B-Fest: A Story of Survival

Now, it’s well established that Paul the Spud and I have a long-running psychic mind meld, which manifests itself in myriad ways, from our similar specs frames to our Ethel Merman impressions, and it’s also no secret that Spudsy and I love each other to itty, bitty pieces, having forged the special, unreplicatable bond that can only be shared between a fag and his hag, a full-bosomed mistress of cuntitude and her boybitch. But could we, would we, be strong enough to withstand sleep deprivation, physical exhaustion, hunger, dehydration, nicotine withdrawal, the foul stench of a massive throng of unwashed geeks, and the mind-numbing assault of 24 hours of bad films?

We now have our answer—and that answer is a resounding yes.

Armed with only our wits (and two bags full of water and snacks), we made it alive through B-Fest—through the suckitude of Superman IV, through the eye- and ear-straining madness of The Creature from the Black Lagoon in 3-D, through the soul-sucking direness of Godzilla (1998)…straight through the disaster that is Gas-s-s-s! and the hell on Earth that is Rhinestone Cowboy. (In a bit of a cheat, we did skip out before Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2, but, in our defense, I did have a train ride ahead of me during which I had to stay awake, lest I ended up in South Bend at the end of the line.)

This being my first time at B-Fest, I had no idea what an event it actually is. There were people from all over the country—and some as far away as France—in attendance, many of whom came toting air mattresses, gigantic coolers, and all manner of comfort and nourishment reinforcements. As we walked in with our two small bags of stuff, I noted we might be laughed at for being woefully unprepared. We weren’t, but that’s probably only because no one laughed at anyone for anything at B-Fest; we only mocked what was on the screen.

And aside from the manic and delirious fun that was had during Plan 9 from Outer Space (including the throwing of vast quantities of paper plates each time the flying saucers—pictured above—appeared onscreen, and the cacophony of “Night!”s and “Day!”s and “Bela!”s and “Not Bela!”s and “Tor!”s at the beginning of each scene as an homage to Ed Wood’s masterwork), that was the best thing about B-Fest—meeting some of the other people who attended, who were not only hilarious, but so very, very nice. (I especially enjoyed meeting the adorable Shaker Zack, and wish we’d had more opportunity to talk, but, you know, there were films to ridicule!) It’s a bit too easy to say that, this being a magnet for geeks, particularly of the male persuasion, it can be chalked up to being a room full of the proverbial Nice Guys who always finish last; certainly, that plays a part at B-Fest, but I’ve met enough sci-fi or swords-and-spells fanatics who can be condescending pricks to anyone who doesn’t speak Klingon or Elvish to know that not all geeks are nice guys (or girls). The people I met were just really welcoming, and that made the experience so much the better.

It was sort of impossible, for someone who has studied gender and sexuality for so long and spends so much time immersed in politics, not to note some of the interesting political and social things happening, too. I won’t blather on about all of it, because it’s probably not so interesting to anyone but me, but it was hilarious to hear the collective gasps and groans when everyone saw that the costuming for Plan 9 had been done by Dick Chaney, and it was very curious to experience the tension between blatantly sexist and homophobic humor and a post-modern take on the same. It was the men who delivered an endless stream of bad jokes at the expense of Dolly Parton’s endowments during Rhinestone Cowboy, and made more Brokeback Mountain references than I can count, but two of the best snarky pro-feminist lines came from men, too: During The Creature from the Black Lagoon, which features a token woman scientist, whose primary field of study seems to be how long scantily clad women can manage to swim just out of the reach of lagoon monsters, one of the male scientists is saying to her, “You must understand…” and our audience hero intoned, “You must understand that as the only female scientist, you’re best suited to get all the rest of us some coffee.” And, at the end of Cobra Woman, “It’s always the same—the woman’s got to give up her career.”

One particularly amusing thing was the co-opting of the “USA! USA!” chant into a sarcastic statement on American imperialism and up-our-own-assesness. Any time there was a “America to the rescue” moment in a film, the audience erupted into “USA! USA!”, and I’m sure for the conservatives in attendance, it may have been a genuine response spawned of their usual silly notions of the infallibility of American hegemony, but they no doubt quickly realized they were outnumbered, as the chant also rose in clearly facetious response to American cars breaking down, the Madison Square Garden getting bombed to kill Godzillets, and someone blurting out while being robbed by aliens, “I’m an American!” And then, the final blow, when Jean Reno starts kicking ass in Godzilla, the response came: “Viva la France! Viva la France!”

It was a really fun, if exhausting, experience. You’ve really got to like crap, and you’ve really got to be able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime—which I can do. (Now Spudsy and Mr. Shakes can compare stories about my sleeping during concerts and the deafening racket of B-Fest.) Thanks, Paul, for inviting me and procuring our survival kit and being so much fun, as always. And to Zack and Preacher Quint—it was so nice to meet you, and I’m so sorry for stepping on your feet so many times.