|
First
off: |
|
A
Few Words from the Author |
|
(Thank
you all for coming.) |
As
I sit here, listening to Telstar-Man's
B-Fest Mix CD, and type up this memoir, I
keep glancing out the window and watch
the snow fall as the first blizzard of
2002 hits. A grand total of one-foot of
snow fell from Colorado all the way to
Chicago in the past twelve hours, and I
thank the cinema gods that the inclement
weather held off until after B-Fest
weekend was over.
This
was my first B-Fest,
an annual 24-hour film festival /
endurance test, held in the frozen
wastelands of Chicago's northern suburbs.
We got there late, and we didn’t get
to sit with everyone else, which was
regrettable, but we made due. I got to
meet everyone and I hope that I didn’t
appear standoffish. Nothing could be
further from the truth. Folks, I was
overwhelmed by it and kept to the
fringes on purpose, so I wouldn’t
explode with giddiness -- an atomic
explosion of pure, unadulterated joy.
Sad,
maybe, but true.
I
didn’t take any notes, so all of these
recollections are taken strictly from
memory. Some facts may be skewered, and
some things might be slightly out of
order, but the overall insanity of
B-Fest is still there despite the
factual errors.
Enjoy.
|
Chad
Plambeck |
|
B-Fest
Survivor |
|
T |
| The
Calm Before the Storm |
| (And
Government Cheese.) |
So
I roll into Omaha around 4:30, Thursday
afternoon, and despite my dyslexically
challenged directions, manage to wind my
way to the Bellevue suburbs and find the
home of one Paul Freeland -- anime
enthusiast, soccer nut, and top wheelman
for 3B Theater -- with little incident. Paul
had graciously volunteered his car for our
trek to B-Fest -- the premiere get
together for bad film fanatics, and a
place where the online B-Movie Brethren can
congregate and actually meet each other
face to face. This was supposed to be my
second trip to B-Fest, but the 2001
expedition was scuttled at the last moment
due to some work woes. Now, I was already
getting pretty jazzed by the prospect of
finally making it.
Planning
to debark for Chicago in the following
morning, we head into Omaha proper and hit
the Suncoast Video, where I picked up a
copy of The
Man from Planet X,
Tombs of the Blind Dead and Children
Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things.
We also hit the Barnes and Noble and I
indulged in my other passion -- World War
II history, in particular the ETO -- and
picked up a copy of The
101st Airborne in Normandy
and
The
Ardennes: The Battle of the Bulge.
And
after spending entirely too much money, we
made our way into the Old Market area of
town and settled on The Spaghetti Works
for supper. The logical thinking was to
pack in the carbohydrates because we
wouldn’t be eating a whole lot over the
next couple of days because, allegedly (--
and more on this later), there was
no food or drink allowed in the theater
during B-Fest, and while Paul wolfed down
some kind of green spaghetti, I inhaled
some fettuccini alfredo.
Stomachs
distended, we retired back to stately
Freeland Manor and watched the new Monty
Python and The Holy Grail
Special Edition DVD. Man, sometimes you
just forget how funny that movie is.
Watching the film and all the extras, Paul
then offered to pop in The
Last Man on Earth,
but I declined, wanting to at least try to
get some sleep before the big day and the
big trip. This was a little after midnight
with a wake up call set for 5:30 am. And I
should have known better. For when I
retired to one of the bedrooms, I
proceeded to stare at the ceiling for
about four hours. Working
a graveyard shift, my day usually runs
from 11am to 4am, but I did manage to
catch a few Z’s before Paul rousted me
out.
We
hop into Paul’s car and I carve out a
niche in the back seat, hoping to catch a
few more winks. Stopping for gas, we also
load up on pop and Zingers; and I also snagged a
couple Deli -- eat them at your own
gastrointestinal risk -- Express ham-n-cheese
sandwiches for breakfast. I apologize to
Paul before hand, and then waited,
inevitably, for the government cheese on
those things to kick in.
Chicago,
here we come.
|
B-Fest
or Bust
|
|
(And
the Dreaded Black Hole of Des
Moines.)
|
I
never could get Paul to pull my finger,
but before we even crossed the
Nebraska/Iowa border, the back windows
were already down. As I stretched out to
try and catch some more sleep, I’m
jolted awake by a string of profanities
from Paul. Glancing out the back window, I
see one of Iowa’s finest wants us to
pull over. Uh-oh, Rollers.
Lead-foot Freeland got caught by the Iowa
Sky (Nazi)
Patrol doing 84mph in a 65mph zone. To be
honest, as far as patrolmen go, this guy
was pretty nice and knocked the fine down
to something more reasonable. And
in a strange ironic twist, I told Paul
when we started that I’d spring for gas
and his B-Fest ticket but for food and
speeding tickets he was on his own.
Now,
there’s a funny thing I’ve noticed
while driving through Iowa. Right
around Des Moines, you run into some kind
of ... unnatural phenomenon. I’ve
dubbed it The Black Hole of Des Moines,
and it’s some kind of time/space
distortion pocket that sucks you in, where
you drive around for 10 hours or so, and then it
spits you out in the exact same
spot and at the exact same time you
entered it. And it moves! When you’re
traveling east it’s on the east side of
Des Moines, and while going west it’s on
the west side. Be proud, Iowa. You have
your very on Bermuda Triangle.
Making
it out of The Hole, we stop in
Davenport, Iowa and meet up with one of
Paul’s soccer buddies for lunch. (Who
was a really nice guy but whose name
completely escapes me. All apologies
m’man.)
And who’d a thunk it, but Davenport has an
authentic Japanese restaurant. Now I’ve
had Chinese, Greek, Jamaican and
Vietnamese cuisine, but I’ve never had
"authentic" Japanese food, and I
knew I was in trouble when we pulled up
and saw the name of the place: Sayonara.
Then, I'm in serious trouble as we find a
table and I notice there is no silverware,
only chopsticks. Okay: I would probably
have a better chance of starting a fire by
rubbing those wooden sticks together than
eating with them, but I’m willing to
try. Ordering some Beef Teriyaki,
after the waitress brought it out, my task
began in earnest. Harpooning what I could,
I soon discovered a nasty little treat
called wasubi. And I’ll say it right
now: "HOW IN THE HELL DO YOU EAT RICE
WITH A COUPLE OF STICKS!" Well, my
chopstick experiment ended mostly in
failure, and to be honest, for the money,
the portions were pitifully small, but I
knew in the back of my mind that we needed
to gas up yet and a wonderful world of
Twinkies, cookies and beef jerky awaited
me at the Kum-n-Go.
On
Paul's friend’s advice, we also make a
course change. Instead of taking I-80 to
I-55 and getting lost trying to get to
Lake Shore Drive -- like the last time I
ventured into Chicago
(-- alas, another tale for another day), we found I-88,
despite the tolls, was a straight shot
through the heart of the beast that takes
you straight to Lake Shore. And from Lake
Shore we find Sheridan Road. And when we
find that we’ve found Evanston and
B-Fest.
Wohoo!
| On
the [Toll] Road Again... |
| (So
Far So Good -- He Typed Ominously.) |
We
were actually making pretty good time, and
according to my precise calculations,
we’d hit the Norris Center around 4:30;
plenty of time to meet everyone and get
acquainted before the festival started at
6.
I-88
eventually merges into the Eisenhower
Expressway, which is kind of a misnomer
because the traffic moves anything but
expressly around four o’clock on a
Friday afternoon -- blowing my arrival
prediction to smithereens. As we inched a
long, eventually, we got dumped onto Lake
Shore Drive, which is as scenic as it
sounds. We also found Sheridan Road and
all its twists and turns. And as we
lost daylight, the map was becoming more
and more useless, but luckily, we arrived
at the campus right at 5pm with one hour
to spare.
Now
to find a parking spot.
HA!
|
Parking
|
|
(But
I don't Have a @#%*ing Parking
Permit!)
|
For
those of you who have never been to
Chicago, or any kind of big city, I will
tell you right now: Park your car at the
airport and take a cab or ride the El to
wherever you need to go. There is no place
to park in Chicago. Period. Oh yeah, you can
park -- but only during certain hours on
certain days, and then -- and only then --
if you have a special permit. And that’s
only good on weekends.
Aarrgghh!
After
wasting almost an hour, despite our lack
of an F-grade parking permit, we gave up
and decided to risk the parking garage
that is "relatively close" to
the Norris Center. With five minutes to
show time, we’d go in, get our tickets,
and ask around to see if our car was safe.
Charging in, I plopped down forty-bucks
for both Paul and me, grabbed a program, a
nifty B-Fest cup courtesy of my bosses at Stomp
Tokyo, then up some stairs and through
the double doors of McCormick Auditorium,
where Shangri-La, if you will, and our
home for the next 24 hours, waited.
Stopping
for a moment to take it all in, I already
know this going to be great. I also
noticed several coolers, and that everyone
else has food and drinks. The hell?
We had nothing. Oh well, there’s got to
be some vending machines around here
somewhere.
I
hope.
| [Too]
Brief Introductions |
| (Hello.
My Name is Chad...) |
I
spot the good Dr. Freex by his trademark
cane along the side aisle and decided that
that would be the best place to introduce
myself to the Stomp
Tokyo gang. Handshakes are exchanged,
and he introduces me to Staff Sgt. Andrew
of Badmovies.org,
who called me a Stomp Tokyo pod, as in pod
people, which I think is a
compliment. Several
members of the B-Movie
Message Board were there, too. I spot
Tim "Telstar-Man" Lehnerer by
his spiffy green mo-hawk (-- great
CD by the way), and between him and
Skip "BBanzai" Mitchell, I’m
convinced that our car is safe and will
still be where we parked it in the
morning. Megalemur was there, too, and I
think there were more of you, but in the
rush, I’m drawing a blank. (Sorry.)
Barely
making it on time, they soon announce that
the films will be starting shortly. Since
it’s pretty crowded where they’re all
sitting, Paul and I retreated to the back
of the theater and staked out some seats of
our own. On the way up the aisle, I run
right into Chris Holland -- one half of
the benevolent overlords of Stomp Tokyo,
who sponsor my website. I
quickly introduced myself again (--
and dammit, I wish we could have gotten
here sooner),
and I promise to hopefully move closer as
the film-fest progresses. Taking some
seats dead-center in the back row, we let
some other fellows in who are hauling in
quite a food stash, including a bucket of
hot wings from Hooters, just as the
emcee announces with a wink and a nudge
that no food or drink is allowed in
McCormick Auditorium. All I have is a
blanket, and in my bag are my gag papers
to give away, some dirty skivvies, my
migraine medication, and a small bottle of
warm milk in case I had to take them. So
here’s to hoping my head stays together.
(For
the record: it
did.)
As
the lights dim, I realize I'm about to pop
my B-Fest cherry.
Light
this damn candle. [Note to self: Next
year, bring food.]
|
