It was a lost cause from the beginning. I was just starting to fade out when Warlords ended and the lights came up. Foot traffic was pretty heavy, tromping by me to the restrooms or whatever destinies awaited them. Things quieted and the lights went down as Dementia 13 cranked up. I listened to the film until the first murder.

Whack! Scream. Whack! Splat. No more screaming. 

Okay, let's try this sleep thing again. 

One Tor - Two Tors - Three Tors - Four Tors - Five Tors - Six Tors - Seven Tors - Eight Tors - Nine Tors - Ten - Wait - Seven ate Nine Tors? Ahahah- heehehe. Goofy old Tor. 

Ahem!

This isn't working. Too much sugar. Too much caffeine. Sleep is out of the question and my only hope is to pass out. Or bludgeon myself unconscious. Maybe if I ran head first into the wall? Ah, violent psychosis is the next stage of sleep depravation after hallucinations.

So, as I lay there listening to Dementia 13, contemplating approach vectors and crash trajectories into the wall, a gaggle of B-Festers decided to start some kind of deviant Dungeons and Dragons game two-feet away from me by the entrance. One of them, the ringleader, who I dubbed Knot-head, led them all back there to play because he hated watching black and white movies. The game he was playing was based on movie monsters, most of them from black and white films. What a flipping genius. He also had to explain the rules to everyone - three or four times - so any chance of passing out back there was lost. 

I tossed off my blanket and pillow to return to my seat. I see Mike is stretched out on the floor of our row blocking my chair. I decide to let him sleep and stand in the back leaning on the rail and watched the end of -

- - - -

Dementia 13 is hard to describe because it doesn't make a lick of sense. I have a copy of this film at home. I've tried to watch it a couple of times but I can never make it to the end. I either fall asleep or the film loses me and I wander off. 

It's the dubious directorial debut of Francis Ford Coppola. Roger Corman sent Coppola off to Ireland with about a $1.50, no script, and said make a film using a castle. And you wonder why it didn't make any sense. So I finally saw the end of this tale of family trouble, and axe murderers, but now I can't recall the beginning so it still doesn't make any sense. *sigh*

I glance at my watch. It pains me to think how long I've been up without any real sleep. My brain is buzzing, my stomach is feeling nauseous because I've had no real food since Arby's yesterday in Iowa. What's the cure for nausea? Why a combination of Oreos and Pringles. Duh.

I head back to the seats to dig out some more junk food. Mike hears me and wakes up, disoriented and out of sorts. I tell him he's just in time for the gawdawful, even for a wrassling picture, piece of "dookie" known as -

- - - -

The Hulkster has some problems with an evil cable mogul who wants to start his own wrestling channel. He wants Hogan to be his centerpiece but the wrestler refuses by stuffing the ill-tempered mogul's check into his mouth quipping he won't be around when it clears. The first of many poop jokes to come I'm afraid.

Hogan refuses to fight until Zeus beats up and cripples his younger brother putting him in a wheelchair. I laugh as the Frank Stallone power ballad cranks up while we watch Zeus train intermixed with scenes of Hulk helping to rehabilitate his brother. What a great guy.

The death match finally happens and, just when you think the Hulk is going to go down, he sees his bawling brother. That inspires him to rise and kick Zeus' butt while the evil media mogul electrocutes himself.

I'm not even going to touch the romantic subplot with Joan Severance. For God's sake they were aping It Happened One Night. Hulk, puts some pants on, we can see your little Hulkamaniac for cripesakes! Yikes.

At this point my rational brain has surrendered and shut down for the rest of the film fest. My non-rational brain was now in complete control and was laughing at my reason centers and poking them with a sharp stick. In a state of half-giggling consciousness I endured. Maybe this was some kind of psychological defense mechanism? At least I had abandoned the idea of running head-first into the wall.

Mike is about as coherent as I am and together we skewer the movie without mercy over a can of Pringles. So the Hulkster stops a $300 cafe robbery by doing at least $50000 in property damage? 

It could have been worse. It could have been back to back episodes of Thunder in Paradise with Chris Lemon and that insipid talking boat. Okay, we all know the evil mogul is supposed to be Ted Turner, who was trying to start his own wrassling franchise at the time. Hulk, along with Vince McMahon, were the producers here and they pull no punches on poor old Ted.

Wait? Didn't Hulk eventually defect to the WCW in real life? Say it ain't so, Terry?

Aaauuuuuurrrrgghhh!

- - - -

The lights come up again. We were ahead of schedule, thanks to The Happy Hooker fiasco, so the breakfast break would be longer then expected. We wandered out of the theater and head down towards the cafeteria area. Mike gets in line for a bagel and some coffee. I've had enough to eat and drink for awhile. I find a table to try and get my head together pinching myself hard to make sure this wasn't all some fever dream brought on by the Black Hole of Des Moines.

Megalemur, sans his wizard robes, joins me and we discuss the social and political ramifications of No Holds Barred. We both concur that it would be impossible that a pure, and noble, spirit like Hulk Hogan could have blood on his hands. So the filmmakers made the right choice having the media mogul kill himself. He also explained that during an earlier scene that a bad guy who had crapped his pants had said it was "dookie" not "pookie" in his pants. Ah, that makes perfect sense now.

While Telstar reveals how he became TelstarMan the White, everybody else is very sleep punchy as evidenced by being easily distracted by a news feature on the TV about a little monkey riding a dog. There is much sadness when it ends and Doc Freex pines for the monkey's return.

The party breaks up and we head back to the theater. I laughed heartily at the poor souls who hadn't seen what was coming next. They had no idea what the strange obscene hand signals and tune I whistled but they soon would. Oh, yes. 

I planned ahead and brought my own donuts this year. I pulled out another soda and broke open the donuts. The floor area around our seats finally opened up and I sat down and stretched out for a bit. My knees were holding up remarkably well. As I munched on one of Old Home's finest, I regretted that we didn't have any Skittles to throw at the screen.

Why? Because it's time for a noxious little E.T. rip off called -

- - - -

We open on a planet in a galaxy somewheres else. A family of thee ugliest alien critters clumsily stumble around the lunarscape until they come upon a probe from Earth that's busy collecting rock samples. It cranks up a vacuum cleaner to collect more but the curious aliens prove extremely malleable and are stretched out, sucked in and compressed into a holding tank. 

Much insanity ensues as the little critter becomes addicted to Coke, Skittles and McDonald's fast food. I can smell the synapses in my brain frying during the "hide the alien in the teddy-bear skin where they spontaneously combust into a dance number while Ronald McDonald approvingly looks on" scene. *shudder*

The alien family are reunited out in the desert and brought back to life by the power of Coke. Then they all blow up but the critters prove fire-proof too and manage to resurrect the wheel-chair bound kid who was caught in the explosion.

And, in the film's final insult, the alien family is rewarded for their good deeds with American citizenship and take the pledge oath. Okay. Do they have any skills other than whistling and making obscene hand gestures? 

Bleaugh! This thing is so saccharine it will give you diabetes. Watching Mac & Me is the cinematic equivalent of getting kicked in the groin. Repeatedly. Was anyone else creeped out when that thing was dancing?

Mike and I were having a blast voicing the mute little alien cretin as if he were Hitler's evil spawn. We decided that this is what a Jawa looks like without his robes on. He sounded like Meatwad of the Aqua-Teens on a bad day. "Give me Coke! Now! Or I will keel you hu-mans, eat my frigging death-ray!" Or when he was wearing the bear suit - "You will pay for this indignity hu-mans! I will call in the mother ship and rain death and fire on you all!"

When they all gathered around the hero to bring him back we were praying that they'd finally bring out their ovipositors and lay some eggs in the little creep. This prompted us to invent and sing The Ovipositor Hokey-Pokey. "You put your ovipositor in, you pull your ovipositor out. You put your ovipositor in and you shake it all about. You lay your eggs inside the host while they are still alive! That's what its all about!"

Props also must go out to the B-Boards very own Hecubus who rolled across the stage out of control in his own wheel-chair simulating what was happening on screen. That was beautiful.

The power of Coke compels you. The power of Coke compels you.

- - - -

It's almost noon. Aside from that abortive nap I've been up for almost 48 hours. Two whole freaking days! All apologies but the rest of the films are kind of a blur.

I enjoy this movie. It's a good film and was a welcome respite but, dang it, where was the pain this year? When I was complaining about the line-up earlier my major beef was that the films in this year's line-up were just too good. Sure Mac & Me was suckingly awful but nothing compared to the vileness survived last year. The film's were loopy this year but not very painful. I won't be carrying any emotional scars or trauma from this years B-Fest. I complained a lot about Merkin and The Lonely Lady last year but the experience is something I intend to tell my grandkids about.

End of rant. Back to the film.

It focuses on Leroy, a young man from the ghetto, who has completed his kung-fu training. He spends the rest of the film searching for his master. When he's not searching he keeps saving Applonia from another evil media mogul who wants the Veejay to play his girlfriend's video on her popular show.

Like I said, great film, so we just sat back and watched and cheered. My stomach's rumbling for something more than Doritos and Oreos so I ask Mike and Paul if they want to head to the cafeteria for some grub. Mike declines saying he's going to try and catch some more sleep. 

We stick around long enough for the next film to spool up. There's one more thing I got to do first before we eat.

- - - -

I waited until the credits rolled by and gave the recently departed Ken Tobey a salute then excused myself from the theater. Paul followed and we had to go around Knot-head and his D&D players, black and white film after all, who had reformed in the entrance and headed to the cafeteria.

Paul is braver than I am and samples the Japanese cuisine. I settle on a couple of plain cheeseburgers. I contemplate getting a soda but think better of it. I have a feeling that I'd bleed soda pop right now if someone punctured me.

I settle into my seat and manners dictate that I wait for Paul before gorging. Chris Holland motored by and offers to come and sit with them over by the window hoping to get better reception on his tri-corder. I pick up my plate and follow. 

Paul almost tricks me into sampling some wasubi but I won't fall for that trick again. Everyone finishes up and we peel off one by one and mosey back to theater just in time for the octopus attack on San Francisco. I was in San Fran earlier this year and drove right by the clock tower the creature destroyed and I'm still kicking myself for not getting a picture of it. Eventually the octopus is nuked and the world is once again safe for democracy. Way to go, Ken.

For more thoughts on It Came from Beneath the Sea you can check out my review of it right here. Right now, I got find my pad and pencil because I'm about to learn - 

- - - -

This is another traditional short at B-Fest. It's a Cold War relic that helps you spot the lying, deceitful, murdering, dirty international criminal conspirators in six easy steps. Trust no one and kill them before they kill or enslave you. Your country's depending on you.

That was us humming "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" from the back row.

- - - -

Superman's cousin, Kara, comes to Earth to retrieve the incandescent amazing colossal gobstopper that her uncle, Peter O'Toole, lost. She lands on Earth and survives a rape attempt by Matt Frewer. She goes about establishing a secret identity, befriends Jimmy Olson and Lois Lane's younger sister.

We then hear over the plot specific radio channel that Superman will be off planet to solve some galactic crisis so he won't be around to solve any local crisis meaning it's up to her to save us from Faye Dunaway, who has commandeered the amazing colossal gobstopper, her henchwoman, Brenda Viccaro, a trip through the Phantom Zone and a runaway steam shovel auditioning for Killdozer II. The End. I think.

Sixteen films down and one to go. Paul also brings word that the Weather Channel says the weather between us and home is deteriorating rapidly with snow likely. So much for sticking around for awhile after the fest ended. The emcee comes on the stage one last time and thanks us again for attending. She also asks that we clean up after ourselves.

We give her, A&O films and Stomp Tokyo a big round of applause for making all this happen.

The lights dim for our last feature.

- - - -

It’s a tradition to end the festival with a giant monster movie of Japanese origin. This year was Godzilla 1985. He’s back, he’s bad, he’s got a thing for bird calls.

After disappearing for a number of years Godzilla returns to raise a little havoc. He attacks a nuclear reactor and absorbs the radiation. A scientist and his plucky assistants observe that the monster is distracted and follows a flock of birds back into the sea. 

A plan is hatched to duplicate the signal and lure Godzilla to an active volcano and dump him in it since conventional weapons have no effect. Meanwhile, Godzilla attacks Tokyo, so the government sics the Super X on him. The hi-tech battlewagon actually takes Godzilla out but those stinking, lying, commies launched a nuclear missile even though Japan asked them not to. 

Luckily, the Americans intercede and intercept the missile over Tokyo with their own nuclear rocket. Unfortunately, all the nuclear fall out revives Godzilla and he's kind of pissed. He quickly takes out the Super X. The scientist perfects his bird call just in time, luring Godzilla away from Tokyo, right when he was about to flatten his perky assistants.

Godzilla is lured to the volcano. Explosives are detonated under his feet and he falls to his death into the molten lava.

In the American command post, Raymond Burr, who they dug out for just this occasion, waxes philosophical about Godzilla in a speech that would have made Criswell proud then chugs a Dr. Pepper.

Godzilla 1985 isn't the best Godzilla movie but it still delivers the rubber-suited goods. It was the last theatrically released Godzilla movie in the states until Godzilla 2000. 

I feel bad because I was only half paying attention anyway as we packed and cleaned up our area up in the dark planning to evacuate as soon as the big guy finished stomping Tokyo flat.

His dirty deeds done the lights came up and, sadly, B-Fest 2003 had come to an end. I was a walking zombie at this point. Despite my reservations about the line-up, lack of sleep and sitting next to the "GYMKATA!" guy for awhile, I had an outstanding time.

That is what I'll remember most about this year's B-Fest; Meeting all the new found friends and fellow victims face to face. I'm amazed how people, who've only met online, can congregate together and get along so well. Some might find it creepy how nice everyone is. I say behold the power of crap and the things it can wrought. And next year, I promise, we'll come down from the mountain and sit amongst you all.

With that we amscrayed.

- - - -

We head outside. The forecasted snow hasn't started yet and I stupidly mistake that for a good omen. We found the Jeep safe and sound right were we left it. We loaded up and followed the twisting and turning Sheridan road back to Lakeshore. We followed Lakeshore Drive until we saw a 290 that-a-way sign and turned off knowing this was the Eisenhower that would take us to I-88 to I-80 and home. Sounds simple enough right? Right.

Wrong.

Once you get to the bottom of the off ramp you have three choices of directions and not one frigging sign to tell you which way to go. We tried going one way. Which proved to be the wrong way. We looped around back to Lakeshore, a long circuitous route and took the 290 that-a-way off ramp again and tried a different direction.

Wrong again. 

It's snowing now. Hard.  In my sleep deprived brain I'm convinced God is toying with us and flaming hail is soon to come. We circle around back to Lake Michigan again. The map lies to us several times and we can't find the Eisenhower even though the map says it should be right there. Back to Lakeshore and an unexpected tour of the Navy Pier. We found the same off ramp and tried the only direction we hadn't tried yet.

Eagle-eye Paul finally spots a sign saying we're heading the right way but we miss the turn off and have to circle back to it. We get off but Mike accidently gets on a ramp that leads up instead of down where we needed to go so we circle around one more flipping time, make an illegal u-turn and head down into the bowels of Chicago. We follow a tunnel, that I dub the lower intestine, that eventually poops us out onto 290 and the Eisenhower.

Halle-flocking-lujah! We made it! We found our way out and it only took us an hour and half! Chicago? I love you but, put some godd**mn signs up for *&@%ing sake that at least encourage you you're going the right way! Please? Is that too much to ask?

Luckily, it's a dry snow that doesn't accumulate meaning the roads aren't very slick but we still eat some gravel off some passing snow-plows. I had planned on sleeping on the way home but after the narrow and harrowing escape from the beast my brain was fried with the power switch stuck on "on" so I knew, again, it was a lost cause. I also knew Mike was really tired and was determined to talk to him all the way home to help him stay awake no matter how odd the conversation got. How odd did it get? I don't have a clue because I don't remember anything past Davenport.

It snowed on us all the way home but the roads never got too bad. I was in no mental condition to drive so Mike took us all the way home. We popped in Telstar's B-fest mix and that got us through Iowa. Thanks, man, we owes you big. We got back to Omaha and to Paul's place. He offered us a bed for the night but, tempting as it was, we both declined. We'd come this far and we're determined to finish this thing tonight. We had gone Griswold and determined that this was no longer a trip but a holy quest.

We had to stop one more time in York for some gas. The snow was getting worse and the guy at the gas station said they were thinking about shutting the Interstate down west of there. I shook my head. One more obstacle between me and my bed. What did I do, Lord? Is it something I've done? Was Mac & Me you're favorite film?

We pressed on and finally made it back to Grand Island around 5am Sunday morning. We pulled into my driveway and I gather up all my stuff and thank Mike profusely for doing all the driving. He heads home to his lovely wife Sarah and their two wiener dogs, Max and Cole. I head inside my house and drop my suitcase and stuff on the floor. I had thoughts about a shower before bed but an irresistible force sucked me into the bedroom. 

I crawled into bed, kicked my shoes off, and pulled the covers up. My cat, Wrigley, snuggled up beside me to say hi with the customary head-butt. I took my watch off and it read 5:34 a.m. I had been up since noon on Thursday. Approximately 65 hours ago. I found the remote to the TV and clicked it on. I was out before the picture lit up.

I woke up twelve hours later. I'm getting way too old for this crap. We're definitely getting a hotel next year.

That's right. See ya'll at B-Fest 2004.

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