by pat

It has been said in the past that some of the most fervent and loyal fans are Star Wars fans. Looking at the reactions to Episode I, one could question this, but I am not one of those nay-sayers. No, I have remained loyal and true. My devotion to what some people call just a movie, others call entertainment, and yet others have made a true religion out of (in Australia, Jedi was accepted as a religious affiliation), has been unwavering, so when Episode II was ready to hit the screen, I was there. I had been there for over 24 hours, after a full day at work, putting total awake time by the end of that last night at approximately 42 hours. "Geek," you might say, but I say screw that, I had a blast. Now that the dust has settled, the tale must be told, for future generations who won't have movies worth camping out for in all likelihood. I mean, with Air Bud movies going straight to video and all, and camping out in front of a video store is kind of sad.

It was about 10 PM on a Tuesday night, but not just any Tuesday night, since the release date was officially, and so any random Tuesday just wouldn't do. I gathered my supplies: sleeping bag, pillow, reading material (a "Box Office Poison" trade and a collection of Jean Shepard short stories), some snacks, a bit of JD for the cold spring night, and plenty of smokes. They'd been calling for rain, so I knew I was safe. Weathermen are rarely right. I met up with John E. in front of the historic Senator Theater in Baltimore, where I'd seen every other Star Wars film, a classic one-screen showcase. I arrived at about 11PM, and already there were people there. Two of the guys make us question how wise sleeping on the street was. Luckily they weren't actually in line, just two drunks who apparently stumbled by and decided to hang out, and left eventually. Actually, the one guy was also stoned, and the other seemed drunk, stoned, tripping, and possibly mentally defective, and stupid. Shortly after they left, two police cars raced up the street, and a shopkeep walked by saying dome drunk passed out trying to get in the front door of a closed subshop up the street, which was all the resolution we needed.

The guy behind me in line was fairly quiet at first, but after a little while he got a phone call. We were all a bit surprised when he asked if there was a Patrick there. I took the call. Turns out he's part of another group I knew organizing a waiting party. John E. was in slumberland after Cracky McCrackhead and Opiate Boy took off, and I knew I had to be into work in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. I read a large chunk of BOP, then got to talking with the rest of the line. I have to give major kudos to the Baltimore City Police Department for regularly checking in on us, and quite often having an officer parked at the corner keeping an eye out. We first noticed when a car came by, and over the speaker we heard "The first rebel transport has arrived. The first rebel transport has arrived." The conversation went from Star Wars, to the cops, to comics, who knows who, Kevin Smith, comics, generally dork-related stuff. It was great. After a few hours it was time to have a cigarette, take a swig of JD, and try and get some rest. I had to be at work in the morning, after all.

Morning. Actually, roughly two hours of intermittent napping later. I was woken by John E., with the temptation of McDonald's breakfast. I placed my order, tried to get back to sleep, then upon his return got up and ate. He apparently dropped the food and went to work, so I ate alone, boo hoo poor me. Hotcakes (extra butter) and sausage cured my mood pretty quick, as they always do. I should write a self-help book called "McDonald's Breakfast for the Soul," except all it would be is me recommending and Eggamuffin for what ails ye. A little while after breakfast, the first reporter, a photographer from the Baltimore Sun arrived. It was about 8AM. We were sitting, chilling, reading, smoking, the kind of stuff that makes front page news. At first we posed a bit, tried to look interesting, but after a half hour we just went back to minding our own business. That's where the best pics came from. Sadly, they didn't use the one of me picking a wedge.

Slowly, more people arrived, including fellow DangerSeeker jim, who was to relieve me so I could go earn my keep. About that time, the idea was proposed that I use one of those paid sick days I get from my job. Every so often a car would drive by and some witty meathead would shout "Get a job!" All I could think was that my job has things like benefits, paid days off, and so forth, as was the case with a good percentage of the line. Brett McFratskull, however, could never consider such things possible, asking dad for a day off. The arguments were given for and against calling out. The argument against was that I don't have unlimited sick days, and I could get in trouble. I don't have enough room for the reasons to stay. It all came down to one fateful moment. I had a bottle of Coca-Cola, which somehow, who knows how, got tainted with Tennessee whiskey. I'd take a swig. If it was good, I stayed, bad, I worked. It may has well have been the Cup of a Carpenter. I chose wisely.

Periodically, through the day, provisions would be brought by. Donuts, beer, a radio, donuts, wine, beer, CD's, a sack of cheeseburgers, beer, smokes. By mid-day, everyone was having quite a good time. The line was growing steadily, and we at the front almost served as hosts, or sensei. Maybe not, but I was drunk, and it seemed that way. That was when another reporter came by. He started asking questions, and the answers flowed like wine, which I think I was drinking at the time. No, maybe it was buttery nipple. Anyway, I mentioned my name, place of work, social security number, and three crimes for which I am wanted in Texas. Muh bad. Someone joked that I even had on Star Wars Underoos. I had to check, and sure enough, there was Darth Maul in in pants. No, that's not a clever nickname for the Staff of Ra. The reporter apparently jotted this down too. I was too busy talking to the cute girl who wanted to discuss my underwear with me. The reporter left, and I figured nothing would come of it.

As the day progressed, we had singalongs to Tenacious D, Josie & the Pussycats, the Popeye soundtrack, and more. We also had mock swordfights with padded wooden swords for a while, and miraculously nobody was hurt. I also had a slap-fight with a young cutie, but she slapped my hands too hard and I started crying. Instead I turned and slap fought my friend Mike, who happens to be in my slap fight weight class. We all stood around, had a good time, gave interviews, and all in all had a blast. I ran into an ex-girlfriend at one point, which would be weird if I didn't do that all the time, but it was nice to catch up. All in all a full and exhausting day. By 11PM, I was pretty well exhausted. Then the doors opened.

It was a mad rush to get into the theater, but we got the row we wanted. The entire row, almost. It was just a little bit longer, and the energy of the crowd had resurged. People in the front were trying to start the wave, but our group acted as sandbags and stopped every one dead in its tracks. Everytime anything happened, the audience cheered wildly. I may have waited outside for over twenty-four hours, but some people really need to get a life. Some guy in a bad Obi-Wan costume, or maybe Qui-Gonn, or just a dirty brown bathrobe, walked to the front. He waved to a friend, and the crowd went nuts, maybe thinking he was the owner of the theater, who traditionally comes down and introduces the film you are about to see. The guy, who looks nothing like the owner, played it up, got the crowd cheering some more, then attempted to start another doomed wave. Just before my day-long good mood was almost ruined, the real owner came out, and skipped his usual speech, simply stating the name of the film and getting off stage. Lights down, picture up, opening fanfare, and it was all worth it.