Last night was the viewing of what many consider the ultimate in the trilogy, The Empire Strikes Back. This was not just a simple VCR pop in, with a bunch of losers huddled around a TV, so close to each other it feels a little funny. No, Sir. This was DLP projection of one of the finest movies every made, displayed on a very nice projector screen, along with sound from a basic garage receiver and one half to a two-part speaker. No, it was not "THX sound that could make George Lucas cream in his pants," but it was pretty good. But, pay attention! Our enemies know our weaknesses and they don't mind striking when we least expect it.
Though we had several outposts manned (Darth Jewey heading up one area), one of our fellow campers went down. A fast-moving speeder (duh), carrying a large assortment of eggs and balloons had no mercy on this lady of Tatooine. She meandered from her tent, possibly tempted by the Dark Side (but no one will comment), and that is when the hydro-zeppelin was released. The watery boob raced through the air, still stinking from the violater's stench, and burst upon our dear friend's face. A puffy mess, soaked and terrifying, the medics were called, the Newport Beach police responded quickly once they solved "The Stolen Surfboard" case, and all of us gathered around our friend, egg in hand, ready to attack the next ravagers of our holy compound... once Empire was over.
Still we wait for the final installment, the end of an era, the death of childhood for many of us, as the shadow of Episode III looms in the distant land of 12:01 a.m., Thurday the 19th, 2005. There is no one who can stop us from experiencing this madness, this deafening silence of a wait; there are no rocks in our shoes, not thorns in our sides, only the essence and promise of such a sweet and bitter end.
May we never forget.