I'm going to see Star Wars Episode III in the morning. The movie hasn't even come out yet and I'm already sick of it. Mind you, I've been a Star Wars fan since I was in the 2nd grade, but geez, they really market the hell out of everything these days. Not to mention the fact that I live with a Star Wars freak. I didn't know fandom could go to such proportions until I met Steve.

Before I moved in with him, I thought I was the ultimate Gilligans Island fan because I owned a book about it. No. I am an amateur, a dabbler, a dilettante.

There is no end to the discussions, watching the Episode III trailers over and over, collecting every Star Wars-related piece of merchandise available on the market. I even ate some of those crappy little hamburgers so Steve could have the toys.

There are Star Wars movie poster and autographed pictures hanging on our living room walls alongside my Man Ray and Lasse Åberg prints. Vadar's head stares at me from behind a glass cabinet, kept company by the idol from Indiana Jones, a Zanti from Outer Limits, Audrey 2, bloody fake money from Robocop, and the shirt Steve wore in Kentucky Fried Movie. I haven't seen my Gilligans Island book in years, it's probably buried somewhere under a pile of Star Trek magazines.

When I finally met George Lucas a few years ago at an Academy event, did I congratulate him on his dazzling success? Thank him for enriching my life? No. I stared at his beautiful head of crisp silver hair. It was mesmerizing. It would curl one way and then WHOOP! change directions in an elaborate series of peaks and valleys. I worship thine head, oh god of coiffures.

If you need me tomorrow, I'll be sitting for hours on the cold, hard sidewalk in front of the theater reading Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. I like the bit about the horse.

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