| SOL Post 49 | 07/20/00 |
| SOL Post 48 | 06/15/00 |
| SOL Post 47 | 05/15/00 |
S.O.L. POST
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Volume 48
http://www.msties.com/
June 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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MEGA-CHEESE!
In This Issue
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
"Baby, One More Time" by highlanderchica@hotmail.com
"Satellite of Love PSA on the New Golden Dollar" by kristjo@flash.net
"Adventures in Recording my Beloved MST3K" by godsmack_xxx69@hotmail.com
June MSTie of the Month: Odie51584@aol.com
July MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
Vol. 2, Issue 11
Which Witch is Which: Nothing Spells Lovin' like Something from the Coven
Many of us remember a time, not so long ago, when black magic knew its
rightful place in the entire good/evil/indifference triumvirate of
philosophical and philocentric experiences. Those who dabbled in the forbidden
arts of the netherworld were shunned, scolded and herded onto immense pyres of
scientifically enlightening literature and leftover stockades and mesquite
roasted like a southwestern iguana steak by an overly groomed chef with a
ponytail, goatee and several unpronounceable herbs to his credit. Along the
way, people developed a healthy fear of wickedness and malevolence, and
attempted to avoid it at all costs. Sure, they made certain religious sects
leave their comfortable homes and 'relocate' to less than desirable
'concentrated' digs, and forced members of any differing races into a
prejudicial parallel universal all their own, complete with water fountains,
dining establishment entrances and miserable self esteem. But for the most
part, people looked the heinous face of immorality in its swollen, pestilent
puss and hocked a nice gob of holy water on it.
But somewhere along the way, evil found an inroad. It is very hard to
pinpoint, but around the late 50's and early 60's, it became fairly groovy to
mimic Anton Le Vay, Madelyn Murray O'Hare and Petula Clark in the unending
quest to see God sent to the minor leagues for a relief pitcher and some extra
help inside, and to rehabilitate Satan from the 15 century disabled list and
onto the mound for one last fetid fling at the fast ball. Apparently somebody
found something incredibly funny about peace love and understanding because,
before you could say, "I Buried Paul," or, "Turn Me On, Dead Man," the entire
media world started worshiping at the pentagram, the inverted crucifix and
Jell-O Shake a Pudding. Bands like Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and the 1910
Fruitgum Company all claimed allegiance to the main mischievous sprite, Mr. B
El Zeebub, and made albums in celebration of his hell fire and brimstone
manifesto.
By the mid 80's Old Scratch and his band of merry Hades hamboners had
infiltrated each and every nook and cranny of the over baked Thomas English
muffin known as life on earth, to the point where something as obviously
immoral as that overripe pile of smirk and smarm known as Paul Lynde (as Uncle
Author in Bewitched) was celebrated as some sort of rainbow soaked spokesman
for every effeminate gothic man-child looking to explore the underworld,
sexual or religious. Eventually, the ink stain of immorality seeped so rapidly
and deeply into every oxy-washed pore of youth culture that, by the end of the
1990's, any person under the age of 21 could be characterized with the
following three adjectives: angry, drunk, or gay. Clever names like Wicca,
Kabbalah and Pokémon were created for sorcery until the sinister hoof had no
idea what the moral hand was doing, and frankly, could give a bat's
blood less.
It could be blamed on the overall lack of common courtesy and respect
that it seems most of the public functions under today. Could also be chalked
up to the lack of natural and whole foods in the diet of the average slow
witted and moving carbon unit, more attune are they to slopping down
polyunsaturated fat wedges soaked in grease and topped with a years worth of
carbohydrate and triglycerides than having a simple nosh of bread and rain
water. You might be able to see hints of it in the every changing face of pop
culture, a barnstorming barrage of BS that blasted from hippie to zippie to
yuppie to wigger, from hair to hip hopper in such a subtle, non-threatening
way that the fact that your next door neighbor, more Saxon than John, walks
around looking like a cross between DMX and the Lox no longer surprises you.
What does make you flinch a little is the connotation that you haven't quite
lived until you've sampled the burbling belch waters of the river Styx,
otherwise known as Starbucks Coffee.
There is a way, however, to sign up and join the online battle between
Satan's Quakers and the Messiah's Disciples of Doom. So like a multi-colored
mobile, "Better 'Bots and Satellites" has determined that a good healthy dose
of propaganda would and can do wonders in stimulating baby's tiny brain. Using
several examples, we can, hopefully, steer the misguided youth away from "The
Blair Witch Project" and all its misplaced notions about independent film
making and natural horror and more towards Uncle Remus in Disney's "Song of
the South". After all, just because it might be hundreds of eons out of step
with the rest of the politically correct polyrhythmic nation, doesn't mean
that an old black man signing in an Ebonics like dialect about tar babies and
coon hunts means anything all that bad. Does it? Anyway, by following these
simple guidelines, we can establish the ground rules to weaning these true
infant terribles off from the Teutonic teet of Pitch and his multi-nippled
minions from Hell.
Rule #1: Witchcraft is lame because it is confusing.
Example: 806 The Undead.
Get out your guide maps, your CD-ROM version of Microsoft Streets 2000 and
your Popeil's Pocket Plot detector and try to follow this one. A man who
studied hypnosis overseas, (so you know he is legitimate in a Dr. Nick Riviera
sort of way) pays a whore to become his willing somnambulism slave and then
takes her to his old teacher just so he can show off his new, ultra Euro-trash
mesmerizing techniques and gloat like Hell. While under his transfixion, the
streetwalker re-experiences her past life as a broom jockey, and before you
can say, "Hocus-pocus-dominocus," Billy Barty is flitting around like an
amoral imp with a leprechaun up his leggings. Our studied abroad stud decides
to travel back to his own past life like a pre Parkinson Michael J. Fox and
before you can say, "Really lame death oriented song croaked off key and
inherently smelly by some warty toad named Digger Smolken," witchcraft,
witchery and all other manner of witchiness ensues.
From this point on, things get a little complicated. Witches fly in,
witches fly out, spells and curses are hurdled back and forth so rapidly and
violently, its as if Brittany and Christina had been booked on the same
episode of Charmed and accidentally used Shannon Dougherty's bidet without
permission from her team of legal advisors. Knights in shining karma battle to
avoid black cats and the waist high histrionics of Willy and his prancing,
dancing upturned pixie boots, and all the while, the bloated and potted
Smashing Smolken can't stop bellowing out his twisted take on Tom Lehrer.
Eventually, on the night of the ghouls, or the night of the comet, or a night
of 1000 stars, something has to be done to save someone's life, or reanimate
someone's wife, or conjure up some bubble and squeak. Promises are made, pacts
with the underworld are kept and our poor STD'ed femme fatale finds herself
unstuck in a medieval macabre land without a pimp.
So, the concrete, linear narrative is just one of the reasons why "The
Undead" should work to un-hex the vexed and un-vex the heck out of everyone
else. The message of this film should be, basically, if you can't burn, betray
or beat them, confuse the mofo out of them. Witchcraft is viewed as nothing
more than an excuse to waste massive amounts of screen time and very little of
the special effects budget, as witches turn into semi-bats, or at least half
eaten ham and cheese omelets. A life devoted to sin and vileness tends to make
one sprite-ish and unappealing as only a mohawked and brownied little person
could be. And if you thought your Uncle Carl was bad as he drove you all to
the petting zoo and wheezed out the wrong heard lyrics to your favorite top
forty boy band tune from inside a cloud of cheap whisky and Tipirellos, just
imagine if he had given his life over to the Dark One and had the artist
formerly known as DJ Smolky teach him the finer points of song interpretation.
"The Undead" should be seen as a stark vindication for a life of piousness,
charity and resisting the temptation to sell one's body for Ripple money. It
should function as the kind of cautionary tale against the wanton desire to
wear dark peasant inspired clothes, gobs of black eyeliner and pints of Lady
Clairol Purple/Navy hair rinse that movies like "The Craft", "The Rage: Carrie
2" and "Bicentennial Man" failed to provide. So, the next time your best
friend, sister, wife, mother, aunt, grandmother or the skank you picked up at
the Bauhaus reunion show wants to teach you a thing or two about human
sacrifice and the mark of the beast, show them this little bit of cinematic
cease and desist and hopefully, the only hell hound they will call upon is
that collie dog down the street that seems to never bark at anyone but you.
Hmm.
Rule #2: Witches, in general, are not the brightest torches in the sacrificial
bonfire.
Example: 805 Thing That Couldn't Die.
For a long time, the followers of the foul one had the right idea. It was
better to stay hidden; to work in dark dungeons and deep inside hollow trees
than it was to flaunt one's hex-erosexuality for the entire primitive world to
see. After all, once Goodie Proctor or Titchuba saw you pompously changing
toads into frogs and bats into choreographers, you were bound to have a one-
way ticket to the crucible faster than you can say HR Pufnstuff. Better yet,
if you fancied yourself the spitting image of Carmen Ghia from "The
Producers", and tended toward smart tweeds and high button shoes in the midst
of the plaque, chances are that no amount of evil daring do would save you
from a massive hot foot, or a major whole head buzz cut, if only because
personal style and long winters in which you take turns starving seldom mix.
Such is the fate of our wispy warlock in "The Thing That Couldn't Die" (by
the way, if I am not mistaken, the thing referred to in the movie was not the
headless ghoul, or the shy pseudo Sabrina, Bell Jar Jar Binkish water finding
non-wicked ranch wench named Jessica. Nope, the heretofore-mentioned object
would have to be the dreadful accent of Aunt Flavia, a dialect rich in pork
fat, brown clumpy gravy and the need for a shot of schnapps to calm the
trembling bones gained from an upper Midwest jaunt to the all night bratwurst
shop in January. That is the only way you can explain the malapropistic
attempts at words like 'treasure', 'leisure' and 'measure' reverberating as if
all known vowel usages were thrown into a bag, and only the short 'e' sound
was snatched out). Our possible Homer sexual is persecuted, beheaded and
buried, not for his love of antiques and the snappy uniforms of the king's
guardsmen. No, our lanky langolier apparently could find no purchase for his
own special brand of slight of hand in the furrows of your average 14th
Century stable boy, and instead decided to devote himself to a lifetime of
supplication at the cloven clogs of sexy Satan himself.
Fast forward about 48 frames and we are on a small ranch run by the
aforementioned madam of miss-pro-nun-ski-ation. She lives there with that
supposedly enchanted daughter, Jess-wicca, whose big claim to fame is that she
can find water, usually by turning on a faucet somewhere and some dunder
headed farm hands who obliviously missed the boat when they were passing out
ship to sense leave. A rash of city folk insert themselves into this little
trash menagerie and before you can say, "Gentlemen caller," the dead head of
the fiendish fop is hip-mo-tizing everyone around. Once head and heart are
reunited, there is not much time to feel so good, as a magical amulet (or is
that omelet? What is it with witches and stuffed egg crepes) worn by the H2O
ho causes the effeminate freak to dissolve into a pile of bathhouse salts.
And this is just par for the corpse when it comes to the gentile goblin in
'Thing'. This guy just could not get anything right. He was blatant in his
lifestyle choice, trying not to hide the fact that he had 'needs' different
from everyone else, dark desires filled with questionable physical and social
actions. Instead, he went about his 'alternative' existence in unashamed
disregard for social morays. Oh yeah, and he practiced witchcraft and demon
worship. When he finally gets a chance to bring the two halves of his
disconnected self together, he is about 10 seconds into the whole "intact"
thing when he is dusted into the wind. No time for shopping, or the theater.
It was 5 centuries of pain for 5 seconds of glory (if that) and to be defeated
by, of all things, a woman, a female. Oh, the boys down in Sodom are gonna
have a field day with that. If brains were fashion sense, this guy would be
David Arquette.
But that's not to say that our witchy woman Jess has anything more brewing
upstairs. Instead of running to a stream, river, creek, ocean or lake for a
good source of potable libation, she spends her days searching out just the
right divining twig so she can scour the desert for a sipper cup. Does she run
down to the local Piggly Wiggly for a couple of gallons of Deer Park, or set
up home delivery with Evian for a little glacier cocktail? Nope, she puts on
her dungarees and runs around the tumbleweeds looking for a loch. Word has it
that she has found some water in her dowsing career. So what a million monkeys
searching for a million minutes in the middle of Who Wants to Be A
Millionaire? could find a pond if you just let them. She's less likely to
stumble across a personality, a sense of wonder or humor, or any semblance of
an intellect than she is to run into Gilligan and Skipper scampering in the
lagoon. Let's face it; if wits were bullion cubes, this girl could not feed
Fred Astaire.
Rule #3: Witches Are MUTT UGLY.
Example: 908 Touch of Satan.
Okay, the staff here at 'BB&S' will never be mistaken for Freddie Prinze,
Jr. If we were, we would immediately pull out a gatling gun and place all
rumors of our relationship with 'Buffy's' Sarah G to rest, pronto. But neither
are we unattractive, revolting in either physical or mental hygiene, mannerism
or personal flair. One's physical hideousness should never be a reason to hate
or despise. Just ask Eminem. But when it comes to the unlucky Lucinda in "The
Touch of Satan", the repulsiveness rulebook gets thrown out of the window,
along with the baby, the bathwater, and the sulfuric acid that did a Clinique
monster makeover on her.
The plot? A handsome wanderer stumbles across a fetching spell caster and
her walnut raising "family" unit and they fall immediately into deep,
corporeal carnal lust. But unlucky in loins Lucy, our rotten old apple head of
a sister, mother, and plot device in "Chinatown" wants nothing of it. All she
gets when it comes to a bedtime companion is a dilapidated doll that has a
date with a family on LV426 and a feverish bloodlust that can only be quelled
by nightly visits to the townsfolk for a little vein draining. In the end, all
the sinful Lu wants is to be loved, as only a 150 year old witch can be loved;
with the eye of a newt and the whiskers off a black cat.
Too bad she fell out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down,
scorched the earth as she hit it full on with her mug, burrowed a hole in the
ground around the roots and soured the soil with her repugnance. This is one
unattractive member of the so-called human species. More a walking wrinkle
than a possessor of Oil of Olay, she makes the Mummy look like Mary Hart and
the last days of William Holden look like the portrait of Dorian Gray. No
matter what she may have looked like in her past, phantasmagoric life, in the
1970's, she is walking libido kryptonite. One glance at her malformed visage
and it's a vow of chastity that no lifeline or mega dose of Progenis could
save you from. Let's face it; there is no glamour in this puss, only billions
of dead dermis cells and the unswerving desire to droll and mutter at the same
time. If Hell needed a centerfold, Lucinda is it, midriff staples and all.
And that's the deal with witches and alchemy, in general. For every
Elizabeth Montgomery, there is an Estelle Winwood. For every Dr. Bombay there
is an overweight Ignatius J. Reilly wannabe with a pencil thin mustache, bad
haircut plastered to a spotty scalp with botanical oils as he tries to sell
you some St. John's wart, a pack of Tarot cards and an amber crystal, while
simultaneously trying to convince you to attend his "private" seminar on
getting in touch with your own personal hell spawn and the laying upon of
hands. Whatever mystery there ever was in the notion of being a wizard or
warlock has been gathered and geekified into a trading game for dateless
computer billionaires to fret and obsess over. There is clearly an ugly,
repulsive side to the black arts, and its not just the constant weight battle
the cast of Sabrina the Teenage Witch seem to find themselves in every time
the Danish cart rolls by.
There are no Witchee-poos, no Hoo Doos or Benita Bizzares. Your average
Wiccan does not glam herself out to the max, but instead wonders if it's the
hair under her arms or on her legs that will make the best love potion. There
is no supernatural book of spells that will make you pleasing to the opposite,
same or approximate sex. If that were the case, Lucinda would have ordered a
gross. No, sorcery is sordid, vile work, and only those destined to wonder
what its like to live in the clouds, or communicate with the dead should
approach with anything other than extreme caution. You will not find salvation
in the séance or happiness in the Hand of Glory. In the end, when you've sold
your soul to the Devil, and you've moved into your badly in need of
maintenance condo on the outer rim of Hades' 7th level, you will find yourself
spending your afterlife reward in less than the latter ways. You will be
trying to get the screaming neighbor kids out of the sulphur pool for 5
minutes so you can think. You'll flip through 7000 channels of cable and all
you will find are shows championed by Doug Herzog, like Exit 57 and The Vacant
Lot. All you'll have to eat are those canned smoked quails and every faucet
will exude warm Mr. Pibb.
For you see, the highway to Hell is not paved in good intentions, but in
the selfish whining of the children behind you in the movie theater who want
to scream every line of "The Lion King" back to the screen like its some sort
of religious responsorial. Its blacktop is a crust of every lax worker who
understands that in this booming economy, you are not so much irreplaceable as
unfireable, since no one else would want your stinky service job when they can
work as a web designer for what a dozen of your ancestors made in their entire
lifetimes as a starting salary. The yellow line down the middle is the
cowardice of a nation afraid to confront its policies of tolerance and
acceptance and claim, just once, that not every single subgroup or mini-micro
culture needs to be respected and treated with kid gloves. And at the end,
when you've past the rancid rest stops of popular culture and modern art,
you'll find yourself standing in line for damnation next to Lucinda, The Thing
and "The Undead" hooker and asking yourself, well, how did I get here. And
then, from behind you David Byrne will respond: "Beats the heck out of me!"
"Baby, One More Time" by highlanderchica@hotmail.com
Baby One More Time
Mike: Britney Spears?!
Crow and Servo: Noooo!
>Oh baby baby, Oh baby baby
Mike, Crow and Servo: Waaah!
>Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know
Servo: ...Anything.
>That something wasn't right here
>Oh baby, baby, I shouldn't have let you go
>And now you're out of sight, yeah
Crow: That, or you've gone blind.
>Show me how you want it to be
>Tell me baby cuz I need to know now, oh because
>Chorus
>My loneliness is killin' me
Mike: Yeah, well, hopefully it'll finish the job.
>(And I) I must confess I still believe (still believe)
Servo: Is there an echo here?
>When I'm not with you I lose my mind
Crow: Well, there's not much of it to lose.
>Give me a sign, hit me baby one more time!
Mike: Okay!
>Oh baby, baby, the reason I breathe is you
Servo: Or maybe it has something to do with those little pink things next to
your heart called lungs!
Mike: Tom, I think she's being metaphorical.
Crow: Come on. It's Britney Spears. I doubt she even knows what the word
metaphorical means.
>Boy you've got me blinded
Mike: (Britney, singing) Since you shoved ice picks in my eyes.
>Oh pretty baby, there's nothin that I wouldn't do
>That's not the way I planned it
Servo: Oh, so now it's a song about unwanted pregnancy!
>Show me how you want it to be
>Tell me baby cuz I need to know now, oh because
>Chorus
Crow: Oh, thank God the chorus wasn't repeated!
>Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know
Servo: I doubt good ol' Brit knows anything.
Crow: Yeah. If she had a brain she'd take it out and play with it.
>Oh pretty baby, I shouldn't have let you go
Mike: (singing) I should have used the bear trap!
>I must confess that my loneliness
>Is killin' me now
>Don't you know I still believe
>That you will be here
>And give me a sign, hit me baby one more time
Crow: The chorus is back!
Mike and Servo: Aah!
>Chorus
Mike: Wait a minute; that was the chorus!
>I must confess (my loneliness) that my loneliness
>(Is killing me) Is killing me now
Servo: At this point, I'm praying for her slow, painful, torturous death.
>(I must confess) Don't you (I still believe) know I still believe
>That you will be here (I lose my mind)
>And give me a sign...
>HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!
Mike, Crow and Servo: Aah!
Crow: You don't have to SCREAM!
Mike: Let's get out of here, guys.
"Satellite of Love PSA on the New Golden Dollar" by kristjo@flash.net
Joel: Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce the U.S. Mint's new Golden Dollar!
[Tom Servo enters wearing a Golden Dollar cutout. He is painted gold.]
Servo: Hello, America! I'm the New Golden dollar! Enjoy me!
Joel: Yes, lets all enjoy the new Golden dollar, and use it to buy lots of
stuff like your favorite soda pop, comic book, or maybe a half-gallon of
gas...
Crow: Hey! Didn't they have a dollar coin 20 years ago?
Joel: Yes, but this is so much better! It's golden-colored.
Servo: Golden-colored? What, I'm not gold? I'M A GYP!
Crow: Leave it to an old gumball machine not to accept the new dollar coin!
Hehehe.
Servo: Shut up! Shut up!
Joel: Thank you U.S. Mint! We're one step closer to the paperless society.
Crow: Didn't everyone mistake the old dollar coin for a quarter?
Servo: Sure did! Everyone was using them to play Space Invaders, plunging a
fledgling computer industry into blue chip territory long before they
were ready.
Crow: You mean....
Servo: Yup! Bill Gates owes it all to the Susan B. Anthony Dollar Coin!
Joel: Quiet, you two. The new Golden dollar is available now. Now doing my
laundry is that much easier! Just look for the friendly Native American!
Crow: Hey! Is this like the new quarters? Will there be five different Indians
each year?
Joel: I dunno.
"Adventures in Recording my Beloved MST3K" by godsmack_xxx69@hotmail.com
I have been recording episodes of my beloved Mystery Science Theater 3000
for about two or three months now. It has been quite rewarding. I enjoy
getting up and watching Mike and the 'Bots whenever I happen to have the urge.
But why has it been that I, a loyal, true blue, and obsessive fan of the show,
have only been recording for such a short period of time? Simple: I did not
know how to record on the VCR.
Yes, I was very frustrated that I could not record for the life of me. The
VCR was a Christmas present from my brother to the family. And for some
reason, unknown to me, the thing did not come with an instruction booklet. So
when I heard about MST3K getting cancelled I knew I had to record the final
episode. I must have spent a solid two weeks trying to figure out how to work
the stupid thing. And of course, with the kinda luck I have, I never figured
out by the time "the day" came around. I was very disappointed. But I watched
it nonetheless. Oh well, I thought, thank God for reruns.
Then one fateful day I figured it out. I was so proud of myself. I sat
there humming "We Are the Champions" while I was setting up to record. I have
two tapes. The first episode on the first tape is 1013 Diabolik. This was my
first time to record so I was stopping the tape every time during the
commercial break. It wasn't 'til a little later on that I figured out that I
could use the pause feature. "Diabolik" contained very few mishaps.
Episode 906 Space Children (w/ short 21st Century Calling) was interesting
to record. First off, the movie wasn't that great. It was lamer than the usual
movies and seemed to drag on and on. So my attention span was that of my black
lab, Brutus. So when I was in the dining room eating breakfast of I was, of
course, not really paying attention. Then I looked over at the TV and a
commercial was about to begin. Being that I didn't feel like editing the tape,
I made a mad dash almost injuring myself while leaping over the coach to pause
the VCR. I only got a little bit of some advertising that consisted of little
kids drawing. But I guess that's how it is when watching a movie with
Jackie Coogan.
Another thing that has happened is that the VCR will just stop without any
warning. It has done this three times. The first time was with the Ben Murphy
favorite 814 Riding With Death. I missed the whole flashback Sam Casey was
having about when he was turned "invisible" and he talked about Abbey. To me,
that was one of the best parts of the whole episode. It contained some pretty
good riffing. The second time it happened, it was on same stupid episode! As a
result, I missed a large chunk of Robert Denby blowing stuff up. The third
time was more recent. It was the nasty John Agar movie 803 Mole People. But I
was actually paying attention so I caught it. I grabbed the remote (which I
had figured out was more convenient than always lunging across the living room
almost breaking my neck to push pause) and pushed record. I have decided that
I might have to send my RCA VCR to reform school if it keeps feeling it has to
defy me.
The other two episodes, 801 Revenge of the Creature and 802 Leech Woman
(AKA "The Sean Young Story"), were simple for me to record. My collection will
grow as long as there are reruns. I hope there are plenty of them because I
still have so many to capture and make mine. Until next time!
June MSTie of the Month: Odie51584@aol.com
Name: Jeff Zehnder Jr.
AKA: Jeff Kjo, Jeff, Odie51584
Info Club MSTie Number: 95033
Age: 16
Birthday: May 15, 1984
Lives in: A cheaply built box made by illegal immigrants. But I kid.
Cary, North Carolina.
Employed at: Target (Price check!)
Marital Status: Uh, still open.
Fan Since: First time I saw the movie, that would be 1998.
Current MST-related projects: Increasing my tape collection, building Servo,
writing song parodies to the tune of MST,
working on a full length, live action fanfic.
Favorite shows other than MST3K: The Drew Carey Show, Whose Line Is It Anyway,
The X-Files, Freaks & Geeks, and Futurama.
Tape Collection: Visit http://www.redrival.com/acsd/mst/trading.html , of
course, that's assuming, that my lame free webspace provider
is up.
My First MST Experience: Mystery Science Theater 3000 The Movie. I recalled
seeing glimpses of the show before, (I distinctly
remember some lame claymation scene from one movie, a
guy running across the screen butt naked in another,
and the bit with Crow's mother) and when I saw it at
Carbonated Video, I had to rent it.
My First MST Episode: 803 Mole People.
My First Taping Experience: 1007 Track of the Moon Beast.
Favorite MST character: Sir Thomas Neville Servo!
Favorite MST Episode: Gosh, do I have to choose, I have so many. Hmmmm, I
guess 1012, 1002, 913, 911, 907, And K13. Trust me, that
list grows weekly. There are just so many great ones.
Favorite MST Song: Gee, its kind of an MST3K song, then kind of it isn't. Lou
Reed's "Satellite Of Love". I even own the album.
Top Ten Moments in MST History: Ooh, this is a tough one. Okay, let's see. In
no order whatsoever:
Favorite Musicians: Lou Reed, The Beatles (can we talk about Mitchell?),
Hootie and the Blowfish, Billy Joel, most oldies.
My MST Regret: Not taping more shows in SP. And not finding it sooner. Oh
yeah, and never annoying people in RATMM; you won't ever hear
the end of it.
Final MST Thoughts: "Never trust a man with two first names, especially if
one of them is a woman's."
North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
07/01/00 - 09:00 am - PRE-EMPTED FOR "ATOMIC DOG"
07/08/00 - 09:00 am - 1001 Soultaker
07/15/00 - 09:00 am - 1002 Girl in Gold Boots
07/22/00 - 09:00 am - 1004 Future War
07/29/00 - 09:00 am - 0821 Time Chasers
tomservo@mst3k.org writes: "I've got my site up at http://www.mst3k.org/. It
has an episode guide, links, sounds, tape trading, chat, FAQs, and a message
board. 'Bot Building is coming when I build one. Video and images are coming
when I have a working capture card."
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
"Never trust a man with two first names, especially if one of them is a woman's."