01 - 9:00 am - 0818 Devil Doll
06/30/01 - 9:00 am - 1009 Hamlet
07/07/01 - 9:00 am - 0913 Quest of the Delta Knights
07/14/01 - 9:00 am - 0910 Final Sacrifice
07/21/01 - 9:00 am - 1003 Merlin's Shop of Mystical Wonders
07/28/01 - 9:00 am - 0822 Overdrawn at the Memory Bank

Montevallo, AL
{All times are Central and tentative, at Gwen Cupp's House unless noted}
06/01/01 - 7:00 pm - EPISODE TBA (invite-only, not at Gwen's)
06/15/01 - 7:00 pm - 0604 Zombie Nightmare
07/06/01 - 7:00 pm - 0019 Hangar 18
07/20/01 - 7:00 pm - 0812 Incredibly Strange Creatures

Colorado State University - Fort Collins, CO
{On hiatus until classes start again in August.}

Classifieds 3000

ahaws@thegrid.net writes: "We all have choices in life. Some are easy: Kirk or Picard? Some are a little tougher: Ren or Stimpy, chocolate or vanilla? Some are downright cruel: Joel or Mike, Bobo or TV's Frank, Dr. F or Mrs. F? The debates will keep raging but they won't keep you from watching. Join Andrew & Company for open discussion... but not during the episode, okay? Certified MSTies by the MST3K Info Club: Andrew & Co, CrowNTom@bolt.com, (408) 514-2600 x7813 (with apologies to Sam Swanson)."

How You Can Contribute!

Members of MSTies Anonymous are always invited to contribute MST-related articles to this newsletter, plug their MST3K activities/sites/etc. in the Classifieds 3000, or even start up a regular column of their own! Stuck for ideas on what to write about? Try the following...

#(8)o Biography of a Brain
#(8)o MST ASCII art
#(8)o Short MSTings of a Usenet posts
#(8)o Any episode/season review
#(8)o 'Bot building experiences
#(8)o MST event experiences
#(8)o Turn your favorite newspaper article into your own about MST
#(8)o Gateway Con
#(8)o Tape trading trials and tribulations
#(8)o MST site development hell
#(8)o Old series war tales

The SOL Post is published each month on the 15th, so all items to be published are due on the 14th. Write early, and write often! Huzzah!


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.

Events presented by MSTies Anonymous of Colorado may be sponsored by one or more of the following campus groups: the Associated Students of Colorado State University, the Association for Student Activity Programming, and/or the Panhellenic Council (long story).

Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters and situations are copyright 2001 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.

© 2001 MSTies Anonymous
The Poobah
Jet Jaguar kret0419@blue.UnivNorthCo.edu
Zen Psycho zenpsycho@yahoo.com


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