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  American Midol

American Midol: I Married a Star Wars Junkie, or, Darn That "Inescapable Destiny" Thing

My husband's been vibrating since, like, February.

At first I thought it was an allergic reaction – pollen, maybe, or a build up of dust due to my horrendous housekeeping skills.

Then I started noticing things...

  • My toddler son, running with small toys in hand, remarking upon asteroid fields, muff terkins(?), and...did he just combine a bad word for an Italian with the sound a sheep makes?(!)

  • Strewn magazines bearing pictures of The Ivy League Vixen, The Endowed One, and The One Who Breathes Like an Old School Phone Predator.

  • And yes, those light stick thingies, flashing hither, thither, nigh 'n yonder.

    Then it dawned on me: That Movie is upon us.

    Again.

    The one with all the flashy shooting, uptight robots, and plot lines so complicated they've taken three decades to siphon through.

    The one that pits clones against drones and Dark Sides against Taoist doctrines.

    The one that refuses to go away, no matter how many ill-conceived CGI mutants butcher a fine language like Ebonics.

    My dear spouse has been vibrating for a month, and it's not because of my otherworldly skills in the bedroom.

    It's because of an aging bearded guy who's been lost in an ever-sprawling far-away galaxy for his entire career – which is a wonderful thing! – except for the fact that his single-minded epic journey will...not...go...away.

    And even now, as I'm bombarded with assurances that "THIS IS IT! THIS IS THE LAST ONE!" – I don't believe it.

    Why? Because my husband's not alone in his craving for all things Coruscant.

    He's not the only one with intact toy boxes from his childhood, or an instantly accessible databank of fictitious planets, spaceships, and tertiary (and octriary, and dexitriary) characters and their genetic lineages.

    And he's definitely not the only one who's juiced on different gamma rays this week, waiting to hear that THX crescendo, that booming John Williams score, and that wngah-wngahhh-wngahhhhhh swoosh of those light stick thingies.

    Ain't no way Lucas is gonna let this Millennium-tottering, multi-billion-dollar enterprise go. Because unlike Bond's martinis, the destinies of Star Wars junkies are only stirred.

    They're NEVER shaken.


    Enjoyed this American Midol column? Or diabolically incensed by its uselessness? Either way, you're invited to check out all of Lani Voivod's Midol spasms right here. Wanna sound off on this subject? Send your feedback to comments@deadbrain.com!

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