Three years ago, I spent $7.50 to see a sixty-second movie. Three years ago, I shivered through a cold Alaska morning to purchase my right to shiver through a cold Alaska evening in order to see the first showing. Three years ago, my fiance, Ferrett, flew all the way to Alaska so we could share this event.

But this year? We couldn't even be bothered to turn the TV on and watch the trailer on a Sunday when we were home.

Three years ago, I avoided spoilers, but the temptation was intense. This year, I just haven't cared.

So when I realized I'd missed the first two trailers for Episode II, I made a command decision to be completely spoiler-free for this movie. I stopped reading anything Star Wars-related. I avoided the Sci-Fi section of the Borders' magazine racks. When I had to purchase the Vanity Fair with the Star Wars cover for a different article, I didn't even take a peek.

I had to do something to make this movie an event.

Because with "The Phantom Menace," George Lucas had created a movie so spectacularly bland, so mechanically lifeless, that it threatened to destroy "Star Wars" -- the myth, the legacy, the way of freakin' life that the Holy Trilogy had become to so many people. Twenty years after this silly little movie premiered, an entire community thrived on these heroes. Episodes 1-3 threaten to kill that. I really don't care much about young Obi Wan and Anakin and Amidala; I can't imagine I ever will.

But I'm afraid that by the time these new movies are finished, I won't care much about Leia, Luke and Han, either.

"The Phantom Menace" was dreadful, and everything I know about George Lucas points to Episode II being even worse. George shot his wad with "The Empire Strikes Back"; everything he's done since then has been a steady downward spiral, generally accompanied by the wooshing noise of a toilet. There is nothing to indicate that George has the slightest idea what it takes to make a Star Wars movie anymore.

And yet we can't stop him from doing it.

My only defense was ignorance. I decided I was going in with expectations so low that he could not possibly disappoint me. The less I knew, the better; I wasn't even sure of the opening date.

Then we went to see "Blade II" on Saturday.

The LucasFilm logo glittered across the screen. "Turn away!" my friends cried, knowing of my spoiler-free nature... And I knew I should listen.

But temptation was too much. I watched the tumble of scenes pour out before me.

Lightsabers.

Warriors.

Jedi.

John Williams' seductive soundtrack.

And there, unbidden and unwanted, a spark of excitement ignited in my chest. I squeezed my sweetie's hand and felt my body tighten in anticipation.

I don't want it. I've done everything I could to avoid this slippery slope. But here I am, ready to be suckered in again. I know he can't do it; George Lucas doesn't know any more about making Star Wars nowadays than I know about making F-15s.

He's going to break my heart. But like a battered wife, I'm handing it back to him again. I'm letting him open a vein, and I know how much it's going to hurt, but I just can't help myself. Here I am, George. In spite of myself, I'm all yours. Go on; pour salt in the wounds!

I mean, it looked really good, and the battles were so cool, and there were lots of Jedi actually fighting and -- omigawd, it's Star Wars!

I held my own there for a while, and it looked like I had a chance to win. George was only playing with me. All it took was one moment of weakness; now I'm battered, dazed, and backed down to the end of the catwalk. There is no other way. I have to let go, take the fall, and hope there's something to catch me at the bottom.

But even as I lose my grip, I know there's probably no Millennium Falcon. Just a long, dark drop through an eternity of Tibana gas.

No, wait -- at least Luke would have had Tibana gas. I'm going to endure an eternity of Jar Jar gas...

And it's all my fault for listening.

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