B-Fest Blues...

His Name is Mike. We Gave Him One Job...

But then, every year, I come full circle; after immersing myself in that big old vat of cinematic cheese, thoroughly saturated with Nerd Funk, knees popping, ass tingling, buzzing on sugar and caffeine, clothes coated with bits of Pringles and several, large pizza-grease stains, when I and my fellow B-Fest survivors stumble out of the darkened theater and into the light of the lobby, I've already got a major itch and urge to do it all over again -- unfortunately, an itch I can't scratch for about 365 days.

Which brings us to B-Fest '07. It seems to me that they announced this year's line-up a lot earlier than usual -- and what a line up it was! In my estimation, it was the best, most well-balanced batch of films since '02. After going through the titles, my usual pre-fest malaise took a look at it, smiled, and said "Have a great time" before withering away, completely, when I got a look at Mitch O'Connell's artwork for this year's poster. Are you kidding me? This was gonna be awesome!

And this year, we also decided to give a little back to B-Fest when I and the rest of my traveling partners from the rolling plains of Nebraska -- Mike "Captain Wow" Bockoven and Matt "Hiro Protagonist" Campbell -- decided to sponsor a film all by our lonesome. Mike, being the swell guy that he is, ram-rodded the operation, and I knew which movie we had to sponsor if it was still available; an old Sam Katzman turd-burger of a morality play/driver safety video, Hot Rods to Hell.

We got it, and now all we needed was a name for our group -- and it couldn't have been more obvious; it even had a built in mascot. Thus, The Black Hole of Des Moines Appreciation Society Was Born. And while Mike took care of the financial logistics with A&O, I turned my really crappy Windows Paint skills to try and come up with a logo and artwork for the traditional transparency that's projected before the film's screening -- so audience members know who to blame, and who to chuck things at.

So, our sponsorship was set, the line-up was positively spiffy, and a large contingent of the BMMB irregulars had committed for the annual pilgrimage/drink-a-thon at the Hali Kahiki for a demon-rum primer, and then back to the hotel where more booze and a scheduled screening of several people dancing around the re-animated corpse of Mae West in Sextette a-waited to put us out of our misery. We even had complimentary tickets for the Shedd Aquarium for Friday morning, where rumor had it, there be dragons. Woot.  

Now, those of you have been reading this site for awhile know that getting lost in the Chicago suburbs (my favorite thus far has been Waukegan) trying to get to and from the Tiki bar is another B-Fest tradition -- a tradition that I really wanted to break ties with. To accomplish this, I abused the hell out of several office privileges by printing out a six-sheet by three-sheets worth of YAHOO maps, showing the most direct route to the bar, and then pilfered about a yard of Scotch tape to slap it together into the Über Map of Doom. There was no way in hell we were gonna get lost this year -- He said ominously...

Yeah, things were falling together a little too easily, I thought. I needn't have worried, 'cuz it wasn't long before the wheels on our little operation started coming off, one lug-nut at a time.  Nah, nothing all that serious; more strange than bad. Things began to unravel with the near twelfth hour revelation that the print of Hot Rods to Hell was basically unwatchable and scratched. Well, I didn't have the heart to tell them that even with a pristine print, Hot Rods was still basically unwatchable, so subbing in it's place, a Roger Corman juvenile delinquent snoozer called Teenage Doll. This I had never seen, and even thought HRTH is an awful movie, it's perfect B-Fest fodder. Thus I was more than a tad disappointed by it's loss from the line-up. A&O gave us the option to opt out if we wanted, but honestly, we weren't really all that particular -- and we kind of needed the promised sponsorship tickets because, once again, B-Fest had sold out.

That was the biggest hiccup, but things got even more weird as B-Fest weekend approached. The day before we were to embark, I took some Christmas money to the bank to be broken down into small denominations for my bankroll. Two $100 bills were placed into the receptacle at the drive-up window, only to be taken up by a gust of wind that gassed them merrily down 2nd Street with yours truly huffing and puffing in hot pursuit, cursing the whole #@*% way. Then, before the butt-crack of dawn Thursday morning, as Mike and I made our way into Omaha to pick up Matt, we were watching the MST3k'd version of Pod People, and as if seeping from that stinky film's climax, an unearthly fog swamped I-80. It was like driving in a very thick broth, Trumpie flatulence we decided, and the landmarks we needed were nowhere to be seen -- hell, the car's hood was nowhere to be seen! Just four lanes of blind traffic feeling their way about at around 85mph. E'yup, white-knuckle time, a wrong exit, rush-hour, and we're lost already.

Luckily, the sun cracked open the fog, searing it off, and we arrived at Matt's place where Mike reveals the transparency he made out of my logo for the TBHoDMAS. And, in due course, we were across the border and about 150 miles into that very Hole we appreciated before Mike realizes he forgot the transparency back in Omaha. E'yup. Captain Wow strikes again. (We gave you one job, Mike...) Fortunately, a plan was soon hatched to get the transparency faxed to the hotel and then a hunt for a Kinko's to remedy this unfortunate gaffe.

Deeper and deeper into the Hole we went, passing the eons by watching the ultimate double-feature of Idiocracy -- where Mike Judge presents a possible dim future of an X-TREME, and nut-shot addicted America, and Jack-Ass 2 -- where Johnny Knoxville and his boys pushes Judge's theory very quickly from possible, to probable, to most definitely. And my GOD! When Preston and Wee-Man are bungie-strapped together and jump off the bridge in a stunt that would have made Wile E. Coyote proud, I thought that final, fatal stroke was upon me from laughing too hard.

Several centuries later, as we approached Iowa City for our annual stop for food and gas and gawking at He Who Walks Between the Arches -- the Patron Saint/mascot of the TBHoDMAS -- we began to notice some drastic changes in the landscape. Rumors of tornadic activity explains why we blew past the first exit, positive it wasn't the one we needed. Neither was the next one; nor the next; nor the next...And then we were out of Iowa City.

Holy @*#%. We missed it.

This cannot, and will not, stand! With the trip's Karmic Balance in the balance, the decision was made to backtrack until we found Him, resulting in three concentric-circle tours of all the exits until we found the right one, of course, the very first one we passed up, harboring the McDonald's we needed. (And for the record, those of you looking for this Pagan effigy, you want the Coralville exit.) After eating, to appease our blasphemous lack of direction, Matt offered a cheeseburger Happy Meal as a sacrifice for our transgressions. And Lo, He Who Walks Between the Arches smiled down on we foolish mortals and granted us safe passage out of Iowa City. And I do believe that blessing, when combined with our quick, centrifugal tours of all the exits in Iowa City, sling-shotted us through the remainder of the Hole -- like how the astronauts used the moon's gravity to slingshot them back to Earth. But it almost worked too well because I think we broke the time barrier -- Wow! Just like Star Trek IV -- evidenced by a quick, off-road landing at the REST STOP OF THE FUTURE: a monolithic structure of odd angles, stone and glass, and a strange, crude, post-apocalyptic language carved into the murals covering the walls; some kind of code-speak about armageddon or pork-belly futures that I could not decipher. Back on the road, the time-warp reversed itself as we made it to Chicago and to the hotel in Evanston in almost record time.

Damn. That must have been some cheeseburger.

Checked in, lickety-split, and while Mike and Matt went off in search of Kinko's (and I'll let Mike tell that strange tale), I cleaned up and caught a quick power nap before the pre-fest festivities of the evening. It was a quick one, and soon I joined the other BMMB'ers in the lobby. It was great to see them all again -- Tim, Sean, Josh, Jessica, Lisa and Ray. And a B-Fest virgin, Movie Mike, of Mike's Movie Cave fame, took his life into his own hands by volunteering to ride with us to the Chinese Buffet for some grub; what with our Mike driving and me navigating, I have no doubt that we'll wind up crashing into Lake Michigan at some point -- on the Canadian side! Speaking of the Great White North, Mike made the trek across the border to B-Fest, and he had some funny stories about getting through border security. Seems the guard wasn't aware of this [quote] B-Fest [unquote], and Mike had to rattle off a few of the films they were showing to prove that it was real event. Luckily for him, one of the film's he didn't mention was Invasion U.S.A. I can only imagine the international incident if'n he did.

Fully stuffed with egg rolls and Mongolian beef, and stocked up on a six-pack of Old Style tall-boys for the room party later, with the Über Map of Doom locked and loaded, we departed for the Hala Kahiki. Sure, we missed a few turns (...Turn now, Mike. Turn NOW, Mike. TURN NOW, MIKE! OK, circle back...) but we made it there practically unscathed. I love you ÜMoD! Inside, several more BMMB'ers were waiting, and expecting a fairly large crowd, we started pulling tables together. More BMMB'ers arrived, a ton of them. In total, there were between thirty to forty B-Movie zealots crammed into one section of the bar getting their drinkie on, and flexing their nerd-fu with overlapping conversations about a screenplay for a live-action Thundarr the Barbarian movie, crappy juke-boxes, the fine art of killing vampires, and at some point I got dragged into an unfortunate conversation about the inherent eroticism of breast feeding(?). I answered the question innocently enough; the wrong answer, though, I guess. And I think the questioner had a point -- a point that I obviously wasn't getting, and as things spiraled out of control, we were both saved from the ugly escalation by Scott Ashlin's timely intervention, and the noble El Santo from 1000 Misspent Hours and Counting quickly diffused the situation. Thank you, my friend. (And I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to all who were sitting at the table who witnessed that. I'm still not sure what happened, there, so I'll just blame it on the rum.)

Shaken but not stirred, we make it back to the hotel in record time -- and is that a pang of regret I feel for not getting lost? Nah. The party is in Jessica's room, and we've got not one, but two, copies of Sextette, but we have no DVD player for the hotel TV. However, we do have two portable DVD players, and by some miracle, we get the film's synch-started. Yes. Sextette -- in Stereo-Vision!. Good conversation, good heckling, crappy movie. I polished of the six-pack and the movie, the party breaks up and I sneak back into the room where Mike and Matt have already long since crashed. Tired, buzzed, and fearing the morning hangover, I crawled into bed, already looking forward to/dreading tomorrow's festivities.

Oh, yeah. My ass is hurting already.