SOL Post 48	06/15/00
SOL Post 47	05/15/00
SOL Post 46	04/15/00

S.O.L. POST

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Volume 47	http://www.msties.com/	May 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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DVD!

In This Issue

From the Poobah
"DVD Review: Eegah!" by kristjo@flash.net
"Oh Sci-Fi, Why/Only God Knows Why" by Odie51584@aol.com
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by kismetgirl88@hotmail.com
"Just an Old-Fashioned SOLove-In" by ferriswiel@juno.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
May MSTie of the Month: MST3KGirl007@aol.com
June MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers

From the Poobah

Note to self: don't play Zelda VI while recovering from E3 on the 15th. Therefore, trivia will be put off until next month. Sorry about the inconvenience; the MST Aptitude Test will of course remain open.

"DVD Review: Eegah!" by kristjo@flash.net

After months of hoping, Rhino has finally started releasing MST3K episodes on DVD. Having bought a DVD player some six-month prior, I vowed never to buy a VHS tape again, so when Amazon.com started accepting pre-orders for the show, I ordered promptly.

For those of you who don't know about DVD, it's a new recording format utilizing a silver plastic disk that looks exactly like a CD-ROM, but can hold approximately six gigabytes of data per side, assuming the DVD has only one layer of data. DVDs can potentially hold 16 hours of recordings, if all four layers are used on both sides. And if that weren't enough, DVD allows for multiple audio tracks, allowing commentary to be played along with the movie, so the director can explain the choices he or she made in the movie. It also permits the additions of extra material like the "making of" featurette that is shown on TV before a movie is released, or just the trailer that precedes the movie's release. These "Extras" have come to be expected by DVD aficionados, and you see them more and more as standard issue with new releases.

One more note about DVDs: those who develop the DVDs for release are honoring MST3K when they expand the commentary track with the addition of shadowrama, showing the speakers at the bottom of the screen. There is no argument about the influence for this, and most DVD sites that mention them call them "MST3K Treatment". I've already seen this on a few of the newer releases.

506 Eegah comes on a one sided DVD with a bright color label, and it offers both the regular episode and the unMSTed movie. This appears to be a standard arrangement for all the Rhino releases, since they must get the rights to a movie anyway. It's also great to see the scenes cut by MST3K, which is easy since Rhino has included the title "Cut Scene #" in the chapter selections for easy access.

When you start the DVD, you're treated to an animated menu screen showing the bots chattering away on the bridge of the SOL, where you can choose the regular episode, the unMSTed movie, a preview screen of available Rhino MST3K videos (both VHS and DVD), and a screen showing the Rhino Web Page. These are pretty poor pickings as extras go, and I had hoped for a little extra. I would have liked to see the Comedy Central promo that Best Brains produced for the show, or at least some brief video item like a Best Brains interview. I know a commentary track would be absent!

The movie looks better than you're likely to ever have seen it, even as a cable broadcast. The colors are vibrant and the image is sharp. The scenes in Deep 13 look especially nice, with Dr. F's lab coat almost fluorescing.

The movie looks better, too, but there's only so much improvement to be expected. The print Best Brains was provided wasn't perfect, and scratches and defects throughout are obvious. At one point, a few seconds of discoloration looks as though a Smurf was pulled into the projector and ground to a film- ruining pulp. However, the director isn't Ridley Scott, and the movie doesn't suffer.

The DVD is a must-have, and is priced to move at Amazon.com for under $12. Rhino has also released 513 Brain That Wouldn't Die, and I hope we'll see others later. Perhaps Rhino will be encouraged by the DVD formats success and release other Best Brains products like the Scrapbook Tape or the Comedy Central Documentary. We can only hope.

"Oh Sci-Fi, Why/Only God Knows Why" by Odie51584@aol.com
Play "Oh Sci-Fi, Why/Only God Knows Why" MIDI (Frames only)

"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by kismetgirl88@hotmail.com

On watching 801 Revenge of the Creature for tenth or so time I realized something: John Agar does not work well with animals. He just doesn't. Take a closer look at the monkey screen, which I'm guessing, was supposed to be funny. Ask yourself what went wrong with it, and answer will come up: John Agar. The monkey was great, the lines though little cornball-ish, were fine. Everything was going good until John Agar steps in the room. Somehow this man sucked all fun out room. One can observes the pain in the monkey's eyes. One can see he doesn't work well with them.

Now working with monkeys is fairly easy especial if it a comedy. True it is tougher when one works with monkeys and it's a serious role, but it can be done. Monkeys are easy work with; that's why they're in movie and TV more and more. They're great for comedy because of undeniable fact that monkeys are always funny. Look at the Chimp Channel on TBS. But Agar somehow can't do it. Heck, even Ronald Regan or Clint Eastwood can act circles around Agar with a monkey.

To be fair to Agar I must bring up that some people just don't work well with monkeys. Take Matthew Leblanc and Tony Danza; neither are good when comes to working with monkeys. But Agar not only doesn't work well with just monkeys but all animals. Look at "Revenge" again and notice there not many scenes with Chris the Dog and Agar. All animals seem almost uncomfortable when get on screen with animals. Even the Gill Man seemed has little bit trouble working with Agar.

Now I'm not saying Agar did anything bad to these animals, he just doesn't work well with them. Almost like some curse the animals film career die after appearing on screen with Agar. Take the Gill Man; there were no more Creature movies after on with Agar and if you find one it's a Gill Man imposter. Not real thing but close facsimile. It's almost like being on Hollywood's black list for animals when they appear with Agar. Thought some, like Gill Man who want retire after working with Agar, there were some didn't. But they couldn't get a gig.

Not only in this movie but others, like "Mole People". Notice there was never "Mole People 2: Really Getting Down and Dirty"? No appear on screen with Agar ruined there once bright chances at stardom. Only the people at MST3K were willing give Jerry and Sylvia a chance, even though they both appear in movie with Agar. And if one looks at an old episode you can see how well they work and even shine with out Agar. For a time I thought they going to make comeback like Travolta. But alas, it was not so.

For poor animal, which either retires or just could get job, working with Agar was their kiss of death. Some live happily retire glad that they will never have work with Agar or someone like Agar again. Though some are not and just keep the happy memory of there once bright future. But things like this can stop. Either Hollywood can find in its heart to give animals a second chance or make sure person they're hiring can work well with animals. If they can't, then warn animals or something. People like us can help by supporting the Animal Support Agency. And above all don't let an animal and John Agar get in same movie.

"Just an Old-Fashioned SOLove-In" by ferriswiel@juno.com

Well, last month's Invasion, or SOLove-In as I like to call it, went off without a hitch. There were at least several people there. I was more than impressed.

We viewed 303 Pod People, what appears to have been a Canadian student film, complete with gasmasks, zealous fog machine usage, employment of local talent (even for a music number - I want the soundtrack) and shower-killing scene. Chuckles and giggles, even outright guffaws sounded throughout the darkened room as Joel and the 'Bots ripped Trumpy and friends a new one.

After a brief intermission, complete with free drinking fountain water, a name was drawn to determine who would receive an episode to have and to hold. The winner was, oh, I don't give a tinker's damn who it was. The dickweed wasn't even there, but the esteemed society leaders decided, in an act of benevolent dictatorship to bestow the prize anyhow.

Following some confusion, uproar, the overturning of a few desks, and the severe beating of those responsible, the second movie (a non MSTed film) began.

The second movie, "Invasion of the Saucer Men", starred oh hell, who cares. It was designed to be a campy "teenagers beat the invaders from outer space" sci- farce. References to "The War" abound as Johnny and Joan, just two kids in love, hit a downed space creature with Johnny's car, it then, post-mortem, pops the front passenger-side tire (that wouldn't have happened if he had used Firestone steel-belted radials). They are forced to walk. The Riddler of Adam West fame, Frank Gorshin, was in the flick as a drifter/gay lover or some such nonsense who sees the crash, spots the alien under Johnny's car, and is offed by little green men with eyes that can kill people with their hands on their eyes - I think. One devilishly witty individual kept saying, "Riddle me this..." as our buddy Frank kept trying to solve the mystery of the aliens, apparently there were clues at the bottom of his hip flask because he nursed that thing incessantly. He wasn't even killed off well or with any dramatic flair. These aliens also understood that they could pin the murder on Johnny if they exchanged Frank Gorshin's body for the body of their downed comrade (call Commissioner Gordon). Bumbling cops, stupid D.A.'s, military operatives, and lusty teenagers fill the backstories (and backseats) while Johnny and Joan team up with Frank's lover/friend/whatever he was, Artie in order to kill off the extra-terrestrials.

Having ripped it as well as we could (without any prior scripting -- painful -- Joel and the 'Bots had it much easier), we then went our separate ways (a demonstrably smaller number of MSTies left at the end than were there at the start).

On a more personal note, I went so that I might scope out the ladies and, sure enough, there were ladies there. This concept of dual-gender schooling and fraternizing is puzzling to me, but it seems to work. The only problem I see is that when a MSTie brings his significant other and she sits and rolls her eyes (within sockets, of course) as he riffs on a pitiful film (and the one we saw was a doozie) this can only put undue stress on his relationship with his fellow MSTies. Pal, I say, lose the girl. If she has no sense of decency then let that bird fly.

Like I said, though, it went off without a hitch (or a buggy for that matter).

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

Vol. 2, Issue 10
Some Velvet Morning When I’m Straight: Are He-Men the Masters of the Universe?

Why is everything in the world becoming so sissified? Why is it, every time you turn around, there is another whisper thin, androgynous man-boy-girl child selling you everything from under arm deodorant to home mortgages? Is it something in the air? Perhaps the result of one too many fast food meals at places that determine the quality of their meat and meat-by-products by the FDA mandates for minimum and maximum amount of rodent hairs and insect parts? Have we polluted our mutual gene pools so much that all that can come blasting out of Mommy's infant factor after a raucous night of Tangerine lip gloss, Barbequed Corn Nuts and Love's Baby Soft is a lot of defective, bowlegged troll like pixie/gnomes with their eyes either too far apart or too close together with impeccably plucked and tweezed eyebrows? Like the Residents once so accurately stated, "I have some questions that are guaranteed to shake you up."
See, there was a time when men were men, manly and masculine in their bulky, hulky throbbing and perspiring pulchritude. Wedged into a pair of Sears brand relax fit workpants or pressed and starched into a Hart, Schaffner and Marx off the rack 3 piece formal prison, men went off to turn the world on with their piles. Men enjoyed the sights, the sounds and the blue humor of other men. Long before Jimmy Kimmel and Adam Carolla were squirming around in their Captain Planet Underoos, (and this is while filming that flimsy premise for a jiggle fest called 'The Man Show'), beefy and plump Dad's sauntered off to work in an oversized, gas gorging land cruiser with an up market and extravagant name like LTD, El Dorado or Continental, plopped themselves down at an undersized desk just perfect for chasing a secretary around, and counted the minutes to the expansive beef and booze belch-a-thon that would arrive around 11:30am. Then the real work would begin.
Father was the boss, the king of the castle, the ruler of the roost, able to solve all of life's problems with a wave of his pipe and a review of Andrew Carnegie's 'The Power of Positive Thinking'. During what seemed to be ample free time, he would engage in either oversized hobbies like woodworking, creating trundle beds and mini-bars from leftover bits of the split level tree house he had built for you the summer before, or over obsess in minutia, creating 18th Century battleships inside Chevas Regal bottles, or piling up the pewter and hand painted soldiers for another go at the Battle of Bull Run. He demanded respect, chiefly because he was a man, a tool user, walking upright, above and beyond everyone, regardless of sex, class or race and if you failed to honor that position, you met the back of his gentle, guiding hand. Who cares if their hearts tended to burst around their mid-50's? They lived a Hell a life before then.
Even the media understood this pain of the macho, and exploited it to its very maxim. Actors and media stars had hard, brawny names like Humphrey, Troy, Rock, Dirk and Chet. They smoked filter less cigarettes and fat bulbous cigars, daring the cancer to race to their lungs or lips. They inhaled fifths and pints and still drove the several dozen miles to their cinematic suburban homes as if nothing, not even the occasional dead pedestrian, mattered. And when they needed a little clap and tickle, they would cuddle up with the first non-spousal lady they met, shmoozing and bruising her until the perfume had worn off and then, like so much flavorless gum, he would spit them out and into the gutter from whence they came.
So, where did it all go wrong? When did that Honcho centerfold-in-training who plays the faux father in 'Malcolm in the Middle' replace Fred MacMurray or the semi-sober Hugh Beaumont? When did Uncle Charlie, a.k.a. William Demerest find his replacement in the Yosemite Same as drag queen persona of Michael Jeter? Since when did a blood spilling and gun toting action hero metamorphosize into Nicolas Cage, all frowns and downers as he reluctantly kills the bad guys, all in the name of saving his daughter's My Little Pony collection? When was the day when the world, to paraphrase the group X-Ray Spex, "went homo"? Well, "Better 'Bots and Satellites" has researched the vast vaults of MST3K and has a few theories on the feminization of the lost and soon to be extinct American (or global, for that matter - unless we are talking about those nations which worship the Y chromosome so much that they sell/kill/enslave the newborn females of their race, like it is so much leftover 'Phantom Menace' merchandise) male. And what we have uncovered may be as unpleasant and revealing as that daily dose of the car accident as talk show named 'Roseanne' as her cancelled experiment in mass media limps to its psychotic end.
Men are pigs, right ladies? Rutting in their own filth, unable to properly cleanse or groom themselves in appropriate Ryan Phillipe fashion so as to accentuate their femininity and downplay their meat moles? Nothing more than walking and talking sacks of vital organs that would serve their purpose better if they were warehoused and catalogued in a Robin Cook inspired notion of Sam's Club? Well, someone beat you to the punch and cookies, so to speak, with the movie 'Parts: the Clonus Horror'. Here is a film that envisions humans as stumbling, mouth breathing food chain bottom feeders, all to willing to raise genetic duplications like veal, except without the compassion. Sure, they throw the occasional female specimen at the camera in hopes of stirring the lackluster loins of the average male moviegoer. But they really wanna chafe the very chaps who sign the checks.
Now, they say a picture is worth a thousand words. A movie has 24-pictured frames within it per second of action. At 90 minutes, close to 130 billion expressions and impressions can be made. And if they are, specifically involving Richard, the permed worm from 'Parts', they all spell one thing very clearly: MORON! Now, you can't really blame poor Dicky. He has had a rather complicated existence. From his mother's test tube untimely ripped, and grown like organic aruggala by devotees of Dr. Kolos, he has always been a little disconnected from the health spa as reeducation camp world that he has lived in since he was just a pre-Clonus. So what if he has the IQ of Forrest Gump's idiot brother, Woody or as much common sense as your average professional athlete. He was hand crafted, in America, by true blue US trained and educated genetic engineers. Come to think about it that explains quite a bit.
When it turns out that he was, indeed fashioned, Eve-style, from Peter Grave's diseased prostate, the final pieces of the male bashing puzzle all begin to fall into place. All the silver screen suspicions are obvious. Men are barely adequate as a kind of biological NAPA, throwing a piston, or a fit, whenever things don't go 100% their way. He is supposedly made perfect by his God, but is uncovered as a fraud, nothing more than a pale, sickly reflection of his biological male parent. He is confused by women, afraid to commit even when their open hips and cross eyes are screaming hold me, touch me, and thrill me! Unable to relate to the fake world he has had built around him, he drops out into the reality of the real world and becomes over stimulated, running to a teetering grandfather-ish Keenan Wynn for guidance and support. He cries when he is sad, opening his mouth in a Steiger as Pawnbroker like yawn. He is not a model man, hu or otherwise.
Truth be told, Little Ricky really is a dimwit: A sandwich short of a picnic: a slim Hispanic short of a boy band. When he comes across an old beer can, floating in the river, what's the first thing he does? Does he recycle it? Does he attempt to transform it, with the help of yarn and tin cutters into a stylish hat? Does he even know what it is? Nope, he turns it over to his male masters like a teen caught outside a 7-11 with a six pack of Zima and retreats to his cubicle like room to contemplate his lack of navel or any semblance of a sex drive. He is the proto puss, the pathetic archetype for every touchy feely therapy inspired and repressed memory reliving insipid mock male that roams the local Border's looking to meet a future alimony payment in Feminist Fiction. He is a reflection of our times, a reminder that behind every lame man is the tainted sperm bank who required the aid of medical science to spawn him.
Or maybe you want men deconstructed because you think they are nothing more than sexual carnivores, looking to devour each and every female entity they see like so many Lil' Smokies on the Sunday morning breakfast bar at Shoneys. Ripe and ready to let rip with a series of carnal cat calls, weasel-y wolf whistles, and, in general, acting like the hyperactive (if still hilarious as all get out) characters in a Tex Avery short, you find men to be harassments in the making, a wink, pinch, or winch away from a date with Gloria Allred. They deserve to be undermined and underlibidoed. Instead of Viagra, they need a kind of atomic Salt Peter to keep the bull in the barn and the mushroom in the manure. This may explain something of the dynamic duo of Ben Murphy and Jim Stafford in the all but a propaganda film for the National Organization of Women and appropriate entitled 'Riding with Death'. In the case of the novelty tune spewing Master Stafford, one can only hope that the journey is a short one.
Sure, this is just some cheesy 70's television misstep bloated and reduced into a 90 minute incoherent cheese and sleaze fest, but the message it sends about men is far more damaging than 'H.O.T.S.', those odd red skinned hot dogs they sell in cut rate supermarkets, or any song penned by the illustrious Mr. Spiders and Snakes (by the way, Jim boy. What are we supposed to make of songs called "My Girl Bill" and "Turn Loose of My Leg"? Huh? What are you afraid of? What are you trying to hide? Don't Ask, Don't Tell may work in the tacky theaters of Iowa, but this is the real world, bub, and you better come clean out of the closet before we rush in there and drag you and Jim J. Bullock into the limelight for all to see once and for all.) 814 Riding with Death has a higher calling. It wants to be nothing less than the final word on the true nature of the grease monkey beast.
Mr. Murphy should be the kind of guy your modern woman would just go CEO over. You see, a small dose of radiation, more 3 minute egg than 3 Mile Island zapped this chunky hunky meat right in the kibbles and bits and before you could say nuclear neutering, the pork and two veggies were as withered and functional as those cup holders in movie theaters. Oh yeah, and he can occasionally, and at will, become invisible. So what if he is as impotent as Doug Herzog trying to program entertainment into the Fox Network, he still gets to be a secret agent, just without the Johnny Rivers authorized 'Man' at the end. Finding no recreationally valid way of using his new found powers (like sneaking into the ladies room or Madonna's baby showers) he decides to hit the crime filled NASCAR circuit. He proceeds to drive racketeering, maneuver mud flaps and steer white supremacy right out of the oval and concrete arena. And when he hooks up with Mr. Stafford, looking lost and forlorn without a guitar or lame premise for a comic sing a long at hand, they form a feminist dream state: two men without a single Cajun among them.
This should make the man hating Darth Fe-Mauls happy. Yet, the mixed messages come hard and brash. Buffalo Bill Joe Hickens, for that is Jimmy nom de plummet in this little filmic fiasco, attempts to be interested in spoilers and carburetors and gearboxes; you know, vo-tech and school shop class kind of man stuff. But instead, he seems inexplicably attracted to our hero, Sam Casey (a.k.a. Benji 'the Hunted' Murphy). He is always giving him these odd, vacant looks, which border on the sycophantic, the lovelorn or the rays of the sun burning images directly onto his corneas. While it is not difficult to see what attracts the soon to be prattling on about the traffic in downtown Branson ex-successful recording artist Jimbo about alias Alias Smith and Jones, its hard to image their relationship ever working. Jim would warble some off kilter ditty about pigeons with knock-knees and look around, only to see that Ben has made himself sparse again. Men as absent, empty voids, crooning about their sexually repressed Irish Wolfhounds and looking only for the quick thrill of a pneumatic wrench and the smell of burning diesel fumes? Apparently, the Homeric image of man as epic conqueror is not the only thing "Riding with Death" here.
Is it really that bad? Is there anything men can do? How can they reclaim their stature as money earning beasts, complete will indebtedness out the ying-yang and livers pumped to the purging point with the white man's burden in such an environment of indoctrinational idiocy? Is there salvation, any chance they can cast off the shackles of millennial malaise, overcome their female induced fear of non-commitment and run to the nearest Robert Bly retreat to get involved in some decidedly non-erotic male bonding? Well, the future of the masculine race is not in the eyes of the male child. It's not Luca Brazzi, or even that rat Tessio. No, its Marfushka, that pie faced mongoloid embedded like a rotten tooth at the core of 813 Jack Frost. For every sensitive pseudo dude who longs for a complex conversation with their significant other about their feelings, here is the antidolt. Here is a woman all men can look up to as an complete example, a raging illustration of butchness, of machismo, of the complete and utter lack of anyone thing, cell or notion that is distantly feminine.
She has quite the effeminizing battle to take on, too. You would think she would flit around like a rainbow colored butterfly, crying at clouds and talking to imaginary sheep friends, what with her domineering mother and sad, ineffectual father around to make her mental life interesting. Mom is constantly telling her what a fine, childbearing specimen of wonder she is, attempting to fit her stump legs and power lifter arms in peasant blouses and milkmaid bloomers. Dad is resigned to keep quiet, obedient and the insects off of the sleeping Marfiekins like some sort of Slavic Shell No Pest Strip. Her sister is a prissy little weeble who finds furry men with obnoxious personalities right up her pinafore. She should have caved in long ago, resorting to endless hours at the loom, or reading 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull' aloud.
But our man Marf will have none of this. Just like a bloke, when faced with a life altering dilemma, like what to have for dinner, or where her freshly knitted and laundered lederhosen are, she panics and runs crying into the oversized Croatian ampleness of her mother figure's bosom seeking solace, or just a sexuality reaffirming snuggle bug. When asked to grow a long and, apparently, martially required braid, she declines, sighting her wispy, straw- like hair and the onset of male pattern baldness. Scrunching up her face into the kind of freak show that John Waters only prays about featuring in one of his films, it is obvious that no amount of beet juice of cabbage water can bring out the natural beauty in this incredible sulk. More dyke than Dick Van or Jerry, she tries to prance, preen and primp, but only ends up looking awkward and foolish, bouncing around like pointlessly like Lance Burton on 'Who Wants to be an (Embarrassed) Millionaire', moon like features turned up and into a remarkable accurate depiction of your Great Uncle Andrew just before he completely stroked out.
But in the expansive waistcoats and thick shinned stumble bum-ness of our Fushka of Mar, we see the savior of, the true son of mankind as Polish transgender performer. So what if you don't get the spouse of your dreams? So what if you are a tad distended around the jowl and only able to emit pleasant noises out of your nose, rectum or armpits? Who cares if your hygiene is suspect and your legs seem a century's away from seeing a Lady Remington? This is what it means to be a man. This is the entire point. Men are sloppy, loud and spherical. Their hairy chests and well-worn shoulder blades have carried the weight of the civilized world for about 5000 years. Women have only had a few decades at this control thing. Catch them around 4020 and see if they don't resemble Bronco Nagurski on a bucolic bender, about to vomit, crap and whiz it down their leg all at once, as they make the big presentation to the board of directors while keeping their secretary heated up in the office for a little post-meeting meeting.
Passé paternalistic peons like Richard and Sam and Buffalo Shot Hickens are the side-effect of communal brainwashing, of the notion that a strong male authority figure, one who uses his fists more than his feelings and his head more than his heart is a terrible thing, a thing to be scorned, exiled and drummed from the family household like the poor stray cat who can't help but spray all over your Thomasville coach when you let it in to feed it. Men are not perfect. Far from it. They can smell, cause wars, and even fondle themselves in publicly humiliating ways. But what would you rather be; a faceless and nameless human duplication, destined to live in a world fraught with lies, denials and deceits? Or how about a man who, at the very first sign of trouble, shrivels and vaporizes into nothingness like your best friend at an arraignment? Or how about a pathetic, aptitude challenged hack that has no qualms of mixing infantilism with melodic dissonance in hopes that you won't bop over to the Andy Williams Theater to catch that Japanese guy who plays "Orange Blossom Special" on the kabuki fiddle?
No, chaps of the world, unite. Follow the path lead by our Russian revolutionary, our manly Marfushka. Do not groom your body hair. Resist the urge to become engaged or even arranged to be married. Suppress all desires toward makeup and bikini wax. Let your Oscar Meyer wiener-ness fly free in the breeze. Reign supreme over your familial subjects with a fully formed ulcer and a little chippy on the side (none of that girly, fruity stuff now. I'm warning you). But don't go crazy. Don't become so overblown with testosterone or hubris that find yourself up at the business end of a merger or a shotgun, Pa looking for Ma and a preacher to shore up the budding relationship between you as his gal youngin'. Just recoup your position in the social food chain, will ya, and stop crying like a baby. Act like a man. Just like the song, or the movie "Nixon" said, "Be quiet, big boys don't cry." And if you can't trust 10cc, or the dead, almost impeached carcass of a historical model of disingenuousness, whom can you trust?

May MSTie of the Month: MST3KGirl007@aol.com

Name: Katie Smith

Age: 13

Favorite food: Chinese food

Favorite TV shows: MST3K (top o' the list!), The Drew Carey Show, Whose Line is It Anyway?, That 70's Show

Favorite movies: MST3K: The Movie, Back to the Future Trilogy, Star Wars, and Kiki's Delivery Service

Favorite Episodes: Ooh, toughie. They're all good! But some of my faves are 303 Pod People (McCloud!), 1013 Danger Diabolik (sniff, sniff, cry), and 910 Final Sacrifice (Rowsdower?).

My MST History: Seems so very long ago when I found it. I was probably around 8, I guess, I'm not really sure. I had the worst case of insomnia I had ever had. Anyway, it was a Friday, I think, and I began to flip the channels on the TV. Then, I came across... it. A show I did not know the name to. It seemed to be a bad movie, but there were two weird looking figures at the bottom and one that was obviously a man. It was episode 501 Warrior of the Lost World. I had tuned in during the Megaweapon destruction scene. If my memory is correct, Tom and Crow (then the two weird shapes) mourned the loss. I haven't seen the episode since. Anyway, I cracked up and woke up my mom and got in a lot of trouble. A few weeks later, I stumbled across it again, the weird show! JOY! It was 507 I Accuse My Parents. I don't remember the riffing, but I recall the segment in which Tom and Crow (by that time the two weird robot guys) made mobiles, or something, I haven't seen it again, yet. I fell asleep. I never saw Joel, so when I saw the show again, episode 801 Revenge of the Creature, with my uncle, I thought it had been Mike all along; boy howdy was I wrong. I became a fan almost instantly, since that day, I have converted my mom to MSTiedom. Hi-Keeba, baby!

How I reacted to the cancellation: I took it like any raving MSTie would, when I saw the cursed Sci-Fi commercial about my favorite show dying, it took five minutes to sink in. I stared blankly at the screen. My younger brother walked by, laughed at my pain, and kept going. Then, snap. I cried. I cursed. I had a wet pillow for bed that night and summer vacation lost its sheen. I asked the question, "Why?" at least 1,000 times that day. Don't look at me like that. Tom, Mike, and Crow had become the clinically insane older brothers I never had. I still miss them. Now I need a hug.

What I do now after the "Aftermath": That's what I call the end of the show. I write MST3K stories and MSTings, watch the show every Saturday (taping it!), recycle the tapes, and I quote it to my friends. Once I shouted "Eeeyukaaeeee!" in a Frank-esque way during my Drama Class and later, "Huzzah!" during the same day. That was because it is the only class I have with a fellow MSTie in it, one who understands me.

June MST3K Schedule on SFC

North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
06/03/00 - 09:00 am - [803] Mole People
06/10/00 - 09:00 am - [804] Deadly Mantis
06/17/00 - 09:00 am - [805] Thing That Couldn't Die
06/24/00 - 09:00 am - [819] Invasion of the Neptune Men

Classifieds 3000

solbase@solbase.com writes: "Hello, I run a well-known MST3K site at http://www.solbase.com/ . I have for many years now. You haven't heard of it? If you have or haven't, now's your chance to voice your input. You see I've realized that the show is over and it's time to start the site over. But, I can't do it without the help of my fellow MSTies! Just go to my site (mentioned above), erase Kevin Murphy's comments and fill in your own. Or add to his (how fun!) Anyway, I'm looking for fresh, creative ideas. I'm sick of having people tell me "You should have a section of your site with pictures." That tells me nothing. What I'm looking for is someone telling me "I demand pictures of Crow mutilating Servo," or something to that extent. I'm probably getting a little long here on my blurb, so I guess I'll sum it up. Go to solbase.com and fill out the form, and you'll get a chance to win a prize of your choice (a yourname@solbase.com e-mail address, yourname.solbase.com site redirection, whatever I can provide to you). 150,000 MSTies can't be wrong about my site. Go there and force me into reading your messages today! It's fun!"

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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
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