| 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...
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.
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"
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."
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?"