There are three things that I always look forward to in the month of January. First: To break all those stupid New Year's resolutions. (What the hell was I thinking anyway?) Second: Celebrate m'man Elvis Presley's Birthday on the 8th. (Done and done.) Third: My annual pilgrimage to Chicago for B-Fest.

Ah, B-Fest. A&O Films 24-hour bad movie festival; an endurance test of the mind, body and soul (and intestinal fortitude, and underarm deodorant, and stamina of your gluteus maximus.) This was my third trip to the annual event held on the campus of Northwestern University, in Evanston, among the northern suburbs of Chicago. For the previous two expeditions, my party drove 10-hours to B-Fest, watched 24-hours of film, and then immediately drove right back. Now, if you add all that up that’s almost two whole days without sleeping. And while it made for an epic tale of endurance -- that usually bordered on the surreal (due to lack of sleep), when you get right down to it, it's an incredibly stupid idea. So I finally wised up and got hotel reservations for the night before and the evening after. I’d never been able to stay awake for the whole thing, but this year, with a good night's sleep before, I was bound and determined to make it ‘til the very end. 

You hear that B-Fest? Here I come, and I'm wearing my cup and crash helmet.

The original plan called for four us to partake in B-Fest this year. Myself, Mike Bockoven and Paul Freeland were going to make a return trip along with a new victim, Mike's friend, Matt. But work schedules torpedoed Matt's involvement, and then some idiot never mentioned to Paul that we were going a day early. He couldn't get time off, either, so he bowed at as well. (Sorry about that, Paul.) Down to me and Mike, with my mother's Caddy (yep, the same Caddy we took to the Lunar Crater), our maps, survival rations, Mike's laptop computer and a crap-load of movies, we gave hearty "B-Fest ho!" and were off like a herd of turtles.

The weather was frigid, but the forecasted snow never materialized. As the heater worked overtime, we got the computer going and plugged in Pirates of the Caribbean, a movie I had inexplicably not seen yet, that got us across the river and into Iowa where we realized, to our horror, that there was a second time/space anomaly around Council Bluffs. That's right, Iowa has two -- count them, two -- Bermuda Triangles along I-80. We spent about three hours in the one by Council Bluffs, and then 37 in the dreaded Black of Hole of Des Moines (to find out exactly what that is you'll have to read last year's recap), but passed the extra time watching the Looney Tunes Golden Collection. While Bugs and Daffy got us through Iowa, South Park: The Movie got us all the way into Chicago with only a minimum of lane wandering and road-shoulder exploration. (Nice stunt driving, there, Mike.) Remembering our disastrous exit from Chicago last year, I pay real close attention to the route in so we don't make the same mistake twice. With only one wrong turn, we find the Best Western and check in a little after 6:30p.m. The only problem is, I can't remember when we were supposed to meet the other members of the B-Board who were also staying there. The lobby empty, I feared we missed them. We clean up, find out a pizza place is nearby, and decide to hit that first and then try and track down the others. 

Lo and behold, when we exit the elevator, the lobby is now jammed packed with members of the B-Movie Brethren. My people. Telstar Man (and his friend whose name completely escapes me), Bergerjacques, Marlowe, Nameless Ray, the Grenades (Hen and Jen), Filler Bunny, Professor Mortis and Skip (because his lovely wife George kicked him out of the house.) I know those names may sound funny, but that's all I've known them by for almost three years. We had one stray yet, but El Santo managed to catch up with us later. An evening of high revelry ensued. Many thanks go out to Jen Grenade for taking we collective heads of knuckle under wing and keeping us under some semblance of control. Invading the Prairie Moon Bar & Grill we start partaking in the local spirits. Three beers in on an empty stomach and the old Beerman was a very happy camper, and as Telstar likes to put it, "flexed my nerdiness."

After some grub, and a few more beers, the party moved back to the hotel. After a quick side trip to the local Osco for more booze, I pick up a six pack of Old Style while Mortis and several others contemplate what Osco brand Scotch tastes like. The sheer absurdity of that beverage made Osco Scotch the battle-cry for the entire B-Fest weekend. Walking back to the hotel, we crossed paths with El Santo and brought him into the fold. I think the party wound up in Filler Bunny's room. Somebody bought League of Extraordinary Gentlemen on Pay-Per-View and the party got into full swing. Then two more Old Styles and a very early morning finally caught up with me. We all decided to meet in the lobby the next day around 3p.m. and head over to the Norris Center, together. Mike and I then excused ourselves and headed back to our room. I think I was asleep before hitting the pillow.

I have to add that during my last two excursions to B-Fest, the January weather was unseasonable mellow and warm for both occasions. This year, that bad weather caught up with us -- with a vengeance.

I woke up around 9:30 the next morning. Mike was gone, he said something about working out, so I cleaned up and watched Scooby-Doo until he returned. We decided to hit the pizza place we were going to hit last night, and a quick check of the Weather Channel says it's 13-below with a wind-chill of about minus-40. That's damn cold no matter where you're from. Bundling up, we head out onto the frozen tundra of Evanston where my excellent navigating skills rear their ugly head, again, and I turn us left one block too soon. Fate was with us as we found a comic book shop where the restaurant would have been, if we were on the right block, so we head in and thaw out for awhile. After snagging a few slicks, we then press on but find out Chicago Style Carry Out is not a Chicago style pizza place, but an old style deli. There is utter chaos behind the counter as several workers take orders and scream instructions at each other. And you have to pay close attention or your order will be overwhelmed and forgotten and the proprietor might kill you for your trouble.

We snatch our food, in the nick of time, and find some seats. The restaurant is colder than it is outside. Icicles have formed in my goatee, and we're inside! Filled up with food, we head back into the teeth of the icy wind to warm up, and I yell at Mike to stop using my mighty girth as a wind break. We then enter a holistic dog food store so Mike can get something for his dogs, Max and Cole. We've got a lot of time to kill yet, so we head in to a convenient Barnes and Nobles. I find two compilations by the impeccable Tom Weaver where he interviews several B-Movie genre veterans. I want to buy them both but they're kind of expensive. Fortunately, we have enough time so I buy a cup of hot chocolate and read all the interviews that I'm interested in the more expensive book, then put it back and bought the other one for the ride home.

Back to the hotel, then, and we start making preparations for B-Fest. Since we'll be at an all night film-fest, we don't book a hotel room for Friday night and figured we'd save a little money. But Mike is worried about leaving his lap top in the car in the cold. Bergerjacques saves the day by letting us stash our stuff in his room. Thanks, m'man, we owes you big.

We head down to the lobby and wait for the others. The wait is passed with a stimulating conversation with a woman who claims to work for the IRS. Her specialty? Tracking down and arresting tax evaders and she's here in Chicago on a case. Amazing. We get a few nice tax tips, but the conversation starts to turn a little ugly when it veers toward politics, so I take the opportunity to roust everybody up, and out, to head over to the Norris Center.

Frozen Food.

Holey-snikeys, I can be a real idiot sometimes. Having left all my food in the car, I discover that all my soda is frozen solid. The other food is okay, but I'll have to be very careful when opening these things or soda-shower for everybody. What a flipping dunder-head.

We get to the Norris Center lickety-split; and props to Telstar Man who tuned us all in to staying at the extremely close and convenient Best Western. I gather up my frozen digestibles and head inside. McCormick Auditorium, B-Fest Ground Zero, isn't open yet, so we veg-out in the lounge area and I finally get myself a piece of pizza. We get the OK to move our stuff in and stake out an area for ourselves and fellow Board Members. That's right, this year we moved down from the back row and sat amongst the Brethren. (And don't worry, ya'll, I doubled up on the deodorant.)

As H-Hour approached, concerns grew at the absence of the Stomp Tokyo gang, my bosses and beloved sponsors. Okay, okay, I really just wanted several of their spiffy B-Fest cups. I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Soon, Chris and Scott were there, with Tuber and the always affable Joe Bannerman (head honcho over at Opposable Thumb Films) and I finally got to meet Ken Begg, the patron saint of B-Fest and the brains behind Jabootu Nation.

Now on the way to B-Fest last year, Mike asked me about tickets. I told him not to worry, and we’d buy them at the door. He then asked But what happens if they’re sold out? "Well?" I answered. "That would really suck." Again, we played it smart this year and I reserved us tickets online. A good thing, too, because word quickly spread that there were only 19 tickets left to be bought at the door. I've only been to three B-Fests, but the audience has grown, exponentially, since I started coming. So it was inevitable that it was going to sell out one of these years, due to it's growing reputation, and I also began to worry with that mass of humanity, packed into the auditorium, along with all the stuff clogging the aisles, I hoped a Fire Marshall never got wind of it -- or we're all screwed.

Mike and I got our tickets, and I told the organizers that the other two reserved seat holders were still on the way -- in case another B-Boarder needed them. And sure enough, they did. I gladly turned them over to Megalemur and his party, who put them to good use. (You're more than welcome, buddy.) It was getting close to six o'clock in the pm, so we wandered down toward our seats. I took the aisle, Mike beside me and Bergerjacques beside him. Marlowe, Mortis and Bunny were in the row ahead of us as the lights went down and the amazing colossal movie marathon finally wheezed to life.

Movie Time!

The schedule for this year, I feel, was better than last years. (Nothing will top 2002, though.) What follows is a brief plot description and reactions to the films endured. It was also determined afterwards, over egg rolls, that three common themes threaded their way through all the films: Airline disasters, wet slobbery kisses, and a character getting kicked in the junk or some other kind of groinal trauma. So I've listed these instances where they all occurred for each film.

So, here we go, lock and load, and be careful opening that frozen Diet Dew ya idgit! (Watch out Marlowe!)

The Brain From the Planet Arous

(And we invent a new verb!)

Something strange is going on over at Mystery Mountain -- OoOOooOo -- so John Agar and a guy I call Rampart (because he played the Doctor on Emergency) investigate by running their jeep into some convenient rocks. Inside a cave on Mystery Mountain -- OoOOooOo -- they find Gor, a giant inflatable brain from the planet Arous. Gor is kind of cranky, and radioactive. He kills Rampart and takes control over Agar's body, but his girlfriend grows suspicious of his odd behavior so she and her father head to Mystery Mountain -- OoOOooOo -- to find out what happened to him. Finding what's left of Rampart, they also find another inflatable brain who claims to be a galactic bounty hunter, here to bring Gor back to justice.

Robot Jox

(And the movie has already killed me -- up here!)

The early '90s saw a spat of live-action, fighting-giant-robot movies and Robot Jox was the best of them. And I assure you, "best" is a very relative term. A Cold War parable (and wasn’t the Cold War over by the ‘90s?) set in the far-flung future, rival nations square land disputes by pitting specially trained combatants inside giant, tripped-out robots that are packed to the hilt with weapons of mass destruction and let them beat the hell out of each other.

Political espionage and robots with retractable-chainsaws that come out of their crotches does make for an entertaining movie, and the B-Fest crowd erupts when Achilles, the hero of our piece, threatens to crawl into his robot and kick the villain’s ass.

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! 

Actually, he crawls into the robot, flies into space, gets shot down, falls out of the robot, uses the bad guy's own robot against him, then pulls him out and, instead of settling it man to man, it ends in a draw as the two men give each other the thumbs-up and slam fists. 

U.S.A.? U.S.A.? U.S.A.? U.S.A.?

The hell?

Airline Catastrophe:	No -- but they had Flying Thunderball Fists!
Wet Slobbery Kissing:	There might have been, but I'm not sure if that was a chick or not.
Character Takes One in the Junk:	Yes. And if the robots count, we might have some kind of world record.

 

Busted

(A visit from Fire Marshall Sally!)

During the first two features, several members of A&O Films were touring the audience and asking everyone to remove their stuff from the aisles. 

Word had obviously gotten around that the festival had sold out, bringing concerns from campus security, namely a gal we dubbed Fire Marshall Sally. After Robot Jox ended, the audience was informed that the next feature, The Beatniks, would not start until all the aisles and exits were clear of baggage, blankets and survival rations bringing McCormick Auditorium back up to code. Having seen The Beatniks before, I was tempted to call their bluff. 

I'm also terrified that my earlier premonitions about a visit from the Fire Marshall have come true. Guess I'd better not say anything about the meteor dream then, huh?

But I've seen The Towering Inferno enough times to know that cataclysmic disasters should always be averted whenever possible. They opened up a side room to stash things, but being too chicken to leave my stuff unattended, I jammed it all under my seat (and Marlowe's when he wasn't looking.) By the end of the fest, everything I'd brought was pulverized. 

Note to self: Bare essentials only next year.

 

The Beatniks

(Shut-up, Iris! I tell ya shut-up!)

When Eddie, a dopey hoodlum, flexes his vocal chords at a local diner, he’s overheard by -- I assume -- a very desperate, one-lung record producer who offers him a record contract. With fortune and glory in the palm of his hand, Eddie chucks it because he refuses to dump his old friends. He does inexplicably dump his old girl Iris -- a fairly good looking brunette, for good girl Helen -- a scary-looking woman with a marine cut, Adam's apple, and lazy eye. This proves to be the beginning of the end for our hero.

The rest of Eddie's gang do their best to ruin his chances of a better life by destroying the hotel room the record label has him staying in. And the final nail in his singing career comes when Moonie, the most psychotic of his friends, kills "a fat bar keep" sending everything completely down the drain.

There might have been a stinging moral lesson in The Beatniks, but it just wasn't quite obvious enough to be sure. (Yes, kids, that's called sarcasm.) It was written and directed by famed voice actor Paul Frees and featured a fine scenery-chewing performance by Peter Breck as Moonie. But, in truth, The Beatniks has no plot, no point and, oddly enough, no Beatniks.

Airline Catastrophe:	Nope.
Wet Slobbery Kissing:	Yes. And it was terrifying.
Character Takes One in the Junk:	No -- but Moonie sure deserved it.

 

 

The Beast with Five Fingers

(It gives you the finger alright!)

Ho-kay. Another theme at this year’s B-Fest was the secluded country house spook-show, and The Beast with Five Fingers got us off to a very rocky start. A loony old one-handed piano player dies, I think -- an entire reel was left out, making it a little confusing -- and his dismembered hand comes back to take revenge on those who may or may not have killed him

Peter Lorre goes cuckoo for Co-Co Puffs, as only Peter Lorre can go cuckoo for Co-Co Puffs, as the dismembered hand cuts a mean tune on the piano when it’s not strangling people. J. Carroll Naish and his thicka Italian accenta shows upa as the local cop and bad comedy relief, trying to solve the murders as things quickly spiral out of control.

My advice? Classic or not, whatever, they should have lost another reel and this thing would have ended a lot sooner.

Airline Catastrophe:	The hand had to get down those steps somehow.
Wet Slobbery Kissing:	From Peter Lorre?
Character Takes One in the Junk:	No -- but Naish sure deserved it.

 

Raffle Break

(And the winner is -- not me!)

Skunked again for a third year in a row. I was two numbers off from winning a copy of Tristarzilla, so maybe getting skunked is a good thing? I confer with several others, and yes, indeed, an entire reel of Beast was inexplicably dumped. Oh well. Maybe it was stolen? A beast pulled a five fingered discount? Haahahahhhah. *sigh* They all can't be winners, folks.

I unearth another frozen Diet Dew and carefully open it, praying it doesn’t explode and shower everyone in a six seat radius with soda. This is compounded when people start storming the stage, so I quickly get out of the way for...

 

The Wizard of Speed and Time

(And does this guy creep anyone else out?)

When I think of B-Fest, and I often think of it fondly, in spite of what it subjects me to, I think of this zany short. A B-Fest tradition, this short features a super-sonic wizard whizzing around the countryside, abducting women, until he trips on a banana peel, crashes into a castle and then assaults you with a jerk-animation musical number. While he runs, the B-Festers stomp in unison and Lemur brought back his Wizard robes for a return appearance, god bless 'em, leading the way. It’s also a tradition to immediately rerun the short in reverse, making it Time and Speed of Wizard The.

After this concluded, Mike and I discussed with Telstar about why, at a certain point, the Wizard starts to creep me out. Tim assumes it’s the animated clapboard that’s trying to devour everything, but no, it’s the Wizard’s demonic, serial-killer grin that’s permanently stamped on his face, and psychotic glare that follows you, no matter where you move in the theater, that gets to me.

Yes, to me, the Wizard is a stone psycho.

Airline Catastrophe:	Missed it by thaaat much.
Wet Slobbery Kissing:	Inconclusive. Moves so fast it's hard to tell.
Character Takes One in the Junk:	That clapboard sure was trying.

It also signals the midnight hour meaning it’s time for...

 

Plan 9 From Outer Space

(Omigod. It all finally makes sense!)

Audience participation is a big part of B-Fest. Case in point: With the traditional midnight showing of Plan 9 From Outer Space, every time one of the hubcap UFOs appear on screen, the audience disgorges a shower of paper plates. The audience chants along with Bela, Not Bela and Tor, identifying characters on screen -- or shouting out how it switches from day to night in the same scene as Ed Wood’s editing skills fail him.

There were two big highlights of this year’s screening. The first came during an assault of paper plates. One plate hit me in the chest and scrawled upon it were the words "Clearly God Hates Me." I thought that was kind of funny. Nevertheless, when the film called for another salvo, I launched it back into the darkness of the theater. Three plate showers later, another plate hits me in the chest and lands on my lap. I turn it over, and sure enough, it’s the exact same plate. I don’t even try to calculate the odds, take it as divine sign from on high, and stuff the plate into my bag as a souvenir. The second highlight came during the dreaded Solarnite speech. Now, I always get confused because I always forgot if we're supposed to be the gas can or the basketball. Luckily, this year, A&O films brought out several visual aids and an instructor who took us through how the Solanite Bomb works, step by step and it all makes perfect sense now.

Where were you guys for Freshmen Physics?

Airline