The MRFH Intern Squad: Bert, Chippy, Frogs, Mr. Pop, Rainbows and Prince.

I have two main regrets in life. The first is that I used the words “big banana” in what would become my main – and inescapable – e-mail address. While I gladly launch into the tale regaling how I got that odd moniker (which is totally innocent and portrays me as a minor saint), people are far more willing to assume the worst about my mysterious porn star past.

The second regret, also about naming and also created during my wild ‘n wooly college years, is the title of our beloved website. Don’t get me wrong! In many ways, I still think it’s an incredibly memorable name, and one that we’ve embraced with pride. If we’d gone with a shortened “Mutant Reviewers”, I think we might have tipped the scales over into the bland internet oblivion, where millions of movie critic websites are sent to whither and perish and blog about the unjustness of it all.

However, that last little word in our title has dealt me some grief over the years. As I moved into the career of ministering to sugar-crazed teenagers, my internet history followed with me, and any church with a savvy computer user was able to look my literary projects up online. Between the questionable “from HELL” title and the now-defunct “Brotherhood of Eternal Bachelors” (where I threw a totally mature temper tantrum aimed at the opposite sex), I failed to land as many interviews than if I had “Mutant Reviewers From Heaven” on my portfolio. One pastor even chewed me out in an e-mail, telling me that I had no right to blah-de-blah-blah and then he was forever in my “junk mail” filter.

Happily, friends, family members and church members who know me well give me the benefit of the doubt that I’m not promoting Satan’s cinema in a dark double life (although Doom Generation might be pushing it). Aware of the odd looks MRFH’s name gives me, I don’t go publicizing the website to exactly everyone I meet. That doesn’t stop my boss from making a point of telling everyone I meet that I write movie reviews online, mostly because he knows the question I’ll get asked next and loves to watch me struggle through it.

Mutant Reviewers endorse pyromaniacs and their healthy addiction

“Neat! So what’s it called?” asks the newlywed couple on their first Sunday to our church.

“Um,” I briefly contemplate a heroic leap through thick and probably painful windows. “Mutant Reviewers…”

“Hmm!” the couple makes an encouraging noise.

“…From Hell,” I finish up, watching them freeze out of instinct. Nobody ever, ever asks me to explain the title. From then on, it’s just an awkward silence and furtive glances toward the fire extinguisher.

So, what's the deal, you ask. Are we just into tier one swear words around here?

As you probably well know, the truth behind the title is almost so benign as to be a preschool storybook. MRFH began as a tongue-in-cheek tribute to the cult films of yesteryore, and we slapped up the most B-movie name we could think of: “Revenge of the Mutant Movie Reviewers From Hell VIII”. Some undisclosed time later, it was shortened down to just four words. There you go. Once, a guy dying from cancer looked at our title, and was healed instantly from its awesomeness. Another true story.

In a way, I think the “From Hell” is a bit deceitful to newcomers. Most other websites like to adopt such phrases to emphasize their “hardcore” attitudes, a “rawness” that exudes cool popularity, and to win over the vote of the Emo/Goth crowd. Us? Well… you know a box of newborn baby kittens? Yeah, we’re about as hardcore as that image. And I’m fine with that. How about mew?

So, in our tenth year of Mutantdom, I decided once and for all to make a trek to the place of our ancestors: Hell. The real Hell being closed for repairs, I settled on Hell, Michigan as an acceptable substitute. Would I find peace for my tormented soul over our title at last? Or at least find directions to a bathroom? I really had to go.

I dragged along six teenagers who were bored and foolishly trusted me to take them on a “mystery road trip”. I planned a few fun roadside stops (at one point we quickly pulled over to a house with an alluring sign proclaiming “EGGS”, and purchased a dozen just for the heck of it), but the centerpiece was this oddly-named town about an hour away from Detroit. And so, about 11:00am our time (half past C’thulu in Eastern Standard Hades), we drove into the small town of Hell and prepared for an expedition like no other.

The first impression of Hell is that it’s small — really, really small. It’s nothing more than a blip on a road that bisects a state park, home to about a hundred people. It was founded by some guy who built a small dam, a racetrack and a distillery, then couldn’t be bothered with an actual name when people asked him (“Call it Hell for all I care,” is his legendary response). The odd name is the current lifeblood of the town, a curious road trip stop that provides fodder for the local DJs when it gets frozen over.

There’s only a few places to go in Hell, and then you’re outta luck. The general store does triple duty as a post office and DVD rental counter. Hell’s caretaker and postmaster, an overly cheery lady who was delighted to see her only customers of the day, regaled us with tales of the area. On 6/6/06 they had a celebration that was blown far out of proportion by the media attention; it ballooned from a few hundred expected celebrators to 20,000 people trying to squeeze into this one-street town. She also told us that there’s a high demand for the “Hell, MI” postmark on mail, which she then showed us by stamping it onto a postcard and then burning the edges with a cigarette lighter. I think she just became my personal hero for that.

I'm sure this is how the staff sees me on Monday mornings.

The Hell Country Story was closed (the owner saw us and told us it was due to the weather, natch), but we admired the really cool building design, the tiny entrance door built especially for kids, and the painted photo op boards in the back. I include this picture for PoolMan as an early Christmas present. I don’t think he could have photoshopped anything better, do you?

They also have a small wedding chapel in the back (locked) and the Dam Site bar and grill. Good burgers. Free pool. To the cheers of my teens and the dismayed looks of the regulars, I queued up Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” on the jukebox. What other song would go so well in such a quaint burg?

I think I came to peace with the “Hell” part of our name while visiting this town. Hell, Michigan was about as Satanic and evil as any goofy Halloween decorations sold at Wal-Mart every October, and there’s a definite spirit of zany cheer that mocks any true evil (or serious humbugs) out there.

Similarly, visitors to MRFH have often told me that they appreciate greatly the fun atmosphere, the upbeat comradely between staff members, and the take-no-prisoners-alive approach to skewering bad movies with comedy. We’ve been through the best and the worst together, and come out smarter, shrewder folk for the journey. Dante himself had to descend into Hell first to realize the true glory of Paradise, and so do we.

As we drove away from Hell, it began to snow. Hard. Somehow, that seemed appropriate.