When I went to Las Vegas, I had Hunter S. Thompson on the brain. Which was safer than drugs, I suppose.

But I was expecting some sort of bizarre evil carny-ride, hoping to see America’s venal heart laid open like a lab rat — because Las Vegas was where all of our worst impulses converged. Money. Desire. Greed. And when I flew into Vegas, I wanted to see the absolute worst that humanity had to offer, drawn there by the promises of quick money like bacteria to an open wound. Or like Boba Fett fans to a Star Wars convention.

But when I got there? Ick. Plastic city.

Heck, Vegas was like Disneyland with slot machines attached.

Oh, sure, there were the gambling tables, but I didn’t see anything. All I saw were a bunch of middle-aged people, quietly laying money down on tables. The soft "flap" of cards. The only excitement came when some ninety-year old woman won fifty bucks at the slot machines and they had to wheel in an oxygen tank for her, but a wretched hive of scum and villany this was not.

What I needed was a guide. Because I knew the Bad Things were there somewhere.

(The Star Wars content is coming, ya impatient punks. Jeez, when will you learn? The Ferrett does not lead you astray.)

I wanted some schmuck to walk up to me in a bowler hat and chinos and say, "Step right up, sir! See that haggard man over there, sweating at the table? Yessir! He’s down to his last fifty dollars and if he doesn’t make 21 this time he’s losing his house! And that greasy flat-faced gentleman in the corner? Mob, pure mob. At 9:15 he’s scheduled to break the bartender’s fingers for defaulting on a loan — which I can show you for an additional fee. And that woman in the skintight blue dress over there is something which my editors won’t allow me to mention on a family-oriented website."

I knew there were secrets in Vegas. And sometimes uncovering the secrets is the whole point of the fun.

Like the new Star Wars movie.

Thirty seconds’ work will to ruin it for you. Go to Yahoo. Type in "Phantom Menace" and look at the websites under "Science Fiction and Fantasy > Series > Star Wars > Star Wars Prequel Trilogy > Episode I: The Phantom Menace > Morons Who Are Gonna Feel Real Stupid On May 19^th" and you’ll find everything you need to know.

And you know what else you’ll find when you look there? A list of all the Christmas presents you’re getting for the rest of your life, the day you’re going to die, and exactly how successful you’ll ever be in life.

Some things just aren’t worth it.

Because let’s be honest here: I’ve been lying my ass off for twenty-two years and I don’t intend to blow it now.

"Sure," I’ve said to my relatives as recently as four years ago, "He says he will, but Lucas is never going to come out with the prequels. We’ve been waiting for eighteen years and we haven’t seen one yet! What a shame."

That was a lie.

Not a lie in fact. Remember, at the time there were a significant number of us who genuinely thought that Lucas was just stalling until he died because he really didn’t have another Star Wars in him.

It was a lie in tone.

Because I said that casually, sitting crosslegged in a chair with a refreshing Diet Pepsi in my hand, holding court as the local Star Wars freak amongst my friends and relatives — but what I meant was:

"OH LORD HELP ME I’VE BEEN WAITING ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS AND THAT SUCKER LUCAS MIGHT DIE BEFORE HE ANTES UP… AND WHEN I LOOK INTO THE BLACK EMPTINESS OF MY SOUL THE ONE REASON I SEE FOR LIVING ANOTHER DAY IS THE HOPE, NO MATTER HOW FAINT, THAT I MIGHT LIVE TO SEE THE NEXT STAR WARS AND HE MIGHT. NOT. EVEN. DO. THAT."

And then, if I was going to be totally honest back then, I’d have to scream for a good solid fifteen minutes and then curl up in the corner with my thumb in my mouth.

You may laugh, you casual fans. I am led to believe that Echo Station is getting something like 210,000 visitors every week, which means that by pure numbers there are — and I don’t mean to shock the core audience here — people who are only mildly interested in Star Wars visiting this site.

Trust me. They exist. I know you don’t know any, of course, but you’re a very sheltered person.

And you casual fans will never know. (And you young people. You whippersnappers, with your VCRs and your watch-the-movies-anytime-you-darn-well-please technology and your new Star Wars book every week — you people who only had to wait five minutes between the dreadful end of Empire and the opening sequence of Jedi — oh, I hope to high heavens that Phantom Menace ends on such a horrific cliffhanger that you all have brain aneurisms trying to cope with the new and heretofore unknown trauma of delayed pleasure. But that’s a subject for another column.)

All I know is that the one and only time I truly feared for my life, when I wandered into a gang haven in Bridgeport and a bunch of fifteen-year old homies openly wielding .45 pistols were coming towards me, I had one thought:

"Please Lord, let me live to see the next Star Wars movie."

And He let me live. Proving either that the Lord is gracious beyond all mercy, or He has a really twisted sense of humor and just wants me to live long enough to see how bad it sucks.

But whether it sucks or whether it lives up to the hype — fat chance — I don’t want to know. I’ve been waiting too long. I’ve been lying to everyone I know, telling them it’s not that big a deal, but truth is that the new Star Wars movie is pretty much everything. The things the Phantom Menace is bigger than include:

• My job (I can always get another one, but will I ever be able to be there again the first day of the new Star Wars?)
• My upcoming marriage to Gini McDonagh (sorry, hon, but I always knew I could get married — I wasn’t so sure about the prequels)
• My first book contract (since I work at Waldenbooks as a buyer, I was asked if I wanted to write The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Star Wars — and I turned them down because I didn’t want to spoil it for myself)
• My children (I don’t have any at this point, but I know that were I a gambling man I would have abstained from sex for the entire month of August 1998 — just in case.)

And I’m going to give all of this excitement up, destroy something bigger than Christmas and my birthday combined — just so I can tell my other geek friends I know exactly what Darth Maul does to Obi-Wan in the prequel?

Nope.

And so it is that I make an open plea to the newbies who are tempted to open Pandora’s box for a quick fix: Don’t do it. I know why you want to: I’m as excited as you are. You just can’t wait to know what’s going to happen. But you’re making a mistake.

Trust me, and let the movie stand on its own. Don’t be afraid to be surprised by an unexpected plot point; don’t insist on bluntly getting to know these new characters before they’re even introduced to you. Wonder and joy does not come from having a map and a script in your pants. It’s like going on a rollercoaster — the more you know about the ride, the less fun you’re gonna have. Go Zen And Let Go, true believers.

Like the mystical Jungle Boogie, you must learn to let it flow.  Because if you don’t, you’re gonna be that kid sitting there on Christmas morning, crying because he knew two months ago that he was getting a Tonka Truck — and now it’s just no fun anymore.