I have a bad feeling about this.

I wouldn't use that title lightly, but I just watched the worst movie ever made.

Since coming to college, I've been a bit of a connoisseur of bad movies. Sometimes I just sit in front of the TV and watch whatever's on, which is a terrible habit.

I've enjoyed the horribleness of some movies. The Sci-Fi Channel has produced some truly horrible movies. Last semester, my roommate and I watched a movie in which a bunch of college students and a greedy professor searched for giant, superintelligent apes. The apes killed everyone brutally, and then — with the two best-looking girls and the most studly guy still alive — the biggest ape finally ripped the last characters to shreds.

Next, I saw one where a robotic consciousness invaded a ship on the ocean, killing people and using their dessicated body parts to build more cyborgs. The captain is greedy, condemning all the youngish crewpeople. Everyone dies except for the two best-looking girls and a guy.

But this one took the cake. Jason X was on last night featuring the evil, hockey-masked psychopath title character. He gets cryogenically frozen at the beginning, and in 2450, a group of — surprise! — students and a greedy teacher find him and bring them aboard their ship. He kills the first girl — defying tradition, actually, since she's the best-looking one — by sticking her head in liquid nitrogen and smashing her face off. Then the movie disintegrates into Jason killing more and more people in more and more brutal ways.

Eventually, the android babe — or at least she's intended to be a babe, but they failed there — finds a bunch of leather and cool guns and blasts Jason into little teeny pieces in a ridiculous scene. As the surviving students attempt to get off the ship, some electronics randomly begin sparking, prompting the ship's surgical systems to rebuild Jason into a cyborg. He then kills more people.

I won't ruin the ending, in case you're ever in need of a good laugh.

Oh, it was terrible. My roommates and I finally went to bed at 2 in the morning, already missing those two hours of our lives that had been so callously wasted.

Rexburg, Idaho — You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Usually, the sight of those flashing red and blue lights is enough to halt my breath and trigger a whole host of involuntary responses ranging from slamming on the brake to locking my hands on the steering wheel.

Today, however, when those lights lit the night sky like an earthbound Bat Signal, I was all adrenaline and grins.

What made the difference? Simply the car in which I was sitting, and on which side of those lights I was.

Tonight I had the chance to ride in a police car as part of my Intro to Journalism class at BYU-Idaho. For an hour and a half, I rode shotgun with a policeman.

When I arrived at the police station, I was surprised to see that the officer with whom I was assigned was none other than Aaron Smith, whose father had been both my bishop of my home ward and the branch president of my singles' branch — and who had already pulled me over at least once back when he worked in my hometown, Rigby.

My expectations rode high when Officer Smith looked me square in the eye and said, "Here are the rules. Whatever I say, do it. If I say stay here, stay here. If I say get out and go over there, do it."

Yeah, I was hoping for a shootout or something.

I looked around the front seat, searching for some indication that tonight was gong to be full of action-packed car chases and fugitive gun battle. I glimpsed an old mp3 player, a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew in the cupholder, several tins of lip balm, and a pile of pennies scattered on the floor.

"Let's do this," I said, my notebook gripped firmly in my hand.

Twenty minutes later, our night was still depressingly devoid of any life-threatening situations, though I'd learned that Officer Smith, in his eleven-year career, had once — if you can believe such a tall tale — almost had to draw his gun once.

We pulled over three people — one for speeding, one for failure to turn the lights on, and one for a lack of a license plate.

"We run these plates through the database," Officer Smith explained, his radio in one hand, the dispatcher on the other end. "We can find out if they're carrying an expired license or if they're wanted for murder or anything."

I knew which one I was hoping for.

Sadly, as Officer Smith returned to the car and the speeder went on his merry way, my hopes were dashed.

I watched the mean streets of Rexburg fly by my window as Officer Smith received a call from his family and spent ten minutes planning a weekend getaway to Yellowstone.

"Never drive and talk on your cell phone," he told me with a grin. "It's a bad habit."

Finally, the night came to an end and Officer Smith apologized for the lack of action. "Usually, we're getting all kinds of calls — loud parties, domestic disturbances, alcohol — tonight was just a dead night."

I shrugged. Would I have traded this night for a high-speed ride-along in LA or south DC? Probably not, because that would mean I would have to go home afterward without the protection of a cop in the seat next to me.

Hmm ... maybe next time I'll witness a brutal gunfight. Until then, though, I'll sleep safely in my bed, knowing that my boredom on a Tuesday night school assignment is my safety on any night.

Cooo ... perrr ... coooo ... perrrr ...

When I was nine, we borrowed three VHS tapes from my aunt and uncle. These were movies I'd heard about but never actually seen. The first movie's cover depicted some dude in a black mask, some spaceships superimposed below the metallic grill of his mouth. It seemed intriguing enough.

I honestly don't remember my feelings when those blue words appeared on the black for the first time:

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far way ..."

However, when that movie was done, my brother and I lay in our room, some more potent and lasting than sugarplums dancing in our heads. We discussed the things we had seen. One of us — I like to take the credit — came up with the crazy notion that the bad guy might actually be the good guy's father. We were hooked. That's when it all began.

Today, I have a cabinet back home for all my miscellaneous Star Wars crap: I have a hundred-dollar lightsaber (found it in a pawn shop on my mission and dragged it through several transfers), a life-size cardboard standup of Darth Vader (it was quite a hit in my last apartment), and several shelves of stuff no human being should ever need (I'm serious — want to see my limited-edition Revenge of the Sith cereal box?). Fortunately, I lost some of the knowedge that lurks within the abyssal chasm in my mind that is my repository of Star Wars knowledge. Want to know the backstory on any character seen in the background of any of the movies? Once, I could probably tell you.

Who doesn't love those first three movies? Who hasn't harbored a plutonic love for Han Solo's roguish grin, or for Luke's boyish charm? What sounds have integrated themselves more in our culture than the manacing, regulated hiss of Darth Vader's breathing or Chewbacca's howl? And who can forget that thrill as those two proton torpedoes slid like twin comets into the thermal exhaust port of the Death Star, or the engaging hatred that came as the Emperor unleashed lightning from his fingertips?

When the new movies came out, I was thrilled. My nerdiness could be perpetuated! As some negative reviews mixed in with the good ones, I was puzzled. Did the average moviegoer have some missing brain cells? Had their cerebral functions been removed and deposited inside a B'omarr brain spider, never again to offer the voice of reason? Couldn't these people see how cool these movies were?

Let me get one thing straight, however. I loathe Jar Jar Binks. Loathing, unadulterated loathing, for his hair, his voice, his clothing. The addition of such a foul creature was a mistake. And I'm not too fond of the love story between Anakin and Padme in the second one.

But otherwise — How cool is a Shakespearean descent to the dark side, the creation of the iconic fallen hero? How exciting is the rumbling of drums, followed by two starfighters that crest the serene edge of a Republic Venator-class Star Destroyer with the gallant Force theme ringing, only to drop into the hellish fire of the battle over Coruscant a moment later? How rewarding is it for fans to finally explore the mysterious conflict known as the Clone Wars after the cryptic mention of it by Leia Organa all those years ago?

The new ones are different than the old ones, but all of them fit into the magnificent saga that is Star Wars: a tale of victory and defeat, of evil and redemption, of love and hatred, of heroes and villains.

Our world is a place where darkness often triumphs over light and the line between good and evil is a no-man's land where even the best intentions can destroy. While the matters of the world should not be ignored, the healthy mind needs a diversion. Such a rejuvenating escape is found in the numberless worlds to explore, in the seductive hum of a lightsaber, and in the human relationships that mirror those in our own galaxy: father and son, husband and wife, brother and sister.

And so it is with relish that I invite others to take a step out of reality that is smaller than one might think and join me . . . for together we can rule the galaxy.

Every saga has a beginning . . .

After years of thinking, "I refuse to jump upon the blogging bandwagon," I can no longer refuse the call of technology and the surging wave of the future. Also, it's required for a class I'm taking here at BYU-Idaho. I occasionally write articles for the opinion section of Scroll, but I've been feeling starved lately for good ideas. I figure I can grab my blog when I need a good article. Still, that doesn't quite solve the idea-starvation issue, but hey --- I totally lost my train of thought.

I feel all of my phantom readers out there deserve an explanation of my blog's name. I'm an avid Star Wars fan, and by "avid" I actually imply a condition bordering on obsession. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total nerd, and I still have considerable sex appeal, thank you very much. Everyone has their vice. Mine could be a lot worse (like, say the Twilight books, or golf). But I wish I could find ways to incorporate random Star Wars quotes into my daily life. "Punch it, Chewie!" is always worth a few groans. "May the Force be with you" is instantly recognizable by most carbon-based lifeforms, though it's like anything that's been overused to the point of cliche. Then there's the classic "I used to bullseye womprats with my T-16 back home!" which thus far I have been unable to work into even the most descriminate of conversations. "Just like Beggar's Canyon back home . . ." is one of Luke's exclamations during the Death Star trench run.

My point is that I'm going to try and name as many blogs as I can after Star Wars quotes. Let's see how long this can last. Until next time . . .

May the . . .

Yeah, you know.