The Mystery of the Hidden Castle - I

The PROLOGUE

Greetings, O Faithful Reader, and welcome to the Beginning of the Story.

The Beginning is the traditional place of beginning things, so this is where we are compelled to be at this moment--the Beginning. The Beginning is neither past nor present, yet it is both. The Beginning is a place where the unlimited potential of the Story gazes into the infinite possibilities of the multiverse and asks, "Whither shall I go?" But however infinite the possibilities, there is in truth but one course that is destined for the Story--the End. But before the Beginning becomes the End, there is Story. In truth, the Story exists in a constant and ever-present state of existence, such that any point along its infinite timeline might be considered a Beginning or an End; indeed, the Story might be well described as the eternal tension between the Beginning and the End, played out in the boundless present. But these arbitrary distinctions are less defined as existing as becoming into existence.

So, Faithful Reader, here we stand, on the brink of Oblivion, in the midst of the ever-present and eternal Story, at the Beginning--about to take the deep plunge into the Destined Unknown whence we shall emerge someday at the End. As I write this, the End indeed exists in the space of some unknown present; although hidden and unforeseen in the present you and I suffer through today, its existence remains a black spot on the unblemished soul of the Beginning. However hidden its existence, it lurks always, waiting to come and strike with the ruthlessness and secrecy of a parasite, maybe tomorrow, maybe today. Maybe now. Well, maybe not now. But where were we? Ah yes, the Beginning of the Story.

Welcome to the outer limits of a strange and wonderful land--a land of dreams, of nightmares, and certainly of mysteries; a land of good and evil, of truth and deception; a land of tales and of one tale in particular: the harrowing, mind-bending, fantastic tale that is the Mystery of the Hidden Castle. Welcome to a land where nothing is as it seems, where reality is just a meaningless word that attempts to cover the really inexplicable reality of unreality. And when your welcomed self has entered this strange reality of unreality, when it then finally regards this inconceivable dimension as real enough to be considered a true reality, when you finally believe you have come as far as you are able, when one more step with hurl you headlong into the Abyss, take one more step and be welcomed again to an even more strange reality of unreality beyond the former, for this is where our story begins!

Chapter 1 - The DETECTIVE

At dinner parties, that incomprehensible and never-quite-fun pastime of the middle class, it always makes me smile a little to myself on the inside, my secret joke that is had at the expense of every one of the unassuming guests.

"And what do you do for a living, Owen?"

I usually lie and tell some extravagant tale about how I hunt down illegal poachers, engage in private venture capital pursuits, or manage a string of the hippest underground club scenes in downtown New York. I don't think most people usually believe me. After two or three dinners, they usually stop inviting me. They decide that I have become a stain on the spotlessness of their social self-perception. But then I find another group of average, successful, comfortable people and it starts over again. This last time I proclaimed that I was the heir apparent to a wealthy family of vineyard owners, and I already had three choice wines named in my honor.

But in all actuality, I live a life no different from these people I secretly laugh at. I work in an office building, on the 17th floor, doing mindless tasks: processing, papering, typing, calculating, stamping, stapling, printing, faxing, phoning, staring. I don't know why my employer actually exists or what function they serve in society. I guess to give guys like me access to economic security and that average, successful, comfortable life that so defines life in our day.

Once at a dinner party I even told the truth when asked about my profession.

"Hey, it's Owen, right? What do you do?"

"I work in an office."

"Oh is that right? What sort of office?"

"The rectangular sort, with partitions."

Even with the truth, no one is ever really interested; they nod and half-smile in all the right places, but they're just waiting for you to stop so they can continue the bit about themselves. I don't mind though. It's when they're talking that I chuckle inside.

Because even this job, this office thing, isn't really my profession. That's why I laugh at these people; whether I lie or tell the truth, it makes no difference. It's all a front. Nobody knows, and nobody ever will know, that behind the facade of this boring reality I am living an actuality beyond the comprehension of those dinner party piggies.

In all actuality, I am searching for the Hidden Castle.

I can't tell you for how long I've been searching for it, or why, for that matter. But that's what I really do, my real profession: I'm a detective. My final goal: the Hidden Castle. My real life is spent in pursuit of its endless clues. Up until two days ago, in the seventh second of the fourteenth minute of the eighth hour, nothing really spectacular had ever occurred in this fantastic mystery case.

But two days ago, in the seventh second of the fourteenth minute of the eighth hour, everything changed--life as I knew it ceased to exist and the search took on dinner proportions of sizes too vast to grasp. It was on that day, a Monday, that it all began. At Disney World.

Insane Clown Posse Discovers the Mysterious Wonder of Magical Miracles

DETROIT--The dynamic musical duo of Detroit natives Joseph "Violent J" Bruce and Joseph "Shaggy 2 Dope" Utsler, known to fans (affectionately self-dubbed as "Juggalos" and "Juggalettes") worldwide as "horrorcore rap" group Insane Clown Posse, have recently discovered the sheer inexplicable magic of the many wondrous and extraordinary everyday events that comprise human life.

Attempting to shock the bourgeoisie out of mind-numbing complacency and into contemplation of the miraculous (and perhaps cannabis-hazed) reality of their version of the world, ICP's hit single "Miracles" (and more specifically, its viral music video) from the 2009 release Bang! Pow! Boom! is a more philosophical-introspective turn of songwriting, marking a distinct departure from the band's usual lyrical themes of cannibalism, murder, and necrophilia. "But I've seen miracles in every way/And I see miracles everyday," croon the critically-acclaimed pair with Shakespearean eloquence, atop an erect ziggurat of steel beams and garage door siding. Whether from divine inspiration or a trip to end all trips, ICP now proudly proclaims of earth: "There's enough miracles here to blow your brains."

"It's definitely a different side of ICP," commented Violent J, arriving at the interview in full ICP concert gear--black and white clown make-up, spiked hair, Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. "We're tryin to show people out there, outside the Juggalo Fam, you know, all the haters, and even Juggalos too, that there's this magical thing out there, and shit. You know, stuff like magnets and miracles and scientists all trying to explain it. I mean, f---ing magnets! What the f---! That's what we're talking about. And shit."

ICP's newly discovered excitement about magnets finds proper articulation in one stanza of "Miracles," in which a disgruntled Violent J raps, "Water, fire, air and dirt/f---ing magnets, how do they work?/And I don't want to talk to a scientist/Y'all motherf---ers lying, and gettin me pissed." ICP's bold challenge to all magnet scientists has already begun to cause anxiety; when asked about possible untruths he might have contributed to within the field of electromagnetics, namely the alleged lie that magnets work by scientific laws and not by magic, Dr. Hanz Hutzbenstein angrily commented, "I don't understand what you're asking me. What's this about insane clowns?"

In another hemisphere of public conversation, right-wing and religious creationists may have found an unlikely partner in the ongoing evolution-creation debate. "It certainly appears that the members of ICP profess views very similar to our own, as far as creation goes," noted Rev. Dr. Jerome T. Bennet, a leading member of the Tennessee-based Creation Society Network, an evangelical television station. "However, we have to be careful about aligning ourselves with such a group. Apart from their usual lyrical content being, well, disgusting and unwholesome for our kids, they also strike us as just damn idiotic, plain and simple."

"ICP has always been 'The Most Hated Band in the World,'" says Violent J. "But its just sad to me. I'm sad that there are haters out there. Most people misunderstand us. We're just trying to understand what's out there, what this life's about, and shit."

As ICP's musical journey has led them to serious spiritual questioning, the Juggalo community has been favorably impressed by the band's quest into the unknown. Juggalette Bernice Barns commented, "I mean, I'm an agnostic, straight up, ok? I don't believe we can know what's out there. But I guess its the poetic quality in lines like '[there's] magic everywhere in this bitch' that I stop and think, 'Yeah, this world is pretty amazing.'" "I think the rainbows and different colors were what got to me," added Juggalo Mark Olson, noting the colorful, Barney-inspired landscapes featured in the music video. "It's just...yeah."

One anonymous Juggalo was particularly affected by the sense of mystery conveyed by the music video, exclaiming, "They talk about miracles and shit happening, and it's like f---ing...f---ing animals, and like, mountains and trees...and like, we don't even know how this shit happened yo, cuz f---ing nature, alright. Nature! F---! It's all nature and magic and miracles, dude. That's...that's the whole theme of the song. Yeah. I think James Cameron directed it, cuz it's like...it's like in 3D and shit...yeah. Like, I heard that like, while they were filmin', it was like, all miracles and shit, and that's how you get them all up on the observation deck, and singing and shit, and like. F--- scientists, man."

It need not be said that the next wave of Juggalo Meet-Ups across the country will be intense but worthwhile times of sharing, discussing, and expounding ideas and concepts raised by "Miracles" in between sessions on proper usage and grammar of the English language. We can also expect that no Juggalo of this generation will be making any strides in any type of academic/learning capacity, or, for that matter, showing any signs of an intelligence quotient above, say, 20, as he or she will likely be pissed at all scientists for lying and will be found continually clinging to ICP's unique blend of "pure motherf---ing magic" for years to come.

In other news, it is possible that there is no longer hope for America.

The Memoirs of George Lucas- Chapter 3, Space: The Final Opera

III

I fancy myself a high-society music enthusiast. Even though I did grow up blue-collar, I can sure as heck appreciate a hearty glass of Bach & Tonic when necessary. In all truthfulness, I can readily say that I identify most with the composer, being something like that myself. Not in the musical sense, of course (my only experience here dates to Kim Basinger's 40th birthday when, much to the surprise and amusement of the whole party, I mounted a mechanical bull and plucked out "Let It Be" on soprano ukulele; good times!), but in the artistic composition sense. I am an artist; ergo I create art.

A film is all about telling an artistic story, about bringing bits and pieces into harmony with one another to make a coherent whole. It is about finding the Golden Mean within the intricacies of the mundane from which a hint of the Universal Divine is glimpsed. In this respect I actually consider my work much more influential and socially edifying than that of the musician. I mean, if you want to change society, you make a movie, for St. Peter's sake. Not that I'm critiquing music's ability to have profound influence; just last month I attended the much-anticipated premiere of Jim Barbulle's epic oratorio Jedidiah: Scenes from an Amish Hell. Let's just say that the music definitely "moved" certain areas of me (read bowels) in very real and physical ways. Basically what I'm getting at is that in a film, the "movie" part is the most important. The music is just filler noise, a sort of fake security to keep reminding you that you are actually watching a movie and not real life. I know its complicated, but I think John Williams would agree with me here.

Moving on. The reason I bring all this musicology up is for a metaphorical reason: namely, the STARWARS saga is an opera. But not just any old Marriage of Figaro: STARWARS is a SPACE opera. Just to clarify- space here is a locative term, rather than another type of emotional signifier (e.g. "soap," "blue," etc.). We all know that space is the final frontier. So what? This is what: what better place to stage society's most snobbish form of art than the very fringes of cosmic understanding? What better forum for the interplay of galactic soundscapes and sonic waves of terror? Where else could Luke Skywalker have kissed his blood relative? I don't think those last sentences made any sense. Actually, I don't even know where I'm going with all this, to tell you the truth, so we'll move on again.

1983 was a tough year for me. That year saw the temporary end of the STARWARS saga for me; Return of the Jedi was met with critical and popular success, but Big George--who by this time had been slowly "ushered out the back door" of the series by being stripped of his role as director and denied the sole rights to the story's intelletual property--fell away into the black non-existence that only Hollywood can offer after completed projects. The turnaround was literally overnight. On Thursday, November 1, 1983, I was Big George Lucas, screenwriter of Jedi and creator the STARWARS universe; on Friday, November 2, 1983, I was Big George Lucas, big fat nobody. I remember eating lunch in from a garbage can that morning, not that I had to, but just to see what it was like. To make matters worse, Carrie Fisher, whom I had been dating throughout the filming of episodes V and VI, left me on Return of the Jedi's opening night for none other than Kenny Baker, the midget man we had running the R2-D2 suit and Jabba the Hutt's tail. I was under the impression that "princesses" had more class. But then, we never actually found out if she was royalty, did we?

Anyway, I was in bad shape, and by February of 1984 I was living in the tiny community of Matehuala, Mexico, on 3 pesos and a Jack Daniel's a day. Everyday I asked myself, "What did I do to deserve this?" And everyday, the same inevitable answer came back, "You didn't do anything, George-y, you came here on your own accord!" Sunlight streamed into my sorry excuse for a life. It was then that I realized I had not, in fact, lost any of my material livelihood and that what I seen as a loss of capital was really only the wound of pride. From that moment, I felt as if I were the Prodigal's Son. In reality, I had had billions all along; I was one of the richest bastards in the world! What the hell was I doing in Mexico living on 3 pesos a day?

I got out of there in a hurry and quickly set out for complete and utter world domination. I realized that with my fortunes I could purchase my happiness. I had the films remastered with my name substituted for the title of director. I signed a multi-billion dollar contract with Mattel to start creating STARWARS action figures and life-size George Lucas poseable dolls. Waving my benjamins in front of me like a loony toon, I wooed Carrie away from that joke of a droid's innards. Carrie and I were married before the year was out. I bought and ran a Carl's Jr. that was located in a very juicy spot for business. I started driving an Oldsmobile. In short, I finally felt like I was living a life worthy of a life worth living. Then, four weeks later, disaster, one of the worst of my life so far. Carrie gets pregnant.

A Commencement Day Dirge

And so another academic year befalls us. If you are a student, Constant Reader, do not despair. The long, hard road awaits us, but at the end of its dark and thorny road awaits Paradise. The natural tide of seasons looms before us; Death and Winter must come before glorious Spring. After months of becoming pasty white with study, someday we will again see the sun. Do not fear the darkness of your soul. Do not fear the abyss. But don't stare at it too long, because according to Nietzche, it will stare back, and then you're in trouble. May we find balance in the cycle of natural life, in the changing times and winds. Let us see its poetry. Here's a little bit you can repeat to yourself every morning before class as a kind of "warm up" for the day (made all the more exciting in the almighty lingua Latina):

O cernite virum stantem aequoribus Fati.

Solus vir inter ruentos manet.

Fumi atri ad caelum ex ignibus magnis undant.

Arvum belli grave est cum gravitate mortuorum.

Video solem factum est nigerum tamquam saccum cilicinum,

Et lunam totam factam est sicut sanguinem.

Pulchrumque mori succurrit in armis.

Itaque apocalypsis incipit.

Libera nos, Pie Domine.

(Daniel Saunders, 2009)

O, observe the man, standing upon the waves of Fate.

One man only remains among the fallen.

Black smoke from great fires swells to the heavens.

The battlefield is heavy with the weight of the dead.

I see the sun made black like a sackcloth of goat hair

And the entire moon changed red as blood.

And it occurs to me that it is beautiful to die in battle.

Thus begins the Apocalypse.

Save us, O Merciful Lord.

The Memoirs of George Lucas- Chapter 2, The Phantom Failure

II

My mother is a saint, bless her heart. I owe my existence to her, literally. I don't remember the day I triumphantly emerged from the birthing pit, kicking and screaming bloody murder, but I do know that she and I were there together. She held my writhing, slimy midget body in her angelic arms and told me that one day I would rule the universe.

Well, that day came, and here I am. I still remember my mother, that dear lady whose Maternal Instinct guided me in my first great quest-- childhood. She's been gone for some time now, having run off with the town barber when I was 11. But everyone makes mistakes, right? I've learned to forgive old Sally. Or is it Ellen? It's been while. And today, even though most of my conscious thought is bent on matters of increasingly greater importance, such as tasting exotic coffees, I still find time occasionally to remember fondly the woman I loved first.

"Mother, mother, you're divine!

The way you hug me is just fine!

If only, only dad were gone,

I'd marry you at light of dawn!"

Just a little ditty I wrote at age 8. Poetry was not my only gift at that young age, either. I was a regular Renaissance Kid, dabbling here and there in the fine arts; at age 10 I had written my first opera, Señor Psychopath, which premiered to marginal successes at the Derby Opera House of Modesto; at age 13 my study in Impressionism had culminated in a 5-painting mega-exhibit at the San Luciano House of Art. But I digress. All that was a preliminary to the main point of this chapter, and that is this: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, is simply a story of maternal love.

STARWARS fans will no doubt remember my tendency to delve headlong into complex family relations. And so it probably came as no surprise that the young Anakin in Menace fell head over heels in love with a woman old enough to be his mother. This strange phenomenon is called the Oedipus Complex, named after some crazy idiot who actually fell in love with his mother, instead of just pretending to, like all the rest of us do. I thought this theme was interesting enough to pursue in a STARWARS film, and after 30 years of silence, when indescribable forces compelled me to retake the directing helm, I was granted an opportunity to tell my story.

The first step in realizing this dream was to create an absolutely useless and remarkably persistent alien character to mask the dark truths of the main story. The idea for Jar Jar Binks actually came to me while visiting my mother-in-law, Helen, a few weeks after she had started Jenny Craig. And despite all my efforts against it, Jar Jar just became this incredible life-force and visionary for the project. The Gungan we found to play him, Gerry Albright, was this really bright kid, straight out of school, and had such a heart for the film and for the people in it. It was a common sight to see Gerry with some of the seamstresses after a shoot, sharing some tea and conversation.

The other two essential elements were the lovebirds: Anakin and Padme. Natalie Portman signed up and blah blah nobody cares about her. Ladies and gentlemen, let me just tell you now, I had been waiting my entire life to meet Jake Lloyd. This kid rocks the house. Talent just seeps from his pores. He sweats it. He eats, sleeps and breathes it. He is the definition of talent. I was driving back from a meeting with the President and stopped at this no-name ghost town in Indiana. There, amid the white trash ghettos, I found Jake, looking for his lunch in a dumpster outside Denny's. I've been a father figure ever since.

Jake came out to Hollywood right away, forsaking his elementary studies for the thespian life. At 11 years of age, he was the perfect kid to play 20 year old Padme's love interest. Sure, I was a little hard on the boy, but I expected a lot out of him. I pushed him, but he had the power of the Force. After all, he did have the highest midichlorion count in the history of the universe. I'm going to say it: Jake Lloyd made STARWARS. We had a special bond. He's the jedi son I never had; and he was unsurpassed in his child actor adorableness. Everything was set to go perfectly.

And everything did go perfectly. That is, until Jake Lloyd ruined everything. I mean, he ruined everything. Look, it wasn't me! Just because Jar Jar stole the show and everyone hated little ole Jakey's performance, it's not my fault! My hands are clean! My conscience is intact! My reputation is viable! I gave him the dialogue most conducive to success. And he failed. He failed his co-workers, he failed his audience, he failed STARWARS, but most importantly, he failed me. I trusted him. And he betrayed my trust. His role is just not believable. Unfortunately we were all just so caught up with his cuteness that we didn't realize it until the film got shipped out. Jake and I parted ways.

I have heard recently that Jake has shown some bitterness about me. I remember reading about a video interview he recently did with a technology conference. In response to the question, "If you could use the Force on any person, who would it be?" His answer was something to the effect of "I couldn't do anything to make that a-hole's life worse than it already is," and I'm here to say, Jake, I don't know who your sources are, but I'm doing great. If you're going to call me out on the internet and play these little games with me behind my back, I will find you, and I will give you a talking to. If you have something to say, say it to my face, or your sorry butt is grass. That said, I want to make up with you. I'm willing to but the past behind me, Jake, and I want to be friends again. Like old times. Remember our summers in Naboo! Remember the podrace! I made you! I gave you fame, fortune, glory, I gave it all to you, and you scorned me! You would have starred in episodes 2 and 3! You would have tasted the fruits of luxury! You could have sat at the top of the universe next to your me, your real Father! Think of it, a Father-Son empire! It's so original! Wait, where have I heard that before?

But generally speaking, I think Menace is my favorite STARWARS film. It's got a lot of heart, and it's got Darth Maul. Why he died I have no idea. If I would have had complete control I probably would have had Qui Gon (his fate is in his name, HA!) and Obi Wan both shafted. Obi Wan's victory was sheer luck. Darth Maul had some serious skills, baby, skills.

Star-Spangled Wizardry

The other day an esteemed colleague and I were discussing the whims and wonders of J.K. Rowling's magical universe and that little nerdy 4-eyes kid who rules it. In our discourse we hit upon an interesting piece of mystery that Rowling has left us with after the completion of the Harry Potter series. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in England, along with Beauxbatons Academy in France and Durmstrang Institute in Bulgaria, are a few of the leading magic schools in Europe--they're the ones we hear about in the books, at any rate. However, who hasn't wondered about the rest of the global magic community? What is happening to the rest of the wizarding community as Harry plays the awkard adolescent around Ginny? Aren't there noteworthy things happening elsewhere? Surely, the cosmic battle of good and evil, the ultimate conflict between Chosen One and Supreme Evil, the most cataclysmic and monumental event of all history, cannot be limited to England alone. Indeed, the books give us glimpses of global crisis due to Voldemort's hellraising return. What occurs in England is felt everywhere in the magical community. But where is everywhere?

What I mean to ask is this: is there an American wizarding academy? If so, where is it located? My instincts tell me no, or at least not anything like a Hogwarts if there is. The reason is simple. It is probably widespread knowledge that magical practice originated in Europe. The Native Americans would not have practiced 'Western magic'; they had their nature spirituality and what not. Hogwarts was probably founded at around the time Stonehenge was built, maybe it was even Hogwarts students that built it. But the thing that matters is that Hogwarts, England, and Europe have magical history and tradition; America does not. The earliest an American academy could have been built would have been in the Colonial Era, and why would the colonial magic community want to break from Hogwarts anyway? Our nation was formed by a political revolution; if the English muggles could have cared less about the split, then the magic community probably didn't even know it happened. America is the melting pot; it contains every tradition and consequently it contains no tradition. Magic America would just as soon send their progeny to their home country to study. The 21st century American magic community does not exist.

Except that's not the way it happened; quite contrary, in fact. You see, there is an American wizarding academy. And there is a vibrant magic community in America. But they are the dissident. It's like this: the National Institute for the Coordination and Cooperation of Magick and Sciences (NICCMS), the American wizarding school, was formed in the late 1800s by a certain Phineas Tillbottle, a Scottish wizard who had studied in Germany. Tillbottle, who had magical abilities as a child, found that they had slowly dwindled into nonexistence by his 6th year of study. The newly formed squib was torn by an intolerable and horrific despair. No more magic ability! His studies, his career, his life, ruined! With his mind in delusions he turned to the unthinkable--muggle science. Working alongside the many muggle contacts he made in Germany (the most significant of which was Klaus Vondervan), Tillbottle was able to perfect the art of what he dubbed 'scientific alchemy', an ingenious blend of ancient magick and progressive science. The Germans were convinced this tool would lead them to the White Lady, that hoped for and strived for elusive ideal, the subject of wars and machines, of peace, of prosperity, the very name of human history--Progress.

Tillbottle quickly moved his operations to the forefront of turn-of-the-century progress--America--and set up the NICCMS in downtown Boston. Beneath the towering skyscrapers and the filth of the streets, NICCMS exists to unite the forces of magic and science, to create and engage sanitary alchemy, and to dissolve the hopes and dreams of the world one discovery at a time. They advance in the name of Progress, which is to say they ride a train of breakneck speeds straight to Hell. NICCMS, since its institution, has attracted more than 7,000 magical traitors. The efforts of the NICCMS go against everything the wizarding community believes in for this reason: it seeks to kill the life of magic, the imagination, the spirit, the unknown, the darkness. It seeks, in the name of humanity, to end violence and suffering by inflicting violence and suffering on the soul.

What would Harry do with such a crowd? We'll never know for sure. Or will we?

The Memoirs of George Lucas- Chapter 1, The Final Chapter

A FOREWARD FROM THE MASTER

Hello everyone, and welcome back to the Skywalker Ranch where fairies fly and blasters blast, and all feel like younglings on the eve of a midsummer's night. It has been about four years now since the final chapter of the STARWARS saga has been completed and the missing links filled in with Episode III, Revenge of the Sith. It has been one heck of a ride, all the way from the first appearance of Uncle Owy and Aunt Beru back in '77 to the climactic laser-sword duel between Ben Kenobi and Anakin in Sith. It's been great seeing the fruits of all my hard labor these past few years, and now a popular STARWARS fan website has asked me to compile a collection of my greatest and most memorable memories and achievements in my long and great career. I agreed, and here I am writing the introduction to a marvelous gem of a tale. It's actually more like a mausoleum (fun word) wherein are stored my deceased accomplishments of old. No, actually, there's a bad example, but nevertheless it's good once in a while to resurrect those memories, those dreams that you once had, when you were aspiring to become someone or something great, riding the hard-knock wave of ghetto life and working in the neighborhood video shop; it's not a stereotypical thing either, the memoirs I mean, because these are the memories of someone great, a legendary character, a true hero of our times, a vir magnus fit for days of old; Homer would have sung him next to Achilles, Virgil next to Aeneas; one great man dared to yank the world by the reigns and ride the darn thing right on into the new millenium. That man is none other than little old me, the founder and creator of the STAR WARS, a simple, humble, and honest man who had a story inside him and who brought that story to life; these are my memoirs, my recollections, my histories, my life; this is my story.

-George Lucas

I

Any great film has a great ending. Ask anyone: Spielberg, Hitchcock, Columbus, Raimi; they'll all tell you that the ending makes or breaks the entire movie. A lot of the time it's the ending that gets written first, and all the greats will tell you that a good ending is the best way to wrap up a story. Now, contrary to what you might have thought, all the STARWARS films have one absolute ending, which is Episode VI, Revenge of the Jedi.

...

Did I get you there?? I have just written Revenge of the Jedi, and you just kept on reading like nothing was the matter. In fact (like the fanboy you are), you should have jumped at the "misprint" there. The correct subtitle of Episode VI is actually ReTURN of the Jedi, although in the scriptwriting process it went by the name of the former (confusing, isn't it? I tricked you big time!). A little Big George trivia there for you. You'll be getting a lot of that (and some more hidden surprises) as we continue on our magical journey to the nether galaxies. But all jesting aside, let's focus in on the Final Chapter of the STARWARS saga- Episode VI, Return of the Jedi. Episode VI is the ultimate ending of STARWARS; the endings of the other movies are just little 13 month (or 25 year) "intermissions," if you will. The entire STARWARS experience is intended to be viewed as one, fifteen-plus hour film.

I came up with the idea for STARWARS ages ago, back even before the beard. When I finally decided what I wanted to do with my life--have one idea that makes me billions and guarantees my fame forever so I never have to do anything again (which I actually failed at, being a major creative part of Indiana Jones, but director-wise anyway)--I was a young college kid fresh out of USC film school and wanted in on the biz. I traded some homeless guy a Cracker Jack box (empty, of course) for a shiny metal pin that said "THE WARS OF THE STARS HAVE BEGUN." To this day I don't know what that meant, but I've kept that pin close to my heart, namely on my left shirt pocket, ever since. From there it was a matter of coming up with some random characters and plot and writing some iffy dialogue, thrown in and spiced up with mind-numbing special effects, and we were set. I started concentrating all my efforts on the ending to the greatest saga ever told. I've noticed recently on the "Web" there have been all these rumors circulating about the origins of STARWARS; they are complete lies. People make stuff up. For instance, I heard one rumor that I wrote myself in the original script for the part of "Luke Starkiller"; why would I ever want to play that pansy, for Pete's sake? I was originally slated to debut my acting career as the rogue Hanz Solo, a brave kind of "Gestapo-gunslinger of the future."

Ever since I was a kid, I was really into Westerns and all the great Western actors: Wayne, Cooper, Rogers, Eastwood--the legends. I can remember the humid Georgian summers, sitting out on Gramma Betty's porch drinking sweet tea and blastin' Jim Kregger's pigeons with my dime store six shooter, gunslinger style. I was the best of the West back then. Sweet tea and gunsmoke. I can still smell that smoke, burning through my olfactories like chiggers. I can remember walking the dusty, sleepy streets of suburban Modesto as an eight year old, all alone, scanning the sun-baked paths for Frank Miller and his gang of killers. Justice! I was a lone wolf, a cool, slick styler who had a heart for law and order and who knew how to bring it. Those days were the start of it, the beginning of my long, hard-fought journey to Hollywood. My path has not been unlike that of Gary Cooper in High Noon; more than once in my life I've faced tough decisions as a lone gunman, bereft of loved ones, friends deserted. I've been there--to Hell and back again, just like Bilbo. I was the real Arizona Kid. But I've pressed on, and the world's a better place for it.

But like I was saying, essentially STARWARS is a Western film. Not in the traditional sense, of course, with all the "long long ago but somehow in the future" business. And ever since I conceived of STARWARS (and yes, I did conceive of the entire story at once, contrary to what some people call "making it up as you go"), I wanted it to have all the necessary elements Westerns have. So really, Han Solo is the main character. There, I said it. STARWARS is not about whiny Anakin or whiny Padme or whiny Luke or whiny C-3PO, its about the rough, tough, good-gracious bodacious man of a man, Han Solo. Han Solo knows how to fight. None of this "ancient technology and hokey Jedi religion" for him. He can fend for himself, thank you very much. With a blaster at his side and the Falcon waiting in the bay, he's ready to kick some rear-end and take some names. Of course, as soon as I made this known to the producers and the folks at the studio, pandemonium ensued. They wanted to take the story in this direction, blah blah, Luke this, Leia that, and Han got kicked to the side like a dirty rag. Someday I will refilm the series as they were intended. Of course people say the dialogue in the new trilogy is bad! That's because it's supposed to be a young Han Solo in love, not "the Chosen One," some wimpy adolescent Jedi! People just up and forget about him! What a thanks for the man who pretty much single-handedly destroyed the freaking second Death Star, which was like 10 times bigger and more powerful than the one Luke destroyed! And Ben Kenobi pretty much destroyed that one anyway!

There was another nasty rumor that claimed I said "Han and Leia probably did get married... They settled down, she became a senator, and they got a nice little house with a white picket fence. Han Solo is out there cooking burgers on the grill." Oh, for the love! Gag me with a spoon! Why in God's green earth would Han Solo ever live in a house with a white picket fence! The STARWARS universe doesn't even have white picket fences! What, so now that you've killed two bad guys, the universe is saved and everybody's just hunky-dory? What about the billions of stormtroopers and Imperial commanders? They just give up the second their Emperor dies? Please! Have some dignity! Han Solo is not a settle-down guy. He most likely went on hundreds of thousands of other galactic adventures, no matter if "Princess" Leia went with him or not. And why is she a Princess? Doesn't she come from a democratic planet? Who came up with these characters anyway?

And I don't have a turkey chin!!