Having now been awake for almost 51-hours, with every attempt to bring that streak to a sleepy-time-fueled happy ending ending in ruin, our hero taps into some uncharted reserves as he tries to push past the wall, head first, into a whole new state of semi-unconsciousness as B-Fest rounds the far corner and comes down the back stretch.

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, while I settled 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. Grabbing a seat, 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 followed. We pull a couple of tables together and the roll call as we go around the table included myself, Seraphim Jones (another member of the B-Board), Paul, Chris, Doc Freex, Skip "BBanzai" Mitchell and his lovely wife George. We swap more war stories of anti-Communist film shorts, why you can't get good sushi at the grocery store, the joys of Mystery Science Theater and why Clean Slate was inferior to Memento.

Paul almost tricks me into sampling some wasubi, but I won't fall for that trick again. (See B-Fest 2002) As everyone finishes up, we peel off one by one and mosey back to theater just in time for the octopus attack on San Francisco. You know, 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, Mr. Tobey!

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

Superman's cousin, Kara, comes to Earth to retrieve the incandescent and amazingly colossal gobstopper that her uncle, Peter O'Toole, lost. Landing on Earth, she first survives a rape attempt by Matt Frewer, then goes about establishing a secret identity by befriending 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, and since he won't be around to solve any local calamities, it's up to our girl to save the world from Faye Dunaway, who has commandeered the amazingly colossal gobstopper with her henchwoman, Brenda Viccaro. To do this, Supergirl survives a trip through the Phantom Zone and a runaway steam shovel auditioning for Killdozer II. The End. I think.

What a truly dreadful movie. I really don’t remember that much about it except that I didn't recall Helen Slater filling out those blue-jammies that well before. (Forgive me for that piggish statement. I was really tired.) Despite the intake of food, my buzzing brain was soon replaced with an aching neck from whiplash. As I kept nodding off, thinking I was falling, I'd jerk back awake, making it official: I will never, ever sleep again. Wheeee...

We head outside where 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, 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, then to I-80, and home. Sounds simple enough, right? Right.

Wrong.

Once we got to the bottom of the off ramp you had three choices of directions, and not one friggin' 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. Nothing looks familiar, or right, and my sleep deprived brain is convinced God is toying with us and flaming hail is soon to come. We circle around back to Lake Michigan again. Then 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 then Mike accidentally 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 dubbed 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 *#@%'s 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 really remember anything past Davenport.

It wound up snowing 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, m'man, we owes you big. When we got back to Omaha and to Paul's place, he offered us a bed for the night, but as tempting as it was, we both declined. We'd come this far and were determined to finish this thing tonight. E'yup. We had gone Griswold, and had 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 clerk 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. 

After we pulled into my driveway, I gather up all my stuff and thank Mike for doing all the driving before he heads home to his lovely wife Sarah and their two wiener dogs, Max and Cole. That done, I head inside my house. I had thoughts about a shower before bed, but an irresistible force sucked me into the bedroom. Crawling into bed, I kicked my shoes off and pulled the covers up. And as my cat, Wrigley, snuggled up beside me to say Hi and Where the hell have you been with a customary head-butt, I took my watch off, which read 5:34 a.m. I had been up since noon on Thursday -- approximately 67-hours ago. I found the remote to the TV and clicked it on, and I was out before the picture lit up.

When I woke up twelve hours later, I realized I was getting way too old for this crap. We were definitely getting a hotel next year.

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